“I don’t know,” she answered. “I was too busy figuring out how to leave the house with my bags without their finding out.”
“He’s going to be disappointed,” Daniel said. “The meeting is in a hall a few blocks away. They’re not even going near the mill.”
She didn’t answer.
A thought flashed through his mind. “Your Uncle Tom seemed sure that they were going to be at the plant?”
She nodded.
He put down his drink. “I’d better get right over there to make sure they don’t go anywhere near the mill.”
“It’s not your business anymore, Daniel,” she said. “You resigned. Remember?”
“I remember Pittsburgh in 1919,” he said. “A lot of men got hurt because nobody had the guts to talk sense to them.”
“This is 1937,” she said. “And it’s not your fight anymore.”
“Maybe it isn’t,” he said. “But I got a lot of those men out there today into the union, and I don’t want it on my conscience if any of them get hurt.”
She didn’t answer.
“Give me the keys to the car,” he said.
“Let go of it, Daniel,” she said. “We’re going to start a new life. You told me that yesterday.”
“Chris. There’s no way I can start a new life over the dead bodies of my friends. Not if I have a chance to prevent it. Give me the keys.”
“I’ll go with you,” she said.
“No. You wait here for me.”
“You said you would take me with you wherever you go.” Her voice was steady. “It starts here.”
***
The streets in front of Sam’s Place were crowded with cars and people, and there was no place that Dan could park the car. He stopped in the middle of the street and got out. “You park the car in the next block and wait for me.”
Chris’s face was pale. She nodded.
Dan turned and made his way toward the meeting hall. It had turned unexpectedly hot, and the crowd overflowing the street seemed more like a group of people at a family outing than a serious group of strikers. Many of the men had brought their families to the meeting, and women and children were moving around in the crowd of shirt-sleeved men.
Daniel pushed his way through the crowd into the meeting hall. It was packed solid with people. On the small platform at the far end of the hall several men were sitting, while one man was at a lectern shouting.
“There is only one way to show the cops that they do not intimidate us, that Girdler is not the law. They must see that we, the people, the strikers, are strong enough, brave enough to look them in the face and spit in their eye!”
A roar of approval went up from the crowd.
The speaker looked down at a piece of paper in his hand. “Be it resolved that we, the members of the Steelworkers Union, Local—, condemn the arbitrary and oppressive tactics of the Chicago Police Department in their attempts to frighten and intimidate the workers from exercising their constitutional right to free speech and strike for a better way of American life. All in favor say ‘Aye.’”
The roar of Ayes deafened the ears.
“Let’s show ’em now!” a voice yelled from the crowd.
“Yeah,” another voice shouted. “Let ’em see what a real picket line is. Not just ten men but a thousand!”
Daniel made his way to the platform just as the hall rang with approval for the suggestion. He pushed the speaker away from the lectern. “Hold it!” he yelled at the crowd. “Hold it!”
The meeting was still in a turmoil. The speaker turned to Daniel. “Get out of here, Huggins. We don’t want you here,” he said in a voice that reached only to Daniel.
“You’re Davis,” Daniel said. “You’ve got to listen to me. I found out there are a hundred and fifty cops out there spoiling for trouble. You keep the meeting here. If they get outside in front of the mill, a lot of people are going to be hurt. Not only men, but women and children too.”
“Workers have a right to express themselves,” Davis said.
“Their leaders have a responsibility to see that they don’t get hurt. In 1919 I saw what happened when leaders abdicated that responsibility. It can happen here.”
“No,” Davis said. “There are too many of us. Besides, the cops wouldn’t dare try anything with the newsreel cameras out there. That’s why we arranged to get them here.”
“Cameras don’t stop bullets,” Daniel said. He turned back to the crowd. “Brothers!” he shouted. “You know me. Many of you were brought into this union with me. More than anyone else I want to win this strike. But we’re not going to win it by demonstrating against the Chicago police. We’re going to win it by closing down production at the mills, by getting the rest of the workers to join us. Let us turn our efforts here to that end, to find ways and means of persuading our brothers that our battle is their battle. Here, in the union hall, is where the battle will be won. Not out there in the fields in front of the mill.”
A sarcastic voice shouted up from the crowd. “We know you, Big Dan. We know how you sold us out for a piece of Girdler pussy. We know you didn’t want us to strike.”
“That’s not true!” Daniel shouted.
“If it’s not true,” another voice shouted, “then join us. Don’t fight us.”
Daniel looked down at the suddenly silent hall. “I’ll join you,” he said. “But only the men will go. Make sure that your women and children don’t follow us.”
A roar came from the crowd. Two young men leaped on the platform and, picking up the American flags, turned and started up the aisle.
Daniel looked at Davis. “You’ve got to help me, man. Let’s try to stop them at least a block from the mill.” He didn’t wait for an answer but leaped from the platform and marched up the aisle between the two flag bearers.
The sun outside had turned bright and hot. Daniel tore off his jacket and held it over his arm.
“Across the field,” a voice shouted. “The streets are blocked by the police.”
Slowly, purposefully, they began walking toward the plant, about a mile across the open field. Daniel turned and looked behind him. Men were streaming behind them, in an unorganized, shapeless form. Despite Daniel’s warning, women and children had joined them. There was an air of almost childlike gaiety in the crowd, more like people going to a Sunday-school picnic than a picket line.
“Get rid of the women and children!” he shouted back at them. His voice was lost in the noise. A hand pulled at his arm. He turned.
“Big Dan.” Sandy was next to him with Davis. “I knew you’d show up.”
Daniel didn’t answer. He looked at Davis. “Look over there. There’s an army of cops waiting for us. Now do you believe me?”
Davis stared. “I see them. But they won’t do anything. The newsreel truck is right behind them. We got to get in close enough so they can film how big a crowd we are.”
“What’s more important? People’s lives or movies?”
“The movies will take our message all over the country,” Davis said.
Daniel looked at him. It was no use. It didn’t make sense. They were going like lambs to the slaughter. “A block away,” he said heavily. “Try to stop them a block away.”
But there was no stopping them; the press of the crowd behind pushed them on. Daniel saw the police begin taking out their guns and clubs. For a moment, a picture flashed through his mind. The Boche were waiting just across no-man’s-land.
They were halfway through the last open field, about two hundred feet away from the police, when Daniel turned his back on them and held up his hands to stop the crowd.
“Now!” he shouted. “Form your picket line here!”
An unexpected voice joined him. “Yes,” Davis shouted. “Form the line here. One flag to the right, one to the left and spread out behind them.”
The crowd milled around uncertainly, not knowing what to do. Daniel pushed at one of the flag bearers. “Get going, man!” The flag bearer began to move off.
“Okay, now,” Daniel shouted to the crowd. “Follow him!”
“Follow him!” Davis shouted.
Daniel glanced at him. “Thanks.”
Davis’ voice was grim. “Don’t thank me. I’m scared.”
“With some luck,” Daniel said, “we may still be okay.”
But luck was not to be with them. He heard the first few sounds of the shots. Then a sledgehammer hit him in the back, and he pitched forward to the ground. He tried to pick himself up on his hands, but his legs wouldn’t support him. He heard the sounds of women screaming and men shouting in their panic. Then there were blue-uniformed police all around him, lashing out indiscriminately with their truncheons and billy clubs. He saw Davis and Sandy fall to the ground under a hail of men in uniform, beating them long after they were inert and prostrate.
He felt the tears spring to his eyes. “Oh, shit,” he cried, the hurt in his soul greater than the one in his body. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Then his arms gave way, and he fell into an eclipse of the sun.
Now
Maybe because it was Sunday. Or lunchtime. Or maybe the Arab oil embargo of last spring had left its imprint on the psyche of the American motorist. But I had been sitting on the low stone wall for almost an hour and not one car had passed.
I remember my father’s indignation as the lines formed at the gas stations and factories began to close, laying off thousands of workers. He held a news conference at which he blasted everybody. The President, the Congress, the oil companies. “The same old story,” he had growled. “They’re all in cahoots to bring up prices and pick the pockets of the American workers who built the very oil fields the fruits of which they are now denied. We gave the Arabs the power by developing their resources at the expense of our own and the American worker because we were told it would be cheaper. Now we find out how cheap it really is. The cost is blackmail and extortion. And there is only one way to deal with blackmailers and extortionists. Exterminate them. We have all the valid and legal reasons. Our national security, our very lives and welfare are threatened. Send in the marines!”
Accused by many of the papers and commentators of old-fashioned jingoism and warmongering, of being pro-Zionist and anti-Arab, he replied in scornful tones. “We didn’t fight two major wars to make the world safe for the Arabs and the oil companies so that they could enrich themselves at our expense. Our country has a history of standing up and fighting for its rights. If we don’t do that now, we may turn around five years from now and find we have delivered up ourselves and maybe all of Western civilization into the hands of Cain.”
It wasn’t that long ago; but now, it was forever. At least for my father. He was gone, and no one heard his voice anymore. Maybe. Except me. I wondered how long it would take for me to stop hearing him.
***
“When you know me, Jonathan.”
“I know you, Father. I’ve always known you.”
His voice was gentle. “You only thought you did. But now you’re beginning to learn.”
“Learn what?”
“Where I come from. Who I am.”
“Who you were,” I said pointedly.
He chuckled. “A point of view.”
“Nothing’s changed. You’re still what I always thought you were.”
“I never claimed to be anything else. I will always be whatever you think I am. Just as you will always be whatever you think you will be.”
“I’m getting ready to go home, Father. I’m getting tired of sitting on walls and fence posts and standing at the sides of roads. I’m not discovering anything anymore.”
“You’re lonely. But be patient. The journey will soon be at an end. Then you will go home and put all you have learned together.”
“I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to learn.”
“Love, my son. And that only a fool throws it away.”
“I’m tired of all that shit, Father. I’m going home. Now.”
“No.” His voice was strong and sharp. “Look up the road, my son, and discover why no cars have passed in this last hour and why you have been sitting on this particular wall at this particular moment in time.”
***
A mile down the road a car had crested the hill and was moving rapidly toward me. I watched it, the sun sparkling brightly from its silver radiator. It sped past me, a white Rolls Corniche convertible, top down, driven by a girl with sun-yellow hair streaming behind her in the wind. Several hundred yards down the road I saw its brake lights go on, then, as the car stopped, the white backup lights as it reversed toward me.
The car backed off onto the side ramp and came to a stop in front of me. The girl in the car and I just sat there looking at each other. We didn’t speak. Just looked at each other.
She was beautiful. Suntanned bronze, almost white hair falling down below her shoulders now that the wind was not taking, high cheekbones, wide mouth and firm chin. But it was her eyes that did it. Pale gray with a splash of blue. I had seen them a thousand times before. But I didn’t know where.
Finally she smiled, her teeth white and crinkles at the corners of her eyes making them even bluer. Her voice was low and soft but very clear and distinct. “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.”
“Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,” I answered.
“All the king’s horses—”
“And all the king’s men—”
We finished together. “Couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again.” We laughed.
“Are you Humpty Dumpty?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Do you think I am?”
“You could be,” she said seriously.
“No. That’s a nursery rhyme.”
“Then why are you sitting on the wall like that?”
“I didn’t know until you came along. Now I do. I’ve been waiting for you. I almost left but I was talked out of it.”
Her eyes glanced around quickly. “By whom? I don’t see anyone.”
“A friend. But he’s gone now.”
Her eyes came back to me. “I thought I heard you call me. That’s why I stopped.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I did hear someone call me,” she said.
I climbed down from the wall. “I called you, Princess.” I picked up my backpack and slung it over the side of the car into the back seat, then got in beside her.
“Princess,” she said thoughtfully. “Only my mother has ever called me that. My name is—”
I cut her off. “Don’t tell me, Princess. I don’t want to know.”
“And what do I call you? Humpty Dumpty?”
“Jonathan.”
She nodded her head. “I like it. It suits you.” She put the car into gear and it moved silently, effortlessly onto the road. We were doing 60 before I could count that far. “I’m taking you home.”
“Okay.”
She glanced at me. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” I answered. I wasn’t pushing too far. Only two months.
“You look older,” she said. I didn’t answer as she reached into the well between the two bucket seats and came up with a gold cigarette case. She flipped it open. “Light one for me.”
Machine-rolled, chocolate-brown paper, gold-tipped thin marijuana. I was impressed. I lit the joint. It was good shit, maybe the best I’d ever had. Two tokes and I was up there. I passed the cigarette to her. She stuck it in the corner of her mouth and let it hang there. Two seconds later when I looked at the speedometer, we were doing 85. I reached over and took the joint from her mouth.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
I gestured at the speedometer. “You said you were taking me home. I just want to make sure we get there.”
The car slowed down to 60. “I can handle it.”
“I’m sure you can,” I said, pinching out the joint. “But I’m the cautious type.”
She was silent. A few minutes later she turned into the West Palm Beach exit ramp and coasted t
o a stop at the tollbooth.
The toll collectors all seemed to know her. She gave her card with a five-dollar bill attached to it to the man in the booth. He stepped out of the booth with the change in his hand. The red light on the meter showed $3.50. “Fine day, Mrs. Ross,” he said. “How’s the new car
running?”
“Real good, Tom,” she said.
“Highway Patrol radar clocked you at ninety back there, but you came down real quick. We told them to clear you.”
“Thanks, Tom,” she said, holding out her hand to him again. This time there was a twenty-dollar bill in it.
It disappeared as he turned back to his booth. “Don’t push it, Mrs. Ross,” he said in a polite voice. “Never can tell when someone who doesn’t know you might be on duty.”
“I’ll remember that,” she said, starting the car again. We rolled on down the ramp and onto the highway. Ten minutes later we crossed a small bridge over a waterway and down a small private street. She pressed the Genie on the sun visor in front of her and a pair of electric gates opened before us as we turned into the driveway. They were closed by the time we pulled to a stop in front of the house.
She turned to look at me. “We’re home.”
“Okay,” I said. I got out of the car and walked around to her side and opened the door for her.
“You’ll have to carry your own bag,” she said. “It’s August and all the servants except the gardener are on vacation.”
“I’ll manage.” I pulled the backpack from the car and followed her into the house. She led me down a hallway and opened a door. I followed her into the room.
“This is your room,” she said. “The door over there is to the bathroom. The door next to the window leads you right outside to the pool or the beach, whichever you prefer. The closets are on the near wall.”
There was one door she hadn’t explained. “What about that one?” I asked.
“That’s the door to my room,” she said. “This room was my ex-husband’s. Anything else you want to know?”
I looked at her for a moment. “Where’s the washing machine? I’ve got some laundry to do.”
***
I rolled over in the bed and opened my eyes. The sun had gone and dusk shadowed the room. I moved slowly, feeling the luxury of real sheets against me. It had been a long time since I had slept in a bed. I hadn’t known how good it would feel until just now.
Memories of Another Day Page 34