She sighed and removed her coat. She didn’t know when her spirits had been this low, and all she wanted now was comfort and solace. Why did her mother and Sarah have to be at the Red Cross again? They must have each knit a dozen sweaters, and who knew how many socks, for the soldiers overseas.
After a late supper of scrambled eggs and sausage, Laura soaked in the bathtub, then wriggled into her nightgown and wrapped a flannel robe around herself. She felt refreshed and not quite as heartsick, but the vision of the suffragists kept haunting her.
Just as she picked up one of the suffragist’s pamphlets to read, the front door opened, and she flew downstairs to welcome her mother and Sarah.
As she helped her mother off with her coat, she shook off the snow.
"Ah, thank you, Laura. It’s beginning to snow harder." Her mother lifted the veil of her feathered hat and removed her metal-rimmed spectacles. The angular lines of her strong face were pink from the frosty air. "I can’t see," she complained with a smile as she wiped off the steam-coated lens. There was little doubt where Laura had inherited her lovely brown hair, although her mother’s, pulled back in a twisted knot, was now streaked with gray.
"Wait until you hear what I saw tonight," Laura said, pleased to have them home at last. "I’ll put on the teakettle so we can talk."
"Wonderful, Laura," Sarah said, unclasping her cape and draping it over the clothes tree in the hall.
Leading the way into the kitchen, Laura excitedly talked about the women and police in Washington Circle. She could feel her blood rise as the replayed scene created a flurry of images in her mind.
Sipping her tea, she ended the story in a low, emotion-charged voice. "It was terrible, the way the police herded the suffragists into the van as if they were cattle. No one should be treated like that!" Laura glanced from her mother to Sarah, expecting to see horrified expressions, but they remained impassive. Her voice rose a notch. "The women hadn’t done a thing! All they want is the right to vote. We need to help them!"
At these words her mother stirred her tea faster and frowned slightly. "Laura, don’t fly to their defense so easily. These women are zealous over a cause that should wait. Right now they should use their energy for the war effort."
Laura gazed at her in disbelief. Was this the Maude Mitchell who was noted for her civic work ? Was this the Maude Mitchell who was noted for her strong-mindedness? How could her mother condemn the suffragists' cause?
Maude reached over, patted her daughter’s hand, and offered an explanation. "Yes, someday I want the vote, too, but until the Germans surrender, there are more important issues to consider."
Laura couldn’t swallow away the disappointment she felt. She turned to Sarah, but her sister studied Laura with troubled blue eyes and shook her head. "You mustn’t think of becoming involved in a group that provokes such violence. I agree with Mother."
Laura carefully set down her cup. "When don’t you?" she murmured, miserable at Sarah’s lack of sympathy.
Sarah gave her a sharp look; that is, as sharp a look as she could muster. Sarah seldom frowned or criticized and always tried to find something positive to say, which annoyed Laura no end. Laura observed her older sister’s plump, round face with its rosy cheeks and cherubic smile. Sarah’s blonde, waved hair, short and stylishly cut, her crisp, white blouse so carefully ironed, all were signs of her meticulous nature. It was hard to imagine Sarah as a suffragist and carrying a placard, yet Laura had seen women just as well dressed in the fight tonight.
"Hmmm," her mother said, breaking the silence. "On such a cold night this tea tastes marvelous." She was adroit at changing the subject.
But Laura, pouring more boiling water into her cup, didn’t intend to be put off. "These women have as much backbone as a regiment of men. All they want is equality!" She glanced at Sarah. "That affects you, too, Sarah. You know very well that your factory job was held by a man for fifty cents an hour, and you’re doing the same work for only twenty-five cents. Doesn’t that make you angry?"
"I’m glad to do my part for the war," Sarah said calmly.
"Girls, please," Mrs. Mitchell said wearily.
"Well, why is Sarah so dense?" Laura inquired. "Why can’t she understand what I’m saying?"
"Laura," Sarah said in her best older sister voice. "There’s nothing more important right now than winning the war."
"It’s not as if these women are plotting to blow up the White House! And they aren’t interfering with the war effort, either," Laura snapped. She gulped her tea and glared at Sarah.
The two sisters gave each other a long look. Then Sarah said, condescendingly, "I declare, Laura, you’d defend Mata Hari if she were alive today."
Mata Hari! Laura bridled at Sarah’s words. The glamorous German spy who had been caught and executed by the French was hardly her idea of a heroine. Laura pressed her lips together and refused to dignify Sarah’s reproach with an answer. But she silently vowed to read every word of the pamphlets she had brought home.
Maude Mitchell rose, turned, and set her teacup on the countertop. "I’m going to bed." She kissed the top of her daughters' heads.
"Mother, I’m so tired of Sarah’s prim and proper attitude," Laura said defensively, trying to reason with her mother, so that she’d see that Sarah wasn’t always right.
Her mother sighed. "Please don’t argue anymore."
"But, Mother," Laura began, then stopped. Maude Mitchell looked so tired. The dark circles under her eyes meant she was worried and not sleeping well. Laura knew it was because she was deeply concerned about Michael, since they had not heard from him in weeks. "All right, Mother," she agreed. "No more arguments." She managed a small smile.
However, after Mrs. Mitchell left, Laura glared at Sarah. "You’re living in the wrong century, Sarah. Don’t you realize it’s 1918, not 1818?
Sarah’s little laugh tinkled throughout the kitchen. "Your freckles are dancing right off the tip of your nose!"
Laura couldn’t help grinning. Her affection for Sarah was always there, no matter how much their views differed. Despite the fact that Sarah was nineteen, only four years her senior, she might as well have been forty. Instinctively her sister always did the correct thing. Well, that was fine for Sarah but not for her. There were just some ideas you had to respect and stand up for. Impulsively she reached over and squeezed Sarah’s hand. "I didn’t mean to snap at you."
"I know you didn’t." Sarah touched Laura’s cheek with her hand. "You look tired, Laura. Your motorcade drill must have been strenuous today. Why don’t you go to bed?"
"If you will, I will," Laura retorted smartly.
"I’ll be right there. Just as soon as I put out the bottles for the milkman."
"Good night, dear Sarah," she said in mocking affection. She gave her a quick hug, turned, and ran upstairs.
As she turned down her bed she could hear the Menottis' record player above her. No doubt Joe had come home from work.
Slipping off her camisole, she paused and listened to the strains of the song, "Over There." The stirring refrain made everyone a patriot. As the tune permeated the wall she softly sang, "Over there, over there…."
Her fight with Sarah was forgotten as she thought of a line from the song: "The Yanks are coming." Her brother was a Yank who had gone over there. When the Germans saw the number of Americans pouring into France, she thought, perhaps they’d surrender.