The Tobacco Wives, page 15
The first chapter included personal accounts from women in their own voices. A woman named June Grayson from Lubbock shared her story of how she and her women’s club had applied pressure on their husbands—many of them influential congressmen—to force all twenty-one Texas congressional representatives to vote for the Fair Labor Standards Act of 1938. Thanks to these women, the act passed, and as a result, employment of children under the age of sixteen was now prohibited in manufacturing and mining on a national level.
Then there was the story of Eunice Greenley, who enlightened women in church basements about the disparity in education, the almost completely one-sided emphasis on men, which limited options for women. She rallied the women in her Bible study group and together they lobbied for girls to receive their high school diplomas, just like boys.
These women were strong and determined. Feisty, Daddy would have said. Most of the ladies were married, but given how they made their way through life, I got the sense that there wasn’t a husband hunter among them. It was news to me that women had been working behind the scenes, making things happen as far back as the 1800s. Women’s clubs and church groups had always seemed awful boring, but that was before I knew they talked about more than roses and Bible verses. This was thrilling. Like discovering hidden heroes. Heroines, I should say. And even more thrilling was the fact that Cornelia thought I should read this. She saw something in me, I realized in that moment.
When the ride got bumpy, I glanced around to see where we were. We’d crossed into the south side of town, not far from Aunt Etta’s house. Better not miss my stop.
“A Seat at the Table” the next story was titled. My eyes went wide as I read about a determined old woman who refused to take no for an answer when she wasn’t allowed to attend community meetings in her hometown. The mayor who ran the biweekly meetings in his office, meetings open to any and all male citizens of Sacramento, California, didn’t permit women to darken his door. So what did Alma Ray Brearly do? She sat herself down right outside the mayor’s officer and didn’t budge until she was invited to sit with the men at the long oak table inside. There was a photograph of her, this tiny but fierce women, sitting in a lawn chair in front of the building, a peaceful look on her face and her pocketbook in her lap.
Knowledge is power, she had argued. And conversely, the withholding of knowledge is an act of oppression.
I was so caught up in the book that I nearly missed my stop. “Sir,” I blurted out. “This is where I get off, sir.”
The driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror and slowed to a stop. It was Ed, the same man Aunt Etta had spoken to about his sick wife the first day we went to the Winstons’. Lord, how things could change in the space of a week.
“Wish your aunt a speedy recovery for me, would you?” he said. He must have noticed my surprise at his knowing Aunt Etta’s business. “My wife’s back in the hospital and saw them bring her in.”
“Oh,” I said. “Thank you. I’m sorry to hear about your wife. I haven’t talked to my aunt yet, but hope to soon.”
“They limit calls at Baptist, especially for new patients. Got to let them get their rest.”
“That makes sense,” I replied. “How is your wife doing?”
“She’s having a rough time of it,” he admitted. “But she’s a real trooper. She can’t wait to get back to work. Can you believe that?”
“Wow,” I said. “I guess that’s a good sign.”
“It’s unnatural if you ask me,” he tutted. “Women working like that, but it makes her happy.”
“Well, that’s good,” I said. “Bye now.”
It made me feel a little better, knowing patients couldn’t take calls. I felt awful I hadn’t spoken to Aunt Etta yet. I couldn’t wait to tell her how well things went with Cornelia this morning, if she was feeling up to talking, that is. I made quick work of the short distance to Aunt Etta’s house. Once inside, I pushed aside the curtains above the kitchen sink and opened the window. I poured myself a glass of water and my stomach grumbled when the ice-cold liquid hit it. The house was strangely quiet without Aunt Etta here. For a split second, I imagined that this was my house. The clock and breakfast table, the neatly folded yellow dish towel and silver coffeepot. The workroom downstairs and screened-in side porch, my own bedroom and bathroom too. It all looked different as I considered what it would be like to own your own home. The thought of it was exciting and terrifying at the same time, like walking on a tightrope with no net below.
I shook off my pondering and decided to make coffee for Frances. I measured two heaping tablespoons of grounds, added water to the pot, and plugged it in.
While the coffee brewed, I went downstairs to pull together all the things I would need from Aunt Etta’s workroom. I carried everything upstairs and made a pile next to the door so it would be easy for Isaac when he came to pick me up.
After a few minutes, the percolator stopped its gurgling. Just as I went to pull a mug from the shelf, Frances blew through the front door.
“Frances!” I raced to greet her, throwing my arms around her neck.
“Maddie May, oh honey, it’s so good to see you,” she said, dropping her handbag to return my embrace. We held each other real tight for what felt like several minutes, the way people do when someone’s sick or died. “It sure smells good in here, Maddie May,” Frances said, breaking the silence.
“I made coffee,” I said. “Why don’t you sit and I’ll pour you a cup.”
“What a treat,” Frances said, smiling as she settled herself at the table. “I’m not used to being waited on.”
“How is she, Frances? I’ve been so worried. Please, tell me everything.”
Frances checked her watch. “I know you’ve been worried sick,” she said. “I don’t have much time. I’m on my lunch break and have to get back to the office soon. But I’ll tell you what I know, honey.”
I scooted closer to Frances. I was all ears.
“The coffee’s good, honey. Thank you.” She set down her mug and looked me right in the eye. “I’m not gonna sugarcoat it, Maddie. She’s quite ill. But Dr. Hale assured me that once the fever breaks, she should be through the worst of it.” I hung on Frances’s every word. “As long as her lungs stay clear.”
“What do you mean?”
“Measles can lead to pneumonia, especially in adults,” she said. The blood drained from my face. Mitzy had said that’s what David’s mother died from. And she was much younger than Aunt Etta.
“Maddie May,” Frances said, placing her hand on top of mine. “Etta’s getting excellent care. The nurses keep the head of her bed raised so pneumonia doesn’t set in, and they get her up and moving at least twice a day. And God forbid, if she does get pneumonia, there’s a new medicine that can cure it. It’s hard to get, but the doctor already mentioned it as a possibility.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding. There was a treatment, something new that could help. It was going to be okay.
“Goodness,” Frances said, noticing the clock. “I’m sorry, honey, but I have to get back to work. I’m taking a shorter lunch break so I can leave a little early and visit Etta today.” Frances stood and collected her handbag.
“Why don’t I meet you at the hospital later?” I suggested, standing and following Frances to the door. “I can come visit with you.”
“I wish you could, Maddie May, but I’m afraid that’s not possible,” she said. “Only adults can visit. Measles spread like wildfire among children.”
“I’m not a child,” I snapped, then caught myself. “I’m sorry, Frances. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
Frances smoothed a curl at my forehead. “You’re right. You’re not a child, and if I made the rules, you’d be visiting Etta every night. But it’s out of our hands, Maddie May. The best thing you can do for Etta right now is exactly what you’re doing, sewing for the wives.”
“All right,” I said. “I can do that.” Frances was right. I needed to keep my purpose in mind.
“That’s my girl,” Frances said, tweaking my chin. “Ah, I almost forgot.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a brown parcel. “This is from Etta. Read these instructions carefully,” she added. “Every last word or your aunt will tan my hide.”
“Absolutely, I will. Thank you.” I smiled and held the door as she left. “Bye.” She turned at the end of the walkway and blew me a kiss, and I did the same back.
I returned to the kitchen and cleaned up the coffee. Then I opened the parcel to find three pages of instructions and an unused light brown moleskin journal. Tucked inside the first page was a short note that read: Maddie, Etta wants you to have this now —Frances
Aunt Etta had promised to buy me my own journal when she deemed me ready to create my own designs. I flipped through the crisp, blank pages and brought the soft leather to my nose. I felt giddy, like I’d graduated from apprentice to real seamstress.
I put down the notebook and unfolded the instructions. They must have been dictated by Aunt Etta. I imagined her telling Frances what to write, insisting that she not miss anything in that surefire way of hers. I felt a wave of comfort and appreciation for my smart, talented, strong aunt. I placed the moleskin and Aunt Etta’s instructions in my satchel, intending to go downstairs to collect my suitcase when something caught my eye. The envelope I’d accidentally taken from Mr. Winston’s office, with big red letters stamped right there on the front: confidential. Something private from one powerful man to another. I pulled it out of my satchel and stared at it. I held it up to the light and stared some more. Lord, was I curious. Especially after everything Anthony had told me about Dr. Hale and the Winstons earlier.
There was only one thing to do. I had to take a peek. Knowledge is power, I’d just read in Cornelia’s book. Maybe I’d learn something.
A thrill ran through me as I removed the letter and unfolded it.
From the Desk of Robert S. Hale, MD
May 18, 1946
Dear Richard,
May I once again thank you for your patience with the matter at hand. As I told you over the telephone, I have endeavored to learn all that I can about the maternal smoking study and its findings without drawing attention to our concerns. Its conclusions are rather alarming, I must say, although they remain contained, within small circles of specialists in Sweden, where the research was conducted.
I had hoped that the study design itself would fall short of acceptable standards, rendering it unreliable, but that is regrettably not the case. Its design is quite sophisticated, I’m afraid, using multiple logistic regression analysis to estimate the odds of an infant death or a low-weight birth for mothers who smoked. In other words, the science is credible, which means that it will eventually be published in medical journals and likely spur additional studies elsewhere.
The most concerning results include the following: nearly twice the risk of miscarriage, infant death, or low birth weight; five times the risk of crib death within the first six months of life; and increased risk of congenital malformations including cleft lip and palate.
I find these results difficult to believe myself, but given the study’s sound design, it will gain traction and medical publications will give it credence. If I had to bet my hat, I’d say we have a year, perhaps two, before medical reporters, and eventually daily newspapers, here in America become privy to this information. Perhaps conducting our own studies to show that MOMints are safe is advisable, although it is quite costly and takes considerable time if done properly.
I fully appreciate how much is riding on the MOMints business, Richard. As you are well aware, I have much at stake myself. This is indeed a troublesome wrinkle, and I fear we are up against it. I loathe being the bearer of bad news, nevertheless, I’m hopeful that we can address this matter and get on with the next big success for Bright Leaf Tobacco.
Sincerely,
Robert
At the bottom of the letter were notes written by a different, firmer hand, the phrases in bright blue ink, exactly the same ink I used to write down the hospital number.
Best defense is a good offense
Conduct our own “studies”
Doctor recommendations (women trust doctors, they know best)
Talk to Elizabeth—pictures of wives (most attractive ones) in advertisements and newspapers
Americans trust Americans (we know our cigarettes, not foreigners)
Big advertising and promotion plan (P. T. Barnum?)
Board meeting (discuss plan)
I reread the letter again, and again, then once more, even more slowly. Certain phrases jumped out at me—miscarriage, infant death, crib death, malformations, cleft lip and palate.
It was terrifying. Unbelievable, really. That something as natural as tobacco could be bad for you. That it could hurt babies and even kill them. It couldn’t be right. Every mother I knew smoked, and plenty of them had healthy babies. Maybe they smoked different cigarettes in Sweden. They couldn’t have tested Bright Leaf tobacco over there. It was grown only here, in North Carolina.
The more I studied the letter, the more I realized that something else troubled me. It was the way Dr. Hale put things—not just what he said, but what he didn’t say. He never said I’m concerned about this, we need to test MOMints right away to make sure they’re safe for mothers. In fact, he made it sound like they might test the cigarettes, but it would take considerable time if done properly. Why would you not do it properly? And did they even have time? The letter was dated May 18, just a little more than a month ago.
I took a deep breath and stared off in the distance.
Then I went back to the letter, focusing this time on the handwritten notes below. They’d obviously been written by Mr. Winston. The beginnings of a plan. A plan that would include conducting our own “studies.” But the word studies was in quotes, suggesting that maybe it wouldn’t be a real study. I thought too about Mr. Winston’s emergency board meetings, about Mitzy asking what was wrong. Nothing I can’t handle, he’d said.
I felt sick to my stomach and furious with myself. Why did I have to go and read this? And what was I supposed to do now? So much for knowledge being power. I didn’t feel powerful at all. Just confused and scared.
Twelve
“Ma-a-ddie, sweet-h-e-art,” Mitzy singsonged as I entered the Winstons’ front door. Ruth disappeared quickly down the hallway after letting me in, leaving me with Mitzy right inside the entryway. She wore mint-green wrist-length gloves and carried a forest-green clutch, as if she was on her way out.
“I expected you hours ago, dear,” she said, glancing at the grandfather clock to our left. “Why, it’s nearly dinnertime. Where were you?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said. “It took me longer than I thought to gather what I needed from my aunt’s house.”
“Oh, that’s right,” she said. “You had to stop at Etta’s. I completely forgot.”
I was used to Aunt Etta needing to know my whereabouts, but not a rich lady I barely knew. I wondered if she expected me to ask her permission every time I left her home.
“I’m glad you caught me on my way out, Maddie. I want to have a little talk with you before I head over to the Gala venue, dear. We’re having it at the Elk Wood Inn, like always, and I’m off to select some new menu items for this year’s event.” She smiled at me warmly.
My mouth went dry and hands tingled, like when your foot falls asleep. I want to have a little talk with you. When adults said that, it was usually bad. I ran through the possibilities. Maybe Aunt Etta took a turn for the worse. Maybe Momma was in trouble. Maybe Cornelia and Rose complained about me, changed their minds and didn’t want me to sew for them. Or what if . . . dear God, what if Mr. Winston noticed the envelope I’d taken?
“All right,” I managed with a weak smile.
“Let’s go into the parlor, shall we?” she suggested. “You can put those heavy-looking bags down and we’ll have our chat.”
I followed Mitzy down the corridor, her shoes click-clacking in time with my beating heart.
Once inside the parlor, she placed her clutch on the coffee table and pointed to an armchair. “You can put your things there,” she said, then sat on the sofa and patted the cushion for me to join her.
I hesitated.
“Maddie, darling. I’m not going to bite you! I’m going to congratulate you!”
“Congratulate me? Whatever for?” I asked.
“Your appointment this morning, of course.” She patted the top of my hand with hers like I was being silly. “You were quite a hit with Cornelia and Rose,” she said. “That’s no easy feat, dear.”
“News sure travels fast around here,” I said. I forced myself to smile, as if the Bright Leaf gossip grapevine was a good thing.
“Lightning fast.” Mitzy laughed. “Everybody knows everybody’s business in Bright Leaf, dear girl.”
I swallowed so hard I was afraid she could hear it. My satchel sat right there on the armchair, not two feet from Mitzy. I’d hidden the letter from Dr. Hale deep in its inner pocket, along with my money, cigarettes, and treasures. I stared at it, willing it to keep my secret.
“Maddie, are you all right? You seem distracted.” She frowned.
I snapped to. “Yes, Miss Mitzy. I’m fine. I’m sorry. I was just thinking about the gowns. About all the sewing to be done,” I said.
“Well, as I was saying, you can take your dinner in the room where you’ll be sewing, if you’d like. I’m sure you’re just dying to get things organized, especially with all your appointments tomorrow with the other wives.”
The other wives. I wondered if you could tell just by looking that they weren’t Bright Leaf royalty—not like Mitzy, her sister, and closest friends. I wondered if you could tell they were rich, but not wealthy. That they had money, but weren’t swimming in it.
“Did you hear me, sweetheart?” she asked. “About Ruth bringing up dinner. She’ll bring it at six thirty. That should give you a few hours to get settled.”
