Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1940)

go home and brighten their own corners — cook their own suppers for their own husbands and let Cynthia alone!" Just then a loud outburst of applause sounded through the ceiling from the downstairs parlor. "I wonder what that means," Helen said, wishing for some way to divert her father into a better humor. "Let's listen." "I'm not interested." But then, as though someone had opened the parlor door, they heard Cynthia Leonard's voice: "And now, my friends, with all due humility I accept the invitation of our party to run for mayor of New York City on the Equal Franchise ticket. And if I'm elected — " "You will be — you can't lose. You said so yourself!" a strong -voiced woman yelled. "I shall do my best to make you all proud of your sex." Stamping of feet! Cheers! 1 HE day of the election was fast approaching and since Cynthia was convinced of her need as political leader and, at last, had a chance of answering the call of suffrage, she left no hour of the days and few of the nights without delivering a speech — somewhere. Helen walked down Ninth Street one afternoon, returning from her singing lesson, to find a newsboy selling papers in front of Mrs. Rose's restaurant. "Read all about the suffering cats — they're sunk," die news hawker cried. "Buy a paper, miss?" he approached Helen. She began reading before she was up the steps of her house. There it was, in glaring black type, above a picture of her mother: CYNTHIA LEONARD SUFFERS HUMILIATING DEFEAT WOMAN MAYORALTY CANDIDATE RECEIVES ONLY 84 VOTES "Poor Mother!" Helen breathed aloud as she ran up the steps and let herself into the hall. The whole house, so strangely quiet, seemed to feel the same way. Only one hat hung on the hatrack today — Dad's old battered derby. And no bicycles had cluttered the walk outside. "Poor Mother!" Now she heard voices from the parlor and pushed open the door. Her father, sitting by the reading lamp, looked up. How odd he seemed there, because in the three years they had lived in that house, Charlie Leonard had never before sat in the parlor. Grandma sat on the other side of the reading lamp, clicking her knitting needles. Three of the other Leonard girls were also there — two playing checkers over by the window. One sat on the piano stool. And over in the shadowy corner sat Cynthia, pretending to be absorbed in a newspaper. Sitting there with the shades drawn and the lamps burning before sundown! They certainly looked like anything except a happy family, Helen thought, her heart tightening with sympathy. "Come on, sing for me," Lucy Leonard called from the piano. "All right — " But she stopped beside her mother, hesitated a second. As Cynthia did not look up, she went over to the piano. Lucy began to play the music which stood opened on the music rack. Thus, in all innocence, the opening bars of "Brighten the Corner Where You Are" crowded unmercifully into the room. "No! No! Not that!" Helen yanked the music from the piano. BUT it was too late then. Cynthia — everyone was looking at her — lowered her newspaper and let her glazed eyes pass over the group. Without a word, she stood, then walked from the room. No one spoke. No one could. They heard her steps down the hall, then suddenly the silence was splintered by a screech from the parrot: "Votes-for-women-equal-rights-ha-ha-ha!" Then they heard Cynthia stumbling and hurrying up the stairs. They all knew she was rushing miserably to the privacy of her own room. "Poor Mother!" burst from Helen. They all began to talk at once and no one seemed to notice when Helen went out. She tiptoed up the carpeted stairs to her mother's room. Gently, she turned the knob — and the door creaked open. In the twilight and miserable stillness, Helen saw the figure across the bed. Cynthia, hearing the creaking door, had raised up on her elbow and now Helen saw her tear-wet face. "Oh, I thought you were Charlie — " Cynthia said with a terrific attempt to control her sobs. Helen went over and knelt down beside the bed. Cynthia, trying to retrieve some of her usual selfsufficiency and dignity, sat up against the feather pillow. She looked down at the kneeling girl, forced a smile over her streaked face. "You've been terribly hurt, haven't you, mother?" "Not really hurt, dear . . ." the set smile faded then. "Humiliated a little." "But you were crying, Mother." "I've often cried, dear, but I was never caught at it before." Then sweetly, "And I don't want you to tattle, either." "I won't . . ." Helen laughed. Then in a schoolteacher manner, she added, "That is, if you promise me you won't cry any more." "I won't . . ." Cynthia reached over the side of the bed and put her hand under her daughter's chin. "That is, if you promise me you'll forget all this stage talk I've been hearing lately." "Oh, but Mother! That isn't fair. You wanted me to study music, didn't you?" "Yes — if you could reach the top — grand opera, I meant." Helen moved her chin from her mother's hand then. And a little defiantly, she sat back on the floor and looked up. "I — I might make a success without singing — opera." "Yes, I know. I talked to Professor Damrosch about you yesterday." "You did, Mother?" Helen leaned over. "When you were so awfully busy — you thought about doing that for me? Oh, Mother! Thank you!" A little eeibarrassed, Cynthia said, "He feels you have a great career of a kind. Of course, he thinks you're beautiful." "He told me that—" Then, "But what about my singing?" "Did he tell you to be afraid of your — beauty?" asked Cynthia, calmly. "Yes, he did . . . but I'm not." Smiling, "Because I don't think I'm beautiful." Cynthia looked into her daughter's eyes. "Helen, you're going to find yourself very attractive to men." Helen refused the spell of her mother's serious mood. She threw her head back and laughed, saying, "I won't mind that, Mother. I really don't dislike men." "Neither do I, dear — if he's the right one." "I've never seen anyone I thought I could love — " Helen looked up through her lashes at her mother, "except — " "Except whom?" "I don't even know his name, and I'll probably never see him again. So you see, Mother — you don't have to worry about me." Helen's words ran together. She was aware that the truth — not knowing his name or that she probably would never see him again — dug into her heart just a little. "But I do worry about you," her mother was saying, sweetly. "That's why I want you to forget the theater — for a while." "Mother, don't mean that. Because — I can't." "Can't, Helen? Or, won't?" Cynthia asked. "Both, Mother." The figure on the floor sat ever straighter then than the one on the side of the bed. "Suppose I should make my request a command, Helen?" "I'm afraid I'd disobey you, Mother." Cynthia took a quick breath and eyed Helen sternly. Helen stared right back, bravely and with equal determination. A STRANGE, strong current flowed between them. It seemed to take their entire vocabularies with it. Then, something happened. Something struck the house. There was a crash — glass splintered. An object hurled into the room, just missing the head of the bed. It fell on the floor beside Helen — a rock! Helen got up and ran over to the long window, whose broken pane let in the noise full force. Just then another rock whirled through the broken pane. She jumped back and collided with Cynthia. "What is it all about, Mother?" But Cynthia's pasty face told her. She didn't wait for further answer. She knew — even before the shouts from below became clearer. "Where's the woman mayor?" they cried. "We want to see the mayor!" Helen tried to put her arms around Cynthia. But Cynthia did not go into Helen's outstretched arms. She held her head up, squared her shoulders. And in some way, which Helen could not understand, her mother refused the only solace she knew how to offer. Puzzled, Helen turned away and went back to the window, careful to stand to the side of the curtains, so that the crowd below would not see her. The street was filled with the half -drunk, boisterous election crowd. Hoodlums gathered to tell off the suffragette, who had dared to think she could have been elected to office. Their cruel shouts decried everything Cynthia Leonard had ever said about equal rights for women. Cat-calls! Snorts! Loud lusty songs about "Suffering Cats." Helen could not watch the street longer, for looking at the set misery on her mother's face. She now stood on the opposite side of the window, where she listened to her name and thwarted ambition ridiculed. By the hysterical mob — which she had hoped to rule! A crash overhead! Shattered glass rained over them. A brick sailed through the top pane of the long window, cracked into the bureau mirror. Helen screamed, threw her arm over her eyes protectingly. Then she realized that Cynthia had gone. "Mother —where are you?" she cried. "I'm going down to speak to them," came the calm voice from the doorway. "No, Mother!" Helen ran to her. "You musn't! They — they might — " She started to say "hurt you" but stopped. They had already hurt her. Cynthia was leaving the room, as though she did not notice Helen trying to stop her. "I wouldn't if I were you, Mother!" The determined figure moved swiftly ahead. In the hall downstairs, the rest of the family congregated. Their faces, strained and excited, turned in amazement at Cynthia, hurrying down the steps. Grandma came up to her first, but was brushed aside. Then, Charlie— seeing the set look on his wife's face, said, "Cynthia, you can't go out there." "I'm not afraid, Charlie," she pushed past him. "They're drunk, dear," catching her arm. "I'll send them away." But before he could open the door, Helen rushed up beside him. "Dad, please. You're the one person who shouldn't go. I mean— you're a man— and they might hurt you — and. . . ." "Let me go, I tell you!" Cynthia caught the knob of the door. She pulled the door open and the sudden rush of noise was like the overflow of a river. Its force left all of them stunned. Even Cynthia. Helen, edging in between her father and mother leaned against the closed door. "Let me go, Dad. I'm sure they won't harm me." She pulled the door open a little. "Helen!" cried Cynthia. Charlie said, "Please, Cynthia — I promise you they'll stop for her." HELEN turned quickly and pushed out through a narrow opening of the door. There was a hush. It came almost instantly — and Helen looking out across the faces from her stand on the top step, was conscious of a strange power. Her presence had done something to that crowd. Something! She wanted to speak, wanted to tell them — ask them, even plead that they be kind to her mother. Make them understand, but what was there to make them understand? What? What could she say? She opened her lips — but no sound would come from her throat. Strange, wide eyes stared back at her. She turned her head from side to side, searching the mob for — for some face which seemed kind . . . some kind face to whom she could talk. Then, she saw it — out there, across the walk. There stood a tall man, whose dark eyes reached out across the heads of the others and seemed to say, "Say something. Tell us about it." "My mother is very tired," Helen said softly and distinctly. "Do you mind — going home?" Then she smiled. The response was a murmur — admiration. A drunk called out, "Why don't you run for something, lady? I'd vote ten times for you." Then the crowd laughed. Laughed with Helen and started to sing. Several policemen appeared, circulated in the group and began to scatter it. Helen kept standing there, looking out across the walk, where a solitary figure stood. It seemed that he was just realizing that Helen's eyes fastened on him. He lifted his derby — because just then he realized that he had seen that beautiful girl before. Moonlight touched the soft curves of Helen's face as she smiled. He came over to the bottom step, 31