The Harlot’s Pen Page 3

  But that was all in the past, before I got involved in Miss Bary’s Commission, and before Sam went to work for A.B.C. Dohrmann.

  I chilled a bottle of champagne for us to drink together. Sam didn’t get home until it was almost ten. The bottle remained in its bucket.

  * * * *

  January 29, 1920

  “Toil she must, to crumb the empty larder,

  to still the cries of her hungry child,

  while her master scoffs at her plea so mild

  to pay her sex fairly—she begs so meek

  to keep her body off the street.”

  The Rape of the Working Woman, V. Strone

  What joy it was to quote myself at the beginning of this entry!

  To my amazement, a check from the Argus arrived in mail: ten dollars! The irony was not lost on me. I didn’t have to stand on my feet for hours for a whole week to earn that, nor lie on my back while strangers took their liberties.

  There was no letter, just a note: “Payment for The Rape of the Working Woman to be run week of Feb. 20-28.” The check was payable to V. Strone. Fortunately, the bank knew my “maiden name,” and would consider it a misspelling of Stone. It was the first money I had earned from my writing in three years, and I felt the thrill of publication almost as strong as the heady relief of knowing I could still earn a room’s worth of rent.

  Competing with my accomplishment was the tension among my friends as the date for Mrs. Whitney’s trial approached. We had taken on the mantle of supporters and spoke obsessively of the possible outcomes, almost as a sports fanatic weighed the potential of his team in the World Series of Baseball. At home, Sam was gone so much at work that I stopped doubting I would be able to escape to attend the trial. When he was home, he had begun talking about Argentina again, but I saw no forward action. Perhaps it was his dream of escape.

  Jacqueline, Leticia, and I took the ferry across the bay once again, this time in the frigid gloom of January. Francis Pemberton, Jacqueline’s husband, a lawyer himself, accompanied us, and explained the process as it transpired. I was grateful for the information, but it ultimately had the effect of eliminating any hope I had for Mrs. Whitney’s acquittal.

  At last, the trial for Mrs. Whitney started. The whole first day they picked a jury, and the men and women on the jury look like very severe, dutiful people. It took the entire day to satisfy the lawyers. Tom O’Connor was representing Mrs. Whitney. He’s a “damn good lawyer” according to Jacqueline’s Francis, who knew him from school, but to me he didn’t seem to have his heart in it. Then the lawyers made their opening arguments, or no, I was corrected, their opening statements, and Mrs. Whitney’s supporters were stunned. Mr. O’Connor basically admitted that Mrs. Whitney was a member of the Communist Labor Party. His entire defense would be based on the idea that the CLP was not connected with the two illegal groups, Communist International and Industrial Workers of the World. We were skeptical of the wisdom of this defense, but Francis explained that the choices were limited. We vowed to attend every day, even with the ferry ride across the bay, if we could.

  * * * *

  January 30, 1920

  Mr. O’Connor asked for a delay of the trial, explaining that his daughter was ill with influenza. The moment those words were out of his mouth, there was almost a stampede for the door. We had been lucky out in California, but the news across the nation had been horrific. People, hordes of them, were dying from influenza, and nothing could save them. Their lungs filled up, and they gasped to death within one or two days.

  It was obvious that Judge Quinn had it in for Mrs. Whitney. He refused to delay the trial. Mr. O’Connor was ashen and left the courtroom. The judge told Mr. Thompson, Mr. O’Connor’s young partner, to take over, and the trial went on.

  It was already dark when we left the courthouse. The cold had settled into the bricks of the buildings, and a fine drizzle fell, chilling us to the core. Francis kindly went to hail a cab for us to save us the long walk in the freezing rain. As we waited, I saw women in the shadows, shivering in their thin dresses, hoping for customers on this miserable night. I watched as one reached out a hand to Francis as he passed, but I could not hear her solicitation, nor his response. There was a woman who would likely not eat tonight, and her refuge from the elements would be meager, at best.

  * * * *

  February 10, 1920

  Despite the growing terror of the flu, the trial marched on, and Jacqueline, Leticia, and I stalwartly attended almost daily. Mr. O’Connor, Mrs. Whitney’s senior lawyer, died from the flu, having lost his daughter the week before. A lady juror died Monday, but Judge Quinn just swore in an alternate to take her place. There were no crowds at the trial. There were no crowds anywhere. The theaters shut down, waiting for the epidemic to pass, and each time someone cleared his throat, people ran in terror.

  Meanwhile, the trial continued, with the prosecutor calling a parade of twenty witnesses, all testifying that the Communist Labor Party was nothing more than an arm of Moscow. Mr. Thompson, the young replacement for Mr. Connor, asked each one if he had ever attended a CLP meeting, and of course they never had. Then he asked if they had ever heard Mrs. Whitney say anything about overthrowing the American government by force, and they admitted never having heard her say anything at all. Then he sat down.

  The single notable event in this day’s litany of witnesses was the testimony of the federal agent who arrested Mrs. Whitney. His name was Gerald Macondo. He had narrow, piggy eyes and fashionably combed black hair. He looked as pleased as a vulture with a dead lamb to feed on.

  He described the meeting we had attended, and Jacqueline and I had to hold each other’s hands to keep from running from the courtroom. His voice dripped malevolence. “The defendant spoke in brassy, arrogant tones to her flock of sympathizers, urging them on to destruction of our American way of life. I saw ladies of means and girls barely out of their teens all being led astray by this harpy, goaded into embracing Moscow and turning their backs on their country, their homes, and their proper sphere.”

  He looked over the audience. I could feel his venom spill over us as the jury nodded in time with the rhythm of his speech. I kept my head down, busying myself with my bag at my feet. I feared he would somehow recognize me, stop the trial, and rise up and point: you, the tall girl with the black hair, you were there! Arrest her! Of course, that did not happen, but his evil glare, mixed with the power of his office, made a toxic brew.

  I longed for Mr. Thompson’s turn to call witnesses. I hoped he had some.

  * * * *

  February 13, 1920

  I had no problem getting away. Sam had become increasingly distant and cold, staying away at work late into the night, disregarding me when he was home. Time was, he would be either hateful or charming, and I would be on pins and needles waiting to see which one. I recalled coming home one night, the year before, from a concert I’d gone to with Leticia. I’d asked Sam along, of course, I was not an idiot, but he’d said the composer was a ninny, and that he had no interest. But when I got in, he had questioned me like I was a thief before a magistrate. When he heard that we had joined some of Leticia’s friends at a café afterwards, and that I’d had a little gin, he’d slapped me and called me a floozy. When I didn’t cry right away, he’d hit me until I did. Naturally, that got him going, and once he was satisfied, he’d brought me a cup of tea and a slice of cake in bed.

  I didn’t miss that, but this silence, this distance scared me more. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  * * * *

  February 20, 1920

  At the closing arguments the lawyers said the same things they had already said. The jurors looked weary and ready to go deliberate. All in all, Mr. Thompson called only two witnesses, Mrs. Whitney and one of the prosecutor’s witnesses, a woman who ended up agreeing that the CLP had nothing to do with Moscow. We could only wait and hope.

  * * * *

  February 25, 1920
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br />   My poem appeared in the Argus today! Unfortunately, the word arrived along with the dismal news of yesterday’s jury verdict. Mrs. Whitney was found guilty of one of the counts, the one about the violation of the Criminal Syndication Act. There was a hung jury on all the other counts, meaning, as Francis Pemberton explained to us afterwards, that they couldn’t decide. He said they could re-try her on those counts, but he didn’t think they would.

  We got the news by telegraph, since we couldn’t very well go and sit around in the courthouse waiting for the jury to decide. It could have been days, but they reached a verdict in a mere six hours.

  Then came the worse news. Judge Quinn sentenced Mrs. Whitney, who looked haggard but proud on the stand, to one to fourteen years in San Quentin Prison. According to Mr. Thompson, Mrs. Whitney collapsed upon hearing that, and had to be attended by the bailiff. Mr. Thompson said they would appeal, but we were despondent on her behalf.

  So, instead of a crescendo of glory, my poem’s publication took a back seat to the grim news from the court. Jacqueline invited me and Sam to celebrate the publication, saying that every blow we struck for justice counted. But I told her that Sam knew nothing about the poem, so I couldn’t very well celebrate with him. Her big eyes got bigger. She was frightened for me. She told me that if I ever want to leave Sam, she and Francis would take me in until I could get on my feet. I was mortified that she would think me so fragile, but I didn’t say so, so as not to seem ungrateful. I was glad I held back, as she followed that remark by saying, “You’re the bravest girl I know. I don’t envy you, but I sure admire you.” I could not even imagine anyone thinking that of me.

  * * * *

  March 5, 1920

  Not a day passed before I got a large envelope from the Argus. In it was a copy of my poem in print and fifty letters to the editor exclaiming over the “vulgarity”, “unseemly language”, and “filth” of my poem, as well as screeds announcing my un-Americanism, my communism, my essential desire to see women, the family, men, and the country all destroyed by my vision of the world.

  I cried. I had indeed expected that there would be some reaction, in fact had written it to engender response, but I could never have imagined being so vilified. Miss Bary’s words, You will be hopelessly ridiculed, rang in my ears. I could not imagine how paying women so little for the work they did in factories, canneries, farms, and stores, could benefit society.

  “Women should be tending the home fires, making the household a haven for their husbands at the end of a long day, and not masculinizing themselves and emasculating their husbands by trying to usurp the manly role of earning the family’s bread…” read one of the more grammatical screeds.

  The following day I got another envelope, again from the Argus, with more letters, some addressed to V. Strone, one more vile than the next, along with a copy of the Argus with some of these letters in print. A handwritten note from the editor sufficed for me to realize that he had only published the poem to generate controversy and sales. “Play with matches, girlie, and you’re going to get burned.”

  As I sat across from Sam at dinner that night, I realized that my time with him was drawing to a close. I had too many secrets from him now. The poem, the rally, the publication, the verdict, the letters, all weighed upon my heart. I had mentioned almost none of this to him, and now, when I so longed to unburden myself of the misery of the day, I could not.

  “I have begun to write again, Sam,” I said tentatively. I ran my finger nervously over my fork.

  “Have you?” he asked, not looking up from his soup. His black hair showed a few strands of gray, hitherto unnoticed by me.

  “Yes. Some poetry.”

  “How appropriately useless of you.” I twitched angrily. He looked up. “No more society columns?”

  I tamped down my temper. “No. Since we don’t go anywhere to write about anymore. Would you like it better if I went back to writing commentary?”

  He raised an eyebrow, and the light from the lamps reflected in the green flecks in his eyes. He was still a very handsome man, and his fortunate gender kept its value as it aged. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed, Violetta. You spend all of your time, and my money, running with that bluestocking woman, your friend Leticia, and pandering to the aging spinster on the Wage Commission. You seem to have forgotten your expected role here. A smile on your face and some lively and intelligent conversation at dinner would go a long way.”

  “Miss Bary has gone to Washington, and I didn’t pander to her. And you seem to have forgotten your own days with the Progressives.” I realized the weakness of my reply, but I could not very well at this point tell him that I had been following Anita Whitney’s trial, or that I had been published to such community disapproval in the Argus.

  He rose from the table. I stiffened. He walked behind me and put his hands softly on my shoulders. I sat motionless as his hands slowly passed in front of my neck, and his fingers traced my neckline. Then his hands cupped my breasts and squeezed. I inhaled sharply.

  He snorted. “And what do you think puts food on this table and a roof over your head? For now.”

  For now. Ironically, I had thought the same words.

  Several days later Sam was once again home for dinner. Our skirmish had whetted his appetite for my company, it seemed. Jessie, our maid, had just cleaned up from dinner and was about to go home, when she came in and said that there were some gentlemen at the door asking for me. She looked a little wide-eyed and glanced furtively at Sam as she spoke, then hurried back to the kitchen as if she’d left the stove on under cream.

  Sam said, “What decent man calls on a woman at night uninvited? Unless you’ve taken to inviting men home now,” he added.

  I hadn’t invited anyone, of course, and Jessie had fled without getting their names, so I told Sam I’d go see. “No, you won’t!” he said and pushed forward out of the dining room and into the entryway.

  Jessie had had at least enough sense to shut the front door so that she could have reported that I wasn’t in, had she stuck around long enough to do her job properly. Seeing as she had fled, Sam swung the door open. Three men in dark suits stood on the landing. Sam was quite a tall man, and could be imposing when he wanted to be. He took a step forward. “Good evening, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

  I, on the other hand, quailed at the sight of them and slipped quickly back into the recesses of the house, hoping I had not been noticed. I could still hear them, as the sound carried far too well in this house.

  I went up to our bedroom and sat on the bed, my stomach churning, with a sour fear in the back of my throat. It didn’t take long before Sam said very clearly, “I will not allow you to enter without a warrant.” My whole body went cold. I tried to formulate a prayer, but it mostly came out as, “Please, dear God, make them go away.” I kept repeating that over and over under my breath, but soon enough there were treads on the stairs, more than one person’s, and so I knew that somehow they had gotten past Sam. I stood when they entered, and faced them.

  The three men were of about medium size, which was to say I was as tall as they. One, dapper and dark-haired, seemed to be in charge. The other two looked like dolts, one thick and one thin and mustachioed, but neither had even the glimmer of intelligence that showed on their leader’s face. Each wore a black wool suit with a blue and red tie. It looked to be a uniform of sorts, but they wore no police badge or any insignia that I could see that proved them to be officials. Behind them, Sam stood looking over their heads at me, his eyes narrowed in fury.

  The leader of this little band walked up to me and put his hand, quite casually, on my arm. “Good evening, Miss Stone. We’re sorry to intrude into such an intimate space as your bedroom, but Mr. Toppings declined to fetch you himself, so we had no choice.”

  I wrenched my arm away. Sam started forward, and one of the men put his hand up. Sam froze and stood watching. “What do you want with me?” I said with an unaccustomed shrill
edge to my voice. I took a quick breath and said more steadily, “Who are you, and by what right do you dare to enter our house?”

  The leader gave a crooked smile as he looked back at Sam. “‘Our house?’ You own this house with the lady?” Sam just pressed his mouth into a line. Obviously satisfied, the leader turned back to me. “We have entered with permission from the person whose name is on the lease, which is Mr. Samuel Toppings. As far as we know, you have no ownership or leasehold rights to this house and no right to keep us out. And you know perfectly well who we are. Or have you not told Mr. Toppings about your constant attendance at Mrs. Whitney’s trial? Or your little rabble-rousing poem published in the Argus?”

  I didn’t dare look at Sam. I wasn’t sure what the right answer was or what the consequences of the wrong answer would be, but I knew that Sam was going to kill me either way. I stayed silent, pressing my hands to my sides to keep from shaking.

  “The strong, silent type, are you, Miss Stone? Completely unwomanly, no doubt as a result of your unseemly political behavior. A lady would weep or throw herself at her husband’s feet—oh, but of course, Mr. Toppings isn’t your husband, is he?”

  The nasty mockery in his voice gave me enough anger to heat my frozen body. “You can leave this house now,” I said. “I have nothing to discuss with you.”

  “That’s another place you are mistaken,” he said. “As a matter of fact, you are going to discuss quite a bit with us. But you are right in one regard: we are leaving. Of course, you will be coming with us.”