by S. L. Stoner
Sinclair left his post by the office door, making a show of meandering among the mangles while following a fairly straight path to Chrissy’s side. Chrissy flashed him no smile and kept her eyes on her work, obviously ignoring his presence. Sinclair quickly moved away.
After seeing that exchange, Mae turned her mind and hands to ironing. When she looked up, Sinclair was gone. At least, he’d spent little time parading about like a benevolent overseer. He’d abandoned that act right quick once he realized they were on to him. He had to know that, by now, everyone knew he was Cobb’s spy.
Mae had later spent some time wondering from whom, besides Chrissy, the Association might be getting its information. She narrowed her eyes in the direction of that Caroline girl just as she looked up and caught Mae staring. At first, the young woman’s face looked confused before being transformed by a tentative smile.
Keeping a poker face, Mae merely gazed back. It was time to make the girl uneasy. See which way she’d jump once she realized not everyone trusted her. That little tussle over, Mae had returned to her task, wielding the iron with a vigor driven by worry and frustration.
But she could finally set down her iron, the workday was done. Laying her apron across the ironing board, Mae sighed with relief. The weather had broken a bit cooler that morning. Probably never got past seventy-five degrees outside—making it over ninety degrees inside the washroom. Downright unbearable but still a sight better than when the heat wave raised it to at least one hundred and ten steamy degrees inside.
Done readying for the walk to Rachel’s boarding house, Mae headed for the outer door and heard raised voices coming from outside the building. Exiting behind another woman, who was one of the more vocal union members, Mae saw Sinclair waiting just outside—as though in ambush. He gave a sheet of paper to the woman just ahead of her. When Mae paused to receive her own paper, Sinclair shook his head and gestured for her to keep moving. Once outside, she saw that only a few of the women held one of Sinclair’s papers.
The others stood bunched around these women and their voices raised in anger. Whatever that paper said was riling them up. Mae hustled over to the group. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw Sinclair nip inside and slam the door shut.
Chapter Sixteen
Careful not to touch the filthy walls or step in urine, Sinclair climbed to the door at the top of the stairs. Faint murmuring came from inside but no one answered his knock, so he opened the door to see people lying about on stained, bare mattresses, eyes closed or turned inward. The only furniture in the room was the mattresses scattered across the floor. A candle on the floor flickered but barely lit the dark. No one stirred at his entrance.
Opium smoke layered the air, clogging his nose and heightening his anticipation. Finally, the nearest man lifted a limp hand to gesture at a small black lacquer tray beside his mattress. It held small brown balls of opium, a pipe and matches. As Sinclair reached toward the tray a nearby man rolled onto his side to vomit on the floor before rolling onto his back again without bothering to wipe the vomit from his chin. Sinclair wasn’t appalled. Nausea was opium’s sidekick. Yet a formless thought stilled Sinclair’s hand, leaving it to hover above the tray.
Then Sinclair’s stomach roiled, he straightened and backed away from the tray. Seconds later he was out the door and charging down the stairs. Once outside on the sidewalk he gulped air, trying to rinse away the smell. “What the hell is happening to me?” he asked himself as he stumbled down the street trying to grapple with the change. He’d smoked opium in many such dens over the years. So, why had this one sent him fleeing?
When he walked into the saloon he saw few late night patrons. Only one fellow stood at the bar, a glass of liquor before him. The noise of glassware clanking came from a small alcove. He eased up beside the solitary man who glanced at him then looked away.
The barkeep entered and Sinclair ordered. Beer in hand, he turned to the other customer. “Hello, there. I am Paul Sinclair from Chicago. Only been in town a few weeks,” he said, offering his hand. The other man shook and smiled, saying, “My name’s Brice Copeland. Nice to meet you, I’m also new to Portland.”
“You plan on staying here or are you just passing through?” Sinclair asked.
“Only passing through. I’m just up from Panama.”
That sent a jolt across Sinclair’s shoulders. He’d always had a hard time believing in simple coincidence without the benefit of divine intervention. The seminary lessons were hard to leave behind. “Panama, huh? What were you doing in Panama?”
“Working as a structural engineer for the French on the canal,” Copeland said, reaching for his glass. As he carried it to his mouth, the man’s hand trembled. As Sinclair watched, the shaking worsened and involved more than Copeland’s hand. Copeland carefully sat the glass down and pressed both palms onto the polished bar.
“I was well-paid but my health’s ruined.”
“What do you mean?”
“Panama is nothing but malaria and yellow fever. Over 34,000 men have already died from disease while working on the railroad or the canal. Eighty percent of the workers have gotten malaria. That place isn’t fit for man or beast.” Copeland held up a hand that still jumped around. “Me, I’ve the malaria. I can’t seem to shake it even though I take quinine every day.”
“Is that why you left Panama?”
Copeland shook his head. “Nope. Once you get malaria, it doesn’t go away no matter where you live. I left because things are getting dangerous down there.”
“What do you mean?”
Well, the French are hoping the United States gets the treaty with Columbia so it can take over building the canal. The U.S. Congress has authorized forty million dollars to buy it. But if Columbia refuses to give the U.S. sovereignty over the canal and a ninety-nine year lease, I’m afraid the folks in the area are going to rebel. Civil war, encouraged by the U.S., in other words. I didn’t want to be down there for that. Besides, the French have pretty much stopped work.”
“I saw in the newspaper this morning that the Columbian congress rejected the treaty,” Sinclair said.
That brought a glum nod from Copeland. “Yup,” was all he said.
“So what brings you to Portland?”
“The railroad trust has hired me to lobby Oregon’s congressmen.”
Sinclair wrinkled his forehead, trying to make the connection. “What do the railroads have to do with the canal?” he asked.
“Well, they spent a lot of money bribing Columbian congressmen in an effort to stop the treaty from going through. Now that they were successful there with their bribing, they want to focus on stopping a proposed canal through Nicaragua. The reason for their opposition is simple. If there’s a canal, it will mean far fewer goods shipped over U.S. railroads. Instead, ships will do the hauling. They sent me here to be a walking, talking example to Oregon’s congressmen of just how dangerous plague-ridden Central America really is.”
“So, you’ve decided a canal is a bad idea?”
Copeland shook his head as he held up his shaking hand, “If they can get rid of the plague it’s a great idea. But, I ask you. Who’s going to hire a structural engineer who shakes worse than aspens in a thunderstorm? I’ve got two kids and a wife to support. So, I’m grateful for any work, no matter what it is.”
“Your family was with you in Panama?” If so, maybe Panama won’t be all that bad a place for Rebecca Levy, Sinclair told himself.
“Hell no! They stayed back in the U.S. That place is a hellhole. An absolute death sentence for a woman.”
“Surely there are women there?”
“Yes, of course. There are local women there but European and North American women don’t last long. It’s sweltering hot, humid and mold grows on everything. And, it’s unsanitary. Folks drink out of rain barrels swarming with hatching mosquitoes. There’s no water system to speak of. North American women can’t handle it physically or mentally,” Copeland said, adding, “Actually, I wouldn’t
send my worst enemy to that place.”
Sage crumpled the newspaper and tossed it onto the kitchen table. What a crappy way to start the day. At least he now knew what Cobb had planned besides firing the union leaders. The front page, Sunday newspaper announcement was succinct:
Notice: Owing to our inability to guarantee to our patrons prompt delivery of work entrusted to us, we decided to close our plants effective today, for an indefinite time. (signed) Sparta Steam Laundry, City Steam Laundry, Portland Steam Laundry, American Steam Laundry, Star Steam Laundry, Oregon Steam Laundry, Union Steam Laundry, Opera-House Steam Laundry, Pacific Steam Laundry.
A few choice curses slipped out before he caught Ida casting admonishing glances in his direction. Mozart’s cook didn’t tolerate swearing in her kitchen. “Sorry” he mouthed at her as he stood up. Yesterday’s firing of the steam laundries’ union leaders had been bad enough. A total lockout would be tough on the workers, their families and their union. From what Mae had said, the unions weren’t quite ready.
Sage noticed that the U.S. Laundry wasn’t on the list of those laundries locking out their workers. Neither was the Albina Laundry. He wondered what that meant about Cobb’s threat. Maybe he backed off. “Guess I’ll have to go take a look tomorrow,” he told himself. “But first, I better head over to the union hall for the workers’ meeting.”
The night before, he’d been waiting outside the Sparta Laundry when it shut down for the night. His mother had introduced him as a friend, John Miner. He listened to the workers talk about Cobb firing Rachel Levy and six other women. Runners headed off to warn the union leaders at the other laundries. It was no surprise when the women sent to the nearest laundry quickly returned with the news that the manager had fired the outspoken union members at that laundry as well. From that piece of information people concluded that the firings were a concerted action by the Laundrymen Association’s nine member laundries. Right then, the workers agreed to meet the next day, Sunday, to discuss strategy.
Dressed in his John Miner duds, Sage made his way down from Mozart’s third floor and into the basement tunnel. It being early, most passersby were too sleepy to notice a man climbing out of the ground in the alley beside the restaurant. Dusting his hands on his canvas trousers, Sage set off for the eastside of town. He needed to find the pencil seller. It being a Sunday, maybe the fellow wouldn’t be at his stand. He’d already missed him the evening before when all Sage found was an empty wooden crate..
Sage was surprised to find the eastside’s boardwalks crowded with church goers and folks just enjoying a stroll in the cool Sunday morning. Fishing holes at Hawthorne Springs and Sullivan’s Gulch explained the fishing poles jauntily carried on a number of shoulders. The huge Hawthorne Park covered blocks starting at 9th and Hawthorne. It was the favored site for union picnics. Today, the park was riotous with running children, many of them probably coming from nearby union households. Folks called the area, “Union Town”. He liked that.
Ahead, he spotted a young man standing behind a wooden shipping crate. Sage stepped up his pace. It looked like he was in luck. The fellow leaned against the brick of a warehouse. Painted a bright red, the crate had a calico cloth of blue and yellow draped across its front. Pencils, topped with rubber eraser plugs, filled glass vases. Behind this colorful stand stood a young fellow of about twenty, his face smooth with the widely spaced sleepy eyes and small nose frequently seen in those who thought a bit slower than other folks. Pausing before the stand, Sage was welcomed with a wide smile and sparkling eyes. The fellow spoke carefully, his words a bit halting and blurred, “May I help you select a fine pencil, sir?”
“You certainly may, I need five of them,” Sage responded.
After the two of them had fingered enough pencils, Sage selected five whereupon the fellow moved to his next item for sale. “Would you be interested in an ivory handled Faber pencil sharpening knife, sir? Those pencils will need to be kept sharpened.” Sage had to smile. This fellow had his sales routine down. He added the Faber pencil knife to the five pencils.
Transaction concluded, Sage moved cautiously into his real reason for being there. “Do you know Miss Rebecca Levy?”
His question triggered a wide smile that the young man quickly damped down. “Why do you ask about her?” he wanted to know, his lips pursing with suspicion.
“I am a friend of her sister, Rachel. We can’t find Rebecca. She’s missing.”
“Yes. Miss Rachel told me Miss Rebecca is gone.”
“Do you remember the day she went missing? It was a week ago yesterday. It was Saturday.”
“I saw her that day. I remember.”
“You saw her then?” Sage repeated.
“She stopped. Told me ‘hello’ and asked me how my day was going. She always tells me ‘hello’ and asks me that. She’s a very nice lady. I like her.”
“Did you see where she went after she stopped to visit with you?”
“I saw her go into that alley right over there,” he said pointing to an opening halfway down the block.
Sage took a deep breath, slowing his words because this was the most important question of all. “After she went into the alley did anyone else go into the alley after her?”
That question caused an eye squint as the fellow searched his memory. Then his face cleared and he nodded emphatically. “Yes, a man. He wore a nice suit, not scruffy like you.”
That honest answer made Sage smile. He asked, “Did the man come back out?”
The fellow shook his head vigorously, confident of his answer. “No, he did not come back out.”
Sage tried to get a better description but the pencil seller had nothing to add other than the man in question had no beard or mustache and wore a ‘bowl” hat.
“Well, thank you very much for talking to me,” Sage said and turned away, discouraged. Half the men in Portland wore suits and bowler hats. He’d gone about five feet, when the fellow added a single, riveting comment, “The man always wears that hat.”
Sage whipped back around. “You’ve seen him before?”
That question brought a solemn nod. “Many times since that day. First sister comes, then man comes.”
“What? You mean Rachel Levy walks by and then the same man comes by after her?”
This question turned the nod vigorous. “Yup. Not just Miss Rachel. He also walks behind an older lady who is with Miss Rachel. Maybe he is following that lady too.”
“When was the last time you saw the man in the bowler hat?” Sage asked. A jolt of hope, mingled with fear, stopped his breath.
The pencil seller scrunched up his face in thought. “I saw man in the bowl hat last night. Doing the same thing. Following the two ladies.
Mae saw Sage sidle into the hall while the union president was in the middle of his speech. Rachel Levy saw him too because she quickly rose from her chair and walked over to him where they conferred in whispers. Even from across the room she saw Rachel’s face fall and shortly after saw the woman quickly swipe tears from beneath her eyes. Mae didn’t know how she did it. Sleeping in the same room, Rachel’s restlessness and soft crying often stirred her awake. How the young woman missed her sister. But, Rachel hid her sorrow well. Most of the women in this hall didn’t even know Rebecca was missing. Certainly they wouldn’t be able to tell it from Rachel’s appearance or actions.
Mae came alert when the union president mentioned Rachel’s name. The young woman immediately left Sage’s side to mount the stage at the front of the room. For a moment, she gazed at the crowd of over three hundred people, mostly women, her eyes searching their faces. Then she took a deep breath and her clear voice rang out. “Are we asking for too much?” she asked in a near shout. “No!” came the answering shout. “Are our bodies giving too much?” she asked in an even louder voice. A “Yes!” came back with equal vigor.
Rachel laughed before raising her hands to pat down the noise. She said in a calmer voice, “Every one of us in this room has suffered mightily stan
ding for hours on end in the steam and the heat. Felt our skin shrivel and break and our muscles and fingers and feet ache to the point that sleep is impossible. We’ve seen our co-workers collapse at the mangles or, worse, lose their fingers and hands to one.”
“Hear, hear,” someone shouted, and others repeated that cry until it swirled throughout the room.
“We know from today’s newspaper that tomorrow we will be faithfully standing before the doors of the steam laundries, ready to subject ourselves to suffering, trying to earn that tiny bit of our employers’ profits they are willing to share. We will be there because we believe that reason and talk is how people should solve problems.”
Rachel shook her head slowly. “That loyalty, that faithfulness resides not in the hearts of our employers. We will stand there in the morning but the doors will be locked.” The crowd was now somber.
Rachel took a deep breath, then said, “So, my dear sisters and brothers we must pull together as a family. We must work together to help ourselves weather this downturn in our incomes, this strain on our families. While our union leaders reach out to our employers, we must reach out to each other. This adversity can break us, or it can make us stronger, bring us closer.”
Again Rachel searched their faces. “As our president just told you, we will have help from the city’s unions. We are grateful that our brothers and sisters in other unions are already stepping up to assist us with strike funds, food, clothing, and even pooling their money to buy a steam laundry. It will be a union-operated laundry where we can work in a healthful place, in a place that recognizes our worth and treats us with dignity. But, my dear sisters and brothers, we must do our part as well. We must walk the picket lines before every steam laundry and staff the union hall dining room, the job search table and do other things to help ourselves and each others’ families.”