The Hope Chest — Chapter 18 - August 18

August 18

CHLOE AND MYRTLE HAD STILL NOT SHOWN up. It was Wednesday, August 18.

There had been meetings all night long at the Hermitage, both Sus and Antis, and the sound of the elevator running up and down had combined with the stiing heat to keep Violet awake most of the night.

Violet could think of no way she could nd out what had happened to Chloe and Myrtle and Mr. Martin. If she went to the police, would they even tell her? Would they arrest her and question her? Did those Palmer agents even have anything to do with the police?

What if they never came back? What would Violet do? Should she write to her parents for help? Would they even help her? Violet had to admit, though she didn't want to, that they probably would. They might come to Tennessee on a train, full of fury, to rescue her. Or they might call the police and tell them to arrest Violet and keep her in jail till they came. Was that what had happened to Hobie the Hobo?

Violet went down to the lobby, thinking about all this and about nding something to eat. But as soon as she stepped o the elevator, she was caught up in a tide of people surging toward Capitol Hill.

“You'd better hurry or you won't get a seat!” a woman called as they climbed. Violet didn't know her and couldn't tell whether the woman was a Su or an Anti. There were hundreds of people climbing up the hill. Violet looked around for Chloe, but she didn't see her. What if she never saw Chloe again?

She spotted a yellow rose on the ground, and she picked it up and stuck it in her hat.

“If they're going to vote, it means the Antis are sure they're going to win,” a woman near Violet said grimly.

Violet turned around and recognized Miss Kelley from the train.

“Good morning, Miss Kelley,” she said politely. “What do you mean?”

“Seth Walker controls when the vote happens,” Miss Kelley said, panting as she climbed. “And the Antis own him. That's why the vote's been delayed so long; Walker's been waiting till he was sure.”

Violet felt a sinking in her stomach. What Miss Kelley said made perfect sense. When she looked up to reply, Miss Kelley had vanished in the moving throng. There was still no sign of Chloe anywhere.

The crowd carried her into the dark, vaulted rst oor of the capitol. They surged up the wide stone staircase with the bullet- gouged handrail. Violet looked around, hoping to see Chloe in the crowd, but elbows and shoulders closed in all around her, blocking her view.

In the light, high-ceilinged main oor of the capitol, everyone was pushing toward the House chamber. The doors were open, and people were pouring onto the House oor. Violet joined them. Soon she was one of hundreds of women crowded among the old mahogany desks in front of the high Speaker's dais. “Out, ladies, please! Out!” a harassed-looking man in a uniform was saying.

“Spectators are forbidden on the oor. All up to the galleries, please.”

He put his hand on Violet's shoulder. “Up to the gallery, please, miss.” He gave her a little shove toward the door.

Violet went out. It was too crowded on the House oor, and she couldn't see what was going on very well from there anyway. She started toward the narrow stairs to the spectators' gallery. Then she noticed a folded paper on the stone oor.

It was an envelope. It was addressed Harry T. Burn, Hermitage Hotel, Nashville, Tennessee.

Violet held the envelope in her hand, uncertain what to do. It was a letter to Mr. Burn, and it might be important. But Mr. Burn was an Anti. He had danced with Chloe, and with Violet, and remained an Anti. Every list she'd seen had had him listed as an Anti.

The envelope was open. Violet looked around her. The high- ceilinged hall was full of people heading toward the galleries or toward the House oor or just milling about in confusion. The stone walls and ceiling rang with voices, and footsteps, and an occasional high-pitched, nervous laugh. You could feel the tension in the air, Violet thought. There was a sense that today really was the day, after yesterday's false alarm.

It was very wrong to read other people's mail, and Violet knew it.

She thought about how angry she had been at Mother for reading her letters from Chloe. But this was dierent, she told herself. This letter had already been opened. She glanced around. Nobody was paying any attention to her. She slid the letter out of the envelope and unfolded it. This is very wrong, she thought, but she read it anyway.

Dear Son: Hurrah and vote for surage! Don't keep them in doubt! I noticed some of the speeches against. They were bitter. I have been watching to see how you stood but have not noticed anything yet. Don't forget to be a good boy and help Mrs. Catt put

the “rat” in ratication!

Your Mother

Violet folded the letter hastily and stued it back in the envelope.

The letter was from Mr. Burn's mother, who sounded less distant than her own mother. She couldn't imagine Mother starting a letter

to her with “Dear Daughter.” But then, she couldn't imagine Mother writing a letter to her at all. She wondered if Mr. Burn was in the habit of listening to his mother—a lot of people were. She'd better get this letter back to him. He might not even have read it yet—so many letters and telegrams had been stolen over the last few days. If he had gotten it, maybe he needed to read it again to remind him that millions of women needed his vote and that one of those women was his mother.

Violet knew that the Sus had once considered Mr. Burn “persuadable.” Maybe it wasn't too late. She wove through the crowd and worked her way back into the House chamber, darting by the sergeant at arms and wending her way through the crowds of women and men wearing red and yellow roses. “Mr. Burn!” She looked among the dark mahogany desks. “Mr. Burn!”

There he was. Mr. Burn looked up from his desk, a guarded, nervous expression on his face. It was the expression all of the legislators had come to wear since Monday—they reminded Violet of Mr. Martin, being hunted by agents. “You dropped this, Mr.

Burn.” She held out the folded envelope.

Wordlessly he took the envelope, without looking at it, and stuck it in his jacket pocket. He didn't meet her eyes. Violet thought that was a bad sign, then thought maybe it was a good sign, since Mr.

Burn thought Violet was an Anti.

The sergeant at arms was coming toward Violet—why did he keep picking on her? There were at least a hundred women on the oor who weren't supposed to be there. Violet wove her way out of the chamber and into the great cross-shaped hallway again.

“Excuse me.” A woman wearing a red rose tapped Violet on the shoulder. “Can you tell me where the ladies' lavatory is?”

Violet looked at the woman. She was tall and thin and in her forties. She was wearing a worn-out polka-dot dress and a broad- brimmed straw hat with tired-looking poppies on it. Everything about the woman looked tired. “I think it's at the top of the stairs.”

“No, I looked,” said the tired woman. “There's only a men's.”

Violet looked. There was a huge oaken door with a sign over it that said Gentlemen.

“Well, maybe it's around the other side of the hall,” said Violet, pointing.

“I looked there already,” said the woman. “I don't think there is a ladies' lavatory.” She looked close to panic.

“What do you expect?” said Violet, losing her patience. “Of course there's no ladies'. If you don't want women to vote and you don't want women to have any say in government, then why on earth do you expect to nd a ladies' lavatory in the capitol?” She had raised her voice much more loudly than she should have; she knew she was being rude.

“What do you mean?” The tired-looking woman looked shocked.

“I never said anything about voting. I just want the lavatory.

Goodness, you young people today have no manners at all.” Tears started in her tired eyes, and Violet felt terrible for having been rude.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Maybe there's a lavatory over here.” She gestured to the woman and went over to the other side of the huge, vaulted marble hall to a place where it looked like there might be a recess that could lead to a bathroom.

The woman followed her. “Why are there so many people here?” she said. “What's this all about, anyway?”

Violet stared at her. “We're here to ght for justice. For the right to vote. You're against it.” She pointed to the woman's red rose, even though it was rude to point.

The tired woman touched her red rose gingerly. “Is that what this means? They just rounded all of us lady workers up at the mill and gave us red roses to wear and brought us up here in an omnibus.”

Violet was too surprised to answer. She opened the door to what she'd thought was the ladies' room. It was a broom closet.

“Brooks, tell Turner that Governor Cox is on the phone,” a man's voice snapped.

Violet looked around. They were next to an open oce door. She peered in. Two men were standing over a telephone. The man with the receiver in his hand had a stern, thin face with a pointed nose.

The other man, Brooks, was round and chubby. They glared at each other.

“Get Turner in here now,” said the man with the pointed nose.

Brooks muttered something about “attempts to inuence the vote.”

“Of course it's an attempt to inuence his vote! Now get him in here at once. We can't leave a presidential candidate hanging on the phone.”

Brooks said, “Yes, Governor Roberts,” and turned and walked out of the oce.

The man with the pointed nose—Governor Roberts—looked up and saw Violet. He looked at the yellow rose on her hat. “He's not going to do it. Go get Turner for me, girl.”

Violet paused on the threshold. She had never spoken to a governor before. She was almost sure you were supposed to curtsy when you did, but she had more important things on her mind.

Chloe had said Governor Roberts was a Su. He was the one who had called this special session in Tennessee. But some of the Sus' strongest supporters had changed sides. People seemed to be changing sides every minute. Violet had no intention of helping out the wrong side.

“Are you still a Su, Governor?” she asked.

“Of course I'm a Su,” the governor snapped. “And Governor Cox is a Su. And he's going to be the next president of the United States, and he's right here on the phone—long distance, which is not cheap—and he wants to talk to Turner. Now run, kid!”

Violet turned and hurried back to the House chamber. She passed the tired-looking woman with the red rose, who was saying in great embarrassment to Brooks, “… a place where I could wash my hands?”

“The ladies' is down on the ground oor,” Brooks said. “Here, let me show you where it is.” He held out his arm to the tired-looking lady and guided her toward the stone staircase. It could not have been clearer that he wasn't going to look for Turner.

Violet ducked past the sergeant at arms and into the chamber.

“Mr. Turner!” she called. She didn't know what he looked like. “Mr.

Turner!” There was no answer. One thing all of the legislators had learned in the last few days was not to answer when they were called. With a ash of inspiration, Violet pulled o her hat and plucked the yellow rose from it. She stuck it inside her hat and clapped the hat back on her head. Then she grabbed a page boy.

“Where's Mr. Turner?”

The page boy nodded toward a man who was studiously looking away from her. Violet went up to his desk. “Mr. Turner, there's an urgent phone message for you. Please come at once.”

The man looked up at her sourly. He had heard a lot about urgent phone messages in the last few days.

“There really is,” said Violet. “I'm not lying. It's from …” She took a deep breath, not sure if this was a mistake or not. “It's from Governor Cox. The presidential candidate.”

Mr. Turner looked even more sour. “I know who Governor Cox is, miss.” He got tiredly to his feet. Violet led him out of the House chamber (the sergeant at arms scowled and said, “Don't come back in here again, missy”) and across the great hall to the oce where the phone call was waiting.

Mr. Turner reached for the telephone, glaring at Violet at the same time. “All right, I'm here, miss. Now scram. Good morning, Governor.”

Governor Roberts smiled at Violet. “Thanks, kid. Now run along.”

Violet went back out into the hall. The crush of people moving up the narrow staircases to the spectators' gallery had slowed to a trickle. Violet went up the stone stairs to the gallery. It was swelteringly hot. From the balcony at the top of the stairs, she looked down at the cross-shaped hall. Still no Chloe.

Violet looked around the crowded gallery for a seat. There were none left. People were crammed into the aisles. There were deep windowsills, two feet deep and at least six feet wide, near the oor, and people were standing on them.

Violet wormed her way through the crowd to the brass rail at the front of the gallery. She stood behind the rail, with people pressing close all around her. She looked down at the House oor below. She hadn't had a good view of it when she was down there. The whole chamber was hung with yellow—yellow bunting, yellow owers.

There was even a yellow sunower wound around an eagle on the wall. Chloe wasn't down there either.

“There are too many red roses,” a woman standing next to Violet murmured.

Violet looked up and saw Miss Dexter, the lady she'd ridden with on the train from Washington. “There's an awful lot of yellow,” she said.

“Up here there is,” said Miss Dexter. “But there are too many red roses down there.”

Violet looked down at the oor again. Miss Dexter was right.

More legislators were making their way into the chamber from the committee rooms alongside. Some wore yellow roses, but far too many wore red roses. Violet saw Credwell, the Su legislator she had retrieved in the Hope Chest the day before. He was a Su no longer. He was wearing a red rose.

“Did you notice Harry T. Burn has a red rose?” someone near Violet said. “Cross Burn o.”

Miss Dexter winced. “We worked so hard on Burn,” she said to Violet.

A ripple of excitement spread through the galleries as a man with a yellow rose made his way onto the oor. “Grin!” Miss Dexter said. “Grin made it back from California. Thank God.”

A very pale, unhealthy-looking man limped out onto the oor, leaning on the shoulder of an aide. He wore a yellow rose on his

lapel. Cheers broke out in the gallery.

“Dowlen!” Miss Dexter cried, cheering with the rest. “Dowlen!

He's alive.”

Seth Walker pounded his gavel. “Order! The House is in session.

All non-members must leave the oor.”

“Turncoat,” Miss Dexter hissed, glaring at Walker. “Traitor.

Benedict Arnold.” A woman wearing a red rose turned around and scowled at Violet, apparently under the impression that she was the one who had spoken.

“Non-members, leave the oor!” Seth Walker commanded again.

There were plenty of non-members on the oor, men and women, pleading and cajoling with the representatives, trying to change their votes. Ocials came around taking people by the arms and leading them o the oor over to the sidelines.

“We haven't got it,” Miss Dexter murmured. “We haven't got it.”

Other people around Violet were whispering the same thing.

Violet felt her stomach do an anguished ip-op. How was it possible? How could everything they'd worked so hard for fail?

“What do you mean, we haven't got it?” she demanded.

“We have forty-seven votes,” said Miss Dexter. “Out of ninety- nine. Ninety-six members are present. And the Antis have forty-nine

votes.”

“That's impossible!” Violet said.

“Shh!” several people hissed.

“Count the roses for yourself,” Miss Dexter snapped.

A young woman in a wide-brimmed hat turned around. Violet recognized Miss Anita Pollitzer. “Here's the list, Violet. See for yourself.”

Violet took the paper Miss Pollitzer handed her. Names and tally marks had been crossed out and written over.

“But some of these people were ours yesterday!” Violet said, remembering to speak quietly. Debate had started on the oor

below now. “Like Blotz and Credwell!”

“They certainly were,” said Miss Pollitzer. “But they aren't now.”

“But it's not fair!” Violet managed with diculty to keep her voice low. “They can't have just sold their votes like that.”

“Of course they can,” said a woman near Violet, who was wearing a yellow sash. “All you need to buy votes is a whole lot of money and a few fools who actually agree with you.”

Violet shook her head, rejecting this cynical view. She handed the paper back to Miss Pollitzer.

Miss Dexter clutched Violet's shoulder hard. “He's called for a

vote!”

“What?” said Violet.

The murmur went around the gallery. “He's called the question.

Mr. Walker's called for a vote. That means he's sure. He knows.”

Knows the Antis have enough votes to win, thought Violet.

“So this really is the end,” Miss Dexter said. Violet heard tears in her voice.

“It's not the end,” she said, more because she wanted to comfort Miss Dexter than because she believed it. “There's Vermont.”

“We can't get Vermont,” someone said, and Violet whirled around to see Chloe.

“When did you get here?” Violet cried. “Is Mr. Martin—”

“Shh!” several people hissed at once.

“Yes,” said Chloe. Violet thought she was answering the question about Mr. Martin, but what did “yes” mean?

“They're voting on a motion to table!” an Anti near Violet snapped. “What's that mean, ‘table’?”

Miss Dexter frowned. “It means to not vote on ratication at all,” she said. “To table the question—to put it aside. It's what North Carolina did. You blithering idiot,” she added.

Several people around Miss Dexter gasped, and the Anti turned around and looked ready to slap Miss Dexter. “You take that back!”

“Oh, shut up and go back to your kitchen,” Miss Dexter snarled.

“Or wherever you think Woman's Sphere is.”

Violet seized Miss Dexter by the arm and, with Chloe's help, led her away before a ght could start. The crowd squeezed aside to let them through. They found a space near the back. Violet and Chloe each kept a tight hold on one of Miss Dexter's arms.

“I'd like to rearrange her face for her,” Miss Dexter said. “The idiotic traitor to her sex.”

“Do it later,” Violet suggested. “Look, we can see better from up here.”

A cheer went up in the gallery. “Defeated!” someone cried.

“What happened?” Miss Dexter demanded.

A man near them turned around, beaming. “Looks like Mr.

Turner's changed sides. He voted against the motion to table and it

tied.”

“Tied?” said Violet, confused.

“Forty-eight to forty-eight,” the man said. “That kills a motion to table. Turner was an Anti, but he just voted against tabling, with the Sus. He changed sides. Either that or he made a mistake.”

He didn't make a mistake, Violet thought. He got a phone call.

“It's nished,” Miss Dexter said. “Turner changing sides isn't enough. We have forty-eight, they have forty-eight.” She stued her ngers into her mouth and began biting them.

“I don't believe it!” said the man in front of them. “That Seth Walker is making them vote to table again. Can he even do that?

And now he's down there with his arm around Turner, talking in his ear.”

Violet stood up on tiptoes and was just in time to see Turner shrug Seth Walker away from him, get to his feet, and vote against the motion to table again.

“Now he's calling the question!” someone said.

“He's calling the question.” Everyone was murmuring and whispering it to each other. “This is it. Seth Walker's calling the question.”

Violet desperately wanted to ask Chloe what had happened to Myrtle and Mr. Martin, but now wasn't the time. She and Chloe were on opposite sides of Miss Dexter, and a hush fell over the chamber and galleries that seemed to forbid even a whisper. Violet was still clutching Miss Dexter's arm, and Miss Dexter clutched hers now too. Violet didn't even especially like Miss Dexter—she couldn't forget about that business with Myrtle on the train—but right now they were clinging to each other as if their lives depended on it.

This was the vote that mattered.

“Anderson.”

“Aye!”

“He was ours from the start,” Miss Dexter murmured. “And he

never wavered. Bless him.”

“Bell.”

“Aye.”

“Bond.”

“They bought him,” Miss Dexter said through the ngers in her mouth. “Bought him like a … like a …”

“Pig in a poke,” Violet suggested. She was far too nervous to care whether it sounded right—or was even true.

“Forty-eight to forty-eight,” Miss Dexter said again. “We have

forty-eight, and they—”

“Shh!” the man in front of them hissed.

“Burn.”

“Aye.”

“Canale.”

“What?” said Miss Dexter. She dropped Violet's arm in surprise. A murmur was sweeping through the gallery. “Burn? Harry T. Burn voted for ratication? But Burn is theirs. Burn is an Anti.”

“He's ours now,” the man in front of them barked. “Burn is ours!

Burn changed his mind. If we can just keep Turner …” Violet nodded silently. Her voice wouldn't work. The clerk called o the men's names and they voted—aye, nay. There were no more surprises.… But would Turner vote aye?

“God, let us keep Turner,” Miss Dexter breathed.

“Turner,” the clerk called.

Silence fell for a moment that seemed to last much longer than it did. For some reason, Violet could hear Mrs. Catt's voice in her head, saying, Seventy-two years, do you hear me? Seventy-two years!

“AYE!”

“YES!” Miss Dexter fairly leapt into the air. Violet didn't realize until she felt her own feet hit the oor that she had done the same.

All around them the air was full of hats and yellow roses being ung triumphantly upward. The women around Violet were screaming, crying, laughing, and dancing. The man in front of her turned around, seized Violet's and Chloe's hands, and began to dance an Irish jig.

Violet freed herself from the dance and climbed onto the wide windowsill. Down on the oor of the chamber, the legislators were dancing and cheering—at least, some of them were. Among the red rose wearers, only Turner and Burn were dancing. You had to say this for them, when they changed sides, they did it with enthusiasm.

From above, showers of yellow rose petals fell on the legislators as people in the gallery made confetti out of their boutonnieres. The women who had been pushed to the sides of the chamber had come surging out and were leaping, singing, tap dancing. Violet saw a woman run up to Mr. Hanover, throw her arms around him, and kiss him on the cheek. Violet laughed delightedly. Everything seemed funny and wonderful.

Yes, she thought, yes, it was something to be here on this day.

It was sometime long after that, after the whole crowd had gone dancing and yelling down the stairs and out onto Capitol Hill together, that Violet remembered to ask Chloe, “What about Mr.

Martin?”

“Shh. He's not Mr. Martin anymore. We've changed his name to Hanover, in honor of our friend from Memphis.”

“But you got him out? On bail?”

“Not exactly,” said Chloe. “But we did get him out. He and Myrtle … Oh, my goodness. No.”

Chloe had her hand to her mouth and was staring up at the capitol building.

There was a man standing on the narrow stone ledge that surrounded the capitol, three stories above the pavement. His back and hands were pressed against the wall of the building.

“I hope he isn't going to jump!” said Chloe.

Violet noticed blond hair and a red rose. “I think it's Mr. Burn,” she said. “How did he get out there?”

“Out the window, I suppose. Oh no, he's trying to walk along the ledge.”

They watched helplessly as Mr. Burn edged his way along the narrow ledge. He looked very high up.

“Why doesn't he get down and crawl?” Violet asked.

“The ledge probably isn't wide enough,” said Chloe. “Poor man, he must be running for his life. From the Antis.”

They watched in anguish as Mr. Burn worked his way gingerly along the ledge in the hot sunlight. Nobody else seemed to have noticed him. Violet was wondering whether they should call for help, and if so, what kind of help. Then a window creaked open and a woman leaned out. Violet and Chloe watched as she spoke to Mr.

Burn, then helped him inside.

“That's the library,” said Chloe. “That's got him clear of the House chamber, anyway.”

They started down Capitol Hill. “Myrtle and I got Theo out yesterday evening,” said Chloe. “I'm sorry I didn't come tell you last night—but I didn't want to blow your cover.”

“I blew my own cover,” said Violet, and explained how.

“Good for you!” said Chloe. “Anyway, I've been up all night with Mrs. Catt and some other women, making phone calls to the two presidential candidates, Mr. Cox and Mr. Harding, and also to the White House to get them to call the Tennessee Anti legislators in their parties.”

“You called the White House?” said Violet, impressed.

“No, Mrs. Catt did that. She and Woodrow Wilson have known each other for years. The president actually wired Seth Walker and asked him to change his mind— again—but Seth Walker said he couldn't go against his ‘honest convictions.’ Hmph. Even though they're not the same honest convictions he had a week ago.”

In spite of having been up all night, Chloe was much more cheerful and less tired than she had been all week. Violet knew just how she felt. The world was a brighter and more hopeful place than it had been an hour ago.

“I think those phone calls helped,” said Violet as they wandered through the capitol gardens toward the street. “They got Turner to change his vote.”

“And that was all it took, Turner and Burn.” Chloe shook her head, smiling. “To give twenty-seven million American women the

vote. Isn't democracy amazing?”

“How did you get Mr. Mart—”

“Hanover,” Chloe corrected.

“Mr. Hanover out?” This was confusing. “Did you, um, bail him out?” Violet wasn't sure how you got people out of jail, but she knew bail was involved somehow.

“Not exactly,” said Chloe. “He and Myrtle are both at the municipal autocamp now. Come on. We'll take a streetcar.”

“Why, where's the Hope Chest?” said Violet.

“I sold it,” said Chloe, smiling.

“Sold it?” Violet couldn't imagine Chloe selling the Hope Chest.

“Sold the Hope Chest? But you said the Hope Chest was your freedom!”

“But I was wrong,” said Chloe, waving to a streetcar that was jangling toward them. “Freedom is freedom. The Hope Chest is just a car.”

The streetcar stopped and they climbed on. Chloe dropped two nickels in the fare box.

“What did you sell it for?” Violet asked.

“For getting Theo out of jail,” said Chloe. “The Hope Chest belongs to a graduate student at Fisk University now.”

She looked happy about it.