What kind of accident could Myrtle possibly have had that made fingerprint-shaped bruises across the side of her neck? “But what did you do exactly?” I pressed her now.
“I don’t want to talk about anything unpleasant,” Myrtle said, ignoring my question, her tone brightening. “I got away for the whole weekend to visit with you. Take me to the nearest saloon and let’s go dance and get smashed.”
I bit my lip. Helen and I and a few other girls had planned to take the train to Washington, D.C., in the morning to picket in Lafayette Park with other suffragette groups. Helen was out now, buying supplies so we could make signs. What a disappointment it had been for all of us when the Nineteenth Amendment lost ratification by only two votes in the Senate last January. And months later, it still hadn’t gotten passed. We’d discussed at our meeting last night that there was power in our numbers. That if only we could be loud enough, make our voices heard, the Senate would have no choice but to listen. And that’s exactly what I’d intended to do this weekend in D.C.
But Myrtle was staring at me, her large brown eyes wide, hopeful, a little glassy. I couldn’t just go ahead with my plans and leave her here now.
I sighed a little, picturing Helen and the others on the train, at the protest, without me. “Let me just leave my roommate a note,” I said.
I hastily scribbled Helen an apology. My sister needs me desperately, I wrote. And, really, what good was it to help women, to fight to give women a voice, if I could not help my own sister?
* * *
“TELL ME,” MYRTLE said, an hour and one and a half gin rickeys later. Her voice was softer, her words slightly slurred. I’d drunk only a few sips of my own drink, wanting to keep control, keep a close watch on her. “Is there a special man in your life, Cath?”
I shook my head. “Who says I even want a man?” I would never tell Myrtle, but I’d been known to kiss a man when I got drunk enough, sometimes even more than kiss. But that wasn’t about having a special man in my life or finding a husband. And she would never understand.
She laughed now. “Don’t be silly. Every woman wants a man. But the trick is to find a good one to marry. A refined one. A wealthy one. What about that one, over there.” She pointed, and my gaze followed her finger to a man with a receding hairline who looked to be at least twice my age.
I grimaced and allowed myself another sip of my drink. “Do you know what I really want?” She shook her head. “I want the Nineteenth Amendment to pass the Senate. I want us to have a voice, a real voice in this country. Imagine that, Myrtle. Imagine not needing any man. Imagine if being a woman were enough.”
Myrtle made a funny sound, a high-pitched drunken sort of laugh. “Sometimes I forget how young and na?ve you are,” she said. I couldn’t tell if she was complimenting or berating me now. She finished off her second gin rickey and sighed. “That’s why I love coming into the city to be with you, Cath.” She rested her head on my shoulder and leaned into me, sleepily, and I decided she’d been paying me a compliment. I reached up and smoothed back her hair.
“Are you going to tell me what really happened to your neck now?” I said.
She didn’t say anything for a moment, just leaned her head into me. I wrapped my arm around her, pulled her close enough to me that I nearly lost my balance on the barstool. When she finally spoke, her words came out so softly, I could barely hear her. “You don’t have to worry, Cath,” she said. “It’s never going to happen again.”
“It better not,” I said. “You tell George if he does it again, I’ll kill him.”
Jordan 1918
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
EVERY DAY ON THE GOLF tour, there was a rhythm. Wake up at seven, breakfast, practice, lunch, practice some more, dinner, a little time to socialize, and lights-out. Once a month or so, we’d travel together to compete at a practice tournament, which broke into the rhythm but only just the smallest bit. Sometimes I thought about our days, parceled out and repetitive, and I felt like a factory machine, going again and again and again, every movement the same. By the summer, it was hard to remember why I’d ever loved golf in the first place.
There were eight of us women golfers in the Charleston league, and we did everything together. Much to my disappointment, Mary Margaret hadn’t made the tour, and the other women here weren’t even half as agreeable as she’d been. And then there was our chaperone, Mrs. Pearce, a stout older widow who always seemed annoyed she was being paid to watch us. I found her highly detestable, as I didn’t need watching, and she was practically being paid to sit around and do nothing all day. I couldn’t imagine too many easier jobs—why did she have to look so sour?
By the summer, I was miserable. My loneliness settled as a continual ache in my stomach, a homesickness. I missed Daddy and Daisy and Louisville desperately, and I lay in bed at night plotting my escape back to them. I worried for Daisy, whose letters were drowning in infatuated stories of Tom Buchanan. Without me there, who would make sure she didn’t rush into anything? And Daddy reported he was feeling well but admitted he was mostly confined to his bed. I was worried sick about his health, living in that big house all alone. That would be reason enough to leave the tour, wouldn’t it?
But when I finally got up the gumption to suggest to Daddy in a letter that I may quit, return to Louisville to help him, he ordered me not to, under any circumstance. When would I ever get this chance again?
Jordan, don’t squander this! he commanded me. In his exclamation point I could hear the rattle of his yell emanating from his chest, and I missed that sound so much even the very thought of it made me cry.
Deep down, though, I also knew he was right. Miserable as I was in Charleston, if I left now Daddy would see me as a failure. I would see myself as a failure. And I had no idea what I’d even do for the rest of my life if I didn’t have golf.
* * *
MY DORMITORY ROOMMATE, Lena, was a tall gangly girl with long brown curls, and though her face was strikingly beautiful, she was also, fretfully, a bore. All she wanted to talk about was her fellow back in Tallahassee. Every night we got into our beds, and she’d want to talk endlessly about him, often just repeating what she had already told me the night before. Danny this and Danny that, and I yawned and closed my eyes and tried to tune her out.