by Brown, Dick
“Are you sure I’m the one you want?” she whispered.
A hot stream of passion awakened ever nerve ending in her body, responding to Jerry’s soft hands massaging her breasts and working their way down her undulating body. She ached for his touch. All resistance was gone, the years of pent up emotions released with a flood of passion, her undulating hips eager for him to be inside her.
Her body responded violently to Jerry’s animal thrusts again and again as the night slipped into a spiral of torrid lovemaking.
Early morning sun replaced moonlight on their bed the next morning. Ann woke up to find Jerry propped on one elbow watching her sleep.
“Good morning. Sleep well?”
“Like I haven’t slept in years,” Ann said. “Is this real, or am I still dreaming?”
“Oh, it’s real all right. Last night was no dream. Maybe a dream come true for me. Definitely the first night of what the rest of our lives can be like.”
Jerry held Ann’s face gently in his hands, kissed her, and rekindled the embers of passion still glowing from last night.
The smell of fresh coffee beckoned Ann downstairs. She’d just finished her shower and was trying to make her hair look like it hadn’t been combed with a pitchfork.
Descending the magnificent staircase, Ann pretended to be Scarlet O’Hara wrapped in dark green silk bed sheet she’d found in the linen closet. She made a grand entrance into the dining room. There was just enough opening in front to reveal that she was wearing nothing underneath.
“Wow, you look so beautiful,” Jerry said from his seat at the table, a cup of coffee in his hand and one waiting for her. “We should do this more often.”
“Good morning, Rhett,” Ann said, her chin lifted high. “I’m Scarlet and am famished.”
Ann sat completely naked at one end of the table with her green cloak draped over the back of her chair. Facing Jerry at the other end, she was still feeling the freedom she’d allowed herself last night.
After a breakfast of French toast, strawberries smothered in whip cream, and strong Cajun coffee, reality returned and the mood was gone.
“Oh my God!” Ann screamed. “I didn’t call mother. She’ll worry herself sick wondering where I am.” She rewrapped her body with the emerald sheet and scrambled up the stairs two at a time.
“Don’t worry,” Jerry called after her, “you’re a big girl and your mother trusts me.”
He entered the bedroom just as she pulled on her dress that still smelled of Liberoni’s lilac scented candles. Jerry walked over to Ann, who stood in front of the mirror trying desperately to arrange her rumpled hair, and slipped his hands around her waist.
“Would you like a second chance on my offer last night?” Pulling her snuggly against his body, he placed the ring in front of her. “It would look much better on your finger than in this box.”
She turned to face Jerry and wrapped her slender arms around his neck. “Do you still want to marry a woman that looks like this on the morning after?”
“In a heartbeat,” Jerry answered and slipped the diamond ring on her finger. “Your mom can’t be too mad now if I’m going to make an honest woman out of you.”
In spite of Ann’s worry about her mother’s reaction to the sudden change of events, Alice was pleased with the announced engagement. They sat together at the kitchen table, already talking about plans for the wedding. Jerry was seated in the living room, Ricky on his knee, happily playing together.
“Oh, Ann, I was praying for this.”
“Momma!” Ann said with exaggerated surprise. “I didn’t know you were that sweet on Jerry.”
“A mother knows a good man for her daughter when she meets him, but it’s up to him to do the right thing.”
“Pleased to please,” Jerry said.
Ann and Alice laughed together, feeling years of weight lifted from both of them.
“We can have a June wedding,” Alice said. “Ricky can be your ring bearer. Your father will be pleased, too. You’ll have him walk you down the aisle, won’t you?”
It wasn’t something Ann had thought about. All the hurt from the days in their old apartment returned in a flood of anger. Years of heavy drinking destroyed his liver and now senility had robbed him of his mind.
“I don’t know if I can ask him to do that,” Ann said. “He hardly speaks to me. Occasionally he seems to recognize Ricky. Even if I can forgive him enough to walk down the aisle with me on what’s supposed to be the happiest day of my life, will he be able to do it? What if he starts taking his clothes off like he does at home when he has to go to the bathroom? What would we do then, Momma?”
“Oh, honey, you know he wouldn’t do that. He has his clear moments. He’ll be pleased to see you happy and married to a fine young man like Jerry. Let me handle him. I promise he won’t embarrass you.”
“You never stop protecting him, do you Momma? After all these years, how can you do it?”
“When you take your vows for better or worse, that’s what they mean,” Alice said in a whisper, tears in her eyes.
Jerry stood and put Ricky down on the floor to play with his toys. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I think that’s my cue to leave the details to you all and get out of your hair. I’ll call you tonight, Ann.” He gave Ann a kiss on her cheek then rushed out the door and let out a war whoop loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
“Momma,” Ann said after Jerry had left, “I’m really sorry I didn’t call you last night.”
“You’re a grown woman. You don’t owe me an apology. I’m just so happy for you. Maybe now you can have your own life. Jerry is a good man. He loves Ricky and will take good care of you.”
Still delirious over his engagement, Jerry bounded up the steps to his mother’s house. He burst into the kitchen where he knew she would be waiting for him with a worried look on her face.
“Good morning, mom. I have something to tell you. Can I get you another cup of coffee?”
She was at the kitchen sink, cleaning up from breakfast. “No, thank you.” When Jerry went to the coffee pot, she continued. “Where were you all night last night? I almost called the police. I didn’t know if you were dead in a ditch or what had happened to you.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” he said, putting a fresh cup of coffee on the counter next to her, “but I think you’ll like what I have to tell you.”
“Did you spend the night with that Nestlebaum girl?” Her tone was bitter accompanied by her cold stare.
Jerry hesitated momentarily before saying, “Yes, and she’s not that Nestlebaum girl. She’s my fiancée. We’re getting married!”
“Back in my day a girl saved herself for marriage,” she said. “Those that didn’t were considered tramps.”
“Come on, Mom, this isn’t the thirties. I thought you liked her.”
“Change isn’t always a good thing.”
“If you’re worried about me leaving, you could always come live with us.”
“No, thank you. I’ll stay right here. I can still take care of myself.”
Jerry’s shoulders sagged. “I thought you would be happy for me. You were always saying how I was going to be an old bachelor if I didn’t settle down soon. Then when I find the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, you get upset.”
She turned from the sink and leaned against the counter, her arms crossed and coffee cup in hand. “I thought she was a fine young lady, raising a son by herself and providing a home for her mother and father. I’ll just have a hard time seeing her in a white dress.”
Jerry put up his hands in defeat. “Fine. She can wear a blue dress. We are adults and just because we broke one of your rules doesn’t mean we’re bad people. I hope you will come to see what a fine woman and mother she is. Just cut her some slack, ok
ay?”
His mother curled her lips.
Jerry had put the last piece of his life’s puzzle in place and wasn’t about to let his mother spoil it for him. He would give Ann time to adjust to their marriage and his mother before asking her about adopting Ricky. There was no rush. He would be a good father to Ricky no matter what his last name was.
Chapter 13
“The world grew smaller with the rapid expansion of the railroad. World War I called on the best transportation system there was to facilitate troop movement and war supplies.”
Coastline strike
Discontent and rumblings of an impending strike among the Shops workers smoldered just below the surface. The union and its members were fed up with poor working conditions. Coastline hadn’t spent any money to make the buildings warmer in the winter and cooler in the summer or given them a decent raise in four years.
John Banks, now in his nineties, hadn’t visited the Shops since World War II. He was only a figurehead as president of Coastline Railway and seldom left the plush surroundings of his office in the high-rise building bearing his name overlooking the Potomac River in Washington, DC. John T. Banks, Jr. had taken over day-to-day operation of the corporation. He’d never been to Bankstowne and had no loyalty to the workers who’d made his father’s business so successful. He wanted to streamline the company and bring it into the twentieth century; the Bankstowne Shops were not a part of his modernization plan.
Coastline Railroad was already converting to diesels as fast as General Motors could build them now that they weren’t building as many Army trucks and tanks for the military. Once the crown jewel of Banks empire, Bankstowne Repair Shops were obsolete and a financial liability Junior wanted to get rid of. He gave Sam orders to break the strike and refuse all union demands. His success meant a promotion to Corporate Vice President in Washington, DC.
Since joining the Daily Journal after graduation, Rick had earned editor Carl Billings’ respect as a part-time special assignment reporter.
The final revision of Rick’s story on the restoration of the old Center movie theater back to its original appearance as a grand 1800s live stage theater by the Bankstowne Historical Association was complete. He covered his typewriter and headed for the typesetting room with clean copy in his hand. He was ready to call it a night when a shadow from behind startled him.
“Got a minute, Rick?” Mr. Billings peaked out his office door. “Step into my office.”
“Mr. Billings, I thought you were gone.”
“We have a pretty volatile situation on our hands.” After Rick joined him in his office, Mr. Billings took a seat behind his desk and sighed. “There’s a lot of serious talk about a strike at the Shops. Has your dad mentioned anything about it to you?”
Rick settled into a chair and set the copy on his lap. “That’s about all he and Momma talk about these days. There hasn’t been a strike in more than twenty years, but I think they mean business this time.”
“You’ve done a great job reporting sports and local events. How would you like to tackle something with some real meat in it?”
Rick straightened in his chair then leaned forward. “I’d love to. I can work it around my classes.”
“Good. I want you to cover the strike. Can you handle that?”
Mr. Billings was giving him the chance he’d been waiting for. Writing sports was fun, and local events were easy, but he yearned to flex his growing journalistic muscle. Finally getting the chance, he stammered momentarily. “Mr. Billings . . . are you asking me to spy on my father and all the families and friends I’ve grown up with?”
Mr. Billings gave him a wry grin. “Of course not, son. I want you to be an objective journalist. A reporter covers both sides of the issue, no matter what his personal feelings are. He writes what he knows to be true, not what he thinks the truth should be. Talk to Bankstowne Railway people, the union leaders, and report what they say to the public, that’s all.”
Billings waited for Rick’s response, which didn’t come immediately.
“Look,” Mr. Billings said, putting both hands on his desk, “if you’re serious about being a newspaper man, you’d better start developing a thick skin right now because covering big news stories is tougher than school cafeteria food fights. We don’t get many big stories around here and this could really be big.”
Rick knew he wanted to be a reporter for a big city paper and this might be his chance to be read by people outside the county.
“Well, do you think you can do it?” Billings asked, tapping his red pencil on the desk.
“Yes sir,” Rick answered. “There’s a union meeting in the morning. They trust me because my dad has been a strong union member ever since he came here.”
“Good. Take this press badge.” He opened a drawer, pulled out the badge, and tossed it across the desk. “It should get you in any of the negotiation meetings or let you cross the picket line when the strike comes. Things are quiet right now while they spar to feel each other out. Management hasn’t made their final offer yet, but that’s when the fireworks will start. I want firsthand information. The strike will make statewide news and be picked up by the Associated Press. I’m depending on you for Sunday’s lead story, Rick.”
“I’ll do a professional job,” Rick said with an eager nod. “You can count on it.”
United Railroad Workers vote to strike Coastline Railway Monday
By Rick Barnes
BANKSTOWNE — United Railway Workers(URW) spokesman Clarence Saunders said Coastline’s offer of a five-cent an hour raise was unacceptable. “We have to work in those drafty, damp old buildings with no heat in the winter or cooling fans in the summer. Management refuses to spend any money to improve working conditions and now won’t compensate us with a decent wage. Our reward for tolerating those conditions that cause too many sick days is to take away two sick days a year along with a vacation day. That’s an insult.”
According to Coastline negotiator, attorney Anthony Gagliano, from Washington, DC, this deal is the best Coastline Railroad could offer under the current economic conditions. He explained railroads have experienced heavy financial losses in their passenger service to airlines and automobiles during the last ten years. And now the trucking and airfreight industries are taking away business as well. The wage increase is fair and reduction of sick and vacation days are an economic reality in order for the company to compete, Gagliano told the union representatives.
Tempers flared at the last negotiations meeting when Coastline refused to alter their final contract offer. It was clear they were at an impasse when the deadline passed Saturday at midnight.
“This is wrong and totally unacceptable and we’re through talking,” Union leader Sanders said and told management negotiation they would put up the picket line tomorrow. Saunders kicked his chair across the room and walked out of the meeting in a display of defiance.
The long-feared strike is on. Union members were told to report to the picket line at 6 am, according Saunders, and will walk the line 24 hours a day.
Gagliano announced Coastline will welcome back any employees that want to work and will fill any vacant position with non-union replacement workers.
Mornings were different now that Rick was a reporter for the Daily Journal. He and Roy had more to talk about, especially since the strike started.
Rick sat across the kitchen table, blowing on his steaming bowl of oatmeal and asked, “Daddy, when do you have to walk the picket line?”
“I drew the first shift for today.”
In an unusual recognition of Rick’s maturity, Roy shared his thoughts about the strike with Rick as an equal.
“We have to stick together and see it through. They don’t care about the conditions we work in or that Charlie Holden died from breathing paint fumes inside tank cars for years
without a mask. There’s a lot that goes on every day over there that people don’t know about.”
Roy took a deep drag on his second cigarette of the morning. He’d switched to filter tip Winstons but still inhaled deeply and exhaled through his nostrils.
“Well, maybe my articles will let them know about some of those things. Your grievances need to be made public,” Rick said. “Printing the truth about your work conditions will put pressure on Coastline management.”
“You did a real good job on that story in today’s paper. Maybe it’ll help people understand why we’re doing this. But Johnson and his big city lawyers hold all the cards. We can strike, but they can afford to hire scabs to break the union. A strike was the last thing we wanted, but they just wouldn’t budge off a lousy five-cent an hour raise. That won’t keep most of us in cigarettes, much less help pay the rent or make a car payment.”
Roy doused his cigarette in his coffee and left it in the sink. He pulled on his denim work cap and jacket hanging on a hook by the door the same way he did every day when he was working.
On the picket line he and friend, Harold Birch talked about their chances of winning the strike.
“We’ve made our choice,” Harold said. “Now we have to stick it out and hope they come back to the table with a better offer. They’ll find out soon that hiring warm bodies off the street won’t be able to fix those old engines like we have for forty some years.” Harold held up his sign, which read: On Strike for Better Pay and Working Conditions.