Scarlet Carnation: A Novel Read online

  ALSO BY LAILA IBRAHIM

  Yellow Crocus

  Living Right

  Mustard Seed

  Paper Wife

  Golden Poppies

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2022 by Laila Ibrahim

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542020756

  ISBN-10: 1542020751

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  To the wide, loving, and generous circle that surrounded us in the midst of a global pandemic.

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  PROLOGUE NAOMI

  CHAPTER 1 MAY

  CHAPTER 2 NAOMI

  CHAPTER 3 MAY

  CHAPTER 4 NAOMI

  CHAPTER 5 MAY

  CHAPTER 6 MAY

  CHAPTER 7 NAOMI

  CHAPTER 8 MAY

  CHAPTER 9 MAY

  CHAPTER 10 NAOMI

  CHAPTER 11 NAOMI

  CHAPTER 12 MAY

  CHAPTER 13 MAY

  CHAPTER 14 NAOMI

  CHAPTER 15 NAOMI

  CHAPTER 16 MAY

  CHAPTER 17 MAY

  CHAPTER 18 NAOMI

  CHAPTER 19 MAY

  CHAPTER 20 NAOMI

  CHAPTER 21 MAY

  CHAPTER 22 NAOMI

  CHAPTER 23 NAOMI

  CHAPTER 24 NAOMI

  CHAPTER 25 MAY

  CHAPTER 26 NAOMI

  CHAPTER 27 NAOMI

  CHAPTER 28 MAY

  CHAPTER 29 MAY

  CHAPTER 30 NAOMI

  EPILOGUE KAY LYNN

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  RESOURCES

  BOOK DISCUSSION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Arise, then, Christian women of this day! Arise all women who have hearts, whether our baptism be that of water or of tears! Say firmly: We will not have great questions decided by irrelevant agencies. Our husbands shall not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caresses and applause. Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn all that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience. We women of one country will be too tender of those of another country to allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs. From the bosom of the devastated earth a voice goes up with our own. It says “Disarm, Disarm! The sword of murder is not the balance of justice.”

  Julia Ward Howe,

  Mother’s Day proclamation of peace, 1870

  PROLOGUE

  NAOMI

  We make joy in spite of the indignity—or perhaps because of it. Delight in my well-lived life is a most satisfying weapon against the hate and trampling. God calls me to build the common good and make my own days glad. I do both with every breath I’m given.

  Naomi Wallace

  CHAPTER 1

  MAY

  May 1915

  “I don’t believe it would be wise,” May whispered in John’s ear. She resisted the warm tug of his body pressed against hers. His fingers released their tight grip on her skirt.

  He pushed against the mattress, cool air rushing into the gap between them, and looked into her eyes while he stroked the hair at the nape of her neck—a lovely shiver ran down her spine.

  “We are almost engaged,” he assured May.

  Her breath caught. He was finally expressing the sentiment she felt in her heart. “Are you certain?”

  He nodded slowly; desire filled his brown eyes.

  She took his face between her hands. Her thumbs caressed his cheeks as she gazed up at him. May combed her fingers through his sandy brown hair. He smiled down at her, his eyes sparkling with love. She brought her lips to his, ready to signal her consent with a passionate kiss, when the clock chimed the half hour.

  She dropped her head back on the mattress in his studio apartment. Not like this—when they were expected at Professor Kroeber’s for dinner.

  May exhaled hard and cleared her throat to push down her own desire. “Soon, I promise. I’ll be ready soon, but not tonight when we have to rush off.”

  He nodded and smiled, but the slight droop of his head told her he was disappointed.

  “I’m getting Margaret Sanger’s pamphlet on family limitation from my cousin on Sunday,” she reminded him, hoping her assurance would prevent hurt feelings.

  “You are practical, as always,” he said, and sighed.

  She shrugged. He gave her a peck on the lips and rose from his bed. May couldn’t read John’s emotions. Was he angry? She shouldn’t have let it go so far, but it was so pleasurable. She considered apologizing.

  John gazed at her like he knew her mind. “Don’t imagine my state to be anything other than pure devotion to you.” He exhaled. “I don’t want to rush into anything until you are as certain as I am.”

  A thrilling flood washed over her, causing her heart to race and her breath to shorten. This was love. May smiled, reached for his arm, and squeezed. This man who was both kind and intelligent was her treasure. She took a deep breath and forced herself to turn away from him—for the moment.

  May and John walked from his tiny Northside apartment near the University of California in Berkeley to Professor Kroeber’s house in the Berkeley Hills. In fifteen minutes it felt as if they’d been transported to the Napa countryside. John held her hand as they climbed steps through tall redwood trees and bright-green bunches of grasses.

  The staircase ended at a narrow street. May paused and turned around to catch her breath and take in the view. Spread out below, the bay sparkled in the sunlight. Tall, modern buildings in San Francisco rose on the other shore. Constructed since the 1906 earthquake and fire, they were a testament to the resiliency of the city and its people. To the north the warm, brown hills of Marin County were marked by circles of oak trees and squares of bright-green farms. The Pacific Ocean sparkled beyond the gap of the Golden Gate until it ended under a thick blanket of gray fog.

  John took her hand. May’s heart sped up in anticipation. This was the moment she’d been expecting for weeks. They’d been dating for nearly a year and he was graduating in a few days. John gazed at her and swallowed. She smiled at him, her eyes shining in joy; she nodded in encouragement for his formal proposal. He bit his top lip, and inhaled, readying himself to ask. Then he turned back to the vista.

  Her stomach dropped.

  “Nearly as splendid as the view from Indian Rock,” he declared. “I don’t believe there’s such a lovely view in all of San Francisco. Don’t tell my parents, but this is the more favorable side of the bay.”

  She took a deep breath to slow her hurt heart.

  Hiding her disappointment and misunderstanding, she bantered, “I won’t tell your family, nor anyone else from that city. More than enough of them inundated Oakland after the earthquake. I don’t need to encourage more to make the East Bay their home.”

  “Am I such a burden to your fair city?” he asked.

  She paused, tapped her lip with her finger, and stared upward as if in deep thought. “I suppose there is room for you, but only you.” She laughed and kissed his warm lips. She intended a peck, but his hand cupped her cheek and she found herself lost in the moment.

  When they broke away his shi
ny eyes expressed the longing in her heart, confirming her understanding that he shared her deepest desire. May had to trust he was waiting to secure work.

  On Wednesday, John would be conferred a Doctorate of Philosophy in Anthropology. Ideally, he would get a professorship in Northern California at Stanford University or Mills College to be close to their families—his in San Francisco, hers in Oakland. If not, he would seek a position at one of the many institutions of higher education in Southern California. A degree from the University of California was so well regarded that she was confident they wouldn’t need to leave the state.

  After graduating from Oakland High School two years ago, May applied for jobs only at the University of California. As the secretary at the Department of Anthropology she met many wonderful college men. A few months of flirtation with John turned into the respectful romance she desired and would soon become a lifelong marriage.

  She shook her head to clear it and reminded him with a smile, “We don’t want to be late.”

  He turned left, walking a few yards down the street to the brown shingled home where Professor Kroeber, his advisor and her boss, lived.

  They were gathering in celebration and farewell. As a secretary in the department, she’d never received a coveted invitation to a dinner party at Professor Kroeber’s home, but she was confident she would be warmly welcomed as John’s date. Professor Kroeber was forward thinking about social equality and never showed any class prejudice toward May. She was proud to have supported his research and would miss working with him.

  Mrs. Kroeber, a plain but confident wife, ushered them into a stunning redwood-paneled living room.

  “A genuine Maybeck!” John whispered into her ear, reminding her that the renowned architect he so admired designed this home.

  “Almost the equal of a Julia Morgan design,” May retorted.

  He laughed, as she intended. She was forever championing the up-and-coming female architect. They were unlikely to ever afford a custom home, but they enjoyed conversations about designs. They were both favorably inclined toward the modern simplicity of the arts and crafts movement rather than the ornate Victorians they each lived in as children.

  Thomas King, another graduate student, and his date, Judith Hunt, were seated on a couch across from Professor Kroeber. Ishi was seated by the professor in a high-backed upholstered chair. His dark hair and skin stood out from the cream fabric. She glanced down. His bare feet spread on the red Oriental rug, an amusing juxtaposition with his Western suit. A small, sweet smile spread across his face though he didn’t look at May. In the custom of his people he didn’t make eye contact or speak directly to her, a woman not in his family; nevertheless, he conveyed warmth and calm.

  Ishi’s life was as heartbreaking as it was inspiring. For several weeks in 1911 he made the headlines in the newspaper. The whole state, perhaps the entire nation, followed his story with great interest. Nana Lisbeth had been so moved that tears ran down her cheeks as she read the account in the Oakland Tribune.

  Ishi walked into Oroville, California, barefoot and emaciated—wrapped in mystery because he spoke no English. Before she worked there, the professors in May’s department read about his plight in the newspaper and arranged for his release from jail to the university.

  In time Ishi explained he was the last of the Yahi, a tribe of Native Californians. Soon after the Civil War, his community was nearly annihilated in the Three Knolls Massacre. A small band hid in the hills for five decades, dying one by one until Ishi was alone. Close to starving, he exposed himself to an uncertain fate in a society that destroyed his people.

  In the four years since he emerged from hiding he lived and worked in the University of California Anthropology Museum at the Golden Gate Park in San Francisco.

  Nana Lisbeth and Momma were very impressed May met him more than once, when he came to the department office to meet with Professor Kroeber and his students or to make a record of the Yahi language and mythology.

  On Sundays Ishi displayed his skills in bow making, arrowhead carving, and fire starting at the museum to the public. May had yet to see his survival talents, but planned to when she attended the Panama-Pacific Exhibition, the months-long, world-famous exhibition in San Francisco celebrating the opening of the Panama Canal.

  Mrs. Kroeber stood in the doorway and pronounced, “We are all here and dinner is ready, so please come to the table.”

  May flushed at the memory of why they were late. She raised her hand to her face, as if she could feel that her cheeks were red. She didn’t dare look at John for fear of blushing further.

  Over a simple dinner of roasted chicken and potatoes they discussed the news of the department.

  “Tell them our news,” Judith prodded Thomas.

  “I’ve accepted a position at Whittier College in Los Angeles County,” he declared.

  “Congratulations!” Mrs. Kroeber said.

  “Wonderful,” John replied, but May heard the jealousy in his voice.

  “Well deserved,” Professor Kroeber chimed in.

  “Judith and I will be married next week and then head south at the end of June,” Thomas continued.

  Envy shot through her. She wanted her future settled too. May took a deep breath to calm her heart, forced a smile, and added her congratulations. John squeezed her hand.

  Judith looked at May. “You’ll be my maid of honor, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” May replied, but her voice sounded hollow to her own ear. She enjoyed Judith’s company well enough, but the woman she went on double dates with wouldn’t stand by May when she got married. That honor would go to her cousins: Elena and Tina. Judith didn’t have any family near, so it made sense that she asked May.

  “Saturday, two o’clock at the campus chapel. We hope you all will be there,” Thomas said to the whole table. To May and John he said, “Our joint excursion to the Pan-Pacific Exhibition shall be our last double date, I’m afraid.” The couples had plans to ferry across the bay to visit the world famous fair.

  John said, “May is looking forward to seeing your skills on display, Ishi. I have told her that you seem to make fire out of air.”

  Ishi gave a single nod.

  Professor Kroeber spoke up in his authoritative voice: “I was most grateful to have Ishi’s skills as a counterbalance to the eugenicists. Their excessively large booth was very well funded by Kellogg. They advocate for limiting reproduction to the original stock of this nation and forbidding immigration except from Northern Europe. Their dangerous Darwinian argument will lead to forced sterilization.”

  Disgust in her voice, Mrs. Kroeber explained, “They actually advocate for a eugenics registry to create a pedigree of breeding pairs—for humans. It seems they would make it illegal for a Norwegian to marry a Greek if they were able.”

  May gasped. She’d known there was a huge rift in the anthropology field, but she didn’t realize the eugenicists were so well organized and extreme.

  John replied, “Wouldn’t they be horrified by our student body—women, Negroes, Chinese?”

  The table murmured their agreement. The University of California was extremely proud that the student body was not limited to white men like so many institutions of higher education. It had been forward thinking from its very foundation.

  The conversation continued and the evening flowed by quickly. May studied Mrs. Kroeber, watching how she kept everyone engaged with ease. She asked questions, made comments, and changed topics as needed. She balanced being the cook, the maid, and the hostess with grace. May took this opportunity to learn, since she would be in this role soon.

  “Not one mention of the Lusitania,” May said as they rode the trolley to her home a mile below campus in the Santa Fe neighborhood. The development of small craftsman homes, far from the Oakland city center, was one of the many springing up along the train route between Oakland and Berkeley in the past ten years.

  Days after May graduated from high school, in 1913, Nana Lisbeth sold
their boardinghouse close to downtown to purchase this home in the suburbs with modern amenities such as electricity and a gas stove. The two-bedroom bungalow was a bit tight for the three of them but would be the right size for Nana Lisbeth and Momma once May was married and had formed a separate household.

  “Honestly, I avoided the topic because it would have taken up the entire evening’s conversation,” John replied. “We only have a few more days to think about our research together. The speculation about joining in the European War is growing tiresome. We will or we won’t. I am not sure how it will affect my life.”

  “I agree. There are good arguments on both sides, and my opinion won’t sway our leaders one way or the other.” May switched topics. “Professor Kroeber’s description of the eugenics booth was disturbing. I can hardly imagine something that offensive in San Francisco in 1915.”

  “We’ll see for ourselves soon enough,” John said. “So many of our colleagues do not respect other races at all. I want to see their evidence for myself—though I know most of it is derogatory and inaccurate.”

  May was heartened that they agreed on such a controversial topic. They stopped walking where the stairs to her house met the sidewalk. It was late, too late, for May to invite John in. However, only the front porch light was on; Momma and Nana Lisbeth were most likely asleep, so May leaned in to kiss her beloved. When she pulled away, her heart pounded and her lungs were tight in the best way.

  She whispered in his ear, “I cannot wait for the day when we won’t have to part at night.”

  He squeezed tight, then released her with a heavy sigh. She shared his frustration . . . and longing. This was a major step, but she was ready to take it with him. As long as he was devoted to a future together and she used the means of preventing a pregnancy, she saw no reason to delay the pleasures of the body. Fortunately her cousin Elena’s copy of Margaret Sanger’s pamphlet, the very one on family planning that caused the activist for women’s empowerment to be imprisoned, would be in her hands soon. Mrs. Sanger, the most celebrated advocate for birth control in the nation, was a hero to May and most Unitarian women. May considered Mrs. Sanger’s powerful words, with which she wholeheartedly agreed: Enforced motherhood is the most complete denial of a woman’s right to life and liberty.