An Unfinished Season

by Ward Just

  His situation had changed. By the early 1950s, Carillo & Ravan had greatly increased revenues and had branched out from stationery and business forms to company reports and catalogues. My father quite suddenly discovered he was rich, and when friends approached him about forming a real estate syndicate, he agreed at once. Syndicates were the new thing. Downstate Illinois was underbuilt and the banks had money to lend. The moment he reached out (as he said) into real estate was the moment his life changed. The printing business occupied less of his time, and his shirts were free of ink. He no longer talked so much about “the business” as he began to spend as much time on the financing of a subdivision in Pekin as he did in the backshop of his printing business. It was strange at first, my father said, very strange that a partnership in northern Illinois could have a profound effect on the economy of central Illinois, and then it didn’t seem strange at all but logical and natural.

  He laughed and said, The colonized have become the colonizers.

  Little fish eating littler fish. Scraps enough for everyone.

  And the profits are phenomenal.

  The labor negotiations were conducted by the general manager, my father “saving himself,” as he put it, for the climactic round. A strike deadline was set and postponed when new proposals were laid on the table. Still, my father stayed away. He ignored the stubbornness of the union and failed to detect the determination of the men to share in the new prosperity. When the strike came, he was unprepared. He felt betrayed, as if he were the object of a coup d’état. It had never happened before, collective bargaining always a kind of dumb show of exaggerated gestures; and then they settled for a two-and-a-half-percent wage increase. My father, on business in Pekin, heard the news by telephone. His general manager was convinced the Communists were behind the strike. Carillo & Ravan had an important government contract and surely this was an effort to embarrass the Eisenhower administration, compromise it in its valiant Cold War struggle. The leadership of the union was suspected of having links—that was the word, “links”—to the American Communist Party, Comrade Earl Browder’s party, the party that everyone knew was a puppet of the Kremlin in Moscow, Browder a frequent visitor to the Soviet Union, and always under the personal surveillance of J. Edgar Hoover’s most trusted assistants. When word came of the tyrant Stalin’s death, Earl Browder wept bitter tears. The union leadership had refused to sign non-Communist affidavits as the government demanded that it do pursuant to the Taft-Hartley Act, the law of the land—and were they not therefore in contempt and unworthy of public support? That was the verdict of the local newspaper, and the first time I ever saw the words “pursuant” and “affidavit” in print.

  The strike began when the printers downed tools and threw up a picket line manned by their rowdiest members. Windows were smashed and employees harassed and when my father brought in his strikebreakers—men every bit as rough as the men they replaced—the death threats began, first in the form of crude anonymous letters to my father at his office, and then obscenely to the house, terrifying my mother and infuriating my father. By then, my father’s good friend Sheriff Tom Felsen had suggested he arm himself for his own protection, and gave him the long-barreled Colt .32, a box of ammunition, and the crimson duffel.

  My mother wanted him to give in, settle the strike or sell the business, so we could live in peace. She was afraid to answer the telephone. She was afraid to work in her garden or meet friends for lunch. You should show some consideration for your family, she said.

  It was late April. We were at dinner, my father picking at his food and saying very little. He was at his usual place at the head of the table, looking through the den to the French doors that led to the terrace.

  I hate it, she said.

  You can’t give in to them, my father replied.

  Why not? she said.

  For one thing, they’re Communists.

  I don’t care who they are, my mother said.

  They’re trying to destroy me, he said with sudden passion. Destroy me, destroy my business. They hate our way of life.

  Why are the Communists interested in a little printing plant in Illinois? What interest do they have in your stationery? Answer me that.

  Not so little, Jo. We grossed three-five last year.

  You know what I mean, she said.

  But my father looked away, irritated, poking at his pork chop, then murmuring something about his strikebreakers, tough men, good workers when they weren’t drinking. Some of them had been threatened also and were carrying firearms provided by the sheriffs office. Strikebreakers cost more when they had to arm themselves, sort of like combat pay in the army. He said, It’s just a hell of a mess for everyone.

  You don’t need it, she said.

  I don’t want anyone to get hurt. But god damn it, if they push me—

  Teddy, you don’t need it.

  Need what? said my father.

  Don’t be obtuse, my mother said. Your business. You have other interests, your investments downstate. You’re doing fine without Carillo & Ravan, so you could sell it and give someone else the headache. Let someone else fight the Communists.

  I don’t like sarcasm, Jo.

  I can’t bear another of those telephone calls, my mother said, more softly. That voice, the breathing—

  I said, What did he say exactly?

  Keep out of this, my father said, and abruptly the room was so silent you could hear the clock tick.

  It was a woman this time, my mother said.

  A woman? my father said.

  Vile language, my mother said. And, she continued but did not finish her thought.

  And what? my father said.

  She mentioned Wils, my mother said curdy.

  What did she say? I said.

  My mother shook her head. She would add nothing further.

  A threat? my father said.

  What do you think, Teddy? Do you think she wished him health and happiness? She said if you weren’t careful Wils would end up in a ditch. There was more but I will not repeat it.

  There was a note of triumph to my mother’s voice, a note I had never heard. She had the look of a card player with a pat hand. Whatever it was, I was at that moment on my father’s side, and taking obvious pleasure from my sudden notoriety. I was an object of Communist treachery no less than my father and his business, or the entertainment industry. What had Sassoon called such heroics? A mention in dispatches.

  We will talk about this later, my father said quietly, but I knew he was alarmed at what he had heard. He glanced at me briefly and offered a hopeful wink.

  We certainly will, my mother said.

  That’s enough, my father said.

  I’ll give you chapter and verse, my mother said.

  I said, that’s enough, my father replied sharply, more sharply than I had ever heard him speak to my mother. He returned to his pork chop, his eyes inward, his thoughts apparently far away.

  You’ve become a different person, my mother said after a moment. I feel I hardly know you. I can’t get your attention. You won’t talk. You’re so—inflexible. We never go anywhere. We never see our friends. They ask us to dinner and I tell them, No, Teddy’s out of town. Teddy’s working late. Teddy has a meeting. Teddy’s here, Teddy’s there. I never know when he’ll be home. Because of the strike at the plant. Because of the threats. We had the trip to Havana planned and then you called it off, because of the strike at the plant. Answer me this. What’s the use of being successful if you can’t enjoy the success? I’m frightened, Teddy.

  My father sighed and did not reply. But then he smiled, looked up, and said, New York. We should have gone to New York.

  Don’t start that, my mother said, suddenly very angry.

  Dad was making a joke, I said.

  She did not look at me or give any sign of having heard what I said. She continued to sit, staring straight ahead, her hands in her lap. I realized then that she was near tears, her face flushed and her lips trembling. She sa
id at last, I’m frightened all the time. There was a strange car this morning, drove past the house once and again from the other direction, back and forth, two men in the front seat, I couldn’t see their faces. They drove so slowly. One of them wore a hat. And this afternoon, the telephone call...

  My father rose at once and went to her, his hands on her shoulders and his chin touching her hair. He said something I couldn’t hear, but whatever it was, she shook her head in response.

  Yes, he said. Believe me.

  How can I? she said. How can I when strange men drive by on an ordinary afternoon and I know they mean us harm? I don’t have a way of coping, Teddy. How am I supposed to behave? You tell me.

  He was looking up now, staring at the wallpaper, the Frenchmen in their plumed hats and flared jackets and the stag high-stepping through the tangled forest, dimly lit by the chandelier over the dining room table.

  Trust me, he said, and my mother smiled bleakly. He said, I guess this is the modern world and we’re going to have to live with it, insecurity. Everything was different before the war. My business, Quarterday. Different time, a prewar time, everyone pulling together. Teamwork meant something. She raised her eyes to look at my father, an expression of perfect bafflement on her face. I believe this, he said. You can only have one boss of an outfit.

  I suppose so, she said doubtfully, but—

  We have to stick together, he said as he moved his hands in slow circles over her shoulders. And then he brightened and playfully tapped her water glass with a spoon, as if he were about to make a toast. I want to tell you a story. Funny thing happened at the office this morning.

  —there were two men, Teddy.

  I know, my father began, and then started because the telephone rang.

  I’ll get it, I said.

  Let it ring, my father said.

  I don’t mind, I said.

  Let it ring, he ordered, and so it rang, one ring after another, each seeming louder than the one before. My father gave my mother a final caress and returned to his chair and the pork chop cold on his plate. We three sat in silence and listened to the telephone ring.

  It might be them, my mother said.

  My father reclined in his chair, grinning. He said, Let me tell you the story. Salesman came in with samples of silk, beautiful stuff, beautiful weight and texture, like parchment except it was supple. Silk paper for wedding announcements, party invitations, debutante parties and the like. I listened to his pitch and said no thanks, not even when the strike is over. He was a charming character, born in Persia. He had a suitcase with him. The suitcase was on wheels; it must have been three feet across. He said he wanted to show me something, so he opened the suitcase and took out a shallow basket. The basket looked like the hats Chinese coolies wear. He removed the lid and invited me to have a look. And there were the silkworms, scores of them no bigger than your thumb, resting on mulberry leaves. They were blurred and I thought for a moment there was something wrong with my eyesight, and when I looked closely I saw they were moving, all of them, minute movements among the mulberry leaves. As if they were shuddering, like a heartbeat. And all the time they were moving they were making silk. What you thought was still was not still at all but—seething. I thought of that time when Wils was so sick, unconscious for days on end, yet when you put your hand to his forehead you felt this tremendous heat. I knew that he would be all right. And the times I had watched you, Jo, sound asleep like a statue, not moving a muscle. But inside your head you were dreaming. And I could not see that at all.

  He said in a voice not his own, It was the damnedest thing. And then the Persian went away, taking the silkworms with him. They were for demonstration purposes only.

  I never dream, my mother said.

  Everyone dreams, my father said.

  I had a fever, I said. How did you know I would be all right?

  I knew, he said.

  We were silent again, listening to the telephone.

  Or the colored girl, my father said. The girl they found in the alley, full of gin. A pulse so faint they needed a stethoscope to find it. What do you suppose happened to her? The paper never said. Where did she go? Where is she now? My father paused, lost in thought. He said, The Persian insisted they’d love it on the North Shore. Winnetka ladies just died for silk. My silk invitations would be hotter than Ford station wagons. But I couldn’t see it. Certainly not now, with the situation. So I wished the Persian good luck and sent him on his way. My father sat quietly a moment, staring at the ceiling. He said, I would love to’ve taken a shot at it and I probably would have, before. But you need craftsmen for that sort of job. Strikebreakers are not craftsmen, they’re mercenaries. The men they replaced, my men, those men are sharpshooters. They could make a calling card out of a bat’s wing. Took pride in their work. These new men, I need them but they’re not quality men. They’re strikebreakers, that’s what they do for a living.

  I said, Where did you find them?

  My father smiled and replied, Judge Greenslat. Butch Greenslat can find you anything. He has a friend in Indiana, specializes in hard-to-get journeymen for businessmen who need them, maybe they’ve done some time in Joliet or Folsom, but they like travel and the combat pay. Men trying to find their feet. Butch finds them the feet, and takes a fee.

  Jailbirds, I said.

  Some, my father said. Not all.

  I said, I want to meet one.

  My father waved his hand, end of conversation.

  You never told me that, my mother said.

  I didn’t want to worry you. Besides, I don’t want to talk about the strikebreakers. I just wanted to tell you about those critters nesting in the mulberry leaves, damnedest thing.

  My mother had turned away, her chin in her hand, listening to the telephone.

  It could be Tom Felsen, she said.

  Could be, my father said without enthusiasm.

  With news, my mother said.

  My father did not reply, but turned to me instead. Do you want to play a round, late Saturday? We could get in nine holes before dark.

  It’s forty degrees, my mother threw in. You’ll freeze to death.

  I’d like that, I said. My father almost never asked me to play golf. He had a regular foursome, three overweight businessmen who loved the game but could not play it.

  Golf, my mother said, her voice harsh against the ringing telephone. You ought to try thinking about your family, making us safe. Why can’t you end this?

  My father was not listening.

  God damn it, he said then, rising from his chair. He threw his napkin on the table and strode to the den. The phone was on a table next to the French doors that opened onto the terrace. I suppose it had rung thirty times and when he picked up the receiver and put it to his ear, the abrupt silence was so thick you could feel it gather. My mother watched with her hand covering her mouth so that when we saw the window glass shatter and heard the explosion her scream was muffled until her hand fell away and her voice rose in the high notes of a clarinet. My father stood rigid as a tree, then fell into his hockey crouch, his fists in front of his face. When he dropped the receiver, it broke apart on the parquet floor. I could see the blood on his hands and arms, his shirtsleeve torn as if someone had sliced it with a knife. My mother half rose from her chair and remained there, bent at the waist, clutching the pearls at her throat. We felt the cold night breeze pushing in from the shattered window and smelled the sweet odor of new-grown spring grass. And still my father did not move, except to raise his hand, a command for us to remain where we were. He did not speak but I could hear his breathing. I was watching him, horrified at the blood on his hands, frightened, naturally, but resolved to act as a man should act, as he would wish me to act at this moment when our tranquillity was destroyed, everything familiar vanished in an instant. I waited for another gunshot or for one of them to appear at the window, and then I remembered the duffel in the coat closet, useless. I waited for my father’s signal, any signal—and in some ba
ck chamber of my mind I saw him as the skipper of a vessel struck by a terrible and unexpected storm, one that he could not turn from even as it overwhelmed him. This was the violence of the outside world, and he was responsible for it and responsible for us and I prayed he would not fail as I knew my mother expected him to do. And still he did not speak, remaining in his hockey crouch, his head moving this way and that. Considering this, all in a split second, I knew I was traveling from one realm to another, crossing the line that divided youth and maturity, and that this moment had tremendous weight and that I would refer to it often and that later on it would have more than one meaning.

  Then I was standing at the French doors without any clear memory of how I had got there or what I would do now. I could hear my father’s breathing and wondered then if the invaders were still outside, their business unfinished. I looked left and right but could see nothing through the ragged hole in the window glass, the grassy breeze in my face and the sound of the explosion in my ears and all around me. The terrace no longer looked familiar. My father said something I could not hear, and then I noticed it had begun to rain, a soft drizzle that became a downpour as I watched, a ragged line of lightning straight ahead, rainwater flying through the window and puddling on the floor. Beyond the fairway and the green, I thought I saw headlights but I could not be certain, the rain descending in sheets and thunder crashing in the distance.

  From the dining room my mother gave a little strangled cry and my father lowered his hand, wiping blood on his shirt. When I turned, I saw he was white as ash and his eyes were unfocused, his forehead slick with sweat and his shoulders sagging. I did not know how many times he had been hit but he looked as if he might collapse at any moment. His arm leaked blood but he paid no attention to it. When my mother reached his side he seemed not to notice, his bloody arm automatically around her waist and his eyes far away. I thought he would break down and I held my breath; and then I saw the expression on my mother’s face, a confusion of concern and helpless fury and a kind of grim satisfaction that her warnings had come true. Her family was not safe and her husband was responsible. When I reached for my father and took his hand, as one would the hand of a blind man, he turned slowly to me and spoke in an unnatural voice.