I stifle a laugh.
“No, I’m going with the poppy seed. That’s the kind of thing Aunt Edna would say.”
So Nathan was eavesdropping for an advice column. But lodging oneself like a poppy seed? Poppycock. The rules clearly state ladies should ask the men. Why complicate matters? Of course, that’s how courtship works. People never come right out and say what’s on their minds, preferring a complicated dance to simply walking across the room.
But the Bells need something different from Aunt Edna, something radical, if the Focus is to reach two thousand subscribers by April. Why put a second horse in a race when you can put in a dragon, which not only flies but eats horses for breakfast? Atlanta considers itself the capital of the New South, the city that will lead the charge into the twentieth century. Women here, at least white women, are already marching for an amendment that would give them the vote, just like the Fifteenth did for colored men. Surely they are ready for a column that will take on the more serious concerns we face today. Someone needs to blow the trumpets of change. Someone who has viewed society both from the top branch and the bottom, from the inside of the tree and from the outside.
Someone like . . . me. If I am such a saucebox, maybe I would make a good agony aunt. I like progress, and I have opinions, just like everyone else. And outside of the Bells, if anyone knows the Focus, it’s me. Not only would it help keep them in business, but I would be holding a peach to the bats of good fortune to keep us living here. No one would know my identity. The best way to deliver the truth, if not posthumously, is anonymously.
Old Gin would not approve. He required the uncles to follow a long list of rules to minimize the risk of discovery—no loud talking, no leaving in groups, no dumping of waste into the Bells’ incinerator. But this is for us, too. And he need not find out. Old Gin hardly has time to read the news nowadays.
My heart beats to quarters in my chest. I will be the Bells’ Aunt Edna.
Six
I alight to Old Gin’s side of the house, where a set of drawers holds old fabric and writing supplies. The drawer with the paper fights me, but finally budges. I quickly retrieve a sheet, then steal back to my corner.
The ceiling shakes hardest on Wednesday and Saturday nights for the Focus’s biweekly publication on Thursdays and Sundays, but tonight, all is quiet. Instead of switching on my oil lamp, I light a candle, pressing the wax base into a cracked teacup. The light throws my shadow against the concrete walls. I study my darker twin, rolling a pen between her fingers. To whom should I address this letter?
My first thought is Mrs. Bell, but I discard that idea. Her receipt of the mystery letter would come too soon after our encounter at the millinery, one bread crumb away from a trail. That leaves Nathan, who, despite our close encounter, never heard me speak English. It has to be him. Mr. Bell has more than once questioned Nathan’s ability to be publisher. Perhaps I can provide him the chance to show his father some of that forward-thinking spirit for which the Focus is known.
Nathan will make a fine publisher one day, maybe not as charismatic as his father, but just as principled. And despite his grouchy disposition, unlike his father, he treads lightly upon the world, as if he knows there is more than one way to make a lasting mark.
Mr. Nathan Bell
Number One Luckie Street
Atlanta, Georgia
Dear Mr. Bell,
I have been a devotee of the Focus for many years. I have especially admired your thoughtful editorials, which demonstrate a commitment to justice as well as a fine-toothed wit (most recently, “Combined Sewer System Stinks: Flush at Your Own Risk” and “Fired Shoe Factory Workers Just Didn’t Fit In”).
While the quality of your content exceeds that of the larger newspapers, there is one aspect in which the Focus is lacking: women. The Journal features a women’s page. The Constitution regularly covers home decoration. Even the Trumpeter runs the popular Advice from Aunt Edna. Magazines such as Ladies’ Home Journal are more popular now than ever.
Women demand more content. The Focus can give it to them.
To this end, I offer up my own pen and heart. I have lived in Atlanta all of my life, and consider myself an everyday woman. I do not want payment. The knowledge that I might have helped my sisters in Atlanta in some small way is payment enough. To aid you in your decision, I include a sample of my writing here.
—
LADIES ASKING GENTS TO HORSE RACE? YEA OR NEIGH?
The propriety of “turnaround” events has reared its head again due to the upcoming horse race, even though the sponsors have clearly stated that “ladies may ask gentlemen.”
I am of the opinion that there are many occasions in which the thing said differs greatly from the thing thought. For example, when one is asked, “Do you like my cucumber pie?” one might respond, “I do indeed,” even though one thinks it looks like alligator spit. If later, the pie eater compliments the fluffiness of said pie, the pie maker might reply, “It is really nothing,” though she be secretly pleased.
However, the horse race is not one of these occasions. Public invitations do not care what you think of them. They speak plainly. Why should a lady who chooses to ask a gent to the race be “ruining her reputation,” rather than simply obliging her hosts’ wishes? When deception is not at issue, words should be taken at their face value, or they are in danger of losing currency. So, ladies, quit your stalling. Your steed may not be available furlong.
* * *
—
If my offer interests you, you may simply print the article, and I will know to deliver a new one. I am a private person and do not wish to make known my identity for personal reasons.
Yours sincerely,
I shake out my hand, wondering what to name myself. It should be something unique and memorable, a name no one else has. Our horse comes to mind. I had named her Sweet Potato because of her gentle and solid nature. Something with the word sweet would be perfect, to temper the more provocative nature of the articles I would pen. Miss Sweetie, I write with a flourish. Then I cautiously uncork the listening tube. A chair scrapes the floor. Nathan’s shoes tap evenly across to the wall and back again, followed by the scrabble of Bear’s paws. She woofs, but not toward the vent, to my immense relief.
The knowledge that the person to whom I am writing is also writing just one floor above makes my shadow sit up straighter, and if shadows had smiles, I might see one reflected there.
I seal the paper with the candle wax. My legs bounce, itching to deliver it, but I must wait until tonight.
Too fired up to eat, I rummage through the crates Old Gin keeps in his room, hoping to find another pair of gloves. Most of the uncles took their scant belongings with them when they left, but oddments remain, like Lucky Yip’s favorite cushion and Hammer Foot’s two-string fiddle, which for obvious reasons he rarely used.