The Truth According to Us

by Annie Barrows

  Jottie lifted one eyebrow. “Can’t I?”

  “I’m wearing my good hat,” protested Zena.

  “I don’t care,” said Jottie.

  Water rained merrily into the rhododendrons while Zena gnawed the inside of her mouth, assessing the odds. After a minute, she tossed her head. “I ain’t scared of you,” she proclaimed, thrusting the door wide. “I ain’t scared of you, Jottie Romeyn.” She took a flouncing step down and stopped. “You turn off that water,” she called.

  Jottie threw the hose on the grass and waited, watching, as Zena took another step, and then another, her eyes darting from the hose to its owner and back again.

  As Zena arrived at the front walk, twitching her narrow hips, Jottie held up a hand, stopping her in mid-flounce. “Never come here again,” she said. “Never speak to me or about me or anyone else in my family again. Or you’ll be sorry.”

  “I’ll be sorry? What’re you gonna do—arrest me?” sneered Zena. “Last time I looked, you don’t run the country.”

  “I’ll tell everyone I know that you went to bed with Shank and gave him the clap and that’s why he fired Jerry. I’ll say Jerry’s just a few months away from turning idiot—syphilis does that, you know. I’ll say that’s how come he limps.”

  Zena’s eyes widened. “But you can’t—it ain’t true. I ain’t—Shank—I don’t have no syphilis and you know it. And Jerry’s not—it’s his foot. He had it since he was a kid—”

  “Who are they going to believe?” said Jottie coldly.

  36

  Jottie had told Bird and me to stay right away from American Everlasting, that a strike was no place for gawkers, especially not children, and even more especially not us. We obeyed her, though we knew for a fact we were the only children in town who hadn’t gone to look. Jun Lloyd said he’d crept down to the mill in the night and seen the blood seeping out from under the door and that’s how he knew mill workers were being killed one by one in cold blood. He said Mr. Shank did it with a switchblade, because the folks outside would hear a gunshot. He said his own uncle worked inside the mill and told him that there was blood everywhere. His uncle had crouched down so Mr. Shank wouldn’t get him.

  Of course, I didn’t believe a word of this, even though Jun Lloyd was a Boy Scout and supposed to be trustworthy on top of being clean, kind, and patriotic. He wasn’t any of those things, either. “You lie like a dog, Jun,” I said. “Ain’t anybody stabbing anybody.”

  “All you know,” he sneered. “You got any family down there at the mill?”

  I was obliged to shake my head.

  “Then you don’t know,” he said. “My uncle is on strike.”

  “My grandfather was president of it,” was all I could say.

  “Well, he’s not now, is he?” said Dex Lloyd. And then he stuck out his tongue.

  The next afternoon, I was at the library, as I was nearly every day in the summer. The rule was you could take out five books each week, but Miss Betts made an exception for me. She let me take two books a day, which was enough, but just barely. My selections were generally based on thickness. I was pushing out the door with my new books in hand when I saw Jottie down the street on the front steps of the bank. She was standing there frozen in place, and she looked like she’d been lightning-struck, but I knew better: She was doing math in her head. Jottie couldn’t walk and do math at the same time—I couldn’t, either—and when she came out of the bank, she always had to hold still for a bit, subtracting. I scurried down there, fast as I could, and she didn’t notice a thing, she was that busy with her subtracting. “Forty-two!” I hollered. “Six! Twenty-seven!”

  She jumped, but when she saw it was me, she began to laugh. “You are the worst child I ever met, Willa.” She came down the steps and took up my hand in her little cool one. “We have either seventy-nine dollars or seventy-nine cents, and now only the good Lord himself knows which it is.”

  I shifted on my feet and looked down the block. I could just see the edge of the mill. “Jottie?” I began.

  “Don’t ask me for candy, you sinful child.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” I said, and it was the truth. “What I want is free.”

  “Good thing,” she said. “What is it?”

  “Let’s you and me go look at the strike. Please?”

  She frowned. “We’ve got no business there.”

  “Everyone else in town has gone to look, ’cept me and Bird,” I said in plaintive tones. “Jun Lloyd’s been four times, once in the dead of night, and he says there’s blood oozing out from under the front door, because Mr. Shank’s stabbing everyone—”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Jottie interrupted. “I hope you have more sense than to believe that.”

  “I didn’t believe it,” I said. “But Jun Lloyd said I didn’t know anything because I didn’t have anyone in my family at the mill.”

  Jottie lifted her eyebrow.

  “It’s practically the only thing that’s ever happened in Macedonia, and I’m missing it.”

  Jottie shook her head, but her face was sympathetic at the same time. “I’m willing to bet that it’ll be a lot less exciting than watching a train back up, but all right. Let’s go see the strike. Just for a minute.”

  Off we went, down Prince Street toward East Main. And Jottie was right: Once we’d turned the corner, it didn’t look like much. There was the mill, a big long stretch of red brick, the same as ever. Out in front, in a straggling line, were about thirty or forty men and women. Some of them had signs, but since they were waving them at the mill, I couldn’t read more than a few words, only To Unite! and The TWOC Supports the Rights of. I wondered who they were, these men and women, since the strikers were inside. Maybe relatives, I was guessing, when I saw that one of them was Emmett.

  “Hey! Emmett!” I yelled, and he turned around, his face lighting up the way it did.

  He came over to where we were standing, a little apart from the crowd, bringing with him a man I’d never seen before. There was the usual grown-up business of greetings and introductions, to which I paid little heed, as they never included me. The man was someone called Mr. Bryce with the TWOC.

  “And this is my niece, Willa Romeyn,” Emmett added, which brought me around a little. Emmett, I reflected, was politer than most grown-ups. It was probably because he was the youngest child himself and he hadn’t quite forgotten the indignities of youth. Yet.

  He and Jottie and Mr. Bryce talked. After a bit, I deduced that TWOC was the same thing as Textile Workers Organizing Committee and felt pleased with myself. Mr. Bryce had come up from Washington to see the strike, and he was real happy about it. According to Mr. Bryce, the union was confident that Macedonia was just the tip of the iceberg. The problem, according to Mr. Bryce, was that they had started too far south. Dalton was the wrong place to expect progress, he said. He talked on and on, Mr. Bryce did. As he talked, my eyes caught the big front door of the mill opening. Mr. Shank came through that door and stood on the top step, his eyes shooting over the line of men and women on the sidewalk and coming to rest on Mr. Bryce. I hadn’t seen Mr. Shank so very many times, but when I had, he’d been stiff and cold, in fancy clothes. Today, though, he wasn’t wearing a coat, and his face was pink and angry. There was kind of a ripple in the crowd at his appearance, and all the folks stopped talking. The only person who didn’t notice him was Mr. Bryce, who was still going on about the tip of the iceberg.

  Suddenly Mr. Shank yelled, “You people are damned fools! You’re damned fools if you listen to a Communist agitator!” He swiped his hand in the direction of Mr. Bryce. “You want to pay for his supper with your hard-earned money? You want to throw away your paycheck on a bunch of Reds? We’ve got a good American shop here; I kept you working all through this Depression, and here you are turning on me. I kept you fed, I kept your children—”

  Mr. Bryce was paying attention now. He swung around to face Mr. Shank. “I am not a Communist!” he shouted. “I am an American citizen, and I
uphold the rights of all American citizens, including the right to unite!” Somebody near us cheered.

  Mr. Shank was yelling, too. “And let me tell you one other thing—if someone by the name of Romeyn feeds you a line about how you need a union, it doesn’t mean a goddamned thing!” He made a nasty face at Emmett. “This mill and its operation are not their business, and we don’t need any Romeyns here.”

  Two or three things happened then, almost at once. A man booed. Jottie grabbed my hand and stepped backward. Emmett and Mr. Bryce both started yelling, one about free speech and the other about the right to assemble.

  And someone hit Mr. Shank in the face with a peach.

  For one second, everyone froze, breathless, staring at the shocking sight of Mr. Shank with juice and bits of peach dribbling down the side of his face. The whole street was perfectly still. For one second. And then another peach splatted against his shirt.

  “Union! Union!” hollered someone. I saw a white face pressed up against one of the long weaving-room windows, looking out. It wavered, and I knew it belonged to a man standing on someone else’s shoulders so he could see out. “Sit down now for the TWOC!”

  “Dirty cowards!” yelled Mr. Shank, and more fruit flew. “Reds!”

  The door banged open and another man came out. He looked real stern at the line of men and women, and the fruit stopped flying. He didn’t stay there beside Mr. Shank; he marched right down the stairs. Just as I realized that he was heading toward us, I also realized who he was—the man from the parade, Mr. McKubin. All the people parted respectfully to let him by, and he walked right to Jottie. “You all right?” he asked, real grim.

  “Hey, Sol,” she gulped. Her cheeks were pink.

  “You go on home now, Jottie,” he said. “This is no place for you. This is no good.” His eyes flicked over me and then he scowled at Emmett. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, Emmett.”

  “It’s not his fault. We’re going!” said Jottie hurriedly. “Right now!” She yanked on my hand, and I followed, but slow and draggy. I wanted to see what would happen next.

  Mr. McKubin turned to face the crowd. “Now, listen, you-all, that is enough of this ruckus,” he said firmly. “There’s no sense in this kind of thing. Negotiation is what makes sense. Negotiation is the way we’re going to—”

  “You’ve got nothing to say about it, McKubin!” Mr. Shank broke in, real loud. “Sol McKubin does not represent the management of American Everlasting!” he barked. “As of today, he no longer represents the management and may not conclude any negotiations on its behalf!”

  Mr. McKubin looked up at him, frowning, like he didn’t understand.

  “I will have a word with you in my office, McKubin!” Mr. Shank bellowed. His face was redder than ever, and his eyes were glittering. I’d never seen anyone seethe before, but that’s what he was doing. “My office!” He flicked some peach from his shirt, pulled open the door, and stalked inside.

  There was a pause. Everyone looked at Mr. McKubin, and he looked at the door. Then he blinked and kind of shook himself and took a step after Mr. Shank. The men nearest him patted him on the shoulder as he went, but he didn’t seem to notice. Emmett put out a hand like he wanted to stop him, but then he took it back and stood, crestfallen, beside Jottie, watching him go.

  When Mr. McKubin got to the top of the steps, he looked back, right at Jottie. She stood up real straight and waved to him. He nodded and went inside.

  Everyone held still for a moment. Then Emmett let out a long breath.

  “Well, I’ll be goddamned,” said Mr. Bryce. “Think that’s the end of him?”

  “We’ll be going now,” said Jottie real quick, and she grabbed my arm and frog-marched me right out of that place.

  Well! I thought, as Jottie rushed me home, I had finally witnessed a dramatic episode! And we Romeyns had certainly been at the center of it. But what exactly had happened, I couldn’t say. What had Mr. Shank meant? What had he called Mr. McKubin into his office for? Mr. Bryce had said it was the end of him—but how could that be?

  “Jottie?” I asked—or gasped, really, because of how fast we were walking. “What happened?”

  Jottie groaned. “We just lost Sol McKubin his job.” She looked positively miserable, so I didn’t ask any more.

  It wasn’t until the next day I read in the Macedonia Sun that Mr. Shank had fired Mr. McKubin for “colluding with the union.”

  37

  Cresting the hill, Layla stopped to gaze at the dispiriting prospect before her. Zackquill Avenue was long, dilapidated, and featureless, its houses perched like molting birds high on either side of the street. She sighed. A strike was pulsing in the center of town, and she was on Zackquill Avenue. She had promised Felix. As a reward for her docility, she permitted herself to revisit his secret fingertips, brushing lightly along the back of her leg the night before. Right in front of everyone, too, but they hadn’t noticed. They’d chewed their conversational cud, oblivious to the torrent of heat pouring from her body, streaming out over the porch, flooding across the grass, the yard, the street—

  Layla gave herself a little shake and glanced down at Warriors of Western Virginia. “Generals John B. Imboden and William E. Jones harassed Macedonia throughout the winter and spring of 1863, raiding the town and the surrounding region for supplies and burning the homes of known Federal loyalists. Though Pace records that these guerrilla troops beat a tactical retreat to Mount Edwards when Union forces under General Benjamin Roberts showed themselves in the town, other sources suggest that the raiders went to ground in Macedonia itself. Lieutenant Calvin Rylands (CSA) later noted ‘a cozy winter bivouacking on Zackquill Avenue, with a most gracious hostess, Mrs. Kerns.’ ”

  Cozy? Layla scanned the glum dirt yards and listless houses for a shred of coziness. It was probably a fool’s errand, anyway. What did she expect to see? Imboden’s handprint on the side of the house? She frowned at her great expectations. Delusions of grandeur, meet Zackquill Avenue, she thought, and sighed again.

  A single bolt of color jerked her eyes upward. High above the street, a red-haired woman in a violent purple kimono leaned over a porch rail, watching her avidly. As Layla affected ignorance, the woman reached a businesslike hand inside her kimono, scooped her enormous breasts upward, and rewrapped herself more securely, all without interrupting her scrutiny of Layla.

  Well, really! Layla thought, insulted by the professionalism of the interest. She’s got some nerve! A cheap floozy like her, giving me the once-over?

  A deafening wolf whistle erupted above her. “Oo-whoo, baby!” sang a falsetto, followed by more whistles. She turned to find the source and saw a band of young men splayed over a sagging porch.

  “Oo-ooh, lookit her! Wanna come up, honey? We’re good company!” they caroled together, grinning appreciatively at themselves, plucking at their undershirts.

  Layla lifted her chin and stepped briskly across the street, at once ignoring them and watching for them at the edges of her vision.

  “Now, miss”—one of them had jumped down to the sidewalk, blocking her path—“you oughta be more friendly.” He ran his eyes over her insolently. “You know?”

  Before Layla could respond, a deep voice rumbled from the house above: “You leave her alone, Bobby, you little shitbird, or I’ll tell Mavis you’re chasing tail behind her back.” It was the woman in the kimono.

  “Shut your pan, Della. This here’s my new girlfriend,” Bobby yelled. He slid closer to Layla, and she flinched a little at the smell. He grinned, sensing weakness.

  “Yeah-huh,” snorted the big woman. “Don’t look like she likes you much.” She considered Layla. “You want to come up here, girl?”

  For a moment, she hesitated. Then Bobby leered, “Didn’t know you were that type of gal. How much you asking?” Layla turned haughtily on her heel and climbed the mangled stairs to Della’s porch, taking a bit of vengeful pleasure in imagining her father’s face if he could see her current predicament. Wasn’
t this all your brilliant idea? she needled him. But now she had arrived at the porch and Della.

  Layla dropped her eyes. “Thanks,” she said.

  “Yeah.” Della nodded. “He’ll go pretty soon. He’s a twerp.” She ran her small white hand over the purple effusion of her kimono. “I’m-a get dressed. Be back in a sec.”

  Layla waited, shifting on her feet. There were no chairs on the splintering porch, no signs of ease, nothing. Well, what do you expect? she asked herself. It’s a whorehouse. People don’t exactly come here to sit on the porch. She glanced at the tattered screen door. She’d always assumed these places would be a bit luxurious—tawdry luxury, to be sure, but still luxury. Garish silken sofas, for instance. Frayed garish silken sofas. A sidelong glance through the screen door revealed a hallway bare except for an umbrella stand and a small mirror, hanging crooked on the pale wall. Circlets of dust lay limp in the corners. As Layla leaned forward for a closer look, someone inside yawned, a slow, stretchy, intimate yawn, and she drew back hastily.

  Della’s return was announced by a cloud of Jungle Gardenia. She wore a flowered dress that followed the flesh of her body closely until it blossomed over her enormous chest. Her lips were a red surprise in the white-powder O of her face, but she was irretrievably pretty. She gave Layla a short nod and thumped over to the porch railing. “He’s still there.” A pause. “You want some ice-tea?”

  Inside a whorehouse? Layla was mustering a dignified refusal when she noticed Della’s guarded expression and felt an unexpected prickle of shame. “That would be nice, thanks. I’m just about parched.”

  Della’s smile was quick and surprised. “Well! Come on in, take a load off!”

  Layla followed her down the nondescript hallway into a dreary kitchen. There, Della moved from a peeling icebox to a peeling cupboard and set their bounty on a peeling table. “Have a seat,” she said, sitting heavily herself. Layla perched on a worn chair and took an experimental sip of sin-steeped tea. It was good. “So,” said Della. “What-cha doing here?”