Chapter 28
September
and an associate, he was ordered to pay a one-hundred-dollar fine or spend thirty days in jail. He refused to pay bail on
a matter of principle, saying instead, “It is indeed the law on trial here today.”
Word reached the members of Margaret’s teams that she planned to return to face her own trial, and to work on a new project:
opening the first of many family-planning clinics.
Around the newsstand, interest turned to the war in Europe. German troops had taken Warsaw, much to the dismay of the booksellers,
many of whom still had families in both countries.
More and more there was talk of the United States sending troops in aid of Europe.
Celia didn’t have as much time to spend with the men who met there each morning.
She was enrolled in courses at New York University on Astor Place, and had her hands full between studying, going to class, helping out at the settlement house, and working for Daphne on the weekends.
But she was loving every exciting, exhausting minute of it.
One day, as she was passing the newsstand on her way back from morning classes, Mr. Stammer called out to her.
“Miss Celia! News!” He shook the paper in his hand.
She hurried over. “What is it?”
“He’s dead, pneumonia caught while he was hounding poor Mr. Sanger.”
“Let me see.” Celia hoisted her knitting bag, now the receptacle of heavy textbooks, to the counter. Mr. Stammer handed her
the paper:
Anthony Comstock Dies in His Crusade.
Labor and Worry Incident to War Against Vice Bring Fatal Illness at 71 Years.
Dead. Of pneumonia. Celia couldn’t stop herself from thinking, Good riddance.
She said goodbye, and the group split up. There was definitely a jaunt to their walk, a feeling of lifted spirits that hadn’t
been there for a long time. The war might be creeping closer, but it still seemed very far away. And for now, everyone was
content to enjoy selling books.
Celia picked up bacon and bread on her way home and was back at the Arcadia, the “new” and “modern” Arcadia, in time to push
out the cart, which no longer held old and cheap books, but a more colorful array of popular used titles.
Daphne was already busy at work, shelving the latest shipment of fiction. Mrs. Teller would be coming in at ten to help with the customers. Until then, Celia would sit at the counter and split her time between studying and her duties as cashier.
Celia was tempted by the desire to be in the action with Margaret and the others, but she understood that her studies would
eventually lead to a more comprehensive way of helping, one for which she was well suited. She was already able to relate
qualitative decisions from her volunteer work with her studies.
And it was gratifying not to have to always work in secret.
With Olivia leaving early for her work at the museum each day and returning late because of Max, Daphne had blossomed as an
entrepreneur. Given the opportunity to use her own artistic abilities, the whole shop had taken on a new atmosphere. The regulars,
feeling unappreciated, were given the basement, complete with easy chairs and a table for cards. Mrs. Teller made sure they
got a thermos of hot tea and a plate of homemade cookies each afternoon, which went a long way to assuage their feelings about
the continued ban on smoking.
And, wonders of wonders, Daphne had won the painting war; the Arcadia walls were now bright white and decorated by theater
posters printed next door. The whole downstairs had taken on an all-new optimism. And the sales had risen proportionately.
Comstock was gone.
There would be someone to take his place. There always would be, as long as there were men who tried to put women in their
place. But there would also be women, and the men who supported them, to replace Celia and Selena, Camille and Margaret, and
others like them who would insist on making their own place. Every setback would make them stronger. They would grow in number
until they drowned out the voices that would hold them down.
One Saturday, Celia sat at the counter reading Principles of Sociology when the clunk of mail arriving brought Daphne to the front. She hurried to the door and returned a moment later with a package,
too small for a book delivery.
She placed it on the counter. “Weird, it’s addressed to you. Are you expecting something?”
“No.” Celia pushed her textbook aside and frowned at the package, the memory of another package passing through her mind.
Daphne huffed and ran to get the scissors. “Open it!”
Celia cut through the wrapping to reveal a box, and with only a moment of hesitation she quickly opened it.
It was stuffed with soft paper; she pushed it aside and lifted out a brown leather satchel with a tooled shoulder strap.
“It’s a schoolbag,” Celia exclaimed. “Did you and Olivia . . . ?”
“Not us.” Daphne leaned in closer.
A note slipped onto the counter.
Celia and Daphne exchanged looks, then Celia carefully opened the envelope and read the card. Not to be used for yarn, bacon, stray cats, or loaves of bread. Only for official textbooks and the occasional illicit tract
that may get you arrested, thus making it necessary for me to come bail you out. J Starling.
Celia closed the card and smiled inside. She’d see him again; she was sure of it. But right now she had a chapter on “Organization
in the Local Community” to read.