Rodriguez woke before sunup. He didn’t remember getting so stiff and sore in the trenches in Texas. Of course, that had been half a lifetime earlier. When Miguel and Jorge climbed to their feet, they seemed fresh enough. More lines formed, these for tortillas for breakfast and for strong coffee partly tamed with lots of cream.
More Freedom Party men came into the square in the early morning hours. They dressed like townsfolk, not peasants. Rodriguez guessed they were native Hermosillans. They didn’t need feeding, but they got their signs on the edge of the plaza. Things had to look right.
And things had to sound right. When the real demonstration got under way a little past nine, the chants had been carefully organized. “¡Abrogan las siete palabras!” the Freedom Party men roared in rhythmic unison, and then, in English, “Repeal the seven words!” After that came choruses of, “Featherston!” and “¡Libertad!” and “Freedom!” Then the cycle began again.
Newsreel cameras filmed the crowd in the Plaza Zaragoza. Rodriguez wondered how many state capitals had chanting crowds putting pressure on legislators and governors. Enough. He was sure of that. The Freedom Party would make sure the Constitutional amendment took effect well before next year’s elections.
Not everything that happened in the Plaza Zaragoza was official and planned in advance. Somebody behind Rodriguez tapped him on the shoulder. When he looked around, a man with a big black mustache passed him a flask. He swigged, expecting tequila. Good brandy ran down his throat instead. “¡Madre de Dios!” he said reverently, and handed the flask to Jorge, who stood next to him. His son gulped, coughed, and then grinned.
The bells in the cathedral had just struck twelve when a man in a somber black suit came out of the Palacio de Gobierno. He held up his hands. Little by little, the demonstrators stopped their choruses. “I am pleased to inform you,” he called in English, “that the amendment to our dear Confederate Constitution has passed both houses of the legislature of Sonora. We have voted to repeal the seven words! Freedom!” Then he said the same thing in Spanish.
The Plaza Zaragoza went wild. Men threw hats in the air. Others threw their signs in the air. Still others cursed when those came down—they were heavy enough to hurt. “Freedom!” some shouted. Others yelled, “¡Libertad!”
Rodriguez shouted in Spanish, then in English, and then in Spanish again. Which language he used didn’t seem to matter. The Freedom Party had won. Jake Featherston had won. That made him feel as if he’d won, too.
Someone started a new chant: “Nothing can stop us!” He gladly joined in. How could he not believe that, when it was so obviously true?
Armstrong Grimes didn’t want to get out of bed. He mumbled and tried to stick his head under the pillow when his mother shook him awake. “Get up!” Edna Grimes said sharply. “Annie’s already eating breakfast. You don’t want your father coming in here, do you? You’d better not, that’s all I’ve got to tell you.”
He didn’t. With a last resentful mutter, he got to his feet and went into the bathroom to take a leak and brush his teeth and splash cold water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror, trying to decide whether he needed to shave. He had his mother’s long, oval face, but his coloring was darker, more like his father’s. “Hell with it,” he said to his reflection. He’d shaved the day before, and at sixteen he didn’t have much more than peach fuzz to begin with. He also had pimples, which made shaving even less fun than it would have been otherwise.
Back to his room. He put on a checked shirt and a pair of slacks. He would rather have worn blue jeans, but his father wouldn’t let him get away with it, not when he was going to high school. Some of his friends wore dungarees all the time. He’d pointed that out to his old man—pointed it out in loud, shrill, piercing tones. It hadn’t done him any good at all. Merle Grimes wasn’t a man to bellow and carry on. But once he said no, he wasn’t a man to change his mind, either.
With a martyred sigh, Armstrong carried his three-ring binder and the books he’d brought home the night before out to the kitchen. Annie, who was four, was making a mess of a bowl of oatmeal. Armstrong’s mother had a plate of scrambled eggs and toast and a glass of milk waiting for him. His father was digging into a similar breakfast, except he had coffee instead of milk. “Morning,” he said.
“Morning, Pa,” Armstrong answered. Breakfast resigned him to being up.
Then his father had to go and ask, “Did you get all your homework done?”
“Yes, Pa,” Armstrong said. As much of it as I understood, anyhow, he added, but only to himself. His junior year, which had started two weeks earlier, hadn’t been much fun so far. If algebra wasn’t something Satan had invented to torment indifferent students, he couldn’t imagine what it was.
“You’d better keep your grades up, then,” Merle Grimes said. He could do algebra. Armstrong gave him a resentful look. His father could do algebra with effortless ease. What he couldn’t do was show Armstrong how he did it. Because this is how it works, he’d say, and wave his hands and cast a spell (that was how it looked to Armstrong, anyway) and come up with the right answer. And when Armstrong tried waving his hands . . . he’d add when he should have subtracted, or he’d forget what to do with a negative number, or he’d just stare at a problem in helpless horror, with no idea how to start it, let alone finish.
His father got his pipe going and worked his way through the newspaper. He didn’t have to get to the office till half past eight, so he could take his time. Armstrong had to be at Roosevelt High at eight o’clock sharp, or else the truant officer would start sniffing around. That meant he had to gobble his breakfast—no great hardship for a sixteen-year-old boy, but he didn’t like getting up from the table while his old man lingered.
Annie waved good-bye. His mother called, “So long, son,” as he went out the front door. His only answer was a grunt. As soon as he got around the corner, he lit a cigarette. The first drag made him cough. He felt woozy and lightheaded and a little sick; he was just learning to smoke. Then his heart beat harder and he felt more alert. He enjoyed that feeling, even if it wasn’t the main reason he’d started smoking. People he liked smoked. So did people he wanted to be like. That counted for more.
He smoked two cigarettes on the way to Roosevelt, but made sure the pack was out of sight before he got to the campus. Smoking there was against the rules. The principal had a big paddle in his office, and he wasn’t shy about using it.
“Morning, Armstrong,” a boy called.
“Hey, Joe,” Armstrong answered. “Can I get some answers to the algebra from you?”
Joe shook his head. “I don’t know how they do that stuff. I’m gonna flunk, and my old man’s gonna beat hell out of me.”
“Me, too,” Armstrong said dolefully. He still had a couple of periods to go before he had to turn in the math homework, such as it was. He didn’t look forward to English literature, which he had first, with any great enthusiasm, either. Memorizing chunks of The Canterbury Tales in the original incomprehensible Middle English wasn’t his idea of fun. But getting walloped because he didn’t do it also wasn’t his idea of fun, so he tried.
English Lit did have one compensation. He sat next to Lucy Houlihan, a redhead who had to be one of the three or four prettiest girls at Roosevelt High. That would have been even better had Lucy had the slightest idea he existed. But she didn’t. She had a boyfriend: Frankie Sprague, the star tailback on the Regiment. Still, she couldn’t shoot Armstrong for looking at her, as long as he didn’t drool too much while he was doing it.
The textbook, naturally, didn’t include “The Miller’s Tale.” Herb Rosen, one of the class brains, had found out about it, and started whispering. By the time the whispers got to Armstrong, they were pretty distorted, but the piece still sounded juicier than anything the class was studying. He wondered why they couldn’t read the good stuff instead of boring crap about sweet showers.
A trail of sniggers ran through the class. “The Miller’s Tale” would do that. “An
d what is so funny?” Miss Loomis inquired. She was a tall, muscular spinster with a baritone voice. She didn’t use a paddle. She wielded a ruler instead, with deadly effect. Nobody said anything. The sniggers didn’t stop, but they did ease. Miss Loomis looked at the students over the tops of her half-glasses. “That will be quite enough of that,” she declared, and got on with the lesson.
As soon as Miss Loomis turned back to the blackboard, Lucy asked Armstrong, “Why is everybody laughing?” She hadn’t heard, then. Well, some guys would be shy about saying such things to a girl.
Armstrong wasn’t shy about anything—and having Lucy notice him for any reason at all was a reasonable facsimile of heaven. He gleefully told her everything he’d heard about “The Miller’s Tale.” Odds were, Chaucer wouldn’t have recognized it. It was still plenty to make Lucy turn pink. Armstrong watched the blush in fascination—so much fascination that he didn’t notice Miss Loomis bearing down on him.
Whack! The ruler scorched his knuckles. He jumped and yelped in pain. Miss Loomis fixed him with a glare that would have paralyzed Jake Featherston. “That will be enough of that,” she said, and marched back up to the front of the classroom.
Lucy, damn her, didn’t even say she was sorry.
He was glad to flee English Lit for government, even though Miss Thornton, who taught it, was almost as big a battle-axe as Miss Loomis. She didn’t look so formidable, being round rather than tall, with a bosom about the size of the USS Remembrance. But she was a stickler for detail. And, naturally, she picked on him. “Why is the new Confederate Constitutional amendment so important?” she demanded.
“Uh,” he said, and said no more. He remembered his father saying something about the amendment, but couldn’t remember what to save his life—or his grade.
“Zero,” Miss Thornton said crisply, and wrote it in the roll book. She asked Herb Rosen. Herb didn’t just read Chaucer for fun; he even read textbooks for fun.
“Because now their president can be elected for lots of terms, not just one,” he answered. “It looks like the Freedom Party is setting things up for him to be president for life.”
A girl stuck up her hand. Miss Thornton nodded to her. She said, “I don’t think that’s true. Our presidents can be elected more than once, and nobody’s ever been president for life.”
“That’s because we’ve got a custom of stopping after two terms. Even Teddy Roosevelt lost when he tried for a third one,” Herb said. That touched off a discussion about the role of unwritten custom in government.
Armstrong Grimes listened with no more than half an ear. Somebody was going to be on top, and somebody else was going to get it in the neck. That was how things worked, as far as he could see, and nobody could do anything much about it. The most you could do was try to be the fellow who came out on top.
Miss Thornton left him alone for the rest of the period. But when the class ended, he had to go on to algebra, and he got it in the neck. Mr. Marr, the algebra teacher, had lost his right arm during the war. He’d had to teach himself to write and eat lefthanded. He’d done it, too, and come away convinced that anybody could teach himself to do anything. But Armstrong hadn’t been able to teach himself to do algebra.
He had to go up to the board to try a problem. He butchered it. Mr. Marr glared at him. “If you multiplied one side of the equation by six, why didn’t you multiply the other side by six, too?” he snapped.
“Uh, I don’t know,” Armstrong answered helplessly.
“Well, that’s obvious,” Mr. Marr said. “Sit down.” He did the problem himself. When he did it, it looked easy. Multiply, subtract, and what do you know? X equals seven. Armstrong knew he wouldn’t be able to do it himself, not if he lived to be a hundred.
“Not your day today,” somebody said when the bell rang and they escaped to lunch: a period’s worth of freedom.
“No kidding,” Armstrong said. “They can’t teach for beans, and I’m the one who gets in trouble on account of it.” That a lot of the other students in his classes were having no trouble at all didn’t occur to him. Far easier to blame his teachers than himself.
After lunch came chemistry. He’d had hopes for chemistry. If they’d shown him how to make things that blew up, he would have worked hard. But learning that lithium was always +1, oxygen was always -2, and carbon was ±4 left him cold. He staggered through a quiz, and hoped he got a C.
Wood shop went better. His hands had some skill in them, even if he’d never make a big brain. He was making a spice rack for the kitchen, and everything was going about as well as it could. Mr. Walsh stopped and watched him work with a file and sandpaper. The shop teacher nodded. “Not bad, Grimes,” he said. “You keep it up, and you’ll have no trouble finding a job when you get out of high school.”
The only reason Armstrong intended to graduate was that he knew his old man would murder him if he didn’t. He didn’t tell that to Mr. Walsh. If the teacher hadn’t heard it a million times before, he would have been amazed.
At last PE, and Armstrong came into his own. He was stronger and faster than most of the other boys in his class, and he reveled in it. And from PE he went straight to football practice. He was only a second-string defensive end, but he threw himself into every play as if his life depended on it. The harder he practiced, the more playing time he’d get when the game came Friday night.
And there across from him, taking snaps in the single wing, was Frankie goddamn Sprague. Think you’re going to get your hand under Lucy Houlihan’s blouse, do you? Armstrong spun past the tackle trying to block him, steamrollered the fullback, and knocked Frankie Sprague right on his ass.
XI
“I’m off.” Chester Martin blew Rita a kiss and Carl another one. His wife and their son sent kisses through the air back toward him, too. He was glad to get them as he went out the door and headed for the bus stop.
It had rained the day before, the first rain of the season in Los Angeles. The sky was a brilliant blue now, as if the rain had washed it clean. Even late in October, the weather would get up into the seventies. Chester remembered Toledo with a fondness that diminished every year he stayed in California. You couldn’t beat this weather no matter how hard you tried.
A bum slept in a doorway, a blanket wrapped around him. Living here without money was easier than it was in the eastern USA, because people didn’t have to worry so much about shelter. Idly, Martin wondered if Florida and Cuba had more than their share of out-of-work people in the CSA for the same reason.
He needed a southbound trolley today. He was heading down to Hawthorne, a suburb south of the airport and not far from the beach. Mordechai’s crew was running up a pair of apartment buildings. People with jobs kept moving to Southern California, too, and they all needed places to live.
When the trolley rolled up, Martin threw his nickel in the fare box, paid two cents more for a transfer, and then sat down with his toolbox in his lap. Even though that toolbox was a sign he had work to go to, he didn’t stop worrying. The way things were these days, who could? He wondered if he would be able to go on working after Mordechai retired. The foreman with the missing fingers on his right hand had to be past sixty. Whoever replaced him might have new favorites who needed jobs. In a trade without a union, that sort of thing was always a worry.
Posters praising candidates for the upcoming Congressional elections sprouted like toadstools on walls and fences and telephone poles: Democratic red, white, and blue against Socialist red and, here and there, Republican green. Trying to guess who’d win by seeing who had the most posters up was a mug’s game, which didn’t mean people didn’t play it all the time. By the way things looked here, the two big parties were running neck and neck. Outside of a few states in the Midwest, Republicans had a hard time getting elected. Their ideas were stuck between those of the Democrats and the Socialists, and old-timers still associated them with the nineteenth-century disasters the USA had suffered under Lincoln and Blaine.
Martin changed lines on
El Segundo. He got off the trolley at Hawthorne Boulevard and walked two blocks south and three blocks east. Mordechai waved to him when he came up, calling, “Morning, Chester.”
“Morning,” Martin answered. About half the crew—who lived all over the Los Angeles area—were already there. It was still only a quarter to eight. Chester didn’t expect many people to show up after eight o’clock. You did that more than once—twice if you were lucky—and some hungry son of a bitch would grab your job with both hands.
This morning, only Dushan came in late. He was plainly hung over. Mordechai said something to him. He nodded in a gingerly way, then got to work. He depended on construction work less than most of the other men, for he could make cards and dice behave the way he wanted them to. That let him—or he thought that let him—get away with showing up late every once in a while.
He buckled down willingly enough, even if the banging of hammers made him turn pale. The fellow working alongside Chester, a big Pole named Stan, said, “Goddamn if Dushan don’t look like a vampire left out in the sun.”
The past few years, there’d been a lot of films about vampires and werewolves and other things that should have been dead but weren’t. That probably put the comparison in Stan’s mind. It was good enough to make Martin nod. All the same, he said, “Don’t let Dushan hear that. He’s from the old country, and he’s liable to take it the wrong way.”
“Let him. I ain’t afraid,” Stan said. He was bigger and younger than Dushan, so he had reason to be confident. Still . . .
“Don’t push it.” Now Chester sounded a plain warning. “Why start trouble?”
The Victorious Opposition Page 37