The Carpetbaggers (77 page)

"We came down here because we thought the union should be doin' somethin' for us."

Riordan gave him a shrewd look. "Of course, Tom," he said soothingly. "And it's the right thing ye did, too."

Tom sighed in relief. For a moment, he had thought Riordan would be angry at the way they'd come in and taken over the hall. He watched as Riordan turned toward the men and held up his hand. A silence came over the hall.

"Men," Riordan said in his deep voice, "the reason you couldn't find me was I beat it up to the company office the minute I learned about the layoffs. There was no time to call a meeting but I want you to know that the union was right on the job."

A cheer went up from the men. They looked at each other embarrassedly.

"And I want to express my appreciation to Brother Tom Denton here for his prompt action in bringing you all down here to the union hall. It shows that Tom Denton, like every one of you, knows that the union is his friend."

Tom blushed as the men cheered again. Riordan turned back to the crowd. "I've been working all afternoon, fighting with the management, and finally I got them to back down a little."

A loud cheer shook the ceiling.

Riordan raised his hand, smiling. "Don't cheer yet, boys. Like I say, I only got them to back down a little bit, but it's a start. They promised to have more meetings with me next month."

"Are they takin' us back?" Tom asked.

Riordan looked at him, then turned back to the men. "The management agreed to take back ten of the men who were laid off this week. They also agreed to take back ten more men next month."

A strange silence came over the room. The men eyed each other nervously. "But more than fifty of us were laid off," Tom said loudly. "What's ten men out of that many?"

"It's a start, Tom," he said. "You can't do it all at once."

"Why not?" Tom demanded hotly. "They laid us all off at once."

"That's different," Riordan said. "The company has the right to lay off if business is bad."

"We know that. What we're sore about is the way they did it. They paid no attention to the seniority they agreed to in the union agreement. They laid off all the sixty-five-cent men and kept the fifty-five-centers."

"I know," Riordan said. A harsh edge had come into his voice. "But their taking back ten men is a start. It's better than having all fifty of ye out on the street." He turned back to the men. "Ten of you will go back to work. Maybe next month, ten more will go back. That's better than nothing. The company doesn't care if you go on strike. They claim they'll save money by not running."

"I say we take it," one of the men shouted. "Ten of us workin' is better than none workin', like Riordan says."

"No," Tom said angrily, getting to his feet. "The company should take us all back. Each of us has as much right to work as the next one. If all us sixty-five-cent men would accept a cut to fifty-five cents, the company could keep us all on."

Riordan laughed hoarsely. "You hear that, men?" he shouted. "Would you like to take another pay cut?"

There was a murmur from the crowd. They shifted uneasily. "I'd rather take a pay cut than have us all laid off," Tom said.

Riordan glared at him. There was no friendliness in his eyes now. He had been angry ever since he got a call from the company personnel manager, advising him he'd better get down to the union hall. The call had caught him at a very embarrassing time. He got out of bed, cursing as he struggled into his clothing. "What is it, honey?"

"Some jerky conductor has taken over the hall and is talking strike to the boys."

"But he can't do that," his paramour answered in a shocked voice. "You promised the company they'd have no trouble."

"They won't," he said harshly. "Nobody can make Riordan break his word!"

By the time he'd driven down to the union hall, he'd simmered down. But now he was getting angry again. He had a hard enough job explaining to his wife where he was spending his Saturday nights, without having it loused up by a bunch of stupid trolley men.

He turned back to the crowd. "I propose we settle this here and now," he shouted. "You have a choice. Ten men go back to work or you strike."

"Wait a minute," Tom protested.

"The men already turned your proposal down," Riordan snapped. He raised his right hand. "All in favor of returning to work raise your right hand."

About ninety men raised their hands.

"Nays?"

There were only a few raised hands besides Tom's.

"The ayes have it. Now you men go home to your wives. I’ll let you know on Monday which of you go back to work."

Slowly the men began to file out of the room. Tom looked at Riordan but the man didn't meet his eyes. Instead, he went back into his little glass cubbyhole and picked up the telephone.

Tom walked wearily toward the door. Some of the men looked at him, then quickly hurried by, as if they were ashamed to meet his gaze. At the doorway, he turned and looked back. Riordan was still using the telephone.

The night was clear and bright and a warm breeze came in from the bay. He walked along thoughtfully. He wasn't going to be one of the lucky ten who were going to be taken back. He was sure of that. He'd seen the anger in Riordan's eyes. He turned the corner and walked to the car stop on the next block. Idly he wondered if his pass was still good now that he was laid off.

Two men came past him on the darkened street. One of them stopped. "Got a match?"

"Sure," Tom said. He fumbled in his pocket. He might not have a job but matches he still had. He struck the match. The sudden hardening in the man's eyes and the sound of footsteps behind him were a warning that came too late. There was a sharp blow to the back of his head and he stumbled to his knees.

He reached out, grabbing the man in front of him around the legs. The man swore under his breath and kicked upward with his knee, catching Tom in the groin.

Tom grunted from the pain as he went over backward, his head striking the sidewalk. As if from a long way off, he felt the men kicking at him as he lay there. He rolled over toward the edge of the sidewalk and into the gutter.

He felt a hand reach into his pocket and take out his pay envelope. Feebly he tried to grab the hand. "No," he pleaded. "Please, no, that's my pay, it's all I got!"

The man laughed harshly. He aimed a final kick at the side of Tom's head.

Tom saw the heavy boot coming but he couldn't duck away from it. Then the lights exploded in his face and he rolled over, face down, in a puddle of water in the gutter. He came to slowly, painfully, to the sound of water against his face. He moved his head wearily. A gentle rain had begun to fall.

His body ached as he pushed himself up on his hands and slowly got to his feet. He swayed dizzily for a moment and reached out to the street lamp to steady himself. The lamp flickered and then went out. It was almost morning. The sick gray light of the day spilled down around him.

He saw his blue conductor's cap lying in the gutter, not far from where he stood. Slowly he knelt and picked it up. He brushed it off against his coat and walked toward the corner. There was a mirror in the corner of the drugstore window. He paused in front of it and looked at himself.

His uniform was torn and shredded, his tie askew, the shirt buttons ripped away. He put his hand up to his face in touching wonder. His nose was puffed and swollen, and one eye had already turned purple. With the tip of his tongue, he could feel the jagged edges of broken teeth.

He stared for a moment, numb with shock, then he began to understand what had happened to him. Riordan had done it. He was sure of that. That's why Riordan had been on the telephone when he'd left the union hall.

Suddenly, he realized he'd never be able to go back to work for the cable-car company. Riordan would see to that, too. He stood there looking at himself and the tears began to run down his cheeks. Everything had gone wrong. Everything. Now he had no job and no money. And worst of all, he'd have to tell Ellen.

She'd never believe he hadn't been out on a drunk, and the ironic thing was that he hadn't so much as taken one glass of beer.

"Are ye goin' to be sittin' there all day reading the newspapers, studyin' what kind of a job would suit your highness best?" Ellen Denton asked caustically.

Her face was grim as she wrapped Jennie's lunch in a piece of wax paper. Tom didn't speak, looking down at the paper again as Jennie came into the room. "Good morning, Mom," she said brightly. "Morning, Daddy."

"Good morning, Jennie Bear," he said, smiling at her. "How's my Winnie Winkle this morning?"

"Just fine, Daddy." It was a private joke between them. He'd called her that when she got a job as a typist in the insurance company last month. It had been just five weeks after he'd lost his job on the cable cars and two weeks after she graduated from Mercy High School.

"You're the Winnie Winkle," he'd said. "But I’ll get something in a few weeks. Then you'll be able to go to St. Mary's, like you planned."

"Ye have too much lipstick on, Jennie," her mother said. "Best take some of it off."

Tom looked at his daughter. She didn't have that much lipstick on. It was much less than most of the girls wore whom he used to see every morning on the cable car.

"Oh, Mother." Jennie protested. "I’m working in an office now, not going to school. I have to look decent."

"Decent ye should look, not painted."

"Aw, Ellen, leave the girl alone," Tom said slowly.

Ellen glared angrily at him. "When you're bringin' home some of the money to feed your family, then ye can talk."

Tom stared at her, his face setting grimly. He could feel the color draining from it. Jennie smiled sympathetically at him and that made it even worse. He never expected Jennie to be pitying him. He tightened his lips against a flood of angry words.

"Golly, I'm going to be late," Jennie said, jumping to her feet. She snatched at the paper bag on the table and started for the door. " 'By, Mom," she said over her shoulder. " 'By, Daddy. Good luck today."

Tom could hear her footsteps running down the stairs. He looked down at the paper again. "Could I have another cup of coffee?"

"No, one cup is all ye get. How much coffee d'ye think we can afford on the child's eleven dollars a week?"

"But you have the coffee right there. It's already made."

"It's for warming again tomorrow mornin'," she said.

He folded the paper carefully, got up and walked into the bathroom. He turned on the tap and let the water run as he took down his shaving brush and razor. He held his hand under the tap. The water was still cold. "Ellen, there's no hot water for my shave."

"Use the cold, then," she called. "Unless ye have a quarter for the gas meter. I'm savin' the gas we have left for the child's bath."

He looked at himself in the mirror. His face had healed from the beating, but his nose was a little crooked now and there were broken edges on his two front teeth. He put down the brush and walked into the kitchen.

Ellen's back was still toward him. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. "Ellen, Ellen," he said gently. "What's happened to us?"

She stared up into his face for a moment, then reached up and pushed his hands from her shoulders. "Don't touch me, Thomas Denton. Don't touch me."

His voice was resigned. "Why, Ellen, why? It's not my fault what happened. It was God's will."

"God's will?" She laughed shrilly. "You're the one to be talkin' of God's will. Him that hasn't been in the church for more years than I can remember. If ye thought more of your Saviour than you did of your Saturday-night beer. He'd have shown ye some of His mercy."

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he turned, went back into the bathroom and began to shave with the cold water. She hadn't always been like this — sharp-tongued and acid-touched. And fanatical about the church and the priests. Once, she'd been Ellen Fitzgerald, with laughing eyes and dancing feet, and he remembered her at the Irish Ballroom on Day Street the time he first met her.

She was the prettiest girl on the floor that night, with her dark-brown hair and blue eyes and tiny feet. That was in 1912 and they were married the next year. A year after that, Jennie had been born.

He was a motorman with the car line even then, and when he came back from the war, they moved into this apartment. A year later, a son was born.

Poor tiny little Tommy. The world was not long for him and when he was two years old, they laid him to rest in Calvary Cemetery. Jennie was eight then and barely understood what had happened to her brother, but Ellen found her solace in the quiet of the church, and every day she took her daughter there with her. At first, he didn't pay much attention. Ellen's overattachment to her church was only natural; it would wear off soon enough.

But it didn't. He found that out one night, when he reached for her in the bed and found her cold and unresponsive. He felt for her breast inside the heavy cotton nightgown but she turned her back to him. "You've not made your confession in months. I’ll not have ye planting another child in me."

He tried to make a joke of it. "Who wants to make a baby? All I want is a bit of lovin'."

"That's even worse, then," she said, her voice muffled by the pillow. "It's sinful and I'll share no part of that sin."

"Is that what the priests have been dunning into your ears? To deny your husband?"

She didn't answer. He gripped her shoulder and forced her to turn toward him. "Is that it?" he asked fiercely.

"The priests have told me nothing. What I do is of me own doing. I know the Book enough to know right from wrong. And stop your shouting. You'll be waking Jennie in the next room."

"I’ll stop shouting," he said angrily, as the heat of her shoulder came warm into his hands and the fever rose up in him and he took her by force. The spasm shook him and he subsided into a heavy-breathing quiet atop her, his eyes staring into hers.

She looked up at him quietly, not moving, passive as she had been all through his assault upon her. A last shiver drained his vitals. Then she spoke. Her voice was calm and distant and detached, as if he weren't there at all. "Are ye all through spending your filth in me?"