UNMENTIONABLES

Akashic Books

CHAPTER 1

BROWN CANVAS

The breezes of Macomb County usually journeyedfrom the west, blowing past and moving quickly onward,for the county was just en route, not a final destination.On this particular night, the wind gusted inexplicablyfrom the east, rushing over fields of bluestem grasses,which bent their seed heads like so many royal subjects.A queen on progress, the currents then traveled abovefarmhouses barely visible behind the tasseled corn, andswept down the deeply shaded streets of Emporia, wherethey finally reached the great tent, inflating the canvaswalls with a transforming breath from the wider world.

The farm wives had staked out choice spots under thebrown canvas; an area clear of poles but not far from theopen flaps where they might feel the strong breeze thatrelieved the oppressiveness of the muggy August evening.The ladies occupied themselves with their knitting needlesor watched the crew assembling music stands. Some frettedabout sons, already drafted for the European troubleand awaiting assignment to cantonments scattered acrossthe country. They pushed back thoughts of the steamingcanning vats they faced when the weeklong Chautauquaassembly of 1917 concluded. All they would have to getthrough another dreary winter were the memories of thesoprano's gown of billowing chiffon; the lecturer's edifyingwords; the orchestras and quartets.

The strings of bare bulbs that swagged the pitchedroof were suddenly switched on. The scattered greetingsof "Howdy-do" and "Evening" grew steadily as thecrowd gathered, burdened with seat cushions, palmettofans, and white handkerchiefs. Leafing through the souvenirprogram, they scrutinized the head-and-shouldersphotograph of the evening's speaker, a handsome womanwearing a rope of pearls. She was described as a well-knownauthor, advocate for wholesome living, and suffragist.What exactly was this lecture—"Barriers to theBetterment of Women"—about? Some expected a call formore female colleges, others for voting rights.

Then Marian Elliot Adams, a tall and striking womanin her early thirties, swept onto the stage. She wore a ripplingstriped silk caftan and red Moroccan sandals. Withdark eyes and dramatically curved brows, her appearancehinted at the exotic. In ringing tones, she announced, "Iam here tonight to discuss the restrictive nature of women'sundergarments."

Hundreds of heads snapped back. The murmurs ofthe crowd, the creaking of the wooden chairs, stoppedabruptly. Even the bunting festooning the stage hung motionless,as if it had the breath knocked out of it.

Marian's gaze swept across the pinched faces, assessingthe souls spread before her, and she concluded thatthey were the same people she'd been lecturing to for thepast three months. There was the gaunt-cheeked elderwith his chin propped on a cane; the matron with thebolster-shaped bosom; the banker type in a sack coat;the slouching clerk with dingy cuffs. Just like last nightand the night before that, stretching back eighty-threestraight nights—these strangers she knew so well.

She'd begun her odyssey on June 1, as she had forthe last seven summers, driving a dusty Packard to villagesacross Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, opening eachtown's weeklong series of talks and entertainments, andthen moving on. In her wake followed orchestras, elocutionists,adventurers, sextets, chalk artists—whatever thePrairieland Chautauqua Agency felt would meet the standardsof improvement and inspiration demanded by eachhamlet's subscription committee. Marian was relieved shedidn't have to stick around and watch the hodgepodgeof entertainers following her. She and her fellow orators,she often said with a hint of irony, were the only onestrue to the original Chautauqua ideal. During her briefrespites from the road, she'd often settle in at her favoriteGreenwich Village tea house and laughingly query fellowpatrons, "Would you believe it? Me, an agnostic since thetender age of ten, toiling for Chautauqua?"

A half-century before, a group of Methodists haderected open-air pavilions beside the placid waters ofLake Chautauqua in western New York, as an educationalretreat for Sunday school teachers. From "MotherChautauqua," as the institution became affectionatelyknown, reading courses for adults quickly sprangup across the country. Later, commercialized venturesknown as Tent or Circuit Chautauquas, and connectedto the original in name only, took up the cause of bringingedification and culture to the rural heartland. CircuitChautauquas, organized by Prairieland and other bookingagencies, moved from town to town, following anestablished itinerary. When traced on a map, the variouscircuits looked like a child's connect-the-dots drawing,linking isolated hamlets and farming communities in theMidwest, South, and West. An easterner, Marian saw thecircuit as an opportunity to bring modern thinking onwomen's causes to Middle America's backwaters. Thisnight, as she launched into her talk, she took comfort inknowing that more than five hundred other Chautauqualecturers were mounting platforms in five hundred otherbyways.

She smiled broadly and asked, "Why is dress reformso necessary for the modern woman?"

The audience members, recovered from their initialshock, took up their palmetto fans, repositioned theirlegs, and settled in.

"Because clothing constitutes both a real and symbolichindrance to women taking their rightful placein our country's civic, occupational, and educationalrealms. Did you know that a woman, preparing to go outin public, routinely dons twenty-five pounds of clothing?Twenty-five pounds. Imagine! And of that, almost all of itis hidden from view. And almost all of it serves no practicalpurpose. Beneath every dainty shirtwaist and skirt lielayer upon layer of restrictive undergarments."

She counted them off on her fingers. "Combinationsuit, petticoat, corset, corset cover, hose supporter, hose.These are the unmentionables that every woman strugglesagainst. These are the invisibilities that drag downher limbs, sap her energy, prevent her from full participationin community life. Yes, we have made some strides inthe last forty years. The hourglass figure, the tight lacingsare, mercifully, things of the past. But more must be done."As she spoke, Marian paced briskly across the stage,her caftan gracefully shifting in the current. Some of themen wondered just what sort of unmentionables Mrs.Elliot Adams had on under the silk that swirled aroundher well-proportioned limbs. Deuce Garland, a widowerof two years and publisher of the Clarion, was amongthem. He balanced a notebook on his calf, pencil restingon a blank page. In times past, he'd have written halfof his article before the lecturer even stepped on stage.Chautauqua opened in Emporia with a bang last eveningwhen three thousand citizens of all ages gave a rousingwelcome to ... That was what came of sixteen years publishinga small-town daily with modest ambitions and amission of boosterism.

But two months ago, seven of the town's infants hadsuccumbed to typhoid within three weeks. These deaths,very likely due to that age-old culprit, adulterated milk,shook Deuce to the core. As a boy, he'd lost two sistersto the same illness, and had never gotten over it. Thatsame week he'd come upon an editorial in the SpringfieldTimes calling for regular inspections of dairy operations.His first thought had been, I've got to reprint this! Butthen, he'd hesitated. He'd thought of his advertisers—thelocal shop owners, some with family ties to dairy farms.The subscribers, many who worshipped alongside thosesame hard-working men and women, the backbone ofAmerica. He couldn't afford to anger them. Once he'dpaid off the new linotype, he'd be in a better position toweather a dip in revenue. Then he could turn the Clarioninto what he'd imagined it might become when he'd firstbought it—a daily that would change Emporia for thebetter. Even if he wasn't quite ready to make the big leap,he'd decided to at least take seriously every story he didprint. No more boilerplate. Still, the typhoid, the unprintededitorial, hung at the back of his mind.

Deuce leaned forward to better hear each word ofthe speech. Marian's sonorous voice was being partiallyobscured by phlegmy hacking from outside the tent, fromone of the houses that bordered the grassy Chautauquagrounds. Deuce's stepdaughter, Helen, seated beside him,heard it too and turned with an annoyed glance. Justnineteen, she was in the full flush of young womanhood,with solemn eyes, milky skin, and sleek wings of brownhair tucked behind her ears. He admired her in silence,self-consciously running a hand across his own hair that,despite the heavy application of pomade, had returnedto its tight waves. He removed the handkerchief from abreast pocket and wiped his sticky palms. The carefullybalanced notebook fell to the grass. Grunting, he bentto pick it up, then rearranged his legs, the wooden chaircreaking beneath him.

Helen shot him a reproving look. Angrily flicking theprogram in front of her face, she turned her attentionback to the stage. She'd been waiting for months for Mrs.Elliot Adams and wasn't about to let him spoil it withall this fidgeting. Who knew when she'd have anotherchance to hear a famous advocate for women's rights?Not in the foreseeable future, not in this pokey town. Theacetate footlights bathed Marian from below, illuminatingthe folds of the caftan, the firm chin, the strong noseand brows, the clear eyes. Why, Mrs. Elliot Adams is theStatue of Liberty come to life, Helen thought with a grin.Come to life right here in Emporia.

Marian was saying, "How can a young womanweighed down with all these undergarments, not to mentionlong skirts, perform a day's work in an office, mill,or shop? How can she participate in the healthful activitiesof bicycling, tennis, dance, swimming? How can shefully join in the civic life of the community? She can't.Women's dress restricts their arms, their legs, and theiropportunities."

There was some murmuring among the knitters nearthe open tent flaps on the far left. Without even looking,Marian knew these were farm wives.

"Now let me quickly add that what I am talking aboutis public dress. I am well aware that many of you womenin the farmland perform demanding physical labor andthat the reliable Mother Hubbard is quite serviceable, ifnot as aesthetically pleasing or designed for ease of movementas it might be. As is, for example, this garment I amwearing. This free-flowing gown is functional, healthy,and, so I have been told, flattering."

Three matrons sucked in their breath as they and thetown realized that Marian's gown was not a costume buther daily wear. Many of Chautauqua's lecturers and performersdressed in a manner that amplified their message.The Dickens Man appeared in a Victorian frock coat ashe enacted Oliver Twist, adding a shawl for poor Nancy,a cloth cap for Oliver, and a cape for wicked Bill Sykes.Each August, a Polynesian family appeared in grass skirtsand feathered cloaks, mesmerizing listeners with theirstrange songs and tales of conversion from savagery toChristianity. Now Marian seemed to transform beforetheir eyes, from the lofty and somewhat daring embodimentof social reformer, to the murky role of the outlandish.

The air in the tent was oppressive and thunder rumbledin the distance. Marian could feel sweat trickling betweenher breasts, dampening the bust supporter and hernainsook drawers. The extreme heat that gathered underthe Chautauqua tents was as famous as their trademarkbrown canvas walls. "Going down the line," as the Chautauquaperformers called it, was not for the faint of heartor physically frail. Marian had witnessed dozens of first-timers,delicate sopranos, even robust orators, collapseafter twenty consecutive nights of appearances under thesweltering canvas, in tandem with twenty days of joltingtravel on gritty trains or in dusty open motorcars. Asshe patted her brow with a folded hankie, she again gavethanks for her strong constitution. One summer, she'dfollowed William Jennings Bryan, the living embodimentof Circuit Chautauqua, down the line. The celebratedorator, former congressman, and secretary of state, wasknown as "The Great Commoner" for his populist standson the goodness of the ordinary man. Besides his "Crossof Gold" speech, Bryan was famous for his endurance,sometimes giving three lectures a day in three differenttowns as his shapeless alpaca coat became increasinglysodden, hanging like wet burlap from his large frame.And she had triumphantly matched him step for step. ForMarian, like Bryan, it wasn't just a matter of physical staminabut dedication to a cause. If she didn't bring the messageof dress reform to Emporia, to all the other flyspecks onthe circuit, how would these women ever enter the modernage? From the back row a baby launched into full-throatedbawling, as piercing as a factory whistle. And that's anotherreason I'm meant for this, Marian thought, no husband,no children to tie me down or pull me off the road.She had divorced years ago and never looked back.

Harsh coughing sounded faintly from beyond thetent, competing with the howling infant. For most in theaudience, accustomed to such disturbances, the soundsbarely registered, but Tula Lake, who was sitting on theother side of Deuce, immediately recognized the consumptivecough of sixteen-year-old Jeannette Bellman.The Bellman family lived on the far side of the grounds.Tula turned in her seat. The tent was packed, the crowdoverflowing beyond the flaps.

"Have you seen Dr. Jack? I'm worried about Jeannette,"she whispered to Deuce.

Deuce glanced up from his notebook. The moons ofTula's blue irises were clouded with worry. "I heard hertoo."

Tula's features were still pretty but now blurred withage. Deuce, Tula, and her brother Clay had lived next doorto one another for sixteen years. As Deuce turned backto the stage, Tula kept her ears focused outside the tentflaps. After a couple of minutes, the coughing fit passed.Thank goodness, Tula thought. Sitting back, she pickedup the lecturer's train of thought. Still, she was only half-listening.Her eyes were on Deuce, whose dark browscontrasted so handsomely with the wavy sterling-silverhair. Just above his collar a dusting of talcum glowedwhite against his coppery skin. At last she turned backto the stage, giving Mrs. Elliot Adams, who seemed to beexplaining how she became such a staunch advocate fordress reform, her full attention.

"... of women's dress, undergarments in particular, isa matter not only of limitation, but also of life itself. Withcorsets and other bindings restricting the rib cage, it isimpossible to draw in sufficient breath. My own dreadfulexperience with consumption taught me that. I cured myselfby casting aside my corset and bringing fresh, cleansingair into my lungs day and night. For more than a yearI slept outside under the stars as my lungs opened andhealed."

Another growl of thunder sounded from out on theflat prairie. The audience rustled like a roost of startledsparrows but settled quickly. Marian didn't pause. She'dlectured through storms that hurled hailstones so largethey ripped holes in the tent while the spectators satwithout flinching. These sons and daughters of pioneerswaited all year for Chautauqua week and almost nothingcould dislodge them. A good heavy rain would at leastcool things off. This time of the evening, halfway into theprogram, her toes were roasting in the footlights. She'dthought of The Great Commoner's system—chilling onehand on a block of ice before stroking his brow whilebeating the air with a palm fan in his other. He kept thisdouble-handed routine up for his entire hour-long speech.Maybe I should try that, she thought.

While her mind considered this, her voice continued,"Like the young Theodore Roosevelt, I was determinedto seize control of my destiny."

At this, the venerable Henry Wilson, several chairsdown from Deuce, leaned across the laps of three matronsto catch the publisher's eye. "The gall; putting herselfalongside TR!" he hissed. A spout of tobacco juicearced onto the ground for emphasis and the seventy-four-year-oldmember of three secret societies and honorarypresident of the Young Ragtags, a loose outfit organizedaround drinking and the swinging of Indian clubs, stoodup and stomped out.
(Continues...)Excerpted from UNMENTIONABLES by LAURIE LOEWENSTEIN. Copyright © 2014 Laurie Loewenstein. Excerpted by permission of Akashic Books.
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