The bright sun bathed over the uneasy women gathered in small groups in front of the church at the end of town. So far, nineteen women assembled there for the Ladies League for Decency march.
Mrs. Boswell, face flushed and eyes sparkling with the glory of battle, shouted orders to everyone, getting her minions in the mood for the march to begin the Decency Campaign. Most of the women wore pinched expressions. Tori speculated that, like her, they’d been bullied into participating by their ringleader.
More than a little nervous, Tori stayed quiet and observed, biting her thumb nail between her front teeth. Her sensible nature warned this was a bad idea. Earlier, she’d winced at Mrs. Boswell’s pronouncement that the women would carry signs denouncing the saloons and march down Main Street, past the three most popular taverns.
“Ah, Mrs. Boswell, do we have a permit to march?” Tori pulled the woman aside, wishing she were invisible.
“Oh, not to worry, dear. The mayor’s wife is marching with us.”
Tori raised her eyebrows at her rationale.
She cleared her throat. “But Jesse said groups that march in public need to have a permit from the town.”
“Such a handsome husband you have, my dear. But if I were you missy,” she continued, glancing around and lowering her voice, “I wouldn’t be leaving his bed untended, if you know what I mean.” She tilted her head to one side and raised her eyebrows.
Tori felt heat rise all the way to her hairline. Why does the entire town care about my husband’s bed?
“I thought Mr. Cochran would be joining us in the Decency march today.” Mrs. Boswell sniffed.
“Oh, sorry, Jesse asked me to tell you he had too much work backed up.”
The older woman frowned and huffed at having one of her flock defect. Then their fearsome leader sailed off to talk to some of the new women who’d joined the group. Tori breathed a sigh of relief. Although she wasn’t generally intimidated, Mrs. Boswell’s resemblance to Aunt Martha beat Tori down every time.
She rolled her shoulders and glanced around. The other women also appeared as uncomfortable as she. As a former public school teacher and the wife of a prominent attorney, she shouldn’t march with a group of women trying to force tax-paying businesses to close.
The saloons didn’t affect her life in any way. The short time she and Jesse were married—well, actually they were still married—he rarely frequented the places. He didn’t drink much, having the occasional brandy at night. As far as she knew, he never did gamble, and if she caught him going upstairs with one of the girls, she would take her shotgun to him.
But her inner voice cautioned several other men in town were willing to jeopardize their families’ welfare by drinking and gambling, and doing whatnot with the girls upstairs.
Aunt Martha’s voice filled her head. Men only want one thing, don’t forget that, little girl. To have a good time, spend all their time and money on whiskey and whores. You tie yourself up with one of them, you’ll have misery your whole life.
Tori shook her head. No, not Jesse. Her fear of his charm slowly receded as he continued his campaign to win her back. He was no James, ready to take off when the going got rough. And she doubted, like her father, he would dump his child off with relatives because parenthood became inconvenient.
So why in heaven’s name are you li
ving in another house? She pushed that thought to the back of her mind, filed under things to ponder.
When it appeared all the women who were going to join in the march had arrived, Mrs. Boswell handed out the signs made at the last planning meeting. Placards with Close the Saloons; We Want Decency Now; Think of Our Children; and the leader’s favorite, Shame On You!, which Tori made a concerted effort to avoid having to carry.
Tori aligned herself between Jane Wilton, the pastor’s wife, and Mayor Clement’s wife, Sarah. The women formed a somewhat line, four across, and, amid nervous giggles, marched forward. Mrs. Boswell led the troops into battle. Poor old Edwin Barker had been coerced from his favorite chair in front of the barber shop, to march with them. He eagerly banged on his drum, his aged eyes dancing with mirth.
In the first few blocks, they got very little notice. Most of the store owners peered out the doors at them and, shaking their heads, returned to business. A few “go home and cook dinner” remarks came from a man or two passing by, but for the most part they were ignored. Mrs. Boswell did not take this lack of attention well.
“Ladies, we must make our voices heard,” her voice bellowed over the group, causing several ladies to roll their eyes or shrink back. “We will now sing a rousing chorus of Amazing Grace.”
The group started off wobbly, but soon the women got into the spirit, and the singing reverberated off the stores and buildings they passed on their way to the saloons. Tori kept her voice low and the sign squarely in front of her face, hoping nobody would recognize her.
If only Mrs. Boswell didn’t remind her so much of Aunt Martha. Maybe their hair color, the way they stood, or the tone of their voices, but Tori couldn't tell Mrs. Bowell “no” anymore than she could tell her aunt. A formidable woman, Aunt Martha had terrorized Tori throughout her childhood and did not accept the word 'no.' Even as a teacher, making her own living, Tori was subjected to Aunt Martha's regular visits to inspect her house, and a monthly audit of her bank account. The summons from Michael after his father died provided her with the excuse to escape. But now she was under another bully’s thumb. And for some reason, this woman put a deeper fear into her.
The voices got stronger and the marching thunderous. Soon they picked up some stragglers. Women not part of the original League, children who should have been in school, barking dogs, and men who had nothing better to do but join the merriment.
They approached The Bottomless Bucket, owned by Caleb Johnson. The saloon was best known for having the sharpest gambling tables and most skilled soiled doves in town. Despite the way he earned his living, she found Caleb to be a friendly, pleasant man. He treated his employees well, and even made sure his girls were seen by a doctor on a regular basis. Jesse told her Caleb made generous donations to the church—anonymously, of course—and to the Widow’s and Orphan’s Fund. Additionally, he paid his fines for having prostitutes and liquor on the premises on the first of every month. It helped the town meet its payroll obligations.
And Mrs. Boswell expected her to charge down the street, demanding he close his business? Tori’s stomach clenched as she searched for an alley or doorway she could disappear into.
Mrs. Boswell raised her hand to stop the group right in front of The Bottomless Bucket. At first the ladies and hangers-on continued to sing Amazing Grace as Edwin banged his drum. Tori moved from one foot to another, hoping they would soon move along.
Mrs. Boswell strode to the saloon doors and, turning to her troops, puffed herself up and raised her arm. “We will not stand for gambling, drinking, and whoring in our fair city. And we will not be ignored. For the betterment of the community, and the very souls of our children, we will enter this house of ill repute, and demand Mr. Johnson close this business.”