by Homer Hickam
“Over at Stroopsburg, I guess,” Malcolm replied, his frown deepening. “Why? You need money?”
“No, but I reckon Slick and Huddie do.”
Homer walked to the farmhouse and knocked on the door. A gray-haired woman in a flowery dress and a white apron answered it. “Ma’am, can I borrow your phone?” Homer asked.
The woman looked chagrined. “I’d say yes except it ain’t workin’. Ain’t been workin’ all day.”
When Homer came off the porch, he looked around the corner and saw why the phone wasn’t working. It had been cut down at the last pole. He went back to Malcolm. “The phone line’s been cut.”
“I could’ve told you that. I cut it. I didn’t want nobody warnin’ Stroop about what we’re up to out here.”
Homer went back to see how Elsie was doing and discovered her resting in a camp chair reading a small, thin book. It was The Red Pony and Homer guessed Steinbeck had given it to her. Albert was at her feet, his head flat on the dirt. He looked unhappy. Homer supposed he was still missing the rooster. Homer missed him, too.
“Elsie, listen. I’ve got to take the Buick and do a few things. How’s your head?”
Elsie raised her eyes, then touched the bump just inside her hairline. “I’m fine. Just a scrape.” She looked away and bit her lip. “That thing I said about Buddy out there. I was just mad.”
“I know. I was mad, too. But right now, I’ve got to know something. Do you still want to be a radical? Because if you do, I don’t see how we can keep going to Florida.”
She laid the book down on her lap. “Did you see how those men ran? I’ve done all I can for them. Let’s just pack up and go.”
“I have to do something first. Where’s John? He was supposed to be looking after you.”
“Said he was going to hitch a ride into town. Said he wanted to make some calls. I told him I’d be fine.” Elsie studied him. “You look perplexed,” she concluded.
“That’s because I’m dealing with a perplexing situation.”
Interrupting, Malcolm walked over. “You ready, coal miner? How you doing, Elsie?”
Elsie glared at him. “You ran away out there, Malcolm!”
“To fight another day.”
Elsie looked doubtful. Malcolm took note of the book she was reading. “I thought you were going to read the copy of Das Kapital I gave you.”
“Tried. It’s the boringest book I ever read, bar none.”
“That book has ignited the world!”
Elsie wrinkled her nose. “Then I guess the world must be some pretty dry tinder.”
“Elsie’s probably not going to make a good Communist,” Homer advised Malcolm, “although she’s no great shakes as a capitalist, either.”
“I could be either one if I wanted to be,” Elsie retorted. “In fact, I can be anything I want to be. I just need to figure out what that is. When I do . . .”
“You’ll ignite the world,” Homer finished for her, “and burn it down to the ground.”
Elsie went back to her book. “Go on, do what you have to do,” she said with a wave of her hand.
Homer nodded, feeling as usual a bit helpless in the face of Elsie’s decisiveness, then climbed into the Buick, Malcolm settling in beside him. Homer was surprised when Elsie called out. “Don’t blow yourself up,” she said. “I need you.”
Homer was so pleased by that, he grinned like a schoolboy. “You do?”
“Yes. I need you to take me and Albert to Florida.”
Homer’s grin faded.
Once on the road, Malcolm said, “She has no intention of staying with you, does she?”
“I don’t know,” Homer replied.
“Must be hard living with that every day.”
“If she doesn’t stay with me, I’ll still be thankful for every day she did.”
Malcolm laughed. “God, I wish I could love a dame that much!”
“No you don’t. Now, listen, Malcolm, we’re not going to the mill. We’re going to Stroopsburg. Slick and Huddie mean to rob the bank there.”
“I don’t believe it,” Malcolm scoffed.
“You’ll see,” Homer said.
At Stroopsburg, they found Steinbeck sitting on the stoop of the Western Union office. Beside him sat a homemade cage holding a forlorn fowl. “I bought this rooster,” he said. “Is it yours?”
Homer looked closer, then laughed in delight. “It is! Where’d he come from?”
“I recognized some of the folks from the Hooverville where you found me. When I saw they were trying to sell a rooster, I took a guess it was yours and bought it.”
Homer was glad to see the rooster. “That’s the luckiest rooster I guess there ever was,” he said. “I’ll pay you whatever it cost.”
“It only cost me a nickel,” Steinbeck said.
Homer searched his pockets. There were the bills, nothing smaller than a five, counted out as change for the two fifties, and also the penny he’d robbed from the bank. Figuring he’d gotten all the luck he was likely to get out of it, he handed the penny over. “I owe you four cents. Do you recall seeing Slick and Huddie here?”
Steinbeck stood up, dusting off the seat of his pants. “Can’t say that I have.”
Homer peered up the street. “Where’s the bank?”
“Closed, has been since the first year of the Depression. That’s according to the telegram clerk. I was hoping to cash a check.”
“Guess you were wrong about them,” Malcolm said.
Homer looked at Malcolm. “Where do you think they are?”
“At the mill, of course.”
Steinbeck asked, “Give me a lift back to camp?”
Homer shook his head. “Sorry, John. Malcolm and I have something to do. But Elsie’s reading The Red Pony. Bet she’d like to talk to you about it.”
Steinbeck beamed. “Is she, by God? Well, I’d like to hear what she has to say.” He placed the caged rooster on the back seat of the Buick. “I saw a farmer come into town on his tractor. Maybe he’ll give me a ride.”
Homer wished the author luck and then drove the Buick onto the road that led to the mill. On the way, he said, “You do realize, don’t you, that I’m not going to let you blow up the mill.”
Malcolm stared at him. “Well, I guess that fries it. Are you a fed or state cop?”
“Neither one. I’m just a coal miner like I’ve tried to tell you I don’t know how many times. Where did you tell Slick and Huddie to park the truck?”
“Why should I help you?”
“Because if you don’t, I’m going to stop this car, drag you out into the road and beat you senseless, then run over you.”
“I don’t believe you’d do that,” Malcolm replied. “Part of my training as a union organizer is to recognize a man’s proclivities. You’re not a beater or a runner overer.”
Homer stopped the car and grabbed Malcolm’s shirt at the collar. “You want to test my proclivities?”
“Keep following this road. I’ll tell you where to turn!”
Homer followed his directions to a dirt road that wound through a pine forest until it ended at the rear of the mill. The truck was there but there was no sign of Slick and Huddie. Malcolm looked into the truck bed. “The dynamite’s gone,” he said. “I don’t get it. They were supposed to wait for us.”
“They’re crooks, Malcolm. Whatever they’re doing is for themselves.”
“Well, we can’t go in there until they come back out and tell us where they placed the dynamite.”
“Yes, we can,” Homer said, “and we are. And don’t even think about running. If you do, I’ll break your neck.”
Malcolm reflexively put a hand to his neck, then gulped. Homer pushed him to the fence. The gate was ajar, and a snipped lock lay nearby. “I gave them bolt cutters,” Malcolm explained.
Homer pushed the gate open. “Let’s go.”
The back door of the mill was unlocked and Homer and Malcolm went inside. On the second floor, they peeked through an
open door and saw the mill equipment sitting idle. They climbed the steps to the third floor, which is where they found Stroop contemplating a box of dynamite. Without turning around, he said, “I told you to get out of here. Your job’s done.”
“What are you doing, Mr. Stroop?” Homer asked.
Stroop whirled about. “This is private property. Get out!”
Homer walked to the box of dynamite. A fuse was sticking from one of the charges. Then he noticed the factory owner was holding a box of matches. “I asked you what you were doing?”
Stroop eyed Malcolm. “A damn radical in my mill. Get out!”
Malcolm looked at the dynamite and the matches. “You’re going to blow up your own mill?”
“It’s mine. I can do anything with it I want.”
“But blow it up?”
“I think I know why,” Homer said. “He’s broke. Your strike was the answer to his prayers. So was your dynamite. Blow up the mill, accuse you of it, collect whatever insurance might be on the place, and call it a day. About right, Mr. Stroop? How much did you pay Slick and Huddie to bring you the sticks?”
Stroop looked as if he meant to argue, but then shrugged. “There’s no insurance. I haven’t been able to afford any for a long time. But the mill is a family business, and I couldn’t just close it and walk away. Everybody would think I was a poor businessman. I was going to blame its demise on this Communist.”
“I’m not a Communist,” Malcolm said. “I’m a Democrat Progressive Socialist.”
Homer rolled his eyes, then took the matches away from the mill owner. “What you are doesn’t matter right now, Malcolm. Look, Mr. Stroop, this looks like a nice mill. What would it take to make a profit? Rather than just giving up, have you ever thought about that?”
“Of course I have! My workers would have to take a big cut in pay for about a year. They’d never do that, of course, but if they did, we could probably get on our feet. Especially if we had a half-decent salesman. We actually make good socks.”
Malcolm was astonished. “A cut in pay! My workers need more money, not less!”
“I answered the question honestly, Mr. Stalin,” Stroop replied.
“Stalin? My name’s Malcolm Lee. I’m related to Robert E. Lee. I’m as American as you, you damn fool moneymonger!”
Homer shushed Malcolm. “Have you asked your workers if they’d agree to a pay cut, Mr. Stroop? Maybe they would if you explained the situation.”
Stroop looked doubtful. “Talk to mill hands? That’s just not done around these parts.”
Homer turned to Malcolm. “What do you think, Malcolm? You think your fellows might be willing to work for less with the chance they might keep their jobs and make more later?”
Malcolm raised a single eyebrow and cocked his head. “Are we negotiating, Mr. Stroop?”
Stroop studied Malcolm. “Let’s say I am. You willing to talk turkey?”
“Let me see the books. If it’s like you say, I might. But only for however long it takes. The second you turn a profit, it goes to my people.”
“You’re holding some cards here and I might as well admit it. You get the fellows to take a temporary pay cut, I’ll sign your damn union contract.”
“Like I said, we’ll sign after I have a look at your books. And I’ll want safety lines painted around the machines.”
“Paint is expensive.”
“Arms and legs are expensive, too, Mr. Stroop. After you get up and running again, I want my people to get help from the company if they’re injured.”
Stroop looked askance, but then his expression softened. “I never wanted anybody to get hurt. Sure. I’ll do what I can. Until you came along, my workers were like family to me.”
“Then why didn’t you think about helping them and keeping them safe on your own? Why does it take a radical like me to show you some sense?”
Stroop allowed a sigh, then put out his hand. “Radical? I don’t think so. I think we’re going to have an interesting relationship, Mr. Union Man. Do you think you could sell socks as well as you sell The Communist Manifesto?”
Malcolm put forth his hand but before the two men could shake, Slick and Huddie burst inside. Slick’s eyes were wide and panicky. “What are you doing, Stroop?” he demanded. “Light the damn thing and let’s go!”
Stroop smiled at the two bank robbers. “There’s no need. I’ve decided to keep the mill going.”
“You don’t understand, you moron!” Slick yelped. “We lit the fuse to the other box on the floor below. Run!”
Slick and Huddie ran. With no hesitation, Stroop, Malcolm, and Homer were right behind them. Just as the last of them passed through the back gate, the mill erupted, turning into smoke and flying bricks. A secondary explosion completed the job. Homer threw himself behind a tree and covered his head with his arms until it stopped raining debris and dust. This took a considerable while.
14
INSIDE THE TENT, ELSIE WOKE TO HOMER STANDING over her. “Elsie, we’re leaving!”
Elsie sat up and stared at her husband, who was covered in brick-colored dust. “Every time you leave me, you come back covered with dust,” she said in mild wonder.
“No time to explain. Get your things and let’s go.”
She swung her legs around and put her shoes on. Albert was awake and nuzzled her legs. “You ready to go, little boy?”
“He is. Come on. You grab him up front. I’ve got his tail.”
“What about John?” she asked as she picked her end of the alligator up.
“He’ll go along with us to Winston-Salem to catch the train.”
“We’re going to Winston-Salem?”
“We are now.”
“You still haven’t told me why you’re covered with dust.”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“But it will make Albert sneeze.”
“I’ll clean up at the farmer’s pump and change my clothes. Hurry!”
Elsie and Homer carried Albert to the Buick, which she noticed was also coated with dust. It also had a few new dents, a tear in its convertible top, and a rather familiar feathery creature peeking over the steering wheel. “Is that the rooster?”
“It is. John rescued him.”
“How’d he do that?”
“Bought him for a nickel.”
“It isn’t worth it.”
“Then you’ll be pleased that I only gave him a penny. Now, hurry!”
Homer retrieved some fresh clothes from the Buick’s trunk, then went off to wash up and also look for Steinbeck. He returned a few minutes later cleaned up and with the author in tow.
Homer stuffed Steinbeck in the front seat, Elsie and Albert in the back, waited until the rooster settled on his shoulder, then drove away from the union camp and turned in a direction the sun told him was south. He described the destruction of the mill to Elsie and Steinbeck, both of whom reacted in shocked silence, while wailing police cars passed them going the opposite direction. Everyone slid down in their seats.
“They might as well blow up Stroopsburg, too,” Steinbeck said. “It will never recover from the loss of the mill.”
“I don’t know,” Homer said. “This could work out if Mr. Stroop and Malcolm play the cops cagey. Maybe the two of them could join together and build a better mill where fine socks are made by happy workers.”
“What are the chances of that, do you think?”
“Pretty much zero,” Homer admitted.
The miles rolled on, the destroyed mill put far behind them. Elsie soon put what had happened behind her, too. If all radicals were going to be like Malcolm, she had decided she wanted no more to do with them! On to Florida, was her thought.
Before long, she and Steinbeck were engaged in a discussion of her literary aspirations. “I’ll need a typewriter to get going, I suppose,” Elsie said.
“I would recommend a Hermes Baby,” Steinbeck replied. “It’s portable and the ribbons are easy to change. For heavier duty, a Royal or Underwood
will do.”
“I recall Uncle Aubrey has a Remington,” Elsie said, “but I can save up for one of my own.”
“A pencil on a scrap of paper will do if the story’s pouring out of you,” Steinbeck advised. “That’s the way I write, in spurts. All of a sudden, a chapter forms in my mind and I have to get it down before I lose it. I also like to write to music, especially Bach and maybe a little Stravinsky.”
“Bach’s nice,” Elsie replied thoughtfully. “Not so sure about Stravinsky. Now that you’ve seen union organizing up close, what’s going to be the title of your book?”
Steinbeck provided a gentle chuckle. “After seeing Malcolm at work, I’ve decided on In Dubious Battle. Of course, I’ll have to spiff him up a bit, make him a lot smarter, and change the strikers from North Carolina mill workers to California fruit pickers. I know a lot more about California than North Carolina, you see.”
“So you’re saying you should always write about what you know?”
“Or think you know. The truth is that a lot of things we think we know we don’t know at all. For instance, why are you on this journey?”
When Elsie didn’t answer, Homer did. “We’re carrying Albert home.”
“Oh, I think it’s a lot more than that,” Steinbeck said.
Neither Homer nor Elsie objected to Steinbeck’s comment, mainly because it was true. Instead, Homer changed the subject back to the literary. “What’s next after In Dubious Battle, John?”
“You recall, of course, those nomadic people in the camp where you found me? I’m thinking about writing a novel about a poor family a lot like them except they’ll be from Oklahoma and on the road to California to pick grapes.”
“Got a name for it?”
“Not yet but the first title that comes to mind is The Harvest Gypsies.”
“That’s a terrible name,” Elsie said. She took a moment to think before musing, “Grapes. Picking grapes. There was a Civil War song that had something dramatic about grapes in it. What was it? It’s on the tip of my tongue.”
“Battle Hymn of the Republic,” Homer said. “They are trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored.”