by C. E. Murphy
REDEEMER
ISBN-13: 978-1-61317-143-1
Copyright © by 2018 by C.E. Murphy
All Rights Reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author, [email protected].
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Editor: Mary-Theresa Hussey / goodstorieswelltold.com
Copy Editor: Richard Shealy / sffcopyediting.com
Cover Design: Tara O'Shea / fringe-element.net
Cover Artist: Lindsey Look / lindseylook.com
Book Design: The Barbarienne's Den
For Harry Turtledove
who for some inexplicable reason liked my tweet :)
(also because WW2 alternate histories are totally his domain)
ONE
The punch clock bit holes in Rosie's time card with a satisfying ka-chunk. Another week's work done and another thirty-one dollars, forty-seven cents to tuck into the bank. Another Friday night to spend a little, maybe dinner at Big Bob's Diner to celebrate the work week ending. Rosie's stomach rumbled, notification of a good appetite after a day's work. But if it was just a burger and shake, and not a movie afterward, that only made sense. Men were coming back from the European theater. Theater, as if they'd been out for an evening's entertainment instead of being sent away for months and years to fight and die for their countries. Anyways, they were coming back and that meant they'd need work. That meant Rosie wouldn't be a riveter anymore, so she skipped the movies and saved a few more pennies toward the future. Toward college and an education so she could hang on to her hard-earned independence, the way she'd promised herself she would.
Somebody jostled her from behind. "Hey, Rosie, c'mon, either punch in for overtime or get out of the way! I got a letter from my Donny last night, he's coming home in a month, so I only got four Fridays left till I'm somebody's girl again. I gotta make the most of 'em!"
A wolf-whistle and raucous laughter punctuated by applause split the air. Rosie shifted away from the punch clock and waved her time card in the air. "Another day, another dollar—"
"—now let's go and make 'em holler!" A dozen women shouted back at her as they all clocked out at once, the hulking black clock's minute hand clicking loudly over the bite of its chunky teeth. Then a mass of girls headed down the echoing hall, their voices bouncing off steel walls and shaking the bare bulbs that dangled to provide light. Rosie swept along with them, elbowing back when she got elbowed, smiling, helping tug gray coveralls off slim shoulders. Men wore their slacks and button-downs beneath those coveralls, but the girls were a rush of dungarees and nipped plaid shirts by the time they reached the break room they'd converted into a changing area.
Household mirrors lined its walls. Rows of metal clothes racks, welded by women who'd just learned the skill, bore dresses and high-heeled shoes looped over wooden hangers. The room was crowded already, women pouring in from all over the factory. Big girls, little girls, girls younger than Rosie's twenty-two years, and older women, mothers and grandmothers, in their thirties and forties and even fifties. Rosie loved them, especially the older women. She'd been working since the war began, and it was all she knew. To start work in a factory at forty-five, take a job after being a mother and living through the Great War, to have that initiative and willingness to change: Rosie wanted to be like them someday. Bold and beautiful, because the riveters—whatever their actual job—all seemed beautiful to Rosie.
"Rosie, what is it, you've got lead in your pants today? Scoot!" Someone from the punch clock line nudged her out of the way and fell into a gossiping group as Rosie stepped aside. "I, for one, can't wait until the boys get home. I mean, look at my fingernails. Is that worth thirty dollars a week? No, I don't think it is. And my hair. I had to cut it, even pin curls take too long. All I want to do is marry some handsome soldier, have some babies and never work again." The rest of her litany was muffled as she squirmed into a dress, but others took up the conversation, part-complaining and part-happy.
"Seems like half the plant's already quit. I've been on double shifts all week."
"I turned down Carol Ann's shift last night. Did you know her husband is back? She just up and left three days ago."
"And before that it was Ruby!"
"I'm still here!" a woman protested, and the first girl laughed.
"No, the other Ruby. The machinist. She left last week, and I didn't even know she was married. Funny the things we know about each other and the things we don't. I mean, I know you stuff your bra with tissues, Ethel—"
"I do not!" Outrage broke above the rest of the babble, then shifted into false dignity: "I stuff it with cotton batting."
More laughter swept the aisles. Rosie slipped between racks, searching for her own dress. It suddenly popped out from a rack like it'd taken on a life of its own, green pinstripes folded in on themselves so it looked tiny. Rosie took it, then ducked to look through the remaining outfits on the bar to find her roommate smiling at her. "Irene. Thank goodness. I thought maybe my clothes had come to life." She toed her work shoes off and shrugged her coveralls off before slipping the dress on.
Irene's smile widened before the dresses fell back into place as she began pulling her own dress on. Her voice carried over the top of the rack, bright and tangy with a Brooklyn accent. "Did you hear Carol Ann's husband is back? She quit Tuesday. And I just heard Jean-Marie's gone too, as of last night. I tell you what, Rosie, if I was any of them I wouldn't have gone running home to my husband, not if that sheik they've hired was my new supe. Have you seen him? His name's Johnny," Irene went on without waiting for an answer. "Back from Europe since March, he got his hip shot up and has a limp. But he's swell, Ro, you should see him. All pale and convalescent, with haunting dark eyes. Working the night shift. They say it's so he doesn't have to face so many people at once, but I think it's because the girls are friendlier at night. Even Carol Ann was stuck on him, and her married, it turns out! Shame, shame, Mrs McKay!"
Rosie flattened her hands against her stomach, smoothing faint wrinkles from the fabric, then frowned over the clothes rack at Irene. "Carol Ann McKay?"
"Sure, honey. Do you know any other Carol Anns working here?"
"No, but Carol Ann McKay isn't married."
Irene pushed the racked dresses apart again, peering through them at Rosie. "Are you sure? Say, you look swell, Ro. The green really suits you. Is Rich home? He'll be a happy man to see his girl looking so good."
A cold pang ran through Rosie's belly, cutting off any hint of hunger. She felt like the girl whose Donny was coming home soon: glad he got to come home safe but like it meant she only had a little time left as a free woman. "Not yet, no, he isn't. And you know how things are there. Anyways, yes, I'm sure Carol Ann's not married. I've known her since I was twelve. McKay's her maiden name."
"I know how things are there," Irene muttered. "But does Rich?" She stepped through the racks, pulling her shoes on as she came, and spun a quick circle to send her skirt flaring. "Do I look swanky, hon?"
Rosie glanced up, then looked again, a smile blossoming. Irene wore green too: a full-skirted swing dress in silk rayon with white accents. "You're beautiful. Got a hot date tonight?"
"I hope so. I'm going to the USO homecoming. Planning to meet me an officer."
Dismay creased Rosie's forehead. "Not you too, 'Rene."
Irene shrugged and spun again, making both her skirt and her hair flare. She had real beauty, not just strong and confident from working with machines and doing a man's job all day. H
er auburn hair couldn't be gotten from a salon, though a lot of girls tried, and her fair skin didn't have a freckle on it. "What else am I going to do? The men will need the jobs."
"Go to Hollywood," Rosie said, only half-kidding. "Be in the pictures."
Irene rolled her eyes. "The things you say, hon. But the USO's closer and a sure thing. Won't you come along? It'll be fun. Might as well enjoy it before Rich gets home, right?"
Rosie pursed her lips and glanced at her own cotton shirt-dress. "I'm not dressed for it. And I've been sweating all day."
"We've all been sweating," Irene argued. "You look pretty as a picture, and we can stop at home on the way for a spit bath. Come on, say yes."
"Oh, all right. Just so I can watch the officers fight over you." Rosie tucked her coveralls under her arm, glad that Friday meant she could scrub them and let them dry over the weekend. "Are you ready?" They joined the flow of girls heading outside, bits of gossip passing over them and Rosie adding her piece as their heels clacked against concrete floors. "Did you say Jean-Marie quit too? That's strange. I saw her yesterday, she didn't say anything about leaving."
"Maybe her fella came home last night."
"No, she doesn't have one. Jean-Marie has never gone with anybody. It's just her and Ruby all the time, thick as thieves, ever since high school. I know for a fact three boys asked Ruby to prom and she went with Jean anyways because Jean didn't have a date."
Irene rolled her eyes again, though she smiled. "You just know everyone, don't you, hon? Small-town girl."
"Detroit's not that small."
"It is compared to New York!"
Rosie laughed. "What isn't, compared to New York? Anyways, you're the one who came out here to work."
"Well, sure, hon, I was seventeen and Mama told me to marry Danny O'Brien or get out. She had it all set up, but he was bad news, Rosie, he really was. I knew a couple of the girls he went steady with. Nobody walks into doors that often, you know? So I got on the train and came out here where I knew I'd get work. Mama still hasn't forgiven me."
"See? You know the girls you grew up with, I know the ones I did, that's all. Maybe everywhere's a small town. Wait." Rosie scanned the women around them, looking for the one who'd spread the other piece of gossip she'd heard. "Someone said Ruby quit too, machinist-Ruby, that they didn't know she was married either. But that's Jean-Marie's Ruby. They both quit?"
"Sure, I guess so. Why, is that so strange?"
"No, I just thought they … " That they were like her. Wanting to work. Liking the job, the independence, being new women for a new era. But she'd thought Irene felt that way too, and it looked like she'd gotten that wrong too. "Look, Rene, I think I'm going to stop by Jean and Ruby's place and see what the story is. I'll meet you at the USO later."
"Sure you won't." Irene lifted her hand to shield her eyes as they stepped outside into late-afternoon sunlight reflecting hard off the factory's walls. Heat rose in shimmering waves off the asphalt, and all the girls heading for town faltered. Irene gasped and fanned herself. "Gosh, and I thought it was hot in the factory. We're both going to need to wash up before we go to the USO, and I know you, Rosie Ransom. If I let you go see Jean and Ruby alone you'll never get to the dance. So we'll go there and then home for a sponge bath and then to the party. Jeez but it's hot! I'm catching the tram and hang the expense. If I walk my dress will melt right off."
"That'll get you an officer for sure." Rosie laughed and skipped out of reach as Irene threatened her with a fist, but neither tried harder than that in the muggy air. "The tram will be stifling too, Rene. And it'll smell worse than we do."
"Faster, though. Besides, doesn't it go right by Jean's place?"
"Is there anywhere the tram doesn't go straight by?" Rosie asked dryly, but Irene waved her off.
"Well, that's one of the things I think is swell about Detroit, honey, there's hardly even a side street you have to walk down, you can always take the tram. We'll kill two birds with one stone, stop by Ruby and Jean's and wash up there too. Maybe they'll want to go out with us. I'm getting ice cream at the diner, never mind what it'll do to my figure. It's too hot to care!" Irene rattled on cheerfully as they made their way onto the wooden trolley with dozens of others. Mostly young women excited for their evening out, but their exuberance made the quieter ones, the older women, that much more noticeable to Rosie. It would be so much harder to work a long day at the plant only to go home and feed, bathe and entertain children for the few hours before bedtime. If she and Rich had gotten married before he shipped out, she might have had a four-year-old to go home to herself.
"Lucky for a million reasons," she said under her breath, and Irene gave her a sharp look.
"You're thinking about Rich again? Don't lie, I know you are. You get a certain look, hon. You can't dump him, Ro, you're what he's coming home for. Besides, you won't be able to keep on at the factory. What will you do if you don't get married? Be a secretary? You'd be bored. At least babies keep you fit."
Rosie flexed her arms instinctively, feeling the hemmed sleeves tighten around muscle. Irene had remained petite, but lifting a riveting gun, leaning in for a punch of steel, had all left a mark on Rosie's physique. She'd lost weight, too, her middle whittling as her shoulders got broader, and the boxy fashions with their tucked waists gave her an appealing figure. She'd been a bit soft, coming out of high school. Rich hadn't minded. Neither had Rosie, not until she got strong. The idea of going back—and babies wouldn't keep her as fit as riveting did—made her nose wrinkle. "Well, I wasn't going to write him a Dear John letter, was I? I just want to get to know him again, Rene. It's been years. I've changed. I'm sure he's changed. What if we haven't changed the same ways?"
Irene sighed loudly enough to be heard over the general clamor and elbowed Rosie's ribs. "You should be glad you've got a man, Ro. At least you won't be out there with the rest of us, trying to find one. It'll be easier for you."
Easier. As if giving up her independence could be considered a relief. But so many of the girls she knew thought that way, sometimes it made Rosie wonder if she was wrong to want more, to want an education and employment of her own even after the war. She sure hadn't told much of anybody about her dreams, not knowing the looks and the comments she'd get, even from Irene. Maybe it would be easier and more comfortable to be a wife and mother instead of a steelworker and wage-earner, but she just couldn't see it. "If it works out. Anyways, you'll like him, Rene, you really will, so don't let that officer you're going to catch take you too far away. Come on, now. The next stop is Jean's house."
They pushed through packed-in girls to the front of the tram, waved a good-bye to friends, and together staggered into the shade of Jean's tree-lined street. "Maybe Jean didn't quit," Irene wheezed. "Maybe it was just too hot to come to work today. Jeez! I wish I had a tub of ice to sleep in!"
"It'll be cooled off some by the time you get to sleep anyways." They hugged the shade as best they could, grateful to turn down Jean's short driveway a few minutes later. Jean's car sat there, a big 1941 Oldsmobile she'd paid a whopping $545 for. Its green paint gleamed even though most everything else seemed to have a thin coat of dust, and the heavy steel body gave off heat waves of its own. The windows were both rolled down, safe enough with the dry spell, and probably keeping Jean from roasting like a chicken the moment she sat in the car. Rosie envied her the big beast of a vehicle, but not quite enough to have bought one of her own. Rich would want a car when he got home, but having two would be silly when only one of them would be going to work. And that would be five hundred dollars she hadn't saved, five hundred dollars that wasn't money all of her own. That money would pay for a whole year of college. Too much, no matter how tempting the Oldsmobile, or even cheaper vehicles, might be.
"Come on, you silly goose." Irene climbed the steps to the front door, knocking vigorously while Rosie lingered over the car. Jean owned the house, too, like she owned the car, more independent than even Rosie. Jean's father held the deed, of cou
rse, because Jean could never get a mortgage herself, not without a husband, but the white-painted siding and yellow trim and everything within belonged to Jean. Rosie envied that, too, and wondered what Rich would think if he came home to a girl who'd bought a house of her own.
No point in worrying about it just now. Rosie hurried up to the porch as Irene called, "Come on, Jean, we're cooking out here! Invite us in for some lemonade!" Irene tried the knob, found it unlocked, and pushed the door open to stick her head in and shout, "Jean? Ruby? It's Irene and Rosie! We're going to the USO, you should come with us, it'll be swell! Jeez, where are those girls?"
"Maybe if they quit they went off for a weekend holiday to celebrate." Rosie cast a dubious glance at the car, then at the open door. "Only Ruby doesn't have a car for them to take, and they left the door unlocked … " She edged inside, meeting a breeze from a fan hidden behind the door. Sagging with relief, she came all the way in to a smart living room, furniture and carpets so new they had no signs of wear. "Whew, it's cooler in here, at least. Jean? Jean-Marie? Ruby?"
"I'm right here." Jean-Marie came into the living room with unsteady steps. Rosie let out a breath of relief, and Irene, just behind Rosie, launched into a good-natured scold. "Gosh, Jean, didn't you hear us shouting? We were getting worried! Sorry to barge in and all, but the door was open and—"
She kept going, but a similar scold caught in Rosie's throat as she took in Jean's red-rimmed brown eyes and faint white streaks on her cheeks. She had always been big and strong, even before the factory jobs came along, but she looked thinner now, and not in a good way. Like the life had gone out of her. Like the soul had gone away. Her healthy summer tan had sallowed, and her nose, like her eyes, shone red. "Hey," Rosie said underneath Irene's chiding, "hey, hey, hey, Jean, Jean, Jeannie, what's wrong?"
"Ruby," Jean said, and tears came. Not deep sobs, but restrained, reserved silver sliding down her face, the only breach in a facade of calm. "Ruby is dead."