Page 92 of In These Hills

At last, Bart appeared, slogging through the street.

She met him on the porch. “Good afternoon, Bart.”

“Fine day, ain’t it?” he said cheerfully, soaked through.

“If you favor rain, I guess it is.” She smiled, grateful he treated her with such courtesy. Either he hadn’t heard the rumors yet, or paid them no heed.

He pulled a large bundle of mail from his pouch. “It’s a soaker, for sure. But won’t the flowers and trees all look so purty once the rain is past?”

Wishing she shared his optimism, she thanked him and hurried back inside. Sure enough, two editions of The Chattanooga Times. Wednesday, March 15, and Thursday, March 16. Not quite a week ago.

Nerves taut, she sat at the desk and read through the first, looking up occasionally to watch for Mr. Daniel, then finally turned the last page with a measure of relief.

She opened the second and her heart lurched.

Women in Revolt: Suffragist Lawlessness

Scarcely able to breathe, she struggled to focus much less read past the headline. She scanned the article looking for any mention of Atlanta, her name, Darden’s. But nothing.

She drew in a slow breath and read back through more carefully.

The article, reprinted from the New York Times, dripped with bias, and her chest ached as the journalist reported that suffragists marching after a rally on Fifth Avenue received due punishment for their actions of reckless disorder. Twelve women had been arrested and imprisoned, no doubt on fraudulent charges. Other women had been assaulted by police and male bystanders in the crowd, some having been beaten about the head and their hair torn out. One woman had even been stripped to the waist. Dozens had been injured, two women dying from their injuries.

Hot tears slipped down her cheeks. “God, where are you in all of this?”

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d prayed, not with the mixture of vitriol and anger inside her. Was God even listening? If he was, surely he would do something.

Promise me you won’t judge God by your circumstances . . . He works on a far larger landscape than the one we can see. Nannie’s words rose unbidden, and Josephine wiped her cheeks, reminded, too, of what she’d said about God collecting tears in a bottle.

Josephine knew the Bible well enough, yet couldn’t place the verse. And while God caring enough to collect tears sounded nice, she doubted the Creator of the universe truly did such a thing. Because if he cared enough to collect tears, why not simply prevent them in the first place? Along with inequality, injustice, hatred, prejudice, and cruelty.

She checked the remainder of the newspaper, grateful to find no mention of her name, then set to hand pressing and aligning all the pages, then left both papers stacked on the edge of the desk for Mr. Daniel.

The chirrup of a bird outside the window lifted her gaze. The rain had stopped, but the cloudy skies still held promise of more.

She sorted the mail. More requests for distillery visits. Mr. Daniel’s advertisements were working. Too well. She set them aside to deal with later.

Without a knock, the office door opened. Expecting Mr. Daniel, she looked up.

A young woman, head bowed, quickly closed the door behind her and glanced toward the window.

Josephine stood. “Good afternoon, ma’am. How may I—”

“Mrs. Carver said you might could help me.” The woman lifted her face. Bruising darkened her cheek and jaw, just beginning to bloom. “If you can’t, tell me now and I’ll go.”

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“YES, I’LL HELP YOU. Any way I can.”

“Uncle Jack ain’t here, is he?” the young woman asked.

“No, but he could return anytime.”

She turned for the door.

“No, please, wait!” Josephine hurried after her. “Come with me to the back room. Mr. Daniel rarely goes there. If he comes in, I’ll intercept him.”

The woman hesitated, fear warring with need. At last, she nodded.