Chapters (51)
- Cover
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Acknowledgments
- P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
- About the Author
- About the Book
- Also by Alison Gaylin
- About the Publisher
“I think the living room has the best acoustics,” Edith said. She led Quentin through a long hallway, weaving slowly around the stacks of cardboard boxes, nudging some aside with her cane. They wound up in a room with large windows and the shades drawn—a dark room, the couch stacked high with volumes of Who’s Who in America and Encyclopaedia Britannica on one end, a cardboard Bankers Box on the other. There was a glass-topped coffee table in front of the couch, littered with magazines. It made him think of Reg Sharkey and his old TV Guides, and he imagined introducing Edith Brixton to his grandfather—Reg with his tidy time capsule of a living room, Edith with her barely controlled chaos. Together, they might raise an army of dust bunnies and take over the world. Quentin sneezed.
“Bless you.” Edith gestured at the one clear space on the couch, and Quentin settled into it, resting an arm on the encyclopedias.
Across from the couch was a rocking chair with no room to rock. Edith dropped her cane and hoisted herself into it, her thin legs not quite reaching the floor. Quentin turned on his phone’s voice recorder and set it on the coffee table, atop a New Yorker. “Ready?”
Edith nodded.
“I’m speaking to Edith Brixton on June 28.”
Edith said, “You’re sitting next to April.”
Quentin swallowed. “Pardon?”
“The box.”
He looked at it. Then looked at her.
“I wasn’t just a homeroom teacher,” Edith said. “I taught English, social studies, one dismal year of geography . . . Anyway, I kept boxes of all my favorite students’ work. My husband, like yours, made me keep them in the attic . . .” She pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes, a slight tremor in her hand. “That box next to you—that’s April. I looked for it after you called. It was easy to find.”
“She was in your social studies class.”
“That’s right.”
“She was a favorite student.” He tried to keep the disdain out of his voice. “A special one.”
She ran a hand across her brow, the index finger quivering. “Take a look.”
Quentin removed the lid from the Bankers Box. There was a small pile of papers inside, rounded girlish handwriting on lined pages. He read the first page, her name on it, the carefully formed letters.
Women and the Right to Vote
By April Cooper