Bonnie held on to her purse tightly and nodded to the sergeant, forcing a smile. “Thank you so much, Sergeant. I appreciate your kindness.”
“He’s a nice young fellow. Just off on the wrong foot, I guess.” He studied her carefully and curiosity got the best of him. “Your man, is he?”
“No,” Bonnie said quickly. “He’s my man-in-law, more or less.”
“Ah, well, there he is, Miss.” The sergeant grinned broadly and said, “Well, Stuart, I hope you feel properly ashamed of yourself, forcing this lady to come down and take you home in that condition!”
Jerry looked awful. He evidently had not changed his clothes in some time, and at some point he had spilled food all over the front of his shirt. It was stiff and dried now, and he ducked his head as he stared down at it. When he lifted his eyes, Bonnie saw that they were sunk back in his head and that he was a pasty color. At once, she felt a strange mixture of anger and pity. “Come along,” she said quietly. “I’ll take you home.”
Jerry, without a word, followed her to the car. His hand fumbled at the door, then he collapsed into the seat and pulled the door shut. His hands were trembling and his mouth was as dry as ashes. Worse than the nausea that he could not seem to rid himself of was the feeling of disgust with himself—that Bonnie would have to see him like this. He’d given her name reluctantly. She was the only one he could think of who would make bail for him. “Thanks . . . for getting me out,” he mumbled.
Bonnie gave him a quick look, then put her eyes back on the traffic. As she threaded her way down the street, she said, “You look terrible. How do you feel?”
“Worse than I look.”
“There’s nobody at home. You can go in and get cleaned up without being seen,” she said curtly.
There was no other talk as she drove home. She wanted to pour recriminations on his head, but her better judgment told her that this was not the right time for that. He sat silently in the car, his head down, his hands clasped loosely in his lap. There’s something so–so pathetic about him, Bonnie thought. Jerry was usually so neatly dressed and cheerful, his eyes bright, and he was always excited about something. Now everything had been drained out of him. He looked like a bum who had just stumbled into one of the mission houses that the Salvation Army maintained in Chicago. Bonnie had lived in Chicago and had seen many men like this. It frightened her that the emptiness of his eyes might never change.
They pulled up to the front of the house and when they entered, she said, “There’re plenty of towels and soap. Why don’t you bathe and shave, and I’ll fix you something to eat.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“You need something. When’s the last time you ate?”
“I’ve been drinking my lunch for the past couple of days,” he said bluntly. She looked at his eyes and there was a desert of pain in them. He stood there almost helplessly and suddenly Bonnie felt a strong maternal instinct, as foolish as that was.
She said quietly, “Go get cleaned up. I’ll fix you something—then we’ll talk.”
Thirty-five minutes later, they were seated at the kitchen table. Jerry’s hands were still unsteady as he handled the fork and tentatively took a bite of the scrambled eggs. He looked better—at least he was wearing decent clothes, a pair of dark blue slacks and a white shirt. But there was still such unhappiness in his face that he did not need to speak of it.
But after a while, Bonnie said, “Jerry, you can’t go on like this. You’re killing yourself.”
He chewed thoughtfully and swallowed and shook his head. “Don’t ever try to reason with a drunk, Bonnie.”
“You are not a drunk!”
A small trace of humor lifted the corners of Jerry’s mouth. “I give a pretty good imitation of one.”
“No, that’s not right. You’re not a drunk,” she insisted firmly. “You just try to hide from your problems by drinking.”
“Sure, that’s what drunks do. People that have backbones face them.”
“Jerry, you’ve got to face up to Cara’s death. It wasn’t your fault. We’ve talked about this before.”
Jerry put his fork down. He leaned forward suddenly and put his face in his hands. Gritting his teeth, he tried to stop the waves of grief that rolled suddenly to overwhelm him. He had not learned to control this. Time and again, he had purposed to put Cara behind him, but at times, her face would come back and the sound of her voice and the touch of her skin. And then loss like a vast, empty desert would envelope him. “I–I can’t help it,” he whispered. He hated himself for the tears that came to his eyes as he struggled for control.
Bonnie suddenly rose and went to stand behind him. She put her arms around him, hugging him. He had washed his hair, which smelled sweet and clean, and she held him, whispering, “It’s all right, Jerry. It’s all right to cry.”
The words seemed to open a floodgate. His shoulders shook, and he suddenly could not keep the tears back. Without thought, he stood and turned to her and she put her arms around him and held him like she would a child. He was a full-grown, strong man, but there was something helpless and vulnerable about him at this time. Great sobs racked his body and she held him, murmuring sweet terms, meaningless and comforting. For a long time it seemed, he stood there. Again, he took a deep breath and pulled back.
“I guess by now I should be over this.”
She looked up into his eyes and saw that they were clearer. Pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, she wiped his tears away and said, “It’s no crime for a man to cry. You need to cry sometimes to wash things away. You’ve never had a loss before like this,” she said. “Jerry, God’s going to take care of you.”
The words seemed to strike Jerry. He looked at her strangely and then down at the floor. When he lifted his eyes, solemnly he said, “It looks like he’s going to have to. I’ve done a sorry job of it myself.”
A hope came to Bonnie and she said, “You’ll see. Now, you have a picture to finish.”
NO EXIT
The summer of 1932 would be remembered by many as one of the most sizzling in memory. In Washington, D.C., as Amos Stuart moved along the jumble of tents he saw women and children almost exhausted from the heat poured down by the merciless, pale sun. A sense of despair gripped him when he saw shrunken cheeks of men who had sought work without success. These were men who had fought for the liberties of their country in the Great War but now had become beggars. The camp that he picked his way through was a shantytown located on the Anacostia Flats, just outside of Washington. The hobo settlements under bridges had been called Hoovervilles, and this was a big-scale Hooverville. It occupied some vacant land, with out-of-use buildings scattered around, on Pennsylvania Avenue just below the Capitol. Amos had been back and forth to Washington since June, watching thousands straggle into the nation’s capital. Looking around, he made an estimate in his mind. There must be fifteen or twenty thousand men here and no telling how many women and children.
The ragtag group made up what they themselves called the Bonus Expeditionary Force. They had come to Washington to petition Congress for prepayment of a bonus for their wartime service. It was not legally due to be paid until 1945, but men with hungry families become desperate, and the veterans had accumulated, causing great alarm among officials.
Amos had interviewed many of the lean men who inhabited the camp. Hearst had sent him to Washington to get the inside story, and Amos had been sickened by it all. His sympathy was with the marchers. They were Americans, all having offered their lives for their country, but now they had become the enemy. Many of the government officials, stirred with alarm, had sent out frantic calls to the White House to do something about the “army.”
Amos saw that there was an unusual restlessness in the men. He stopped to ask one tall, lean individual with a hardbitten face, “What’s happening?”
The veteran looked at him bitterly. “What’s happening is that we’re about to get hit by the American army.”
Staring at the
man incredulously, Amos shook his head. “Nothing like that’s going to happen.”
The veteran gave him a hard look. “What world are you living in, Mister? You think those cavalry troops are coming to give us a steak dinner?” He raised his hand toward the lines of United States cavalry that were forming to the east of the camp.
Amos swallowed hard. “They’re just to keep order. They won’t harm you. What’s your name?”
“Gerald Hansard.”
“Where are you from, Mr. Hansard?”
“Missouri.” The light blue eyes of the veteran were as hard as agates. He looked at the flag that was waving over the troops of infantry that were forming on the western side of the camp. “That flag means nothing to me, Mister. I fought for it, took lead in this leg in France—and this is what it’s got me!”
Amos shook his head. “It’s not that bad, Mr. Hansard. But it might be just as well if you dispersed and went home. I don’t think you’re going to hurry the government up.”
Hansard closed his lips and a rigid quality seized his figure. “I might as well starve here as back in Missouri,” he spat out bitterly.
Amos stared after the man, who turned and walked away to stand by a woman wearing a faded gingham dress holding a child no more than a year old. Amos was shocked and appalled by the poverty and helplessness of the so-called army that now was staring with apprehension at the infantry and the cavalry that were flanking them.
He made his way toward the edge of the camp, where he was stopped by a muscular sergeant. The soldier had his campaign hat pulled down over his eyes, and there was a truculent expression in his face. “Move off to one side, Mister—unless you’re one of that army over there.”
“What’s going on, Sergeant?” Amos asked. At the same time, he looked up and saw two officers arrive in a staff car. His eyes narrowed, for he recognized one of them. A straight-backed man wearing jodhpurs, knee-high riding boots, and four stars got out of the car, followed by a major. “Isn’t that General MacArthur?” he asked the sergeant.
The sergeant glanced over his shoulder abruptly and grunted. “Yes.” He threw his glance down the line of infantry and whispered hoarsely, “Straighten up, men! The general’s here.”
Amos had never met MacArthur personally but knew that he was the premier officer in the United States Army. His very presence here indicated that the tension in the White House had become intense. Amos Stuart had an instinct for events—an innate sense that other people did not have. It alerted him like an alarm bell when something unusual was brewing on the political scene. Now he moved back, on the order of the sergeant, but kept as close as he could to the action. This could be bad—it would just take one incident to set the whole thing off.
Later that afternoon, somebody threw a brick and there was a scuffle between the veterans and the police. Two hours later, there was more serious trouble as a police officer pulled his gun and began shooting. Two veterans were killed before the police stopped shooting.
Amos moved over to where one of the men was lying and saw that it was Gerald Hansard. The tall man lay with his eyes open but sightless while his wife lay across his chest weeping. The baby was held by another plainly dressed woman whose eyes were filled with grief.
Amos moved away, unable to bear the sight. He had a great love for America, but little for bureaucracy—especially a demonstration such as he had seen. An hour later when an impressive parade came down Pennsylvania Avenue, alarm bells again began to ring inside his head. Four troops of cavalry, four companies of infantry, a machine gun squadron, and several tanks advanced steadily. As they approached the disputed area, the crowd began crying aloud at them. Then suddenly, there was chaos!
Amos could not believe what he saw. The cavalry charged into the crowd, scattering them, and Amos saw one young girl of ten or eleven knocked to the ground by one of the horses. The infantry fired tear gas bombs, and women and children were soon choking from the gas. The troops moved on, scattering everything before them. When they reached the end of the Anacostia Bridge, they met a crowd of spectators who booed them, and they threw more gas bombs at these.
Amos moved quickly to a woman’s side. “Come along,” he urged. “This is going to get worse.” Even as he spoke, the troops moved in and began burning the shacks in the camp. It was growing dark now, and soon the sky over Washington glowed with the fire. Amos stayed close, filing it all in his mind. Even after midnight, the troops were covering the territory with bayonets and tear gas bombs, driving the people like helpless cattle.
Amos never forgot that night—nor did he forget the interview with two officers the next morning. He was only one of a group of reporters who met with General Douglas MacArthur, who gave the official justification for the military action. MacArthur faced them, his lips thin and his eyes cold. He read a prepared statement in a clipped, even tone: “The veterans were a mob, animated by the essence of revolution. They were about to seize control of the government.”
Amos glanced at Major Dwight Eisenhower who was standing off to one side listening carefully. An involuntary negative shake of the officer’s head caught Amos’s attention. He saw that Eisenhower’s lips were thin and that he was angry. Eisenhower’s against all of this, he thought. But who’s going to challenge MacArthur?
Suddenly, Amos spoke up and said, “I hardly think a few thousand civilians including women and children stood much chance of taking over the government, General.”
MacArthur turned his gaze on Amos. “Which newspaper are you with?” he rapped out abruptly.
“The Hearst newspapers, General. I’m Amos Stuart.”
The name obviously meant something to MacArthur, but he refused to bend. His back was straight as a ramrod as he said, “The army will restore order under any and all conditions, Mr. Stuart. That is our duty.”
MacArthur wheeled around and walked away. Eisenhower cast one look over the reporters, gave a shrug of his shoulders, and followed him. Amos turned away sick at heart. In his mind the first sentence of his article on the Bonus Army formed: It is a sad day for America when the veterans of the country are butchered by the armed forces—whose duty it is to repel enemy attacks from without, not slaughter civilian citizens.
Amos left Washington after sending his story off to Hearst. He noticed with a wry bitterness two days later, when another reporter’s story appeared in the newspaper, William Randolph Hearst had decided to take the side of the military. MacArthur was presented as a noble soldier doing his duty.
Amos spoke to his boss on the phone and Hearst said, “You’ve been working too hard, Amos. Take a break! Go to New York or get back to Chicago. I’ve got things for you to do.”
Amos wearily returned to Chicago, where he did not work at all but went to baseball games. He went to one game that pitted the Chicago Cubs against the New York Yankees. Amos was not a baseball fan, but it was a welcome relief from the problems of the nation to go out and sit in the bleachers, eat hot dogs and peanuts, and drink a cold soda, while the gladiators on the emerald green field went through their paces. He kept his eyes, mostly as everyone else did, on George Herman “Babe” Ruth. Ruth was a slum kid from Baltimore with a giant torso, spindly legs, and the ability to knock a ball farther than any man ever had. He had set many records during his career. In 1927, he had slammed sixty home runs that had set a record that seemed forever unbreakable.
After the game, Amos interviewed the ballplayer and found him to be a simple man, profane and full of gusty life. Instead of talking about baseball, Amos asked him, “You made eighty thousand dollars last year, Mr. Ruth? That salary’s higher than President Hoover’s.”
Ruth was eating a hot dog, which he consumed in two bites. A crafty light came into his eye and he grinned broadly. “Well,” he said, after a moment’s meditation, “I had a better year.”
Amos went home to find Rose with a worried look on her face.
“I just got a call from Gavin,” she said. “It’s Jerry.”
“Is he hur
t?”
“No, but he almost crashed. You better call Gavin—he’ll give you details.”
At once, Amos picked up the phone and in a few minutes was speaking to his brother. “What’s this about Jerry?” he demanded.
“He’s all right,” Gavin said quickly. “But he nearly had a bad accident. A lot of people think he was drinking.”
“What do you think?”
There was a hesitation on the phone and Gavin’s voice was cautious as he said, “He says he wasn’t, but he’s been different since it happened. I don’t know what the problem is—or what to think of him.”
“Do you think I’d better fly to Hollywood and talk to him?”
“No—he won’t be flying again until I get it straight in my mind. We’re almost through with the picture, and I’d like for him to finish it. He’s had a bad record of dropping things when they got hard. I’ll watch him, Amos, and I won’t let him fly unless I’m sure.”
“Thanks, Gavin. I’ll get back to you later.”
“Is he all right? Do you think we need to go to him?” Rose asked when he repeated Gavin’s words. Her dark blue eyes were troubled as she came to stand beside him. “What should we do?”
Amos was uncertain. “We’ve been through so much with him,” he said quietly. “For some reason, this time I think he’s got to fight it out himself. I don’t know what happened out there, but we’ve got to pray that God will do a mighty work.”
“Let’s pray now, right now,” Rose said quickly. The two of them immediately knelt in front of the couch. They held hands and prayed aloud, then silently. Finally, they got to their feet and Rose said firmly, “God is doing something with our son, Amos; I feel it in my heart!”
Amos nodded. “I think so, too. I don’t know what it is, but it’s got to be now or never for him!”
Bonnie heard of Jerry’s close brush with disaster from Jesse, who came in from the studio early. He said abruptly, “Jerry almost killed himself today. I don’t know what kept him alive.”
A Season of Dreams Page 25