Page 45 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

The day after Olive ended their courtship, Emil awoke on the porch swing, one boot on, the other missing.

A seagull pecked at the remnants of what must have been his supper.

The plate lay shattered, its contents dried and unrecognizable.

He had no memory of eating. No memory of much at all, except for how heartbroken Olive had looked when she’d finally realized he couldn’t be the man she deserved.

He staggered inside, dug through the empty icebox, and found a bottle of Rainier.

He drank it warm, leaning weakly against the kitchen table.

He rolled cigarettes with shaking fingers, cursing softly each time he lit one.

Olive, Olive, Olive. Each puff raised an unavoidable question: Why did marriage feel like a chain?

His mother and father were happy. Why couldn’t he be, too?

What was wrong with him that he couldn’t commit to the most wonderful woman he’d ever met?

By sundown, he was doubled over with a sour gut and a heart like lead.

The next night, he went out in search of company.

But Mack was in Olympia, and who the hell knew where Jude had gone.

Undaunted, he ventured to familiar places—Harry’s Tavern, the card room, the billiard hall.

But the talk was small, the faces tiresome.

The dance floors were no better. His legs were sandbags, his rhythm off.

The girls were pretty and charming, but none of them had doe eyes.

None of them surprised him mid-step with a strange, fascinating comment.

None of them smelled faintly of violets.

He ended up at the racetrack, but quickly lost his money on a pony called Fortune’s Favor.

Disgust rose like bile in his throat: how could he fritter away money while Olive struggled?

Another reason she was better off without him.

He drank too much and had no idea how he got home.

He didn’t bother getting out of bed on Wednesday.

The sun rose, crossed the windowsill, and fell again, and still he didn’t rise.

At some point, he consumed an entire pound cake with his hands, leaving crumbs across the quilt and smudges on his undershirt.

He pulled the soiled quilt over his head and drifted in and out of dreams where Olive walked away from him again and again.

Always with the same look of pity and disappointment and finality.

He tried to reason with the dream version of her; woke up sweating, mumbling.

He spent the evening wondering why he’d ruined something rare.

Wondering if he could carry on without her.

Wondering why the hell he was such a selfish bastard.

On Thursday, he woke filled with disgust for himself.

He stripped the bed and hauled the sheets outside to air.

Beneath his pillow, coiled like a tiny noose, lay a long, honey gold hair.

He stared at it for longer than was decent, then tucked it into a matchbox.

The groan that escaped his throat sounded suspiciously like a sob.

But that was nonsense. He didn’t cry over women, even one as special as Olive.

He bought another crate of Rainier and sat drinking on the porch to wait out the day.

That afternoon, a package arrived. It was the scarf and hat he’d given her, folded neatly and returned without a note.

She’d spent her meager money to return his gifts.

That, somehow, hurt more than any words could.

It was the final proof she needed more than a man drowning himself in beer.

He wanted to be that man, but he didn’t know if he could.

If he tried and failed, he didn’t know if he could survive the pain of losing her all over again.

After that, there wasn’t anything he could do but drink too much, cry into Olive’s scarf, and jerk himself off.

On Monday, Olive didn’t get out of bed. It felt like a weight was on top of her, pressing her into the thin mattress.

Her head ached, and her throat burned. Her mother fretted, worrying she had caught a cold.

But Olive knew better. Her heart was broken.

She’d dared to hope, to have the courage to ask for what she wanted—and she’d been rejected.

It hurt. It hurt so badly. Eventually, her mother climbed into bed beside her and gently stroked her forehead while she cried herself to sleep.

The next day, she woke in a daze. Cotton-headed.

Wrapped in a bubble. But she dragged herself out of bed.

Shivered her way over to the stove and added more coal.

Put the kettle on. Got her brother up while her mother made the porridge.

Ate silently, miserably, unable to banish thoughts of Emil.

When Robbie finished breakfast, he set his spoon down, stood up, and wrapped his thin arms around her neck.

She laid her head on his shoulder and choked back her sobs.

Once she gained control of herself, she staggered to the dressing cabinet and dressed in warm layers. The groceries wouldn’t buy themselves.

She dragged herself to the local Horticultural Society for an afternoon performance on Wednesday.

The small sum would ensure she made rent in March, so she played despite the lingering soreness in her wrist. If anyone had asked why tears slipped from her eyes—Emil would have noticed—she would have told them she was moved by her music.

But no one asked. She left the luncheon and made her way to Robbie’s school.

His teacher wanted to speak with her: young Robert wasn’t taking his classwork seriously.

By the time she’d convinced the teacher she would work harder with him, both she and Robbie were red-faced and cranky.

He kicked rocks the whole way home. When it came time to leave for the suffrage meeting at Longfellow House, she found she didn’t have the energy to put her shoes back on.

Her friends would have to plan the last few days before the Senate vote without her.

She crawled into bed with a sigh of relief.

Thursday, she decided to be done with crying, even if she had to dig her nails in the palms of her hand to hold them at bay.

Red-rimmed eyes raised questions during lessons.

Bleary eyes made it difficult to read music during performances.

And most of all, Emil Anderson didn’t deserve any more of her tears.

It was time to admit he wasn’t going to change his mind.

He wouldn’t marry her unless it was on his terms. She would follow through on her promise and move on.

She had to move on, for her own sake and for the sake of her family.

The longer she wallowed, the quicker her mother’s declining health, the faster Robbie’s dwindling patience with learning.

If she didn’t hold them together, who would?

Not Emil, that was clear. Before she could change her mind, she stuffed his scarf and hat in a box and took it down to the post office.

By Friday, she knew to stay busy. She gave her lessons and ran errands.

She practiced extra hours in the nearby churches between services.

In the evenings, she helped her mother cook and forced Robbie to practice reading.

An invitation arrived to accompany Winnie and Clem to Olympia to be present for the Senate vote, but she turned it down with regret.

There was no way she could leave right now.

And besides, she would be unpleasant company at best. No matter how hard she resisted, there were moments when it felt like she was about to be swallowed by an enormous wave.

All she could do was keep moving. Keep finding ways to make her mother smile.

More families who needed lessons. Another way to make the meat stretch farther.

And as each day passed, she realized she had made it through.

That alone gave her the strength to rise the next.

She wouldn’t give up.

She wouldn’t give in.

She would survive.