4
A Gypsy Life
Idaho, 1907
Judge Webster had been pleased with Nellie’s report. “It seems that, in addition to filing your reports on time, you have a knack for wheedling information out of people,” he told his protégé. He encouraged Nellie to go ahead and volunteer to accompany him whenever he was scheduled to fill the bench in one of the provisional courthouses. She could look forward to assignments in small Washington, Oregon, and California coastal towns where court convened only once a year and also in newly constructed halls of justice whose growing cities could not staff their legal departments fast enough.
Nellie was finally free to do as she wished. Her daughter had moved to New York. After recovering from her disappointment that she couldn’t dance her way around the strict height requirement for ballerinas, Opal discovered that vaudeville companies had no such limits. Vaudeville tapped into an audience for character dancing—the folk and national dances of the European immigrants who were hungry for cheap entertainment. This lower form of classical dance might command lower box office receipts, but it was high in demand on stages in New York, Toronto, and Chicago. Vaudeville opened her arms, and Opal stepped in.
Nellie spent long hours recording testimony in court, transcribing her notes into court reports, and keeping company with judges and attorneys who debriefed court cases in the evenings over glasses of sherry, brandy, or port. On the road more than she was at home in Spokane, Nellie wrote weekly to Opal.
My dear girl,
The Pacific Northwest coastline is breathtakingly beautiful. So different from the warmer waters of Southern California, where people splash in shallow tides to rid themselves of the itch and stickiness of life under a relentlessly cheerful hot sun. (It is a false safety, as all those sunburns can attest.)
I far prefer the bracing sting of brisk, salt sea air, and the deafening roar of huge waves breaking against the rocky bluffs. It is a sound as incomprehensible as the voice of God. Even the fog lifts my mood. It keeps me from looking too far ahead.
I am not a churchgoer these days, but when I stand on a cliff overlooking the ocean, I always say a prayer for you. I have no picture of what your life is like now. Half the time, I’m not even sure where you are. Many of your letters get returned before one with a new post office box number finally reaches me. I know you have left New York—with a dance troupe? For an audition? The address I have for you now is Toronto, but you mentioned Chicago in your last letter. No new address though, so I hope this reaches you.
I am not complaining! This is your time, and I would not have it otherwise. But I do worry. There is something about you being the other side of the Rocky Mountains that makes me feel like you’ve gone to the moon.
While you are dancing and going to the theater, I am working long hours in the courts. I’m thinking about giving up our room at the Ridpath and looking for a cheaper headquarters for the two of us.
Ever,
Your mother
Many weeks passed before Nellie received a telegram from Opal.
mother,
booked at chicago auditorium dancing chinese character polka mazurka viennese waltz costumes lovely partners lovelier new address soon.
opal
R
Partners. Men. Nellie had never stopped to consider the consequences of her young and attractive daughter being on her own. Had she prepared Opal for what might happen when she worked so closely with men? Producers, directors, male dance partners, stagehands? She supposed someone looked out for the interests of the young female dancers, but she had to admit to herself that she did not know.
Her situation was so different than her daughter’s. She employed her age, experience, and professional demeanor to keep men in their place and her reputation intact. Despite Opal’s insistence and Nellie’s best intentions, should she have kept her daughter by her side a little longer?
To keep her worries about Opal at bay, Nellie threw herself into work. Young U.S. Senator William Borah was scheduled to deliver a political speech in Boise, Idaho. The powerful politician had been charged with attempting to defraud the people. So far, he had managed to evade trial over a questionable purchase of timberland he made as attorney for a lumber company. Nellie’s assignment was to record every word the senator said in his speech.
She arrived in town late in the afternoon. On her way to the square where the senator was to deliver his speech, she strolled by the dress shops and was taken with a display of dainty handkerchiefs in one particular store window. Opal’s birthday was coming up. Nellie had time. She entered the shop.
It was like stepping into a fashion magazine. Nellie had never been to Paris, but this must resemble a Parisian dress shop. In the center of the room stood an elegant display rack of handmade blouses in three slightly different styles, all cream color, all size small. Her doe-eyed daughter would look lovely in one of the blouses. How long would it take to have one made in Opal’s extra-small size?
A careful arrangement of lingerie on a low table in the corner distracted her. Undergarments that peeked shyly from beneath more substantial dressing gowns warranted investigation. And the dresses; Nellie loved the cuffed blouson sleeves that left the forearms bare. The skirts fell to ballet length and featured rows of ribbon trim near the hem. Skirts seemed to be getting shorter these days.
While Nellie fingered covered buttons and admired the quality of the stitching, the proprietor of the shop glided soundlessly over to stand next to her.
“Do you like what you see?”
Nellie jumped. “They are lovely.” Because she made it a practice to always look at the person to whom she was speaking, she raised her eyes. It was Mrs. McGregory!
Slimmer now and fashionably dressed, Mrs. McGregory’s formerly pale cheeks were high with color. She gushed over her delight in encountering Nellie once again. As she chattered, she ushered Nellie around her dressmaking shop.
“Every article of clothing is handmade. My clientele are ladies who are willing to order and wait for something perfectly tailored to fit them.”
When Nellie’s eyes traveled to the shopkeeper’s left hand and lit upon the thin gold band that still adorned her ring finger, Mrs. McGregory reddened and brought her hand to her throat.
“Oh, Mrs. Scott, I truly do not know what to do. My husband pleads for my return. He promises he will reform his whiskey-drinking ways. I know I have my duties as his wife, but …” She left off speech and swept her hand around the room. Embroidered blouses with perfectly formed pleats at mutton sleeve shoulders; gored skirts with smooth French seams; these were the products of her hopes and dreams.
How had she managed this? Nellie pursed her lips. Certainly not without some help. Years of working in the courts had taught Nellie that women who challenged the standards of propriety usually had accomplices.
“My dear, I am not the person to advise you about that.” Nellie consulted her watch fob and clicked her tongue. Turning her attention to the tray of embroidered handkerchiefs, she selected a cream-colored square embellished with delicate, grassy-green and crystal-white lilies of the valley. “However, I would very much like to purchase this lovely piece of your work.”
Back on the street, Nellie bustled to the town square where a crowd was gathering. She should not have stayed so long at Mrs. McGregory’s dress shop. It would be a struggle now to find a place close enough to hear the senator’s words but far enough away to be out of his field of vision. She needed a place where she would not draw attention to herself while she scribbled in her stenographer’s notebook.
A group of newspaper reporters gathered off to the side of the podium that the recently elected senator people called the Lion of Idaho would step up to shortly. Would she stand out if she joined them? She would be the only woman in their midst. Even so, she would be less likely to attract attention for jotting on a steno pad.
When the senator appeared, a cheer went up from the crowd. Nellie chose that moment to take her place alongside the newsmen and open her notebook. Just as she touched her pencil to her tongue to moisten the lead so it would move faster across the paper, she felt warm breath in her ear.
“You got a press pass, madam?”
Nellie took a quick breath and held it. She was prepared for this. Slipping an identification card from between the pages of her notebook, she held it up.
The breather whistled. “Officer of the court. That might work.”
Nellie looked over her shoulder at him. “You had better start taking notes if you want to get your story.” She used her no-nonsense mother voice. Then she glued her eyes to the senator’s profile and started up her pencil.
“I’d rather get your story. Catch you at the reception?”
Without a look, Nellie gave her head a quick nod, and the newsman straightened up and did not bother her further.
An accomplished speaker, the senator spoke ardently on his favorite subjects: the evils of monopolies and the virtues of local self-government. Nellie had no time to reflect on the logic of his thoughts; she just recorded them. At the exact moment the senator finished fielding the last question, she snapped her notebook closed and stepped away. The crowd that pushed forward to be part of the glad-handing provided her cover. She made her way back to her hotel room, sorry to miss the public reception but convinced of the wisdom of her decision. In her experience, news reporters were a cocky lot, admirable when setting words to the page, but glib with women.
Sometimes Nellie wondered if she had been too hasty in leaving her twenty-year marriage. The protection John provided, while it chafed, freed her from the lecherous intentions of men who cared not if a woman came to ruin. Might there have been another way to satisfy her longing to experience more of life?
Alone in her hotel room, she contemplated the senator’s words as she transcribed her notes. Whoever was attempting to build a case against the senator would find nothing of use in his very impressive public speech. This man who had represented big lumber interests now staked his political career on championing the sanctity and self-reliance of the common man. She knew from reading the papers that Borah took criticism for inconsistency. He didn’t mind. He would quote the poet Emerson: “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.” If true, then a woman’s right to change her mind was not an amusing foible, it was a formidable indication of good character.
Nellie packed up her writing tools and prepared for bed. Sinking into the soft mattress, she pulled the sheets up under her chin and reviewed the day’s events. What a surprise to find the miner’s wife now the mistress of a dress shop. Mistress was most likely an apt description. How else could an impoverished woman become a business proprietor? An uncharitable thought, she admonished herself. I am as inconsistent as the senator. Wouldn’t people find her own rising fortunes surprising? In today’s world, if a woman has vision, the will to work hard, and the sense to be beholden to no one, she can do well for herself.
Nellie set the alarm on her Lady Liberty travel clock to 5:00 a.m. and turned out the light. In the morning, she would catch the train back to Spokane. Fourteen years ago, her first cross-country train trip had been new and thrilling. Now it was routine but still exciting. Back then, she could not have imagined hopping on and off trains, dining in restaurants, and sleeping alone in hotel rooms. She had almost forgotten what it was like to put everyone else’s needs and wants ahead of her own.
Had enough time passed that she could visit the shadowy recesses of the past without nameless regret? Every time she tried to feel her way back, she was drawn instead to the light of her discoveries—the unimaginable beauty of the West and the vast potential of the human soul to invent the future. Fourteen years ago, her first glimpse of the West wiped the flat plains from her interior landscape, but not before her eyes were opened by an event that historian Hubert Bancroft dubbed inspirational to Americans and a revelation to the world. It was at the World’s Columbian Exposition that she caught the spirit of a new era. So taken had she been by what she had seen, she had committed to memory the historian’s description of a fair that “showed the power and progress of a nation where all are free to strive for the highest rewards that energy and talent can win.”