“Extra! Russians surround Warsaw! Riots in Ireland! English impose martial law!”
Violet wondered why Miss Dexter was able to imagine such a perfect world and not imagine a place for Myrtle in it. She got up and went over to the stove. Miss Kelley was glopping oatmeal into tin bowls. “Can I have some to take to Myrtle, please?” Violet asked.
“Here you go.” Miss Kelley handed her a bowl of thick gray oatmeal. Then she reached into a box and heaped a liberal handful of raisins on top. “Better give her some extra; injustice makes a girl hungry.”
Violet had to get off the train in order to find the car Myrtle was in—they were no longer connected. Everything was being rearranged so new trains could be assembled to head to Nashville and other cities from the junction point here in Chattanooga.
She found Myrtle standing on a platform on the other side of the tracks, in a knot of colored people who were waiting to get onto the Jim Crow car to Nashville. Violet hurriedly told Myrtle about what had happened the night before, but there was no time to discuss what might have become of Mr. Martin because Violet was supposed to get back to the suffragists' car before it was moved.
“Anyway, I'll see you in Nashville,” she said, and hurried away to eat her own breakfast.
As she was crossing the tracks, she saw a woman carrying a basket stumble and fall.
Violet hurried over to help the woman up. She was talland angular and bony and, Violet saw with embarrassment, in an interesting condition. Violet could feel her face burn. Ladies who were about to have babies, at least as soon as this woman seemed about to have a baby, usually stayed home.
Violet picked up the lady's basket and also a scrap of black cloth that had fallen on the tracks. “Let me carry this for you,” she suggested.
“Thank you, child.” The woman put her hand on the small of her back and winced painfully. “I'm just going over to the platform to set down. Goodness, that hurt. Doesn't seem to have done any harm to the little one, though. He's still kicking away.”
Embarrassed by this forthright talk, Violet carried the basket and the cloth across the tracks and up onto the platform. It was a picnic basket, but it looked to her like there were folded clothes in it.
The woman sat down painfully on a bench, still holding her back. “Thank you, child. Just put that down right here. That's my son's uniform. They're sending him home from France. He's supposed to be shipped to Chattanooga today.”
Violet thought that was a funny way of putting it, and then she looked at the piece of black cloth in her hand and a thought struck her.
“Is your son … Did he …”
“Yes,” said the woman. “Put that on my arm, would you, dear? It's supposed to be my mourning.”
The War had ended almost two years ago, butAmerican soldiers' bodies were still being shipped home from France. It was a slow process, apparently. Violet shook out the black cloth and folded it diagonally, then again to make an armband. She wrapped it around the woman's gray calico sleeve. She could see in the seam that the calico had once been dark blue, but it was faded and worn whisper-thin from many washings. She tied the armband neatly.
“Thank you. Ow.” The woman winced and put her hand on her belly, and Violet looked at her, worried. The woman's face was drawn and gray, and a strand of gray hair hung damply down from under her straw hat. Violet had never understood the phrase “hatchet-faced” before, but now she did—the woman looked as though her face had been cut out of a block of wood with a hatchet. It was all sharp, hard angles.
“Are you going to be all right?” Violet asked.
“I don't know,” said the woman. “You know, child, if men knew how much work it is having babies, I'm not sure they'd be quite so willing to start wars and have our babies blow each other up.”
“My brother was in France too,” Violet said. “But he came back,” she added
Violet wondered why Miss Dexter was able to imagine such a perfect world and not imagine a place for Myrtle in it. She got up and went over to the stove. Miss Kelley was glopping oatmeal into tin bowls. “Can I have some to take to Myrtle, please?” Violet asked.
“Here you go.” Miss Kelley handed her a bowl of thick gray oatmeal. Then she reached into a box and heaped a liberal handful of raisins on top. “Better give her some extra; injustice makes a girl hungry.”
Violet had to get off the train in order to find the car Myrtle was in—they were no longer connected. Everything was being rearranged so new trains could be assembled to head to Nashville and other cities from the junction point here in Chattanooga.
She found Myrtle standing on a platform on the other side of the tracks, in a knot of colored people who were waiting to get onto the Jim Crow car to Nashville. Violet hurriedly told Myrtle about what had happened the night before, but there was no time to discuss what might have become of Mr. Martin because Violet was supposed to get back to the suffragists' car before it was moved.
“Anyway, I'll see you in Nashville,” she said, and hurried away to eat her own breakfast.
As she was crossing the tracks, she saw a woman carrying a basket stumble and fall.
Violet hurried over to help the woman up. She was talland angular and bony and, Violet saw with embarrassment, in an interesting condition. Violet could feel her face burn. Ladies who were about to have babies, at least as soon as this woman seemed about to have a baby, usually stayed home.
Violet picked up the lady's basket and also a scrap of black cloth that had fallen on the tracks. “Let me carry this for you,” she suggested.
“Thank you, child.” The woman put her hand on the small of her back and winced painfully. “I'm just going over to the platform to set down. Goodness, that hurt. Doesn't seem to have done any harm to the little one, though. He's still kicking away.”
Embarrassed by this forthright talk, Violet carried the basket and the cloth across the tracks and up onto the platform. It was a picnic basket, but it looked to her like there were folded clothes in it.
The woman sat down painfully on a bench, still holding her back. “Thank you, child. Just put that down right here. That's my son's uniform. They're sending him home from France. He's supposed to be shipped to Chattanooga today.”
Violet thought that was a funny way of putting it, and then she looked at the piece of black cloth in her hand and a thought struck her.
“Is your son … Did he …”
“Yes,” said the woman. “Put that on my arm, would you, dear? It's supposed to be my mourning.”
The War had ended almost two years ago, butAmerican soldiers' bodies were still being shipped home from France. It was a slow process, apparently. Violet shook out the black cloth and folded it diagonally, then again to make an armband. She wrapped it around the woman's gray calico sleeve. She could see in the seam that the calico had once been dark blue, but it was faded and worn whisper-thin from many washings. She tied the armband neatly.
“Thank you. Ow.” The woman winced and put her hand on her belly, and Violet looked at her, worried. The woman's face was drawn and gray, and a strand of gray hair hung damply down from under her straw hat. Violet had never understood the phrase “hatchet-faced” before, but now she did—the woman looked as though her face had been cut out of a block of wood with a hatchet. It was all sharp, hard angles.
“Are you going to be all right?” Violet asked.
“I don't know,” said the woman. “You know, child, if men knew how much work it is having babies, I'm not sure they'd be quite so willing to start wars and have our babies blow each other up.”
“My brother was in France too,” Violet said. “But he came back,” she added
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