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whispers about this meeting, how it could be the beginning of their escape from a life of drudgery at the washtub. Elsa, forty-five years old with twenty-nine years of that drudgery in the Channing laundry behind her, felt she had far more reason to be here than they did. The competing conversations were so loud that they drowned out the sound of Elsa’s footsteps across the floor at the back of the room. A line of women stood along the window, their wide skirts and stiff petticoats making it impossible for them to sit down with any dignity. Most were handsome or had the rumor of something beautiful in their faces. And each and every one of them was young.
    Elsa clutched her hands behind her back and leaned against the wall, then allowed one of her thick fingers—her grandmother had clucked over them, telling Elsa she would never play the Klavier —to trace a tiny circle on the scrolling yellow wallpaper. It was all she could do not to turn around and walk back out the door.
    Just then a tall woman at the front of the room dragged a bench in front of the hearth and stepped up on it. She clapped her hands and the women’s conversations died down to a murmur.
    “Ladies, ladies,” the woman said. “Good afternoon. Welcome. I thank you for coming on this blustery day.”
    Elsa watched the women in the front row nod demurely as they clutched their hands in their laps. They were already auditioning for a part they knew nothing about. Relentless, always, the competition among women.
    “How many of you are here because you saw one of my posters?” Several hands went up. The woman nodded. “And how many of you are here accompanying a friend?” A few others raised their hands.
    “Well, let’s see—where to begin. My name is Clara Bixby, and this is my operation. That’s what you need to know, right from the start. If there’s some part of you that’s right now thinking you might like to find a way to make it your operation, might like to find a way to take the reins, I will tell you once and only once: There’s the door.” She pointed at the entrance, right next to where Elsa stood in the shadowed back half of the room, and forty faces turned, suddenly, in her direction.
    Clara clapped her hands again. “Now then. That’s settled. So.” She took a big breath. “Why are we here? I’ll begin with a letter.” She took a paper out of the pocket of her dress, unfolded it and read:
     
Dear Mayor Cartwright, Sir, we are not acquainted, but I hope to change that. It has come to my attention through the New York Herald that your fine town, made up of the best sort of God-fearing men, loyal to our Union, so devoted to this country’s expansion and development that they are willing to forge new paths in the West, has fallen on hard times. If you will forgive my presumption, I would like to propose a solution to the problems of your town.
As you well know, Manhattan City is full at this hour with unmarried and widowed ladies whose lives were forever changed by the war of rebellion and its long-term effects. Plenty of men died on the battlefield, but plenty more have been ruined by drink and sickness upon their return home, leaving the women they were married to, and the women they might have married, had they been well and strong, in the lurch. And though the righteous side prevailed in this conflict, sir, there is a sadness over us all here in the East when we live each day with the heavy price we had to pay to set things right.
In each American, whether born on this soil or fresh off the boat from another land, there burns a desire for challenge and opportunity, for new vistas and the promise of what the soil can yield. I believe, Mayor Cartwright, that should you and I organize our efforts, we would find a cheerful and willing wife for any of the men in your town who wants one. And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you of the civilizing influence of a good Christian wife.
Now, it is only fitting that your men pay the