Firehorse (9781442403352) by Diane Lee Wilson

before me had some different opinions on the ability of women to contribute serious news.”
    â€œMmm.” Mother murmured a response that avoided commitment.
    â€œI don’t want to appear behind the age,” Father said, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “Women, I suppose, can take employment in a restaurant or a mercantile, if they must. At least they know how to cook and to shop.” His newspaper snapped open as he chuckled at his own joke.
    The hairs on the back of my neck stiffened, but I didn’t hear a response from Mother. Was she still in the room or had she returned to the kitchen? No matter, Father went on speechifying loudly. “Do you know what aggravates me all the more about this female would-be writer?” he prodded. “Who’s feeding her husband? Who’s taking care of her children?”
    â€œDoes she
have
a husband and children?” Grandmother now. I heard her drop into her chair so heavily that an unladylike belch escaped her. Father ignored that; he was more interested in having an adversary.
    â€œOf course,” he responded confidently. “Do you think I’ve neglected the facts?”
    â€œHow about some nice tomato preserves with your hash, Mr. Selby?” Mother’s remedy for argument was always a forkful of food. To be quickly followed by another.
    Maybe he nodded, I don’t know, but he didn’t speak to her. He wouldn’t now. “What I wonder is,” he charged on, “just what sort of a man it takes to let his wife—and a pretty wife, I might add, quite attractive—spend her days in a printing office surrounded by men? Not all of whom are married.” He mumbled through a mouthful, “It’s too distracting, really. It’s scandalous.”
    â€œScandalous that they aren’t married?” Grandmother asked in an innocent tone.
    â€œNo, scandalous that this woman insists on working among these poor fellows. And without the decency to wear a corset!”
    Mother gasped. I think she dropped into her own chair. “Oh, my goodness gracious!”
    â€œOh, well, that’s another matter altogether.” Grandmother sounded equally astonished. “Are you quite certain about it?”
    â€œI have eyes, don’t I?” Father exclaimed.
    â€œI’ll have some of those preserves, please,” Mother interrupted. “Would you pass them?” There was a brief pause, followed by a thank-you. “Dear, dear,” she chided, “such talk for a Sunday morning.” Steering the conversation in another direction, she asked, “Have you decided on a church to attend today?” Shecould have gotten the same response from the wall. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Mr. Selby?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œHave you decided on a church for us to attend? I saw a nice-looking one yesterday on Tremont Street, across from that lovely Boston Common. It’s Episcopalian, I believe.”
    â€œThat church?” Grandmother snorted. “It doesn’t even have a proper steeple.”
    â€œKing’s Chapel. That’s the place to be seen,” Father stated. He fought with his newspaper rather loudly.
    â€œKing’s Chapel,” Mother echoed. “It sounds nice. Do you know what kind of a church that is? I’m only asking because—”
    â€œYes,” Father cut her off, “it’s the kind of a church where the Selby family belongs. Are you questioning my competence?” He said it with a smile, I was sure, because I knew that smile. It was challenging, icy, and heavy with disdain. It was the kind of a smile that brought you to your knees and closed your mouth.
    â€œNo, of course not,” Mother murmured, then immediately asked Grandmother to pass the biscuits. There was yet another rattling of newspaper, a triumphant exclamation point. I seized the opportunity to dart for the door and escape.
    Outside, an early