“Thank you, Rosie. But now I am a little drunk.”
“Yes. Then I must say good night. You have my address and my telephone number?”
“Somewhere.”
“I will leave a card.”
When Rosie stood, Lee could see the lines of fatigue in his face, and he knew suddenly that Rosie had been working to save something in him in much the same manner as a minister works to save a condemned man’s immortal soul. He felt suddenly grateful to this grotesque little man.
“Thank you for calling, Rosie. Thank you.”
“You will be all right, Lee,” Rosie said as he opened the door. “You are a brave man.”
Chapter 32
THE ROOM WAS filled with sunrise when Lee Gordon awoke. The moment he opened his eyes he saw a different life. His cold was cured without hangover and his mind felt clean without doubt. Gone was the depressing sense of failure, the bitter thoughts of yesterday—and in its place, an inner excitement, a keenness of the spirit and a zest for things to come. He tingled with that gladness in a perfect day. This was the way he’d always wanted to feel, and never had before—because this was the way that life could be wonderful.
Throwing back the covers, he let the sunshine warm his blood. And then he went down the hall to the bath. The sharp, cold needles of the shower filled him with an eagerness to face the day, and now he reviewed the prospects of the rally with confidence. Anything seemed possible on a day like this. Suddenly he had the feeling that they were going to win. Never before in all his life had he felt that he would win at anything. It was like a breaking-through, a getting-there—like arriving at a wholeness.
Without warning, song broke from his lips, that great inspirational battle hymn of the Christians…“Oh when the saints…go marching onnnnn…Lord I want to beeeee in that numbahhhhh…” From what religious recesses of his past this came, he did not know, but it filled him with a poignant sense of laughter.
Now as he shaved he noticed the age in his face and discovered his first gray hair. And he was glad to realize that he had safely passed his youth. “…in that numbahhhh,” kept running through his mind.
For such a day as this he chose a jaunty slack suit and left his head bare to the sun. Hunger paid an early visit as in many years gone by. But now asking for credit at the greasy beanery where he ate was an easy thing to do. The ham and eggs tasted better than ham and eggs had ever tasted and the sour-faced Greek served him a second cup of coffee on the house—and with a smile.
“So you wun-na the sweepstakes, eh?”
“The sweepstakes, they wun-na me.”
As he stood outside waiting for the streetcar, images moved before his vision in startling clarity. Sounds came into his ears with clean fidelity. He saw the dirty facades of the buildings and the filthy tatters of the bums, and heard the foul obscenities of decayed minds. He saw the ravages of dissipation in the faces of the winos and the reeking ruins of syphilis in the bodies of the whores. Yet everything he saw was with compassion and all he heard was with a prayer. And the odor of garbage from the uncleaned gutters gave place to a fragrance of friendliness in this living world. Just life itself was pretty wonderful—a thing the dead would know. It was a strange and shocking thought, but it did not affect him so because he felt so untouchable, so buoyant, so light, so living up on high.
The streetcar came and with the mob he pushed aboard. His race made him one with the sullen-faced Negro workers from the South Side who filled the car from door to door, but his spirit rejected them. How could people be so sullen on a day like this ? So of them all he only saw a lovely dark girl with a proud red mouth and eyes like purple muscadines. He smiled across at her and her replying smile lit up the faces of all others.
And now he thought of Ruth without hopelessness or remorse. He was surprised to find that he could think of her like this—as the queen of the kingdom of his heart and the mother of their children yet unborn. A flood of poignant yearnings rolled back the tearful yesterdays, and he saw tomorrow as the resurrection of a dream. With this song in his heart to serenade, and this newly born life to place at her feet, with the enchantment of a California spring on his side, how could he help but win her back ? And when he had, they would set out yellow roses down the borders of their lawn for constancy. And in the cool, dark evenings they would lie together in each other’s arms and talk of the future. Because now he knew that when all of this was done and past, it was going to be wonderful again—so much better this time because of what they’d both been through. Maybe it would be like it should be, like it could be if they tried. Maybe she’d see in him what she’d been looking for, maybe this was what kept singing on a laughing note. And suddenly he was laughing again.
Now he saw the city that he had never seen, though it had been ten thousand times within his eyes—the pleasant little shops on Fifth Street toward the Square, sunlight on the buildings—delicate pastel tracings against the blue—and two wedding gowns in a shop window like petals of eternal hope; and the faces of the people of the race—the human race—each with its story of the crusade.
And he thought of Rosie’s words and wondered, was this but the reflection of the immemorial movement of matter within the living brain ? Was this ceaseless human struggle but facets of continuous change ? His heart cried out against it—God made hope to spring eternal from the human heart—Those were the words that were beautiful. And who could say what words were right and what were wrong—Or that they both were not the same, as long as mankind made the struggle ?
Changing to the bus at Pershing Square, he was enclosed by the stream of early-morning workers. But he did not feel lost or black or unimportant, but a part of it, contained by it, as a ripple in the river of humanity. And this was how it should be, Lee Gordon thought—and how at last it had finally come to be.
But as they bumped and rolled through the city in the sun, the days came back to charge him with the cost—that afternoon, a lifetime ago, when news of his employment by the union had put him briefly in the stars, and this morning when now at last he felt alive in the living world. But in between there were the fear and bitterness and hurt, not only to himself but to Ruth, to everyone and every thing that he had touched. The face of the earth had changed for him during those fifty days. Values had taken new meanings and people new forms. But had he spent too much of other people ? Had he spent too much of Ruth ? Had he paid too great a price in human suffering for the change that he had bought? Only the future knew, and it was to the future that he looked.
Now again, as at the very first, he watched the rolling expanse of gray-green meadowland assume angles and take shape and reveal itself as the sprawling assembly of camouflaged buildings that were Comstock. But now he felt the wonder of his native land, its might and power and its parenthood : “…our nation an improving nation, and the best nation of them all…”
He hitched up his trousers and hurried toward the union shack. Approaching from the rear, it seemed empty and deserted. He changed direction and headed toward the plant. As he came out into the side street across from the parking lot, he looked up and saw a line of deputy sheriffs, blocking off the street, the brightness of the day, blocking off hope and happiness and his future in the sun. Spaced evenly apart, they were numberless it seemed, a row of white helmets running down the slope of diminishing infinity—not the workers on parade, but power, the wages of wealth. So this was the company’s answer, Lee Gordon thought, the voice of Foster! It broke unions, but did it make men ? And he was suddenly raving mad.
Squaring his shoulders and tensing his muscles, he walked toward the line to pass. But a heavy hand reached out and stopped him.
“Your badge, boy. Let’s see your badge.”
“I have no badge.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I am a citizen and this is a public street.”
“No more. This is a military zone and you can’t pass without a badge.”
He stared at the adamant face, seei
ng its each minor detail in his helpless fury. “I say it’s the street.”
“You can be hurt, boy. Get on.”
He turned abruptly. But as he stalked down the street his rage ran out. What could he, one lone Negro man, do against this army ? Better see Smitty first and work with the union. But as he neared the union shack, he saw Benny Stone detach himself from two policemen and saunter toward him. He started to speak, then noticed Benny brushing off a sleeve. He jerked another glance to the two policemen, past them to the deserted shack, then back to the two policemen. Sight hung there, and thought and conjecture and memory, and even the day itself hung there, on the blunt, red faces of policemen, so suddenly discovered. Policemen !
And then he was moving again. But his mind was a Pandora’s Box that he dared not open yet. Casually he cut across the street, circling toward the parking lot. He could feel the gazes of the policemen digging into his back, measuring his height, weighing the manner of his walk. Fighting down the impulse to break into a run, he climbed the guard railing and went down between the cars.
Union men were all about—organizers from other unions, volunteers from other locals—moving in and out between the cars, approaching the workers, and passing out union buttons, arm bands, placards, and banners.
One stopped Lee. “Wear your union emblem, fellow.”
Lee looked blankly at the man. Then he accepted the button, pinned it on his shirt, and wrapped a band about his arm. “Thanks, fellow.” But his mind was not yet functioning.
As he came out of the parking lot on the other side, he saw the union sound truck facing down the street toward the company gates. Surrounded by a score of men, it was the hub of activity. The deputy sheriffs blocking off the street on which the plant faced were thicker here, and four policemen stood near by. Even from where he stood, Lee could feel the tension of the crowded scene. Every minor motion seemed deliberate. He jumped the rail and hurried toward the truck with the feeling of walking into danger.
As he approached, Joe Ptak opened the back doors of the truck. Beyond, he saw Marvin Todd’s blond head high over the others as he moved quickly to call the policemen’s attention to something down the street. He saw Joe’s thumb motion him into the truck. He looked inside and saw Smitty frantically beckoning. Everything was posted on his brain, but all for future reference. Now he only moved without a loss of motion and swung inside the truck.
It was to Joe Ptak he first turned, drawn by the change in Joe’s attitude. Joe was dressed in the shiny blue serge suit, complete to vest, with soiled gray shirt and tie, as Lee had first seen him, and his hard blunt features were the same. For a moment they stared at each other. Then Joe ran his two fingers through his bristling shock of iron gray hair, and for one brief flicker his stony stare relented.
“Okay, boy.”
“Okay, Joe.”
Rigidity settled back into Joe’s granite face as he quickly closed the door.
“Lee—”
He looked at Smitty in the cab’s semigloom and saw it painted on his face. A stunned look spread slowly down his features. “I know.”
The operator of the sound control looked at him and looked away.
“They have a warrant out for you,” Smitty said.
“I know,” Lee said again, his mind groping for the best thing to do. “Then I better give up, Smitty. No need of getting you into trouble now.” The slow, forced deliberation of his voice reached out to Smitty’s face and shaped it.
“No, wait, Lee. Just stay here in the truck for the time being.”
“Won’t they look in here?”
“Not right away. They have already. The main thing now is the rally. Later we’ll think about you.”
“But I’ll mean more trouble, Smitty, if they catch you hiding me.
“No, wait, Lee,” Smitty said again. “We’ve already sent for Hannegan. We’ve got those affidavits to think about.”
“Oh!”
“Just keep out of sight.”
Lee knelt down behind the microphone stand and gathered in his thoughts. A numbed, dazed expression came into the ashes of his eyes. He did not feel abused or persecuted, just defeated in the end, just caught in the fall of that sudden disaster hanging always overhead—not that it was unexpected, just that it had to happen now, when happiness had seemed so close and life had looked so wonderful. Now Ruth would never know. This was the thought that brought hurt.
For once again he was a burden, an obstacle, and a liability, at the very time he needed most to be an asset. When the fate of the union hung in the balance, perhaps of all of the world—“As Corn-stock goes the West Coast goes. As the West Coast goes the nation goes. As the nation goes the world goes.” Lost!—for the want of one black man!
It was not only this, but more: He was jeopardizing the very freedom of these good men who were taking up their time and thought protecting him—fellows who normally hated his guts. Benny Stone had given him the warning. Marvin Todd had blocked off the cops. Joe Ptak had given him a vote of confidence. It was not because he deserved it—just because he was a Negro.
In the end it came back to the beginning, back to the legend of Georgia, that a Negro was the white man’s burden. He was nothing but trouble for anyone—no good in the world. He never had been any good to anyone—not to the union, not to his wife, and not to himself.
He raised his head and peered through the small side window as he tried to collect his thoughts. He must determine what to do. He could not let these good guys take another rap for him. But there was no escape. The four policemen had divided; two stood behind the truck, two in front. He could not even give up now without getting the union men into trouble. They had committed themselves by hiding him. And what could it bring them but ruin, ignominy, perhaps imprisonment ? His head jerked spasmodically from the hammer of his thoughts.
He looked across the parking lot at the workers crowding along the edges of the guarded, barren street. He saw the union workers trying to form a line. But there was no space within the lot and the deputies kept them from the street. The workers stood and looked, as if they had come more to view the rally than be a part of it.
“How do you think it’ll go?” he said to Smitty.
Smitty was hurt. A feeling of failure had overcome him. It showed all through his big, flabby face and in his bright, protruding eyes. “Lee, I don’t know. It looks like Foster’s got us beat.”
“It looks that way, Smitty.”
“I didn’t think he would do it,” Smitty said, as if talking to himself.
“Do what?”
“Call out the cops. I wrote him a letter and told him that we did not intend to cause a work stoppage.”
“Oh ! Did you think that would mean anything to Foster?”
“I thought he’d at least be fair about it.” After a moment he said : “You got to believe in something, Lee. And I’ve always been a sucker for people.”
Lee flinched as the knowledge of Smitty’s belief in him spun out its special hurt. “Is Joe going to break the line?”
“He’s going to try.”
Lee turned to look through the window again, tortured by the hurt in Smitty’s voice. This was his, too. This failure of the rally was more his than anyone’s. And this breaking down of this big bluff man’s belief in human nature was his. But what could he do ?
“Why don’t you have Joe line them up down this street first?”
“That’s an idea.” Smitty spoke into the microphone, “Joe, why don’t you try lining up the workers on this street first?”
The blaring metallic voice drew everyone’s attention. Lee saw Joe directing the workers toward the side street. Joe’s stocky barrel-chested body, clad in the dark blue suit, seemed impregnable in the sunlight as he rode herd on half a dozen workers and forced them into a line. But most of them remained within the parking lot.
“Workers of America!” Smitty appealed to them. “Now is the time to assert your democratic rights—All of you—brothers in the uni
on—accept the emblems and placards from the volunteers among you…line up behind your union leaders in orderly fashion…when your leader gives the signal march in orderly fashion up and down the public street before the plant—”
When the voice ceased, the silence closed in. A few more workers moved to join the line. But most just stood and stared. Over them hung a pall of abnormal tenseness. Lee could see the sullen animosity in their faces. It was as if now at the showdown they hated the union for bringing them to this. Most were Southern migrants. Within their lives until this moment the extent of their hatred had been toward Negroes. Now it was as if against their wills they were being forced to hate rich white men whom they had always feared, still feared. But they did not want to appear as cowards. So they hated the union for maneuvering them into this unacceptable position.
“Did you get word from the army forbidding the rally?” Lee asked to break the silence.
“No, that was just newspaper talk.”
Now Lee saw a group of Negro workers standing in sullen silence behind the white. He was struck by the similarity of these workers of two races. Now that both faced a common enemy with equal reluctance, there seemed no difference but color. And why should there be ? Lee Gordon thought. All had been born on the same baked share-croppers’ farms, steeped in the same Southern traditions, the objects of the same tyranny that, together, they had not only permitted but upheld. They were bound together by their own oppression rendered by the same oppressors—their fears and their superstitions and their ignorance indivisible. Only their hatred of each other separated them, like idiots hating their own images.
“Is it doing any good?” Smitty asked.
“They’re listening. Maybe they’ll fall in when Joe breaks the line.”
“Brothers, take up your banners and march for your union,” Smitty tried again—“your union, brother workers of America. Do not be coerced or confused or threatened. You have free choice in the selection of your union. This free choice is guaranteed by the laws of the United States Government. The National Labor Relations Act gives you the right to join unions. The law says yes, brother workers—”
Lonely Crusade Page 43