Chapter 3 #2
How small he’d looked in her eyes then, regardless of how still beloved as her father. “I attended my first meeting some weeks back, and will march in an upcoming rally. We must fight for change or change will never happen.”
The gaze he turned on her felt almost foreign. “As your father and spiritual head, I will not allow you to throw away your education or to tarnish this family’s reputation by associating with that group of women. And that is my final word.”
“I know what you believe, Father. But I simply do not hold the same—”
The slam of his fist on the edge of his desk all but choked the words in her throat.
“I will not abide this, Josephine! I did not raise my own daughter to disrespect me. To cast aside good reason for this foolish notion of equality with men. Men and women were made for very different purposes. The Scriptures clearly establish this. Women are to submit to men. It’s God’s divine order, and seeking the vote violates that sacred structure.
If women get the vote, what next? Women running businesses?
Women demanding to have a say in legal matters? Running for public office?”
“I would say yes to all of those things, Papa. Women are equally as intelligent as men and have every right to choose the course of their lives. How many times in our studies were my marks equal to, or oftentimes higher, than Todd’s?”
“You dare compare yourself to your brother? To try to establish equal footing with him? As if you could ever take his place?”
The words sliced deeper than she would have imagined, even having long suspected them to be true. But to hear them stated aloud and without the least trace of regret . . .
“You always were far too curious,” he continued, eyes narrowing.
“I was wrong to have indulged you as I did. But try as you might, one cannot change the natural order of things. The change you desire must be tempered with the immutable truth of a woman’s God-given duty toward hearth and home, and for childbearing.
So with my opinion on the subject firmly established .
. .” He eased back into his chair, his mouth a firm line.
“You will align your actions accordingly, daughter. And you will govern yourself by what you have been taught to be good, and right, and true.”
How often that conversation replayed in her mind, awaiting a resolution that, with her father’s passing weeks later, had never come.
Her mother followed him in death soon after.
The doctor said they both succumbed to pneumonia, but she wondered if grief had not been the real killer. And if she’d been partly to blame.
Yet, she could never have imagined this sudden turn in her life.
Regret and doubt crowding close, she shivered as hunger pangs reminded her she’d foregone breakfast that morning due to nerves over speaking publicly. The rally had started less than three hours ago, yet how distant that gathering seemed now.
What had her students thought when she hadn’t relieved the substitute that morning as she’d promised them yesterday?
What would they think when she didn’t return tomorrow?
Or the next day? She could see all their faces clearly in her mind’s eye.
She’d enjoyed instructing primary grades when she’d started teaching at the age of thirteen.
But when she began instructing intermediate and upper grades seven years ago, the bright and inquisitive minds of those ten- to fourteen-year-old boys and girls took her own passion for educating to new heights.
Already, she missed them, and hoped the teacher who assumed her class would nurture the older girls’ education as much as the boys’, same as she’d done herself.
Many of her fellow teachers focused the boys’ studies on arithmetic and civics, while steering the girls toward home economics and literature.
Josephine taught them both equally—though she admittedly downplayed home economics—and clung to the hope that her leaving Atlanta would be temporary.
That the day would come when she could return both to her students and her life.
But right now she couldn’t see past the moment at hand.
The rhythmic thump of steel wheels and rails lulled her eyes closed. Some of the men saw him draggin’ you back here. They’ll figure it’s you who did it, and figurin’ will be proof enough, whether they have real proof or not.
Her eyes popped open, Sarah’s warning stoking her fear. Not even distancing herself from Atlanta brought comfort. Because they knew who she was. And if Mayor Darden would so brutally mistreat suffragists for merely picketing, what would he do to the woman who had killed his son?
She shifted on the cushioned bench seat, the world a blur outside the window, nothing but passing fields and an occasional farmhouse as the terrain gradually ascended.
The heavily forested hills in the distance drew her gaze, wisps of clouds trailing off their highest peaks like tufts of cotton strewn in the wind.
The train hugged a hillside and the sun shone through her window, acting almost like a mirror, and Josephine gasped, hardly recognizing her own reflection.
A welt, swollen and discolored, the exact width of a leather belt, marred her left cheek, and her left eye appeared puffy and bruised.
She wiped away tears, her fingers gritty.
Traces of dried blood still stained her right hand.
She reached into her coat pocket for her handkerchief, then remembered she’d traded garments with Sarah.
She checked the other pocket and pulled out Sarah’s sash.
Wadding it up so as to hide the lettering, she wet a corner of the cloth with her saliva and scrubbed off the blood as best she could, giving special attention to the thin silver wedding band on her right ring finger.
Since slipping the ring on her finger the day after her mother died—the same day she’d discovered the inscription on the inner circle—she’d rarely taken it off.
This ring was all that tangibly remained of the family she’d once had.
But looking at it now, recalling how the ticket clerk—and even the woman a few rows up—had eyed her, she glanced from her right hand to her left, then slowly removed the band and placed it on her left ring finger.
A little loose. But if she was going to look like a battered wife, she might as well play the part. Besides, Mayor Darden would be searching for a single suffragist schoolteacher, not a wife running from an abusive husband.
Nearly three hours later, the train pulled into Chattanooga’s Union Station and as several fellow passengers disembarked, she sat in the very last seat, gaze glued to her lap and angled away from the terminal-facing window, her head aching and throat parched.
Only after most of the passengers had exited did she sneak a look toward the terminal. And her senses shot to alert.
Policemen. Stationed everywhere. At entrances and exits. By newspaper stands. Even by the ticket office. Was that normal? Or had news of what happened back home already reached Chattanooga?
The train whistle blew two sharp blasts as a porter boarded the car.
Josephine ducked and lay flat on the bench, uncertain whether or not he’d seen her.
Able to see only a portion of the aisle, she struggled to listen over the rushing in her ears.
The porter made light conversation as he tore ticket stubs, and all the while she hoped and prayed he wouldn’t walk back here.
But footsteps approached, then dark slacks and boots came into view—and stopped right beside her bench.
“Josephine Dunham,” the porter said softly, more caution than question in his resonant voice.
Josephine’s body flushed hot then cold. Knowing she was had, she started to sit up.
“No, ma’am, you stay right there. Let me come to you.”
As he knelt, she dared look up. An older man, a pained expression passing over his face.
“I don’t know what it is you’ve done, ma’am, but every uniform in this city showed up about an hour ago. And your name is what’s on their lips.”
“I promise, sir, it was self-defense. He was beating me and I—”
He held up a hand. “What I should have said just as quickly is, I don’t care to know what you’ve done either, ma’am.
Don’t mean to make light of it. No, ma’am.
” A kind expression relieved the statement of any sting.
“Just can’t afford to be privy to it, that’s all.
In case anyone goes to asking me. But from where I’m looking, whoever did this to you? Deserved all they got and more.”
The compassion in his tone tugged hard at her emotions.
“Do you have a ticket, Mrs. Dunham?”
She handed it to him, the wedding band on her left hand weighing heavy and false.
“Tullahoma,” he said softly, tearing her ticket. “You got people there?”
She shook her head. “The man in the ticket booth said it was a tiny town, not much to it. And considering everything, that sounded better than Chattanooga.”
He nodded. “You stay put right here. Don’t get up. Don’t sit up. Not even after the train moves out. Not until I come back for you. You just stay still and keep down. You understand, ma’am?”
“I understand,” she whispered. “I don’t know why you’re helping me, but thank you.”
“Well, you’re not out of the woods yet. No way of telling what’s waiting in Tullahoma.
Takes about an hour to get there, so won’t be long.
” He paused. “And the main reason I’m doing this?
Because a woman I know got off this car a few minutes ago.
She heard the police talking about looking for a white woman who might be on the train from Atlanta. So she came and found me.”
Josephine pictured the woman from earlier and was beholden to her, whoever she was.
“And the other reason?” the porter added softly, his gaze sweeping her face. “I know what it’s like to get beaten with a strap.”
Fresh tears came, stinging the wound on her cheek, and Josephine reached out a hand.