Wanton Angel

by Linda Lael Miller

  “I’ll tell you what I could have done,” Bonnie said bitterly, furious with that thoughtless girl she had once been. “I could have demanded that Eli make Patch Town a habitable, decent place. I could have insisted—”

  “Would he have paid you any mind, ma’am,” Katie challenged softly, “or would he just have patted you on the head and dismissed you, like you’ve told me he did when you said what you thought of the war?”

  The teakettle whistled on the stove and Bonnie got up to pour hot water onto the leaves of orange pekoe inside the yellow pot. Katie’s words had given her pause. “I don’t know,” she confessed in a faraway voice.

  Rain lashed at the windows and the roof, as if determined to get inside the warm kitchen and chill it, and a flash of lightning filled the room with an eerie glow. “Mr. McKutchen is a fine man,” Katie observed seriously, “but he’s nothing more than a man, is he? And men don’t put much stock in a woman’s opinion when it comes to practical matters. It might be that your husband would have gone right on ignoring how things were in Patch Town, no matter what you did or said.”

  Bonnie carried the teapot and two cups to the table and sat down again. “Yes,” she conceded, “but I didn’t even try. That’s what bothers me, Katie. I didn’t even think to bring the subject up.”

  Katie poured tea for herself and for Bonnie. She was determined to lend comfort, it appeared, no matter how awesome the task might prove to be. “You can’t go back and change that time, ma’am. It’s gone forever, so why grieve over what you did or didn’t do?”

  Why, indeed? But Bonnie did grieve. And when she was alone in her bedroom, except for a soundly sleeping Rose Marie, she got out the music box Eli had given her and opened its lid. The strange melody flowed sweetly through the darkness, and Bonnie yearned for a time that would never come again. A dream time that had perhaps never really existed at all.

  CHAPTER 17

  EVEN THOUGH MOST of the townspeople had already endured a two-hour sermon at the First Presbyterian Church or an equally lengthy mass at St. Jude’s, the Pompeii Playhouse was packed that Sunday afternoon, when the community met to hear what Eli McKutchen had to say. The union people, of course, were also present, standing at the back of the theatre and even in the aisles.

  As mayor of Northridge, Bonnie demanded the right to sit on the stage, with Eli, Seth and Forbes. Forbes had apparently been reinstated as manager of the smelter works, and Bonnie observed to herself that his face was healing nicely.

  The women in the audience watched Bonnie with open hostility in their countenances. It was clear enough that they considered her title a mere sham—which it undeniably was—and resented what they saw as pure presumptuousness. In truth, Bonnie only wanted an opportunity to be heard.

  As Eli approached the hastily improvised lectern, however, she began to lose confidence. The mayoralty was only a token office, even when held by a man. Bonnie’s appointment had been nothing more than a drunken jest, perpetrated by the town council. What was she doing, sitting up here in front of God and everybody? What could she say that Eli or Seth or even Forbes wouldn’t say first?

  Eli began to speak, and there was not a trace of nervousness in either his stance at the rickety packing-crate podium or in his voice. He offered a soundly built cabin to every smelter family, along with an eight-hour workday. He promised that each man could buy his cabin, if he wished to, and thus be assured of a place to live in old age. There was a stir at this announcement, for such security was almost unheard of among men who earned their living by the might of their backs and their hands.

  One of the union men, the dour-faced man who had spoken from the porch of this same theatre days before, interrupted Eli to demand, “What will happen when you’ve successfully driven the union out of Northridge, Mr. McKutchen? Will you punish the men who’ve taken a stand against you by revoking the concessions you’ve made today?”

  There was another stir, for many of the workers believed that Eli would turn on them once he’d dispensed with the labor organizers.

  Eli raised his voice to be heard over the din, but he spoke evenly, without a tremor of unease. “I have nothing against unions, Mr. Denning, as I’ve already told you in private meetings. The men are welcome to organize if they choose, but I won’t raise wages to cover the cost of dues. For now, the cabins and the shorter workday are adequate.”

  Genoa was sitting in the third row, and she stood up, her eyes fixed on Seth Callahan, as though to draw courage from his presence. Lizbeth, seated at Genoa’s other side, rose, too.

  “There is one other concession that I, as a major shareholder in McKutchen Enterprises, wish to make,” Eli’s sister said clearly, though her voice shook a bit. “We’ll be opening a school, just for the workers and their children.”

  “For the workers, Miss McKutchen?” Mr. Denning asked pointedly, aware of Genoa’s trepidation at speaking in front of so many people and determined, it seemed, to take advantage of it.

  Genoa squared her skinny shoulders and swallowed visibly. In that moment Bonnie admired her more than ever. “Some of you,” Genoa began, looking around at the faces surrounding her, “must want to learn to read and write. Miss Simmons and I will be available to teach you.”

  Bonnie noticed that some of the Patch Town women looked even more intrigued than their men. She knew that they wanted to ask if they too might attend this new school, but they were clearly hesitant to speak up. Bonnie did it for them.

  “What about the wives of the workers, Miss McKutchen?” she asked. “Are they also eligible for these classes?”

  Genoa was flushed with conviction and fear. “Absolutely,” she said, and then, with a look of vast relief, she sat down.

  There was an excited buzz in the audience as workers and their wives conferred, and scattered arguments broke out. The more prosperous ladies of the town, who were, of course, already educated, showed patent disapproval.

  Forbes bounded out of his chair to stand beside Eli. “What the hell do you men have to grouse about?” he demanded hotly. “McKutchen Enterprises is willing to give your jobs back if you’ve been out on strike, help you own your own house, even teach you to read!”

  One of the men stood up. “I’ll tell you one thing we’ve got to bellyache about, Durrant, and that’s the fact that you’re managin’ the smelter works again!”

  There was a disturbing element of agreement in the crowd, heartily encouraged by the union leader and his throng of toughs.

  Eli interceded calmly. “Mr. Durrant will be managing the smelter works again, yes. But only under the direction of Mr. Callahan here, or myself. He’ll have to answer for everything he does.”

  “How do we know you ain’t just as crooked as he is, Mr. McKutchen?” the worker persisted. “Pardon my sayin’ so, but you ain’t looked after us in the past, not the way your granddaddy did.”

  Bonnie’s eyes darted to Eli, as did most everyone else’s. The disgruntled man in the audience had a point; Eli had ignored the smelter people, for the most part, since his grandfather’s death. The fact that the holdings of McKutchen Enterprises went far beyond that small-town smelter plant, with corresponding responsibilities attached, did not excuse his negligence.

  Eli’s broad shoulders were straight and his voice carried clearly through the small theatre. “I have neglected you. I admit that, and I’ll make no excuses. I will say that I plan to stay in Northridge for some time, and I give you my word that when I leave, you won’t be forgotten.”

  “What good, Mr. McKutchen, is your word?” pressed Mr. Denning, still standing. “These men have no reason to believe that you’ll look after their interests in the future any more than you have in the past. They need a union!”

  The outsiders in ugly suits and bowler hats cheered, and so did some of the smelter workers.

  Eli waited calmly for the din to die down. “I repeat, Mr. Denning: I’m not trying to stop these men from joining your organization. In fact, I don’t give a damn whether they do o
r not. As far as I’m concerned, you’re free to recruit as many new members as you can.”

  Now Webb came striding down one aisle, to stand in front of the stage. “Can’t you men see that these union people don’t care about your rights?” he demanded. “They want to line their pockets with your dues, that’s all! What more can you ask than a four-hour-a-day cutback in your shifts and a clean, dry house to live in, not only now, but in your old age? For your own sakes and the sakes of your families, go back to work while you can!”

  Bonnie felt real alarm as she looked into the faces of the thugs Mr. Denning had imported to help bolster his cause. They seemed to hate Webb even more than they hated Eli.

  The words “while you can” started yet another uproar.

  Eli held up both his hands in an effort to quiet the crowd, but before he could say anything, Mr. Denning challenged triumphantly, “So McKutchen Enterprises is delivering an ultimatum that the men out on strike have only so long to return to their jobs!”

  “The smelter is operating at half its capacity,” Eli replied honestly. “The strikers have seventy-two hours to return to work. Those who do not will be replaced.”

  These words made the wives of the striking workers blanch, while their husbands looked decidedly unsettled. Mr. Denning and his men, of course, were outraged.

  “Seventy-two hours,” Eli repeated, and then he turned from the podium and went back to his chair.

  “What’s Bonnie McKutchen doing up there on that stage, that’s what I want to know!” a contentious female voice shouted from the audience.

  Wishing that she’d sat with Genoa and Lizbeth instead of on the stage did Bonnie no good. It was too late to reconsider. Her knees shaking beneath her tasteful blue sateen skirts, she stood up and made her way to the podium.

  Both her hands and her voice trembled as she forced herself to meet the challenge. “I’m a citizen of Northridge,” she said firmly. “And I am your mayor, duly appointed. I realize that the office doesn’t give me any authority over the rest of you, but I feel that duty compels me to—”

  “Duty!” yelled another woman. Though Bonnie tried, she couldn’t make out who it was that had spoken. “Listen to the Angel talking about duty!”

  Everyone laughed and Bonnie was stricken with embarrassment, but she stood her ground. It was a comfort that Eli moved a step closer to her, though he kept his gaze fixed on some point at the back of the theatre.

  “Stop heckling me and listen!” Bonnie shouted, suddenly full of righteous indignation and a new courage. “The issue here is not what you people think of me. The topic is your own well-being and that of your families. In the name of mercy, stop and think what Mr. McKutchen is offering you! Are your heads so full of union prattle that you won’t accept the very benefits you’ve wanted for so long?” She paused, drew a deep breath. Bonnie didn’t dare look at Eli, but she saw a certain grudging admiration in Webb’s face as he looked up at her from his position in front of the stage. “Do you think these hucksters care what happens to you? They only want your money—if they had your best interests at heart, wouldn’t they be telling you even now that Mr. McKutchen’s proposal is eminently fair? You’re sensible people—think for yourselves!”

  Bonnie turned with dignity, walked back to her chair between Forbes and Seth and sat down. Forbes took her hand and gave it a subtle squeeze before releasing it again.

  By some unspoken agreement, the meeting ended and everyone except Bonnie and Eli filed out, talking spiritedly among themselves.

  Bonnie remained on the stage, her eyes downcast. She was suddenly so inexpressibly weary.

  “Bonnie?”

  She did not look up, even though Eli had spoken with a gentle intimacy.

  Eli crouched in front of her, his hands clasping hers, and even then she wouldn’t look at him.

  “I made a fool of myself,” she said.

  “No.”

  A tear trickled down Bonnie’s cheek and she didn’t bother to dash it away. Her hands pulled themselves free of Eli’s grip and knotted together in her lap. “Why do I keep fooling myself?” she fretted. “I’m not truly the mayor of this town and I had no right to say anything. Anything at all.”

  Eli cupped his hand under Bonnie’s chin and lifted. His thumb smoothed away the traces of the single tear. “You wanted to make a difference, Bonnie. There’s nothing wrong in that.”

  “When I had a real opportunity to change things, Eli, I didn’t even try!”

  He sighed. “I have regrets myself, Bonnie. But there is nothing we can do about the past. It’s gone.”

  His words filled Bonnie with an aching sadness. She’d been bewailing her failure to persuade Eli to change things in Northridge while they were still husband and wife, but he was talking about the marriage itself. He was dismissing any possibility that they might ever find their way back to each other and, even though Bonnie thought she’d long since accepted that state of affairs, she found that she hadn’t. She despaired in the face of another lost hope—a hope she hadn’t consciously held.

  “There are just too many sad things in this world,” she said obliquely, and then she stood up and left the stage, making her way down the steps, up the aisle, out into the grayness of yet another rainy day.

  Monday was every bit as dismal and glowering as Sunday had been, and Bonnie huddled in her store like a wounded animal hiding in its den. The warm fire in the potbellied stove and the lamps lighted all around did nothing to dispel her gloom.

  For all the nastiness of the day, people were out and about, and many of them paused to read the sign Lizbeth had put in the window. Though Bonnie had meant to wad the silly thing into a ball and toss it into the stove, she hadn’t gotten around to the deed because of the strange lethargy that possessed her.

  It was midafternoon when Mrs. Sylvester Kirk, incumbent president of the Friday Afternoon Community Improvement Club, arrived with a somber and sodden delegation.

  “I demand to know the meaning of that outlandish sign,” she announced, her nostrils flaring in her hawkish nose, her chins quivering. She wore a knitted snood over her graying hair and a plaid cloak on her shoulders.

  Bonnie’s mood instantly brightened. She smiled in a cordial fashion, even though the strenuous rejection of these women and their friends had done her a deep injury. “Sign?” she echoed. “Oh, you mean the one in the window!”

  “Yes,” huffed Mrs. Kirk. “Do I read it correctly, may I ask? Are you presuming to bar the membership of our esteemed association from trading in this store?”

  The light dawned. Suddenly Lizbeth’s reasons for making the sign were clear to her. It was so simple! Why hadn’t she thought of it?

  “Impertinent snippet!” muttered one of the members of the Club.

  Mrs. Kirk raised her hand, like an army general commanding calvary troops to come to order. “You have decided, then, to discriminate against the members of our worthy organization?”

  Bonnie’s smile held. “I’m not discriminating. I’m just forbidding your membership to shop in my store.”

  “Well, I never!” sputtered a calico soldier. “The gall!”

  “Of course,” Bonnie went on, remembering her humiliation in the Pompeii Playhouse the day before, during the public meeting, “it is debatable, Mrs. Kirk, whether your organization could be described as ‘worthy.’ You call your selves the Friday Afternoon Community Improvement Club, and yet all you’ve ever done, as far as I can tell, is gather in each other’s parlors and exchange gossip.”

  Mrs. Kirk flushed crimson. “That is not true. We have done many things to improve this town.”

  “Name one,” challenged Bonnie.

  “We gave a bake sale once,” retorted Menelda Sneeder, stepping out of the ranks to glare at Bonnie. “We used the proceeds to buy hymnal covers for the church.”

  “Did you? I’m sure the Lord appreciated the gesture, even though there were, and still are, children going without supper just down the hill from here.”

&
nbsp; “I will not be refused trade,” thundered Mrs. Kirk, apparently having done with talk of hymnal covers and hungry children, “in any establishment in this town!”

  “Except here,” said Bonnie.

  Mrs. Kirk stomped to the shelves on the far side of the room and took down a large tin of lavender-scented talcum powder. Then—Bonnie would have sworn that the floor shook—the venerable president of the Club stomped back to the counter. “I insist upon purchasing this!” she shouted.

  Her corset brigade quickly followed suit. They wanted to buy pins or rice or fresh coffee beans, and they weren’t to be turned away. It was their right to trade in this store—they were American citizens!

  Bonnie meekly tallied up their purchases, but when they were gone, she whirled like a ballerina. Lizbeth’s clever trick had worked.

  That evening the rain lifted and the storm moved on. All the rest of the week Bonnie was busy, because each day’s train brought more paint, more nails, more bolts and pipes. Men on both sides of the labor controversy at the smelter were employed to build cabins in their spare time.

  As Eli’s seventy-two-hour dictum progressed, to the great annoyance of Mr. Denning and his imported hoodlums, every last man returned to his job at the smelter works. All was not sweetness and light, however. Some still feared that the sudden benevolence of McKutchen Enterprises would turn to vengeance when the company’s purposes had been served, but there was a feeling of renewed hope abroad in the town.

  And Bonnie was swamped with customers. She had not been invited to join the Friday Afternoon Community Improvement Club and had no real desire to belong to the group anyway, but the boycott on her store had apparently been lifted. The members were unfriendly when they bought eggs or milk or potatoes or hatpins, but they paid cash for their purchases and that was enough for Bonnie.

  On Friday Eli came into the store and ordered more supplies for the building of the cabins. He was dressed in work clothes, and he was filthy, for though he no longer worked at the smelter, he was helping to put up the new cabins.