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Moondrop Miracle

By Jennifer Lamont Leo

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March 1988
Chicago, Illinois

Sleet slashed against the tall damask-draped windows of the Gold Coast apartment, casting gloomy shadows over Constance Shepherd's face as she sat at her dressing table. Already she regretted her decision to speak at the Young Entrepreneurs of Tomorrow banquet. The miserable evening would be much better spent in the coziness of her own firelit library than shivering in some drafty banquet hall. Now, making matters worse was a notice in the newspaper that a local TV station would be featuring, on this very evening, a retrospective of the films of the late Gilda Miller, Connie’s favorite actress. She’d have to miss it. Hell’s bells.
When her dear friend Sonja Atwater had called and asked Constance to speak, whatever had possessed her to say yes? What nugget of wisdom could she possibly offer these vibrant young women about to sail forth with their freshly minted degrees, ready to conquer the world? The very vitality of today's young women made Constance feel old and well past her prime.
Or perhaps it was just the incessant rain that was making her feel like a bowl of yesterday's oatmeal. The pounding of it against the windows carried her mind back to a similar storm, nearly seventy years earlier, on a dark Tuesday that had changed her life forever.
She turned away from the window. Mustn't dwell on the past. Mustn't let her mind slip away. Mustn't give in.
In any case, she'd given her word. And even though one would hardly blame an octogenarian for declining to go out on such a blustery evening, Constance was not one to shirk a commitment.
With a sigh, she lifted her tortoiseshell comb as if it were a weapon and gave a few firm strokes to her silvery hair, still shiny and falling into the soft chin-length waves that had been her signature style for years.
A gentle rap sounded at the door, and the housemaid carried a tray into the bedroom and set it on the dressing table. "I thought you might appreciate a hot cup of tea, ma'am, before you head out."
"Thank you, Elsa. That's very thoughtful."
"Are you sure you ought to go?" Elsa frowned at the dripping windows. "Looks right nasty out there."
"Of course I'll go," Constance said with a note of mild disapproval, as if she hadn't just been entertaining those exact thoughts herself.
"You look lovely. I remember how much your husband liked you to wear blue."
"Yes, he did." A bittersweet pang tweaked Constance's heart. She handed Elsa the newspaper. “If you’re staying in, you might want to catch this Gilda Miller film festival on television. I’m sick about missing it.”
Elsa took the paper and glanced at it. “You don’t have to miss it. Just record it to watch later. That’s why your son gave you that VCR last Christmas.”
Constance waved her hand impatiently. “I can’t ever get that darned gizmo to work right. Too many buttons.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll set it up for you,” Elsa promised. “You can watch it later when you get home, or tomorrow. I know how much you liked Gilda Miller.”
“Thank you.” As Connie took a grateful sip of the steaming tea, a buzzer sounded from the front hall. The cup clinked as she set it in the saucer.
"That will be the doorman to tell us the car is here. Please call down and have him signal the driver I'll be ready momentarily." Under her breath she added, "I do hope the Young Entrepreneurs haven't sent along a chatterbox this time."
"Yes, ma'am."
After Elsa left the room, Constance took another sip of tea, checked her evening bag for the index cards on which she'd jotted some notes for her speech, and glanced once more at the mirror. At eighty-one, she was still blessed with the graceful, almost regal bearing of her youth. Above a long pale blue silk shantung skirt, her silver-and-blue beaded top shimmered in the lamplight and nicely complemented her coloring.
Before leaving the bedroom, she applied one final swipe of lipstick and slipped the tube into her bag.
"Remember to sparkle, old girl," she told her reflection and smiled in spite of herself.
Within moments of pulling away from the curb, it became apparent that the Young Entrepreneurs had indeed sent a chatterbox.
"Oh, Mrs. Sutherland, I can't even tell you what an honor it is to meet you in person." The red-haired, alabaster-skinned driver blurted the words as she weaved the Volvo in and out of city traffic on rain-slick streets.
Constance clung to the armrest and tried not to flinch visibly as the side-view mirror of a cab passed within a hair's breadth of her window.
"When Mrs. Atwater asked for a volunteer to pick you up for the dinner, I begged and begged and begged to be chosen."
"How kind," Constance said, wishing she'd do a little less begging and a little more steering.
"I can't wait to hear what you have to say. Why, you're simply a legend."
What should have been a fifteen-minute drive took no more than ten, thanks to the woman behind the wheel, who drove as fast as she talked. Constance could hardly keep up with the woman’s plans to start some sort of a computer technology business. Fortunately, the girl accepted her noncommittal responses without question, hardly stopping to breathe. The car lurched to a stop at the curb in front of the elegant Palmer House Hotel. The legend emerged shakily and gratefully accepted the capable arm of a uniformed doorman, who escorted her into the lobby while the driver handed the keys to a parking valet. In the light and warmth of the gilded lobby, she regained her bearings, glad to be back on terra firma.
"This way, Mrs. Sutherland." The redhead caught up to her and gestured toward an escalator rising to a crimson-carpeted mezzanine. Together they rode the escalator, Constance stepping careful to keep the hem of her long skirt from catching in the machine's gnashing teeth. It would never do to fall and break a hip in front of all these people.
The mezzanine was crowded with women milling around outside the ballroom. Some of them gathered in small whispering clumps, sliding glances her way, and she looked down at her outfit to make sure nothing was askew. Several ladies murmured greetings as she passed. Some of their faces looked familiar, but her escort hustled her along before she could place any of them.
"They’re waiting for us."
Constance halted. "Miss—MacDonald, did you say? Before we go in, I'd like to stop and powder my nose."
"Oh, um, sure. The restroom is right down that hallway." The girl hesitated. "Do you want me to go with you?"
"I'm not that elderly, dear." Constance added a smile to soften the words and headed toward the ladies' lounge.
Satisfied that her appearance was in order, she let Miss MacDonald guide her through the ballroom to the speakers’ table. In the low light of the room, she made out her place card. She'd only been seated a moment when a shrill voice pierced through the dusky gloom.
"Connie, darling! I'm so glad you've come, and on this beastly night, too."
"Sonja." Constance's heart lightened at the sound of a familiar voice. An elegantly dressed woman not much younger than herself, but apparently a good deal more spry, slid into the empty chair next to her and the friends embraced. "Thank you for inviting me, although, truth be told, I don't know what I have to say to these young women that they haven't heard a thousand times before."
"You're too modest." Sonja grasped Constance’s hand and squeezed it. "Why, the girls insisted I invite you. You're a legend in your own time."
There was that word again. Legend.
Introductions were made around the table. The other speakers for the evening, both decades younger than herself, included a prominent neurosurgeon who’d founded a medical technology company and a banking mogul whose name Constance recognized from the business section of the Tribune. Four bright-eyed members of the Young Entrepreneurs’ board, including Miss MacDonald, filled out the table of eight.
Over shrimp cocktail and French onion soup, Constance and Sonja got caught up. Sonja explained her mentoring role with the Young Entrepreneurs of Tomorrow, a position she’d taken on after retiring as professor emeritus at a local university.
“Goodness, you’re as busy in retirement than you ever were,” Constance remarked.
“Oh, I love working with the young women.” Sonja’s eyes sparkled. “They have the whole future ahead of them. Kind of makes me feel young again. And what about you? I’m dying to hear about the new Pearlcon facility that just opened in Hong Kong.”
Constance started to explain, but just as the entrée was served, Sonja was called away to look after some detail of the production. Constance turned her attention to the conversation elsewhere at the table, which had turned to higher education.
"More women should be encouraged to major in STEM fields," the banker said.
"STEM?" Constance tested the unfamiliar acronym on her tongue.
"Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math," the neurosurgeon explained. "Too many women today are opting for the liberal arts, taking the easy way out. How can we ever make headway in a man's world if we don't tackle the same hard subjects they do?"
"Women are trapping themselves in a pink-collar ghetto," the banker asserted. "This alarming situation needs to change. What do you think, Mrs. Sutherland? It is Mrs. Sutherland, isn’t it?"
“Yes, that’s the name I use professionally.” It was simpler that way.
“Well, what do you think? Do you agree that women are trapping themselves in a pink-collar ghetto?”
“Ghetto seems a strong word, don't you think?" Constance said. "Not all women are cut out for science and math. Not everyone wants to compete toe-to-toe with men."
"Women who shirk doing a man's work are letting down the sisterhood," the neurosurgeon declared. "Of course, you made your fortune in a pink-collar field," she added with a nod toward Constance. "But times have changed. STEM is the wave of the future."
Feeling a bit pounced upon, Constance straightened and addressed the woman directly. “While it’s true that few fields are more ‘pink-collar’ than the cosmetics industry, there are of course a great many women scientists working in Pearlcon laboratories around the world. We wouldn’t have much of a company without them, would we?” She dabbed her lips with a white linen napkin, taking a moment to plan her next words. "Many women can and do excel in science and math. But a woman shouldn't feel she has to become like a man to achieve success."
"We don't need to become like them. We need to become better than them," said the banker with what sounded like a sneer.
"What field did you take your degree in, Mrs. Sutherland?" asked the neurosurgeon.
"Oh, I never went to college," Constance said. "After high school, I attended a year of finishing school. Then I married and had a child. I didn't start my career until later."
"Finishing school?" The neurosurgeon could not have looked more astonished if Constance had claimed Stateville Prison as her alma mater. The doctor and the banker exchanged a glance, clearly wondering why such an undereducated woman was speaking at an event aimed at soon-to-be college graduates. Constance wondered herself. "It's a wonder your business succeeded as it has."
"I didn't know it would succeed at the time. All I knew was that I had to do it. And eventually, I became most interested in offering women opportunities that didn't seem to exist anywhere else."
All at once, the face of an old classmate flitted across Constance's memory. Julia Harper. That's who these women remind me of. Good old Julia with her no-nonsense leather brogues, mannish hats, and leaflets proclaiming the rights of women and whatnot. The memory amused Constance so much, she almost missed what the banker was saying. A few minutes later, she wished that she had.
"Thank goodness times have changed," the banker said. "Maybe foregoing a proper education was acceptable back them, but it certainly isn't a viable option these days. After all, very few people have a rich daddy to bankroll their business. Most of the young people here tonight are not women of privilege, such as yourself."
The woman had hurled the word "privilege" as if it were an accusation. Rich daddy, indeed. Heat rose in Constance's chest and spread to her face. Why were these rude women attacking her? Where was Sonja? Whatever was keeping her? Constance felt her sparkle melting faster than the ice cream served for dessert. It took everything she had not to snap back some witty barb and put the women in their place. In her mind she heard Aunt Pearl's voice say, Don't stoop to their level, Connie. A gentle answer turns away wrath. So she said simply,
"Apparently, you haven't heard my story. Perhaps my speech will fill in some of the gaps for you. I suggest you listen carefully."
Before her tablemates could respond, the lights dimmed. Sonja stepped behind the podium and introduced the neurosurgeon as the first speaker.
The room grew warm. Constance slipped out of her wrap and folded it over the back of her chair. It was too dark to read the index cards in her bag, so mentally she reviewed her speech, noting portions she could skip if the hour grew late but reminding herself of the one point she absolutely had to make to these impressionable young females.
For heaven's sake, be glad that God made you a woman.
As the neurosurgeon droned on about entrepreneurial opportunities around today's highly specialized wellness environments—apparently no one called them "hospitals" anymore—Constance let her mind drift back to her own youth.
She had not cared about college. At twenty-one, she'd had no greater purpose in mind than marrying Winston Sutherland III and having fun. Lots and lots of fun. Aunt Pearl had been the one who had longed to go to college—and been denied the opportunity.
But God had other plans for both of them.

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