Memories of Another Day

by Harold Robbins

  He pushed his way up to the bar and ordered a double whiskey. While waiting for the drink, he glanced down the bar. There were maybe two whiskey shot glasses in a field of beer glasses. The strike had already made changes in the workers’ drinking habits. Steelworkers drank whiskey. Beer was usually nothing but a chaser.

  The bartender put the whiskey in front of him and picked up the dollar bill. He put the quarter change on the bar as Daniel raised his glass. Daniel took his drink and was about to walk back to a booth at the side of the room when a voice called from the end of the bar. “Hey! Big Dan!”

  He recognized the man, a grizzled veteran of many years in the mill, one of the first to join the union. “How’re y’ doin’, Sandy?”

  Sandy picked up his beer and worked his way up the bar to him. “Okay, Big Dan,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you down here again.”

  “Why not?” Daniel asked.

  “We heard you went out to California.”

  “I did. But I’ve been back more than a week now.”

  “You haven’t been down to the union office.” He was referring to the subregional office.

  “They’ve been keeping me back at headquarters in Chicago,” Daniel said. “They gave me a new job.”

  “There’s been talk about that too,” Sandy said dourly.

  Daniel looked at him. “I didn’t know that people were so interested in me. What other talk did you hear?”

  Sandy was embarrassed. “Things.”

  “Give me another whiskey,” Daniel said to the bartender. When he got the drink, he took the two glasses in his hand. “C’mon, Sandy, let’s sit down.”

  The steelworker followed him to a booth and sat down opposite him. Daniel pushed the other glass of whiskey toward him. “Cheers.” They drank. “We’ve been friends, Sandy,” he said. “You can tell me what they’ve been talking about.”

  Sandy stared into his glass, then looked up at him. “Mind you, I didn’t believe what they were saying.”

  Daniel was silent.

  Sandy took another sip of his drink. “They said you were against the strike an’ that you were very cozy with someone in the Girdler family. And because of that, they’re keeping you in headquarters.”

  Daniel nodded toward the men at the bar. “What do they think?”

  Sandy’s voice was contemptuous. “Hunkies, Swedes and niggers. They don’t know how to think. They believe what they’re told.”

  “And they’re told that I’m not to be trusted?”

  It was Sandy’s turn to be silent. Daniel gestured for refills. When the drinks came, he swallowed another shot. “How does it look from the line?” he asked. “The mill shut down?”

  “Not completely. It’s running at about forty percent. A lot of men were afraid to come out after Girdler said that no striker would ever be rehired.” He took a sip from his glass. “How does it look from headquarters?”

  “I spoke to Murray today,” Daniel answered. “He feels it’s beginning to swing our way. He’s counting on the demonstrations across the country on Memorial Day to really bring public pressure on the steel companies to settle.”

  Sandy nodded. “We got a big meeting scheduled for that day. All of us out of the Republic mill will be there. We expect a turnout of maybe three hundred people over at Sam’s Place.”

  “That’s the big meeting hall we used before?”

  Sandy nodded and lifted his glass. “I’d feel better if you were back here with us.”

  “So would I,” Daniel said.

  “This guy Davis they sent down to replace you. He’s a bookkeeper type. College man. I don’t think he ever swung a shovel in his life.” Sandy finished his drink. “I know he’s supposed to be good. He says all the right things. But I have the feeling that they’re all things he learned in school somewhere. Do you think there’s a chance they might send you back?”

  Daniel got to his feet. “I don’t know,” he said heavily. “I really don’t know what they’re going to do.” He held out his hand. “Good luck.”

  “Good luck to you too,” Sandy said.

  Daniel crossed the street in the rain to his car and opened the door. Three men appeared from the shadows of a building and came toward him. Daniel felt the hairs on the back of his neck tighten.

  They stopped a few feet from him. “Big Dan?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Don’t come back here,” one of them said. “We don’t like finks or stoolies.”

  “I’m still a member in good standing,” Daniel said. “And my job says I can go where I want.”

  “We don’t give a shit,” the man said. “You’re a fucking spy who sold us out for a piece of Girdler pussy. We don’t need pricks like you around.”

  They began to move toward him. Daniel slipped his gun from the shoulder holster. “Stop right there,” he said quietly. “Unless you’d like to get your balls blown off.”

  The men froze, staring at him.

  “Now go back across the street to the other side,” he said. “And don’t do anything you might be sorry for.”

  He watched the men cross the street, and as they went up onto the sidewalk, he got into the car and started the engine.

  They turned as they heard the motor and ran out into the street after him as he drove off. He heard them shouting. “Fink! Cuntlapper!” Then he turned the corner and he could hear no more.

  The steel mill was on the road home. He drove past it slowly. The night picket line was only a few men marching forlornly in the rain. Behind the gates were the uniformed guards, smart and dry in their rainproof slickers. He counted at least twenty guards to the four men on the picket line. He turned at the next corner and drove back to Chicago.

  He was about to insert the key in his apartment door, but it swung open even before he touched it. He pushed it the rest of the way open and stepped inside, his gun again in his hand.

  Chris’s voice came from the kitchen. “Where the hell have you been, Daniel? I’ve been trying to keep this dinner warm for you for almost three hours.”

  Chapter 19

  It was about two o’clock in the morning, and his eyes suddenly opened. He closed them for a moment. No use. He was wide awake. He moved quietly in order not to awaken her. As he turned, he could see the faint outline of her sleeping form, the scent of her perfume mingling with the odors of their lovemaking. He slipped out of bed and, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him, went into the living room.

  He didn’t turn on the light. He knew where the bottle was, took it and poured himself a shot. He swallowed it and sat down at the window and stared out at the rain splashing like gold drops against the yellow streetlights. He took another drink. But it didn’t help. There was a hollow, drained, empty feeling deep inside him. Even the thought of the loving didn’t completely take it away.

  The bedroom door opened, and light spilled into the room from behind him. He turned and saw her standing there naked. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said gently. “Better get a robe on. It’s damp.”

  “What’s troubling you, Daniel?”

  “Put a robe on first,” he said.

  She disappeared and came back a moment later, still naked. “You don’t have a robe, and I didn’t bring one with me.”

  He laughed. She was right. He had never owned a bathrobe, nor a pair of pajamas. If he slept in anything, it was his BVDs. “Take one of my shirts.”

  The shirt fell to her knees. “I feel ridiculous.”

  “Better than catching cold.” He poured another drink. “Want one?”

  She shook her head and waited until he swallowed the whiskey. “What is it, Daniel? I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “It’s like I suddenly became the invisible man,” he said.

  “Is it the new job?” she asked.

  He stared at her. “You know about it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “How did you find out about it?”

  “The same way I found out where
you were living. From the confidential files in my Uncle Tom’s office.”

  “They know things like that?”

  “They keep a record on everything and everybody,” she said.

  “He knows about us?”

  She nodded.

  “He ever say anything?”

  “He was angry at first; then he calmed down. He still didn’t like it, but he said it could have been worse. You could have been a Jew Commie or a nigger.”

  His laugh was bitter. “Would you be surprised to learn that he knows more about my new job than most of the union members?”

  “He told me they were moving you out of the way because you didn’t think they should call the strike. He also said if they hadn’t gone out on strike they would have fired you outright, but they’re afraid to rock the boat at this time. They feel getting rid of you would upset too many of the men you organized.”

  He shook his head. “Then they figured wrong. I found out tonight that nobody really gives a damn. Somebody really did a hatchet job on me. Everything I said got twisted out of shape and thrown into the rumor mill. Even about you and me. That I was selling them down the river because of you.”

  “They have to know you better than that.”

  “I think Phil Murray does. But I doubt if any of the others share the same conviction.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “What are you going to do?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” he said. “Murray wants me to wait. He says it will all get straightened out. But I’m not sure that I can wait the way he wants. I’m not used to sitting in an office not doing anything.”

  “Why don’t you talk to Uncle Tom?” she asked. “I know from what he said that he respects you, even if he might not like you.”

  He looked at her. “I can’t do that. I’ve been living on this side of the street so long there’s no way I could cross over. Besides, if I did, then everything they’re saying about me would be true.”

  She moved closer to him. “I love you. I don’t like seeing you on the rack like this.”

  He didn’t say anything, just looked at her.

  “I know I said I would wait for you to call me,” she said. “But I couldn’t. I missed you too much. Daniel, I want to stay here with you.”

  He took a deep breath. “I would like that too. But it would only make things worse.”

  “Then what are we going to do?”

  “Wait,” he said. “The way Phil Murray told me. Maybe when this is over, things will be better.”

  “What if you can’t wait the way he wants and decide to go away?” she asked.

  “I’ll make you a promise,” he said. “If I should decide to go away, I’ll take you with me.”

  He saw the tears jump into her eyes and pulled her to him. “Don’t be silly,” he said, kissing her cheek.

  “I’m not being silly,” she snuffled. “I’m just being happy.” She looked up into his face. “You do love me, don’t you?”

  He smiled, teasing. “Don’t get personal.”

  “Just a little?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Not just a little,” he laughed, kissing her on the mouth. “A lot.”

  ***

  He looked down at the calendar on his desk. Friday, May 28, 1937. The two weeks just past had dragged interminably. He had waited for the call that never came. Despite Murray’s promise, McDonald had never called. Meanwhile, he felt the rising excitement swirling in the office around him. He knew plans were being made for the Memorial Day demonstration, but no one spoke to him or included him in the conversations about it. He found out more about the progress of the strike from the newspapers than he did in the office. He glanced at his watch. It was after five thirty.

  He opened the door of his office and looked out. The big outer office was empty. He closed the door and went back to his desk. He reached for the telephone and placed a call to Phil Murray in Washington. Mr. Murray had gone to Pittsburgh and would not be back in the office until Monday. He tried Murray’s home in Pittsburgh, but there was no answer.

  He took the bottle of whiskey from his desk. It was almost empty. He held the bottle to his mouth and drained it. There wasn’t enough to warrant a glass. Again he stared down at the calendar. Murray had asked him to wait until the end of the month. For all intents and purposes, this was the end of the month. A thought ran through his mind.

  Monday was the thirty-first. Could it be that they were keeping him here, safely out of the way, until after the demonstrations on Sunday? That what Girdler had told Chris was right? They were afraid that he might rock the boat?

  He wondered what would happen on Monday. Would Murray call and tell him regretfully that he couldn’t work anything out? Or would they then feel he was safe enough to give him a real job? Either way, it didn’t matter now. He spread his hands flat on the desk top and stared at them. Something had changed inside him, but nothing showed in his hands. They were still the same. Big, square, a workingman’s hands. Not the hands of a man supposed to think or feel. And that was all he had ever been. Working hands. Moved and directed by someone else’s brains and thoughts and desires.

  A choking wave of anger rose inside him. He clenched his hands into fists and smashed them down on the desk. Pain rose sharply up through his arms. He held his fists up to his face and stared at them. His knuckles were white, and blood seeped through the broken skin. Slowly he unclenched them. Whatever it was he thought they were holding, it was time now for him to let go.

  Time for him to leave, time for him to move on, time for him to discover what was going on in his own head. He had begun to open the desk drawer when a knock came at the door.

  “Mr. Huggins?” It was a girl’s voice.

  He went to the door and opened it. Nancy stood there, a wide-eyed look on her face. “Yes?” he asked gruffly.

  “I came back to get something from my desk,” she said quickly. “Then I heard a crash from your office. Are you all right?”

  He nodded slowly. “I’m okay.”

  A faint relief came into her face. “I’ll go, then. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

  “That’s all right, Nancy,” he said. “Thank you for your concern.”

  She turned to leave. He stopped her. “Nancy.”

  She turned back. “Yes, Mr. Huggins?”

  “Would you have time to type a letter for me?”

  “Will it take long? I have a date tonight and have to get home to change.”

  “It shouldn’t take long,” he said. “But it’s very important to me.”

  “Okay. Give me a minute to get my steno book.”

  He watched her walk toward her desk, then went back to his own desk and began to empty the drawers.

  Chapter 20

  It was just after lunch when she arrived at the apartment. She came into the bedroom and saw him bent over the open suitcase. “Need any help?”

  He shook his head. “I’m almost finished. There wasn’t much.” He emptied the last of the bureau drawers and snapped the valise shut. “That does it.”

  She stepped aside as he carried the suitcase into the living room and put it down next to the other one near the front door. “My bags are in the car,” she said.

  He straightened up. The train didn’t leave until six o’clock. “I’ve got a half-bottle of whiskey. There’s no point in leaving it.”

  She nodded, and he took the bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He gave her one glass and held the bottle toward her. “Just a little,” she said.

  He splashed some whiskey into the glass and filled his own. “Luck,” he said.

  She sipped it and made a face. “How can you drink this stuff? It tastes awful.”

  He laughed. “You’d better learn to like it. It’s poor man’s liquor. Them dry martinis cost twice as much.”

  She was silent.

  He looked at her. “Sure you want to come? It’s going to be a very different life for you. You can still change your mind. I’ll understand.”

/>   She smiled. “I’m not letting you off that easily.” She took another sip. “This whiskey really is not that bad.”

  He laughed.

  “Did you speak to Mrs. Torgersen?” she asked.

  “Yes. She’s already moved into the baby’s room so we can have the other bedroom. She sounded very pleased that you were coming with me. She likes you.”

  “She’s known me for a long time,” she said. “How’s the baby?”

  A note of pride came into his voice. “She says he’s just fine. Getting bigger. Gained almost a pound and is no trouble at all. Sleeps right through the night.”

  “Anxious to see him?”

  He looked at her, then nodded. “Yes. Funny, I never thought of myself as a father. But when I held him and looked down at him and realized that I was part of making him, I felt I was going to live forever.”

  She held her glass toward him. “I’ll take a little bit more.”

  He covered the bottom of the glass. “What’s it like outside?”

  “Sunny and warm,” she said.

  “Good,” he said. “At least the strikers are in luck. It’s not easy to look confident with the rain pissing in your face. The girl who typed my letter told me that her boss was very pleased. Paramount movie newsreel is coming out to cover the South Chicago demonstration. It’ll be in six thousand theaters next Tuesday.”

  “I’m glad you won’t be with them,” she said. “At breakfast this morning, I heard Uncle Tom on the phone. He was talking to someone in the South Chicago police headquarters. He said he was expecting trouble at the mill, and he asked for a hundred and fifty policemen to help protect it. When he came back to the table, he was smiling and told my aunt that if the Commies came looking for trouble they were going to get more than they bargained for.”

  He stared at her. “He’s got almost a hundred men inside the gates. Why does he need the cops outside?”