The Hope Chest by Karen Schwabach Page B

the sarcasm in the old woman's voice. “But my husband he left to another brother. So I lost him too. Do you want an apple?”
    Myrtle felt derailed by the sudden change of subject. “Yes, ma'am.”
    Mrs. Merganser dug an apple out of her handbag, polished it against her skirt, and gave it to Myrtle. Myrtle was struck by how bright and smooth the apple looked against Mrs. Merganser's wrinkled old skin.
    Myrtle savored the first bite of apple, crushing it between her teeth and letting the cider run over her tongue. Mrs. Merganser went on.
    “After freedom, I searched for my first two children, but I never found them. I didn't look for my first husband, because by that time I was married again.”
    Mrs. Merganser looked at Myrtle sharply, as though daring her to say anything.
    Myrtle said, “Yes, ma'am.”
    “Nowadays they'd call that bigamy.” She shook her finger at Myrtle. “You can't marry another husband unless you divorce the first one or he dies. But back then it didn't matter. Colored folk marrying didn't matter any more than dogs or cattle marrying, in the eyes of the law.”
    Myrtle wiped apple juice from her chin with her sleeve. Mrs. Merganser shook her head disapprovingly and handed her a handkerchief.
    “I had eight children before freedom and four after,” she went on. “And only three are alive today, not counting the two I don't know about.”
    Myrtle tried to think of something comforting to say and came up with, “Pretty soon, though, ma'am, they're going to let women vote.”
    Mrs. Merganser shook her head in disbelief. “You think they're going to let us vote? Even if they do pass this amendment and let white women vote, you think they're going to let colored women vote? You haven't been listening to a word I've said, child.”
    “Yes, ma'am,” Myrtle contradicted.
    “You don't know much, child. I've just been telling you how I was sold and willed and bartered about like so much livestock, and you've got it into your head that white folks are going to let
me
vote?”
    Myrtle said nothing. To say “yes, ma'am” again would, she felt, be pushing her luck.
    “I guess you don't know,” said Mrs. Merganser, “that these white people talked about amending this amendment of theirs. They talked about fixing it to say that white women could vote and colored women couldn't. They said that would make it easier to get the amendment passed. And I'll tell you something.”
    “Ma'am?”
    “These white people were right. If they could've fixed that amendment to leave out colored women, it would've passed a long time ago.”
    “Yes, ma'am,” said Myrtle. She didn't know if what Mrs. Merganser said about the amendment was true. She hadn't paid very close attention to the news stories about it. But she did know one thing. “I'm going to vote, ma'am, when I grow up.”
    Mrs. Merganser huffed derisively. “We're sitting here in this Jim Crow car because white people don't want to have to look at us when they ride on a train. And you think these same white people are going to let you pick their president for them.”
    Myrtle looked at the floorboards. Put that way, it did sound foolish.
    “And if you live in Washington, D.C.,” Mrs. Merganser added, “you can't vote anyway, man, woman, or child; white or colored.”
    “Then I won't live in Washington,” said Myrtle.
    “I think you must be the most stubborn child ever born,” said Mrs. Merganser.
    “Yes, ma'am,” said Myrtle, glad they'd gotten that straight.

Mr. Martin's Escape
    T HE TRAIN C LIMBED STEEPLY UP INTO WHAT Miss Dexter said (when she started speaking again) were the Blue Ridge Mountains. But darkness had fallen, and the only thing Violet could see out the window was the reflection of the inside of the train car, two long rows of passengers, mostly women, on red mohair-covered seats, surrounded by their handbags, hatboxes, picnic baskets, valises, and traveling pillows.
    “I hope you understand I'm not a
racialist
, Violet,” Miss