Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction by Vanessa Russell Page A

me. “And here’s the worst part: No more women in the homes, the children and husbands must be fed in the town halls and everyone will wear uniforms.”
    My eyebrows must have been meeting my hairline by then. These were serious statements so I dared not laugh. My eyes darted to Mama but she had resorted to her needlework, her concentration on a flower keen.
    “Papa, you can’t believe everything you hear on a radio.”
    “Do you think this great country of ours would release lies on the air waves for all to hear?”
    “Some people like to pretend on the radio, just like they do in vaudeville,” I answered. “Some people even like to pretend in their homes,” I added pointedly.
    Mama jerked her head toward me, a scowl between her eyes. I glared at her openly and saw hurt and confusion plainly on her face.
    “I wouldn’t listen to such trash, Bess,” Papa said. “And I hope to God you aren’t seen in such places. You have enough to clean up as it is. Look at the mess you’ve made with the young women of this world. You and your liberated women. Pearl is wild as a rabbit now, won’t eat, says she must diet away her hips, she cut off her long hair, goes to those jazz dances and speakeasies I hear about, washes all over every day of the week, obviously trying to wash away her sins.”
    “Can’t dance forever to the Blue Danube waltz, Papa,” Pearl called in from the door. She looked at me and winked. “Supper’s ready.”
    “Those dances are too loud,” Mama said, laying down her needlework. “The modern girl can no longer hear the excitement of her own heartbeat, what with the noise of the music and motor cars.” She kissed Papa on the forehead. “Get some rest, Robert, and don’t worry. Women should be able to do something in the workaday world.”
    “Well, with a flapper girl as president,” said Papa, “I’m wondering why we men fought the war in the first place. Let me see what else you women are up to.”
    My goodness, I thought as I sat there watching him turn up the volume to hear more ‘truth’, my mother is a liar and my papa is a believer in the lies. That must be their secret to a successful marriage.

M y year of awakening? I’m pretty sure mine’s not pretty. If I was a Sleeping Beauty, that sure as hell was no prince who woke me. Mama Bess and Grandmama Ruby will be shocked to know the truth; their stories will sound homesick and homespun I suspect. They’re tight-lipped anyway so I can imagine they’ll only write about their greatest love: the women’s movement. It’ll be like reading a newspaper article. They didn’t have it nearly as hard as I did. They had loving husbands and children that weren’t crippled. I had Uncle Joe and — well, all I can say right now is, here’s what I’m supposed to write about:
We all have a pivotal moment that changes our lives. Symbolically a year of 4 seasons, where the spring seed of an event is born, grows, matures, and becomes winter wisdom as a life-changing realization. Write about this year of awakening.
Mama has written this in big block letters on a chalk board and hung it here in the dining room, replacing the painting of Papa’s Georgia plantation house. This action alone makes me think about change – as long as any of us can remember, that painting has hung there, and the newly exposed lighter shade of paint behind it proves it.
    What if that
seed
was planted in a Georgian cotton patch – and it wasn’t cotton? I mean that in so many ways. Mama does like symbolism. So does my thorny daughter, Jesi, with her peace signs and Bob Dylan obsession. Amazingly, Mama has asked
why
I at last opened that birth control clinic in 1944, and the reasons involve Papa and his kin, a family Mama had refused to talk about. But does Jesi need to know everything? A truth that will possibly change her outlook and worse yet, change her inward belief in who she is and where shecame from? I haven’t been honest with her but I haven’t yet