by John Jakes
“I am.”
Willis looked at her steadily for several seconds. “All right, then. If it’s true, and it holds true, don’t say you think you love the boy, declare it.”
Julie swirled her little silver spoon in the melting dessert ice. “What about Mama and Papa? They would hate him. But I’d die if I had to stop seeing him.”
“Then don’t.”
“Oh, yes, that’s how I feel. But what would I do if they found out?”
“Defy them.”
“Defy—? Oh, Aunt Willis, I don’t know if I could do that. I don’t think I’m prissy, or too proper, but I love Mama and Papa. I want their respect and approval. Their affection—”
“Which they ration out according to how you behave.”
Julie looked away. Her aunt had judged it correctly.
“I appreciate your feelings, child. You’re a dutiful daughter, and a decent person. Regrettably, in this world decency can be a handicap. Furthermore, your mother—my flesh and blood—has filled your head with falsehoods about your frail health, weak nerves, general lack of stamina. You mustn’t believe any of it. It’s part of the prevailing absurdity about womankind. Take the old shibboleth that women must lie down and be invalids once a month, regular as clocks. Ridiculous. Girls are taught all the wrong things by society and their mothers. Beautiful hair is more important than a beautiful brain. The chief function of a female is to be ornamental. Except of course when she is busy being a brood sow.”
“Aunt Willis,” Julie whispered, covering her mouth.
“Dear, there’s nothing shocking about plain truths, plainly stated. A woman is born with intelligence and character. More than your average man possesses. A woman is capable of more important and meaningful things than prettily decorating a house like a doll. Do you know the drama by Mr. Ibsen, about the woman named Nora?”
“No. I’ve only heard Ibsen’s name. People say he writes dirty plays.”
“Naturally. People have a stock of handy shopworn accusations to hurl against anyone who sticks his head up with a new idea. Henrik Ibsen is a powerful dramatist. A genius. For a man, he knows an astonishing amount about our sex. A woman needs a purpose, Julie. A mission she believes is important. That and a glass of fine Kentucky bourbon, a bracing swim, or a vigorous lover will cure almost anything that ails you. Still—setting all that aside—I know you face a different, more immediate issue because of this boy. Namely—whose life is it? Your mother’s, your father’s, or yours?”
Troubled, Julie studied her hands. She knew the brave answer to the question. She just couldn’t bear to confront the consequences it conjured.
Aunt Willis seemed to understand. She covered Julie’s hand with hers. On every finger she wore a ring with a different stone.
“Don’t doubt yourself. You have the courage to take the right road, if you’ll only believe it. To do it would undoubtedly cause you pain for a while, but you’d survive. You’d make your stand successfully.”
“I hope so.”
“I made mine in Kentucky. I survived.”
“You’ve never told me much about that.”
“Ah, haven’t I?” Willis leaned back, half closing her eyes. A strange dreamy expression made her almost beautiful for a moment. Her voice grew soft.
“It’s a short enough story. Kentucky was a state riven in two. The Fishburnes were secesh. Billy Boynton’s people were loyalists. Poor loyalists. Mudsills. I didn’t care. I packed a few things in a bundle, shinnied down the rain pipe and ran away. I had six days and nights with Billy before he mustered in.”
“Did you marry him?”
“No, I did not. No minister would have performed the ceremony without a paper certifying that we had parental permission.”
Julie was awestruck. “It must have taken such courage—you were only fifteen. Did you ever—?”
She waited while the mustachioed waiter laid down a silver tray bearing the bill. “Did you ever regret what you did?”
“Not once. Those six days and nights with Billy Boynton were among the happiest I’ve ever known. I wouldn’t trade them if they offered to make me Empress of China.”
“What happened to your young man?”
Willis put out her little cigar in a crystal dish, twisting and crushing it with force. “Shot and killed at Chickamauga. Here, I’ll pay the bill. It’s time we went home. Just one more thing.”
She touched her niece’s hand again.
“If this love affair becomes too difficult for you to bear by yourself, think of me. Come to me at any time if you need a haven, or a friend.”
40
Paul
UNCLE JOE CONTINUED TO condemn the Pullman strike loudly and often. So did all the newspapers that came into the house; Paul read these slowly, laboriously, always with a small English grammar and his pocket dictionary close by. The newspapers were so fiercely against the strikers that he began to wonder whether they had secret ties with Mr. Pullman. He recalled Cousin Joe talking of the rich conspiring against the poor. In the one-sided accounts there certainly seemed to be evidence of it. No one could be as selfish, irresponsible, depraved, lawless as the papers described the strikers.
The strike, and its opponents, raised doubts which Paul resisted. He didn’t want to be reminded of the baker of Wuppertal. Didn’t want to believe his cousin’s dark assertions about America—the repeatedly proclaimed “truth.” But the doubts were there, and they intensified every day.
On a hot evening in June, after work, Joe Junior persuaded Paul to accompany him to a meeting before they went home. It was a Saturday, the day after Paul’s seventeenth birthday.
“Gene Debs is giving a speech tonight. He’s a terrific orator, you need to hear him.”
Paul was very much afraid he knew the message already. For the sake of friendship he agreed to go, though all he really wanted was to get home and sleep and hurry the coming of Sunday afternoon.
After they left the brewery they had supper in a saloon, then went on to Uhlich’s Hall in the 400 Ashland block. The drab old auditorium was hot, and nearly full, when they climbed the gallery stairs. Paul was uncomfortable about being with this crowd, surely all socialists. Most of them were poorly dressed, with the rough look of day laborers.
Cousin Joe said, “Debs’s union has been in convention here for five days. Everyone’s wondering whether Debs will make a big announcement. Support the strike. See all the reporters down there?” He pointed to a railed section on the main floor; it was packed.
Promptly at seven, a man walked onstage. He introduced himself as George Howard, vice president of the American Railway Union. With some oratorical flourishes, he presented the chief executive, Mr. Debs. Long applause, whistling, foot-stomping, greeted Debs as he walked out from the wings. Paul thought Mr. Debs the radical looked more like a monk mistakenly dressed in a wool suit, white shirt and cravat.
When the applause subsided, Debs stepped to the podium. He spoke without notes.
“Gentlemen, I come before you to announce a decision reached by the executive board of your brotherhood. To speak personally for a moment, many of you know I have been reluctant to press forward with open support of the Pullman strikers. I am still reluctant.”
His voice reached the rafters, and even stirred Paul. “It is true that the American Railway Union has become very large in a short time. But we remain a young and untried organization. Say what you will about the Pullman Palace Car Company”—a few scattered boos—“no rational man can deny it is a company with great financial resources, and powerful connections at the highest levels of local and national government. For that reason alone, I have been unwilling to recommend that we mount an action to show our solidarity with those who bravely struck for their rights.”
Paul leaned close to his cousin. “What does he mean, action?”
“A sympathy strike by this union.”
Debs lifted his head; his gaze swept the gallery. “For five days we have met here in convention. We hav
e listened to tales of the abuse of workingmen at Pullman, abuse totally inconsistent with the morality of a modern, civilized country. We have acknowledged the continuing naked intransigence of the Pullman management. That management doggedly proclaims there are no issues to negotiate. With blind eyes and deaf ears and hearts devoid of Christian compassion, the Pullman Company turns away from its own employees who are starving and suffering for the sake of—what? Exorbitant or unreasonable demands? No! A subsistence wage!”
Joe Junior hunched forward. “I think he’s going to do it.”
Debs paused to sip water from a barrel glass. When he’d drunk about half, he put the glass away and gripped the sides of the podium. Seconds passed. Uhlich’s Hall was so quiet, Paul heard a floorboard squeak when someone shifted his foot.
“Gentlemen—for all the reasons just stated, I have set aside my reluctance.” Someone whistled; others whooped. Swiftly Debs raised his hand for quiet. “I will not oppose, and indeed I endorse the action of the executive board of your brotherhood. Here is their decision, reached after long and careful deliberation. If, within ten days, the Pullman Palace Car Company does not agree to arbitration in good faith, then the American Railway Union will commence a boycott of all Pullman operations.”
There was a flurry of movement among the reporters on the main floor. One man in a straw hat scrambled for the aisle. Debs said sharply, “Just a moment. Hear the rest.”
Protesting, the reporter sat down. His colleagues shushed him.
“During the boycott, the brotherhood will refuse to handle or service Pullman cars regardless of which line is carrying them. We will use no violence. We will stop no trains. We will simply stay our hands. Our effort will be peaceful, conducted with a high sense of honor. We will treat the corporation better than it treats its own people. But we will stand fast, and maintain the boycott until such time as arbitration begins.”
Slowly Debs looked around the hushed hall. He had them straining to hear; even Paul, who had slowly, almost unconsciously been pulled into the spell of the man’s oratory.
“That is our message to the world. In these dark and difficult times, we can do no less than support our brave brothers in American labor. I can and will do no less while I draw breath. Thank you, and good night.”
The A.R.U. vice president, Howard, jumped up from his seat to lead the ovation. Joe Junior shot to his feet and, somewhat reluctantly, so did Paul. Debs held the podium and seemed to sway, as if spent. His eyes roved around the hall. A faint, tired smile was his only acknowledgment of the clapping and stomping.
Reporters pushed and shoved out of the press enclosure, trying to reach Debs. Men from the audience reached him first, pummeling his back, pumping his hand. As Paul and his cousin worked their way up the aisle, Joe Junior was exuberant. “This is it, we’ll see action now.”
“You are probably right.”
“Why so glum? Don’t you care about the strike?”
“I suppose I should, but—”
“You can’t think of anything but Julie, is that it?”
Paul tried to smile. “That seems to be so.”
“Well, you’ll have to think about something else now. The boycott changes everything. It’s dynamite.”
As the two left the hall, Paul wondered if his cousin was aware of the word he’d used. Pictures flashed in his head. The sand dunes. The shanty blowing up. Benno Strauss laughing …
Bad pictures. Were they harbingers of worse to come? He hoped not.
Two shiny Fleetwing safety cycles leaned against the trunk of the sycamore. On the other side, in dappled shade, Paul and Julie rested on the new grass. Her right arm, in white, and his left, in a starched shirt with sleeve pushed up, lay close together, touching.
They were meeting two hours later than usual today, four o’clock; Aunt Ilsa had delayed Sunday dinner because of a special reception following morning worship at St. Paul’s. Pastor Wunder was introducing a new assistant, recently ordained.
When Paul heard about this early Sunday morning, he ran all the way to Prairie Avenue and lurked near the Vanderhoff mansion until the family drove off to church. Then he went swiftly along Fifteenth to the rear of the property, where a short path led from the sidewalk to the side door of the stable.
Seven melon-sized whitewashed stones lined each side of the path. Theirs was the second on the left as you faced the stable. Paul had picked out the stone after Julie said that using the servants to smuggle notes in and out would inevitably lead to discovery.
He slipped a note under the message stone and patted the earth to smooth it. Julie always checked the stone before she left home. He was out of breath and sweating when he got back to the Crown house. No matter. To miss seeing her for a whole week would be unbearable.
Their meeting place was the bicycle rental stand near Fisher’s Beer Garden at the northern edge of Lincoln Park. He arrived twenty minutes early. She arrived on time. “Yes, I found the note.”
They clasped hands, squeezed, then separated with guilty smiles.
She wore a smart new cycling outfit. Low shoes of white canvas, white leggings with a knee-length overskirt, a fitted white bolero jacket, a gay sailor hat with a broad ribbon of emerald satin. In Paul’s eyes, no one, any place, any time, could have looked more beautiful.
They pedaled south on a road that curved through the heart of Lincoln Park. The park was full of pleasant summer sounds. Children romping. Cyclists tinkling their bells. The whack of a soundly hit baseball, then cheering. At the south end of the park they turned around, pedaling back to Fisher’s, where they dismounted and left the road. Paul and Julie chose their spot, on the lake side of the big sycamore. In the beer garden the German band blared “Die Wacht am Rhein.”
From the pocket of his lightweight linen coat Paul took a small square block of drawing paper and a piece of brown chalk. He tried to sketch her as they talked.
He brought up the strike. “I don’t know much about it,” Julie responded. “Papa says the strikers should be arrested. He says the ringleaders should be shot. I don’t think he means it.”
“No, but the subject seems to get people very hot. My uncle speaks the same way.”
“Rich men,” she said with a shrug. “They think alike. Let me see, please.”
Embarrassed, he showed the sketch. “Bad as ever. I try, but I have no talent. I want to make pictures with a camera. Perhaps even the kind that move, that would be the most exciting.”
“I’ve heard about those. Papa saw a demonstration at the Exposition. He said the pictures were useless and trashy.”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so.” He tossed the mawkish sketch aside. “What if you could photograph truly important things? Sights that no ordinary person would ever have a chance to see? Presidents, or kings, or cannibals? Egypt, or China, or the high slopes of some great mountain like the Jungfrau? What if you could photograph wars? It would be like a history book springing to life before your eyes. That wouldn’t be useless or trashy.”
“No, it certainly wouldn’t.”
He leaned back against the tree. “It is work I could give my whole life to, Julie.”
“You’d leave your uncle’s business?”
“Yes, I am already tired of the brewery. The pay is good but I have no real interest in making beer, just drinking it.” She laughed. “I want to photograph. Of course I have to learn how to do it. At the fair I met a man who would have taught me but his shop closed, I don’t know where he went.”
“There must be another way. You’ll find it. I think you can do almost anything you want with your life.”
She was beautiful beyond belief. Her forehead gleamed. Her lips were soft and pink. The heat put a silver dew on her upper lip. His head filled with chaotic thoughts of nakedness, locked limbs, soft ardent cries. He slipped his left hand over hers.
Reacting to his touch, Julie turned to him, the black strands of her hair blowing and tossing over the puffed shoulders of her jacket. “Please, Paul. We mus
tn’t.”
He didn’t let go. “I am feeling bad, Julie.”
“About meeting this way?”
“No, because I have to be polite, when all I want is to hug and kiss you.”
“We can’t start that. We don’t dare. I might not be strong enough to stop.”
He scrambled to his knees. A pair of male cyclists bowled by on the road. Paul gave them a glance, then bent forward and kissed her.
They’d kissed on the lips twice before, chastely. But this was June; full summer, with heat in the earth, and in the air, and in their blood.
He pressed his mouth against hers, feeling her cool lips quickly grow warm. Somehow her mouth opened. Somehow their tongues touched. She uttered a little cry and hugged him around the waist, her cheek flat against his starched shirt.
He stroked her shining hair, not caring who saw them. “I want more than just to meet this way. Please allow me to speak to your father. I will make him understand my intentions are good. He will forget his bad feelings toward my uncle—”
“No, he won’t, and you mustn’t say a word. If you spoke to Papa he wouldn’t allow me to see you again, ever. We’d lose even these few hours.”
“But I can’t stand this too much more, I want to be closer. Feel,” he said in a burst. Still kneeling, he drew her to him so the stiffness was cushioned on her breasts.
Eyes closed, she hugged him harder, and made a little sound of passion in her throat.
“I can’t have only secret meetings the rest of my life, Julie.”
“Oh, I can’t either, but—but—” She started to cry.
He embraced her and stroked her dark, glossy hair again. “Then what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know!”
He moved away when her sobbing grew louder. He’d already been more forward and intimate than decency allowed. He touched her tear-reddened face. Held it between his palms. Bent again to kiss her tenderly, comfortingly, beneath the rustling sycamore leaves …
“Hey. Hello there.”
The cry wrenched them apart. Paul looked for the source. He saw a fancy red tandem cycle on the curving road, a tail of dust spurting out behind it. The young woman on the front seat peered over her shoulder from beneath a straw hat. Because of the dust, Paul couldn’t immediately make out her features, or those of her blond escort. Julie recognized him a moment before Paul did.