The Truth According to Us

by Annie Barrows

  Jottie’s head jerked up. “No, you didn’t,” she blurted before she could stop herself.

  Mr. McKubin eyed her gravely and turned back to Sol. “This is no light matter, son. You have broken a thing of value. I speak of my trust.”

  Sol threw back his head. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Jottie thumped the fence in indignation. What was the matter with him? “He didn’t do it, Mr. McKubin. He didn’t. It was Felix—”

  Felix gave her a disdainful look and jumped to the ground. “Yeah, Mr. McKubin, Sol’s lying. I did it. I borrowed your clubs ’cause”—he shot a lightning grin at Vause—“ ’cause we wanted to play polo.”

  Sol’s face went white. “I’m not lying. It was me,” he insisted.

  “My daddy will buy you a new club,” said Felix casually to Mr. McKubin. “Or I guess you might need two. There was another one got kind of bent.”

  “I did it,” said Sol, his voice shaking. Jottie saw tears glittering in his eyes.

  “Stop it!” Jottie hissed at him desperately. “Stop it!”

  There was a silence. Vause watched the ground, his face stiff with pity and embarrassment. Felix met Mr. McKubin’s eyes and shrugged. Frowning, Sol’s father reached out to grasp his son’s shoulder. At his touch, Sol started and looked around wildly. “I did!” he whispered.

  Jottie could bear it no longer. She darted forward and kicked Sol in the shin. Then she ran, bounding through the long grass like a hunted animal.

  —

  Jottie returned to the dining room and sat down beside Layla. Picking up a sheet of onionskin, she continued reading.

  …Well hidden amongst the rocky crags northeast of town, the Knock-Pie Trail (4.6 mi. north on County Road 6, near the junction of Mount Heaven Road and DeBoult’s Loft) holds a distinguished place in Macedonia’s Civil War history. In the summer of 1861, Confederate Brigadier General Robert S. Garnett was ordered to clear the mountain passes north of the Shenandoah Valley of Federal troops. To achieve this, he was given forty-five hundred soldiers “in a most miserable condition as to arms, clothing, equipment, and discipline.” Opposing him were twenty-two thousand well-ordered and well-armed recruits from Ohio and Indiana, under the command of Major General George B. McClellan. In this unequal struggle, Garnett exercised ingenuity in place of weapons and developed a strategy of duping his Union foes into the belief that he had many more, and better equipped, soldiers than he actually possessed. One such charade took place on the night of June 30, 1861. Upon learning that one of McClellan’s brigades was planning a nighttime exodus south to Sapony Mountain along the Mount Heaven Road, Garnett ordered his men to a rough, ill-marked trail above that road, there to string themselves out in a sparse, long line. Instead of guns, each man was given a metal plate or pie pan and a spoon, collected from sympathetic citizens of Macedonia, and commanded to bang one against the other at slow intervals, thus giving the impression of a large advance of cavalry and cannon. All that night, fearful Union soldiers reported hearing the rattle and clash of wagons, horseshoes, and artillery. They arrived in the settlement of Bear Park, two miles east of Sapony Mountain, thoroughly unnerved. “There is no doubt that the enemy has been reinforced to triple our strength,” McClellan wrote to General Rosecrans on July 1. “We must retire, or lose all.”

  General Garnett, who was to lose his life at Corrick’s Ford twelve days later, wrote to his cousin General Richard Garnett, “I shall always esteem the bakers of Macedonia, for their pie pans saved our skins.” The unnamed trail upon which Garnett’s troops ranged themselves was ever after called the Knock-Pie Trail.

  “That’s real good. I think you just about covered it.” Jottie squared the sheaf of onionskin and looked across the table at Layla.

  “You like it?” Layla smiled, pleased. She tapped her pencil against the tabletop. “I still can’t figure out where Jackson was that next March.”

  “In 1862?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Tapscott swears he stayed in her mother’s house, but everyone else says he was down in Romney.”

  “Pooh, Romney. The way they talk, you’d think the entire war happened on their courthouse lawn, including Appomattox and the assassination of Lincoln. Inez Tapscott wouldn’t tell a fib.”

  “All right.” Layla scribbled a note on her paper. “Maybe Miss Betts has something in her file drawer.”

  “She might. She does love her clippings.”

  Layla glanced at the clock and stood. “I have to be off. I’m to meet that Farm Security photographer at noon.”

  Jottie nodded and swept imaginary crumbs off the table.

  Layla hesitated, watching her. “Do you want to come along, Jottie?”

  Jottie looked up and smiled. “Can’t. I’ve got big plans to clean out the linen closet this afternoon.”

  She turned to the window and watched Layla hurry away along the sidewalk. She should get up, she knew. The linen closet wasn’t going to clean itself out. She missed Sol. She missed his calm benevolence, his wondering regard for her, and the respectful looks that had followed them down the street. And maybe more than anything, she missed his belief in her allure. Dates! Movies! Holding hands! A woman’s natural due. Well, she could read about it in books from now on. She should get up. She should get up and telephone Belle Fox and offer to bring a fruit salad to the next meeting of the Daughters of Macedon. I’m in a ladies’ club, she reassured herself. My life is fine.

  33

  Miss Coco Echols, the photographer, did not have time to waste on Macedonia. Her presence was a favor to the Writers’ Project, she explained, a gift from the Farm Security Administration, now gravely handicapped by her absence. She gazed stonily at Town Hall. The Writers’ Project, Layla, and the populace of Macedonia, it was clear, were substantially in her debt.

  “The mill’s quite close,” said Layla, after Town Hall had been disapprovingly immortalized. “It won’t take long.”

  “It better not,” said Miss Echols. As she swung around to her Oldsmobile, the whistle at American Everlasting let off its noon blast, and she jumped appreciably. “Jesus! What the hell was that?”

  “The noon whistle at the mill,” said Layla, hiding a smile.

  Miss Echols made a sour face. “What kind of mill is it?”

  Layla cleared her throat. “Socks. The American Everlasting Hosiery Company.”

  “Socks?” said Miss Echols contemptuously. “Jesus. What a dump. Come on, get in.”

  “It’s right down the street.”

  “Still. All my stuff is in my car. We’ll drive.”

  Obediently, Layla settled herself in the car and directed Miss Echols to the enormous brick expanse of American Everlasting. As the massive car docked at the curb across the street, the two women found themselves regarding an empty sidewalk.

  Layla frowned. Wasn’t it lunchtime? Did the workers eat inside? A thousand of them?

  Miss Echols sighed heavily and opened her door. “Let’s step on it, all right? I gotta be in D.C. at five.”

  Layla leaned forward to peer at the building. “Where is everyone?” She paused. “They can’t possibly all eat inside, can they?”

  Miss Echols, scrabbling with her black camera case, didn’t look up. “Damned if I know.”

  In place of the expected crowd of mill workers, a black-and-white police wagon drove slowly down the street and parked in front of the entrance. Layla recognized the policeman named Hank behind the wheel. He did not appear to have any purpose; he simply sat in his car, reaching up occasionally to stroke his mustache.

  Layla frowned slightly. “I wonder what’s going on,” she murmured.

  Miss Echols looked up, a can of film in her mouth. “Huh?”

  At that moment, the door opened. A man in a seersucker suit came out and slowly walked down the stairs. Layla cocked her head. Was it the man named Sol, the one she’d seen in Shank’s office, the one who’d spoken with Jottie? Maybe. He approached the police wagon and leaned into the window, greeting Hank with easy familiarity
.

  While the two men bent their heads together, Layla noticed three other men drifting from an alley toward the sidewalk where the police wagon was parked. They were slightly down-at-the-heel, these three, and their faces were expressionless under their caps. Then two women turned the corner, one of them carrying a covered basket, their faces equally blank.

  Mesmerized by the combination of determination and emptiness on their faces, Layla opened her door and stepped out. Four more men came to join the others. They didn’t speak to one another. They just stood before the mill, their eyes on its brick front. She followed their gaze, scanning the building for information, and spotted a cluster of heads in an upstairs window. She couldn’t be sure, but one of them might have belonged to Mr. Shank.

  The sound of Miss Echols slamming her door brought Layla out of her reverie. “You want the front, right?”

  “Something’s wrong,” murmured Layla. “Look at their faces.”

  Miss Echols surveyed the men and women on the sidewalk without interest. “I’ll just do the front.” She lifted her camera and snapped.

  One of the men whistled, and Layla saw the man talking to Hank lift his head and glance quickly around. Their eyes met, and she was surprised to see him smile and shake his head.

  “Maybe this isn’t a good time to take pictures,” said Layla uneasily.

  “What?” The photographer sneered. “Don’t be a sissy.”

  “Miss Beck?” It was the man who knew Jottie. She turned to him in relief.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Sol McKubin,” he said. “You and your friend—colleague—might want to go on your way. There’s nothing going to happen at the moment, and your, uh, presence may be distressing some people.” He nodded toward the straggling group of watchers.

  “Who are they?”

  “Bystanders. Friends, wives, you know.”

  “Friends and wives of whom?” she asked. “What’s happening?”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Strike. I thought you knew. I thought that’s why you were here.”

  “No. No,” Layla said. “I don’t know anything.” She nodded toward Coco Echols. “She’s just taking a picture of the mill for my book. The History of Macedonia.”

  He nodded. “Maybe you could come back another day.”

  “I think we have what we need.” Layla looked at the silent mill. “It’s a very quiet strike.”

  “Sit-down,” he said. “God knows how long they’ll go.”

  She felt a pang of sympathy for him, management or no. “Will there be trouble?”

  “Trouble? I don’t know. I hope not.” He lifted his chin toward Hank. “He’s the one I feel sorry for. Ralph’s going to call him and Arnold in any minute.”

  “What about the National Guard?” said Layla, remembering the strikes she had read about.

  He seemed to find the idea amusing. “The National Guard has bigger fish to fry, I expect. American Everlasting isn’t General Motors.”

  She glanced up at the window. “No company goons, either, I guess.”

  He smiled. “Not unless you count Richie and me.” He glanced toward the snapping Miss Echols and sobered. “Is there any way you can persuade her not to publish them? I’d like to keep the AFL out of this.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Layla assured him earnestly. “She hasn’t noticed there’s a strike. And I won’t tell her.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “No wonder Jottie likes you.”

  “She does?” asked Layla, pleased.

  “Yes. She’s spoken of you. Ah.” His face clouded. “Don’t mention I said that. Okay?”

  Curious. She nodded anyway.

  “And listen, Miss Beck?” For a moment, he looked mischievous as a boy. “When you get home, will you call Emmett in White Creek and tell him about the strike? Tell him I asked you to call. He’ll understand.”

  “Why, all right.” Curiouser and curiouser.

  “Promise?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said.

  He smiled at her and turned away, tossing her a look of extravagant alarm as he passed the clicking Miss Echols.

  —

  Back on Academy Street, Layla watched Coco Echols’s vast car dwindle in the distance before she turned toward the house. In the shadowed, quiet hallway, she hesitated for a moment and then lifted the telephone receiver from the cradle. “Long distance, please.”

  “City, please?” the operator asked crisply.

  “White Creek.”

  Layla listened to the telephone wires click. “White Creek, what number, please?”

  “I’m trying to reach Emmett Romeyn.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Jottie step into the hall, holding a knife.

  “Hold the line, please.” More clicks.

  “Hello?” It was Emmett’s voice, pleasant and distant.

  “Go ahead,” said the operator.

  “Thank you. Mr. Romeyn?”

  “Yes. This is he.”

  “This is Layla. Layla Beck.”

  “Layla! Miss Beck! How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. I’m calling to give you a message—”

  “Is everyone all right down there?”

  “Everyone’s fine, but Mr. McKubin asked me to tell you that there’s a strike at the mill started today, a sit-down—”

  “What? A strike? Who told you to tell me?”

  “Mr. McKubin. Sol McKubin. You know him, don’t you? He said I should call to tell you and you’d understand why.” Now Felix stood in the doorway, too, a newspaper in his hand, watching her.

  Emmett’s laughter rolled over the telephone wire. “Sol told you to phone me? And he calls me a rabble-rouser!”

  “Pardon?”

  “Never mind. Tell me about the strike. What were you doing there, anyway?”

  “I needed a picture of the mill for my book, so I went down with a photographer,” Layla explained. “When we got there, the place was dead quiet, even though the noon whistle had just gone. There was nobody anywhere, which was odd, I thought, and then a police wagon drove up.” She recounted the scene at the mill, the strangely expressionless bystanders on the sidewalk, and Miss Echols’s imperviousness. “She didn’t pay any attention and started taking pictures, and then Mr. McKubin came and asked us to stop. That’s when he told me there was a strike—a sit-down strike, he said.”

  “But it was quiet?”

  “Yes, but he said that Shank—Mr. Shank—was about to call in Hank and someone named Arnold, and he felt sorry for them.”

  “The workers?”

  “No. Hank and Arnold. Who’s Arnold?”

  “Another policeman,” Emmett said briefly. “But you’re sure he said it was a sit-down?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” She could almost hear him smile with satisfaction. “That’s good news.”

  “Is Mr. McKubin—” She paused, distracted by a flicking movement on the edge of her vision. Felix was gone.

  “What?”

  “Is he on their side? You said I’d be surprised at who was.”

  “I should keep my mouth shut.”

  “So he is? That’s rather—astonishing.”

  “Sol’s not your average boss.”

  “Clearly.”

  There was another pause. “Well,” Emmett said. “Thank you for calling me, Miss Beck. I’m obliged to you. Maybe I’ll come down there and see this strike for myself tomorrow.”

  She laughed. “It wasn’t much to look at.”

  “Got to hope it’ll stay that way,” he said. There was a pause. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m supposed to be writing history.”

  “But it is history. Don’t you want to champion the cause of labor in Macedonia?”

  “Very tempting, Mr. Romeyn.” She glanced at Jottie, leaning against the wall. “But it’s not history yet. It’s just a fight. It’s not history until someone wins.”

  —

  At suppertime, Felix’s place
remained empty.

  “Where’s your daddy tonight?” Layla asked Willa casually, lifting the butter dish.

  Willa gave her a malevolent stare. “I don’t know.”

  “He goes off, he could be in Timbuktu and we wouldn’t know it,” Bird expatiated helpfully. “Nobody knows where he is.”

  “Selling chemicals somewhere, I suppose,” said Layla.

  Willa said nothing, but Bird leaned forward. “He has one that could blow up the entire world.”

  “Bird,” said Jottie, entering the dining room. “You lie like a rug.”

  The evening passed slowly. The porch was filled with excited talk of the strike and the rattle of coffee spoons, the dark perforated by cries of chasing children and creaking chairs, and when Layla excused herself and climbed to her room, she found it still and suffocating, the heat sheeting her slick with sweat. Listlessly, she bathed and made ready for bed, dabbling without interest in The Rending of Virginia for a few minutes before she tossed it aside and turned out her light.

  Much later, she woke for no reason. There was a little breeze from the window. Sighing, she turned to receive it and saw Felix sitting on the windowsill, smoking. She stared at him for a moment, trying to understand if he was real.

  Blue in the smoke, he looked toward her. “There you are.”

  “Felix,” she murmured. “You weren’t at supper.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I wished you were.”

  He tapped his ash on the roof. “Sweetheart?”

  There was a silence. “Is that me?” she asked finally.

  He smiled. “Yes. That’s you.”

  She nodded. Good.

  “Don’t go to the mill,” he said.

  She struggled to comprehend his meaning. “I already did.”

  “Again, then. Don’t go again.” He stood. “All right?”

  She looked at him. Ever again? It seemed a strange request. Why? “Mr. McKubin already asked me not to.”

  “I don’t care what Mr. McKubin asked you to do,” he said. “I’m telling you not to.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, almost to herself. “You two had a falling-out.”