The Disenchantment of Narcissa Tarver, page 12
Johnny grinned. “No doubt you could,” he said. He reached into his pocket. “Shorthand or not, Uncle Martin said I was to give you this.” He handed Cissa a wrinkled piece of paper—a dollar bill.
“What? For me?” She was at a loss for words. She hadn’t expected to get paid for her little stories.
“He says a dollar a month from now on.”
“But how will I get the stories to him now that you’re going to be away at the university?”
Johnny explained that one of the farmers from Callander had taken a job at the cottonseed mill in Marchelle and rode in every weekday. “So if you can get your stories to Mr. Clay, he can bring them to Uncle Martin. I think he’s some kind of distant cousin of ours.”
“I can do that,” Cissa said. Callander was little more than a mile up the road from her house, less if she cut across the fields. An easy walk in good weather and doable in bad. She tucked the dollar into her pocket.
Johnny held out his hand. “We’ve got a deal then.”
Without thinking, Cissa stuck out her right hand to shake Johnny’s. He didn’t flinch. He clasped it as firmly and warmly as if it had been whole.
All the way home, tears stung at Cissa’s eyes but refused to fall. Johnny both was and was not who she’d thought he was. She was torn between disappointment and delight. Her hopeful daydreams about Johnny evaporated. On the other hand—thanks to Johnny—she was now a paid writer. She tucked her right hand under her left elbow, savoring the memory of Johnny’s earnest handshake.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Depression
Late 1893
The Tarvers’ copy of the Marchelle Advocate was late arriving that Wednesday. Cissa was glad her father was away so that she could read it first, looking to see how her little contribution appeared in print. She was also eager to see if her brother’s letter had been published.
She found her article on page four. It always pleased her to see her work in print, even though people outside the Rundle Springs and Callander area would never know it was hers. Sometimes she wished the newspaper would say who wrote an article.
Duncan’s signed letter was on page two. She read the letter once and then read it again, still uncertain what it all meant. He lashed out at whitecappers who, he said, had been attacking cotton gins in the belief that shutting down gins would decrease the supply of cotton and thus push prices upward. Cissa knew her father and brothers were worried about the low price of cotton. “Suppose every gin in the Southern States was stopped, save Texas,” Duncan wrote, “even then it would not affect the price of cotton. The convulsed condition of the finances of the world is the cause of this great depression.” Cissa had seen other mentions of a “great depression.” She knew that money in her own household was tight. Her mother had been insisting on mending stockings and altering clothes rather than buying anything new.
Cissa continued reading the letter. Instead of improving the price of cotton, Duncan wrote, “whitecapping absolutely destroys the value of our lands as a basis for credit” and “stops the further investment of money in our midst.”
What intrigued Cissa most about Duncan’s letter was the remedy he proposed. He said that the county sheriff should deputize two hundred or maybe five hundred men “known to be law-abiding citizens; let them organize with a system of secret signals” and assemble whenever one of them perceived trouble. It reminded Cissa of the activities of her imaginary magnolia brigade and frog battalion. She was fascinated.
Not long after this, Cissa learned that her brother Duncan was the president of something called the Farmers’ Protective Union of Fulton County and that the Union was apparently avowed to do just what Duncan had proposed in his letter. Cissa was impressed. Her brother had power to make things happen in the real world. He was important.
Cissa, by comparison, felt crushingly unimportant. Despite her best efforts to write lively copy, her little contributions to the Marchelle Advocate felt boring and mundane. To make matters worse, Mother had begun insisting that she take more responsibility around the house now that they had only minimal hired help.
“You’re going to cook more of our meals,” Mother said. “Julia will teach you.”
Cissa had little interest in cooking, but she was somewhat cheered by the prospect of spending time with Julia. At first Julia was all business, even scolding Cissa when she overworked the biscuit dough or burned the roux for the gravy. But in the aftermath of a particularly disastrous recipe in which Cissa had inadvertently added a half cup of salt instead of a half cup of sugar, both women collapsed in laughter. The lessons became more amicable.
As Christmas approached, the contents of the pantry dwindled. The cotton harvest had been adequate that fall, but the market had been a disaster. Cissa’s father and brothers had long discussions about deflation and free silver and how the selling price for cotton was not even sufficient for them to break even. There was still meal from their own corn as well as dried beans and peas they had grown. Flour was down to a half dozen pounds in the bottom of the sack and the smokehouse held only a half dozen sausages and a single ham, which Pop insisted had to be kept in reserve for Christmas. Slaughtering another pig was out of the question, since the only pig they had left was a sow that would be dropping a litter of piglets soon. They killed whatever chickens they could spare without impacting their regular supply of eggs. There were still yams and potatoes and a few things canned in the summer. Cissa’s brothers and nephews brought in an occasional water turkey or rabbit that they’d shot. Cissa gagged more than once as Julia showed her how to dress them. She had little problem with plucking the birds but cringed at skinning the rabbit.
And then it got worse. “I’m sorry, Julia, but unless you can work on credit until next summer, we’re going to have to let you go altogether,” Pop said one day.
Julia left.
Christmas was meager that year, and without Julia’s culinary expertise the food was disappointing. Mother complained about Julia’s disloyalty. “In the old days we never had to worry about the help leaving just because we were short of money for a season.” Cissa knew she was talking about the slave days. As much as Cissa missed having Julia around, she was also glad that Julia wasn’t obliged to work without getting paid.
For Christmas dinner there was the ham and sweet potatoes. There were canned green beans from the summer. There was cornbread and a modest pot of fresh pokeweed greens thanks to an unexpected run of warm weather. There was buttermilk pie and molasses cookies. There were no gifts.
The Tarver family gathered just the same, all the ladies dressed in their finest, which was mostly the same finery they’d worn the year before. Cissa wore a hand-me-down from Matilda, who wore a dress with an elevated waistline and a voluminous skirt that did little to hide her advancing pregnancy. Cissa hoped this baby would survive. Little Evelyn was now seven years old and eager for a sister or brother.
At the dinner table, no one complained about the simple rations. Matilda’s husband Frank had brought a couple of bottles of wine from his father’s shop, which they shared all around. Some of the ladies declined their share. Cissa drank hers, enjoying the warmth it kindled in her belly. They gave thanks for being together again and tried to be optimistic about the upcoming elections. Surely things would be better in 1894.
Chapter Twenty-Three
An Opportunity
1894
Meals improved around the Tarver household as spring fruits and vegetables came available. Weather held favorable for cotton planting, but Pop declared that, unless prices improved, a bumper crop would do them little good. In fact, he said, a good crop would likely only depress prices further by oversupplying the market. Nevertheless, in an act of desperate hope, Pop took out a small loan using the crop as collateral in order to alleviate the family’s situation. They were once again able to hire help two days a week, albeit at reduced wages. Cissa had hoped Julia would come back, but instead they hired Elsie. With a dollar of the loan proceeds, Pop reinstated his annual subscription to the Beckport Journal.
Cissa received the Marchelle Advocate free of charge. She’d relayed another brief letter from her brother to the Advocate. In this letter he defended his vote in a joint session of the Mississippi legislature for Democrat Anselm McLaurin for U.S. Senator. The other candidate was Frank Burkitt of the People’s Party. In his letter, Duncan asserted that his vote for McLaurin did not mean he was returning to the Democratic party. “I reserve the right to vote for my kinsman because he is a gentleman and statesman,” he wrote. Duncan insisted that he himself remained a staunch Populist.
Cissa pondered her brother’s actions. He argued so strongly for his Populist policies, but when family entered the picture, he sided with family. Cissa wanted to respect that, but she noticed that it was also the case that Anselm McLaurin appeared to be a far more formidable political force in Mississippi than Frank Burkitt. Was this about family or about power?
Cissa found herself drawn to the occasional article that discussed the possibility of letting women vote in elections. She mentioned one of the articles at the dinner table one day.
“Women have no need to be interfering in political affairs,” Mother said, raising her chin as she glanced toward her husband. “I prefer to rest easy in the knowledge that my menfolk are taking care of me and voting in my best interest.”
“But you always tell me what you think about things.” There was a twinkle in Pop’s eyes. “And I always listen. Maybe it would be easier if you could just vote your own mind.” He smiled and patted Susanna’s hand.
“Not easier for me,” Mother said.
Cissa had begun to develop some ideas of her own about politics. Why shouldn’t she be allowed to express them directly by voting? At the dinner table, however, she remained silent.
Pop’s premonitions about the Farmer’s Alliance starting their own political party were, Cissa soon discovered, quite prescient. In August of 1894 her brother Duncan was nominated as a candidate for the United States Congress by the District Seven People’s Party. As far as Cissa could tell, almost all of Duncan’s associates in the Famer’s Alliance and Farmers’ Protective Union were now Populists and pledged to vote for Duncan. He’d even managed to have his father appointed to a People’s Party committee on resolutions for the district. The old man had not attended the party convention and was somewhat dismayed at this appointment.
For the next two months, Cissa saw little of Duncan as he was out canvassing in all nine counties of the district. She kept up with his activities by reading the papers. She knew that he was relying on members of the Farmers’ Alliance to pull together crowds for his speeches. Letters written by Duncan appeared in a number of different newspapers, but the only paper that offered full throated support for his candidacy was the Beckport Journal, which advertised itself as the “Official Organ of the Farmers’ Alliance of the Seventh Congressional District.” The Marchelle Advocate remained steadfastly Democratic.
In the midst of all this, Cissa’s nephew Albert—Duncan’s eldest son—got married. He was nineteen years old, his bride barely eighteen. The wedding took place in Cowleton, where Duncan’s family now planned to reside full time. It was a huge affair and Cissa got the feeling that it was as much a political event as a family one. She thought Albert looked a bit overwhelmed by it all. He and his wife Eva moved into Duncan’s former residence on Callander Road.
One day in October Cissa answered a knock at the front door to find Mr. Clay’s son Milton. Without a word, he handed Cissa an envelope and loped away, back down the road toward Callander. The message had Cissa’s name on it, so she opened it and began reading.
“Who was that at the door?” Pop emerged from the dining room still holding his pen and a prescription pad.
Cissa had just finished reading her message and stood with her eyes wide and her jaw dropped. She closed her mouth but couldn’t deter the huge grin that spread across her face. “It was Mr. Clay’s boy, Milton,” Cissa said.
Pop stood waiting for further explanation.
“Mr. Hodges at the Advocate wants me to write up something for the paper about Duncan’s speech in Rundle Springs next Monday.”
“No,” Pop said, shaking his head vigorously for emphasis. “Absolutely not. I don’t particularly relish you writing about the little goings-on amongst the church folks and ladies’ clubs, though I’ve exercised forbearance. But a political event is not the kind of thing a young lady like you needs to get involved in.”
Cissa’s grin collapsed into a troubled frown. She was reasonably certain that a political event was precisely the kind of thing she needed to get involved in. How else was she to prove her worth as a journalist?
“Why, Pop?” she ventured. “There will be plenty of church folks and club ladies there, don’t you think? And I won’t exactly be involved. Just sitting there taking notes.” She was already thinking of questions she could ask the attendees, but that didn’t feel like anything she needed to share with her father. “It’s my job. Mr. Hodges is counting on me.”
Pop stood with his arms crossed looking Cissa up and down. Perhaps, Cissa thought, he was finally taking account of the fact that she wasn’t a child anymore. Surely he remembered that she had turned eighteen in July. “Your job, you say?”
Cissa had never bothered to mention to her father that she was being paid for her contributions to the Advocate and he’d never asked why it was that she’d stopped asking him for money to buy her little necessities. “Yes, Pop. He pays me for my writing, you know.” Of course he didn’t know, but Cissa wanted it to seem unremarkable.
“He pays you. And how much is this pay?”
So Cissa told him. She didn’t tell him she was saving up most of the money to either buy a typewriter or take shorthand lessons. She hadn’t decided which to do first.
For an interminable few seconds, Pop stood looking down at the rug, swaying backward and forward in contemplation. “I will drive you to Rundle Springs for the event, then. And you will conduct yourself with decorum, Narcissa.”
“Yes, sir.” Cissa endeavored to look solemn and obedient, even as she brimmed with eager anticipation.
On the day of Duncan’s speech Cissa wore her best blue dress, but without the matching hair bow. She wished for something more fashionable, more sophisticated. But, she reminded herself, this was only Rundle Springs, where people did not demand much in the way of fashion or sophistication. She managed to pin her hair up in a twist without use of ribbons.
Benches had been set up on the grounds of the Presbyterian Church for Duncan’s event. When Cissa and her father arrived, there was already a small group of men chatting amiably under the trees. Cissa had to smile: Why had her pop been so worried? These were just the local folks out for a pleasant day of conversation and politicking. Cissa took a seat on the end of one of the benches near the front, feeling a bit like a schoolgirl again as she pulled out her notebook and pencil.
She watched. She scribbled a few notes. The little group of men grew larger, and a few ladies chatted among themselves, standing near their husbands. Cissa noticed another group forming toward the rear of the space, composed of men she didn’t recognize. One of them had a crooked mustache and wore a plaid vest. Another wore the shiniest shoes Cissa had ever seen. She noted how these men spoke in low voices with occasional bursts of subdued laughter.
The crowd cheered as Duncan made his way to the platform that had been prepared for his speech. Cissa settled her notebook in her lap, pencil in hand. She was thankful that she had been reading her brother’s published letters. Otherwise she might have had a difficult time following what he had to say. Every so often the men would cheer, and everyone would clap, nodding approvingly, which Cissa duly noted. Then suddenly, from the back row, someone shouted, “You Populists are ruining our state!” and another echoed, “Yeah, get back to the Democrats where you belong!” Cissa turned and saw the man in the plaid vest standing and shaking a fist toward her brother.
“If the Democrats won’t stand up for the good of the farmers, then we do what we must!” Duncan shouted, as the color rose in his face.
The man with the shiny shoes rose from his seat and stalked toward the platform as Duncan continued to speak. Cissa leaned away as he passed next to her, but not so far away as to miss the smell of whisky on his breath. “You’re a traitor to the Democrats!” the man shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “Traitor! Traitor to your race!” He raised his hand and hurled something toward Duncan.
Cissa watched in horror as Duncan pulled a pistol from his waistband and pointed it at the man with the shiny shoes. “And you’re a traitor to working farmers. Now get back to your damn seat or prepare to pay the price for your impudence.” Duncan held the pistol pointed steadily at the man as he glanced toward the back of the crowd where two other men stood, shifting and fidgeting as if eager to make their departure, yet hesitant to do so with their companion under threat.
A couple of Duncan’s supporters rushed the man with the shiny shoes and grabbed his arms, dragging him back toward his compatriots as Duncan tried to make light of the situation with a joke that Cissa did not understand. The crowd tittered nervously.
Cissa’s hands shook as she recorded her observations. A good journalist must be fearless, must never lose heart, must keep an eye on everything that happens and write it down. She steadied herself and continued writing.
On the way home, Pop informed Cissa that she would not be attending any more political events. “I’m sorry I let you witness such a thing,” he said.
Cissa was too busy writing her article in her head to pay him much mind.
When Cissa’s account of Duncan’s event appeared in the newspaper two days later, she was delighted to see that the editor had allocated it more than a full column. She read the piece with pride, wondering if maybe Mr. Hodges might start paying her a bit more if she could find more stories like this to contribute. She was especially pleased at the turns of phrase she’d used to evoke the excitement of the interchange between Duncan and the Democrats who had challenged him.
