Folly (17 page)

Now that they were down to serious negotiating, two tables had been set up about five feet apart. Mabel and Folly and Jesse huddled around one; Sam and Fartblossom and Mr. Hart (
Sweetheart,
Mabel called him) who was the company lawyer, huddled around the other. There was no arbitrator present—though this was one of Jesse's constant threats—that if the company didn't come up with willingness to settle with them on an agreeable contract, they would move to binding arbitration. Sam and Fartblossom would confer, then the lawyer would speak for them. He came from Alabama and spoke with a sticky-sweet, melodious drawl, every word lolling on his tongue and you had to listen close to know what he was offering. He put Mabel and Folly right to sleep.

That day Jesse said it felt like the day for a contract, the lawyer had asked Folly and Mabel to leave the room. They'd really been snoozing. Sweetheart had droned out a new offer—one that included the seven percent raise, which was a primary point they'd been holding out for. He had run down the rest, which had sounded tediously familiar—Mabel and Folly hadn't listened that carefully as they'd been in the process of trying to disguise their glee at pulling off the seven percent. When he'd finished, Hart had made a little speech about how tired everybody was getting; how this was taking up valuable time (both ours and yours, he'd said). He'd said he had a suggestion for simplifying the negotiations—that if Folly and Mabel would leave the room, he'd send Sam and Fartblossom (he called them Mr. Crown and Mr. Blossom) out too. Jesse and Mabel and Folly had quickly put their heads together.

“Think we should?” Folly had asked Jesse, who had stared at her, obviously far off in his own thoughts, before answering yes, that he thought they should go along with him and see what he was up to. Folly was reminded of her childhood—of playing war in the town dump and periodically conferring with the boy who assumed he was the leader to decide upon the next strategy. She turned to Mabel. “What do you think?”

“He knows what we want, well as we do,” she said. “I guess if we
trust
him, we can leave him to do the job.”

“We'll wait right out here,” Folly suggested, “in case you want to come out and ask us about anything.”

Someone started a horn beeping celebration just as Folly and Martha were pulling out of the parking lot the next morning, and most of them
kept it up clear to town. It reminded Folly of being in a wedding procession, certainly not her own. She and Barney had been married in the office of the town judge—the sheriff and half a dozen hicks hanging around in the doorway, saying, “Do we get to kiss the bride now, huh?” Folly cringed, remembering.

Folly waved at women from the factory who pulled into the 7-Eleven. One woman raised her fist in the air and yelled to her: “Good work.” Folly nodded. She felt outside of the mood of celebration. She had looked forward to some moment of great victory, and now, when others were acting as if they had reached it, she felt dampened with disappointment.

Jesse had burst into the hall and swooped down on Folly and Mabel, who were sick to death of waiting, success smiling all over his face. He'd put one arm around each of them, and said, “I think we've got it. I think we've got a good, solid contract we can all be proud of.” They'd had one more coffee, read the copy of the contract that was all pencilled in and pencilled out. Tired. It was almost noon. They'd been up all night and all morning and had to be back in at eleven that night. They were having a victory, but Folly felt as if she'd just lost a fight. Go home, go to bed, she thought. Don't put up any more fuss now.

Her mind kept running the same track, imagining the scene after she and Mabel had left. It seemed clear now that Jesse must've known when Mr. Hart asked them to leave he was going to say they should get the business about the illness of dependents out of the way. The contract wasn't bad; in fact it was damn good. But Folly couldn't get Cora, who walked around now spindly, sad, and with a look of disconnection, out of her view. Jesse didn't have to look at her. He knew it was her baby dying that had gotten his foot in, but he was there to bring “another perspective,” as he called it. “There are certain things that are traditionally negotiable,” he had said. “Asking for sick time this way is highly unconventional.” Remembering these statements, Folly realized Jesse had always intended to give on that part of the contract. What hurt most was her sense of personal betrayal, that he hadn't fought it out further with her and Mabel, had assured them they could trust him, even when he must have known they couldn't. Folly imagined him in there alone, acting as if he were one of the boys:

“Now, Mr. Hart, you must realize that these women were very distressed by the occurrence of the death of Mrs. Welton's baby. As a consequence, they are quite committed to this clause.”

“Indeed, Mr. Jarvis, we are understanding of their concern. However, you and I know that this is not an appropriate clause for a contract.”

“Yes, of course.”

“So . . . I suggest. . . .”

She regretted they had agreed to leave the room. That was the lesson. Stay. Don't trust. The only power they had was their presence—the resistance of their bodies on the line. She wondered how Mabel felt now, having slept on it. Jesse had left them alone, said it was up to them to decide if they'd recommend ratification. They hadn't taken much time at all, couldn't afford to, too tired; they'd agreed to recommend yes while Jesse was up paying the bill at the cash register. Then Mabel had said, “Not bad, eh? What you lookin' so mad about?”

“I can't believe he didn't come out and ask us if we'd be willing to let go on the sick leave issue.”

“Didn't surprise me. I always knew we was gonna lose that one. Look here—we got us six days sick leave for the first time ever in the history of this here mill or just about any other mill around.”

Folly had nodded.

“You gotta learn to count your wins, woman,” Mabel had said, waving the contract at her.

19.

It was Thursday evening before Folly saw Mary Lou. The day they'd gotten the contract she'd come home, fixed some food for the kids' supper, then slept until time to go back. This day she'd slept longer than usual, too, but at least she'd started in the morning instead of the afternoon. She didn't think she'd ever catch up. The place was a mess. She couldn't remember when she'd last cleaned it.

Mary Lou was lulled by her fascination to the point of nearly forgetting where she was, when she heard Folly rattling around in the kitchen and suddenly realized her mother was up and no telling when she might walk through that door. Her hand moved
Sappho Was A Right On Woman
in a reflex arc that ended under her pillow, and she flopped over on her stomach, her belly providing the next level of insurance for covering the hot potato. She breathed rapidly, as if she'd been caught. She
had
been caught, in a spell with this book, which she gradually shook off.

Folly tapped softly on her door. “You awake?”

“Yeah. Comin' right out.”

Although Mary Lou hadn't seen her mother since it happened, she'd heard about the contract at the store. She'd even overheard people, who didn't know whose daughter she was, talking about how well Folly had done in the negotiations. “That's my ma,” she'd wanted to say, but had restrained herself, kept her smile inside and gone on bagging the groceries. Now she went out to the kitchen and bowed to her mother. “You're about near famous, Ma.”

“Come on. What's this?”

“The honor of your presence, Madame Negotiator Mother.” She bowed again and they laughed.

Folly offered her a beer. “C'mon out back and tell me what you been hearin'?”

“Bout you getting a hotshot contract.”

“Well, we got one. I hope it's worth something. Were they talking about Mabel? I hope people realize Mabel was in there with me all the way.”

“Maybe. I didn't hear about anyone but you.”

It robbed the possibility for joy the way people refused to recognize Mabel's contribution. Folly saw that the white man wrote up the Black man's crimes in the paper every day. You'd see his picture often enough, his hands behind his back in handcuffs, but would they see Mabel in there for the long haul, working out that contract with the others? She tried to explain this to Mary Lou. “Most of what I learned being involved in this thing is about how Black and white people have been divided, and it's surely easier to go the familiar way—the way you've been trained. A lot of life is nothing but following one habit into the next. You got to stop yourself and keep peeling your eyes open all the time if you want to see what goes on. Those people talking about me gettin' the contract, they know Mabel was there,
they know
. . . but they can't see her there. You tell them and they'll say, ‘Oh, yeah, I guess she was there, but you'd a had me, that had just slipped my mind completely.'”

“I guess they gotta have a pretty lousy memory,” Mary Lou said.

“That's just the point. They got a perfectly normal memory for everything else.”

Martha came over and joined them, bringing with her a less pensive mood. “You figured out yet what to do with all this raise we're gonna be getting?” she asked Folly.

“Hell, it ain't gonna be much.”

“What about the house?” she asked.

“Yeah, I guess I'll go back to tryin' to put something away. Don't seem so crowded around here lately, since I hardly ever see this hard workin' daughter of mine.”

They all sat listening to the birds' evening song for a moment. Mary Lou tried to picture them moving off and leaving Martha but couldn't. She felt the warmth of Martha's feeling for her mother, saw them look at each other, and for a second could almost picture them touching each other the way they described in the book. But no, not her mother. Her mother might jostle with Martha but nothing else. No hugging or kissing or whatever else lesbians did. Her mother was a union representative, a mill worker, a mother, a joke teller, a mystery reader. She didn't
fall into anyone's arms. She thought she had settled it for herself. It was later, after supper, when she'd gone to her room to read some more, that she'd tripped over the idea maybe she was doing to her mother what her mother said they were doing to Mabel, blanking out on her. She took the book out from where she'd hidden it under a whole mess of stuff in her bottom drawer, set her ears for the sound of someone's approach to her room, set her reflexes for a quick route to under her pillow, and resumed her reading.

Aware that Mary Lou's bedroom window was like an ear to the porch, Folly dropped her voice to a whisper. “Maybe now I can get around to talking with her, now that I don't have to be worrying about the negotiations.”

Martha nodded and searched Folly's face for more understanding of what that would mean to them. She foundered in herself, knowing this was a place of rocky footing in their relationship.

“She's got her radar out all over the place,” Folly said.

“I don't doubt it,” Martha agreed. She went in to get them another beer, came back out and nudged Folly, “Let's move over to my place to finish these.”

Folly went in and told the boys, who were watching T.V., that she'd be next door. As they crossed the back yards in the moonlight, Mary Lou could feel them moving away from her, not exactly sneaking, but pulling farther, stretching the space. Maybe Martha had something she wanted to show Folly over there, she thought. Maybe they were worried that their voices were keeping her awake. She listened for the car door or the screen door. Maybe they were going out for more beer to celebrate. But, no, they had to work that night. They had not gone inside. No doors closed. She could just barely hear their voices, talking husky-soft in the dark.

They sat on Martha's back stairs. “You know it's funny the position you get yourself in sometimes.”

“What's that?” Martha asked.

“How I'm ending up defending Jesse even though I'm stitchin' mad at him. I mean these women coming up to me last night asking about what happened after we made such a fuss about how we were going to stick up for being able to stay home when our kids were sick and all. And me feeling like saying, yeah, what the fuck happened anyway, but saying, now this was the way it was, we had to take what we could get. And even the doggone words out of Jesse's mouth like, ‘this is a highly unconventional demand.'”

“Well, maybe you should just say Jesse pulled out on that one.”

“But the thing is, we're tryin' to build confidence in the union. What's it gonna do if we go around talking down on Jesse?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I feel like a representative . . . not myself. What bugs me is if I'd a really heard Mabel, we wouldn't of left the room. ‘If we
trust
him,' she said. Not ‘We trust him.' She knew. Believe me, that is one smart woman. I keep learnin' over and over again how she is keyed in, and even
knowing that,
I got to almost force myself to listen to her. Brick brain.” Folly batted herself on the head with the soft side of her fist.

“Hey, go easy,” Martha said, caressing the same part of Folly's head.

“Well, you know it, don't you? You know when we first went out and started organizing for the union, we didn't think much at all about the Black women. We figured, automatically, they'd fall in right behind the white women. I, for one, never had a clue how much they had their own understanding of the union thing until that day Mabel gave us the dickens and a half, hear. Remember that? Us all sittin' in our white skins havin' a gripe session over our girls that wouldn't sign.”

“Yeah. I hadn't thought about it, either.”

They sat, still, and the hot silence of the night mixed with Folly's melancholy mood. She broke it, saying, “You shoulda gone off to celebrate with some of the other girls. I'm a drag.”

“Not to me, you're not.” Martha took Folly's hand, sandwiched it between her own and rubbed it. “I'm glad to be right here with you.”

Exhausted, touched by having someone to care for her, Folly let the tears rise to her eyes. It felt unfamiliar to her, this sense that she did not have to seal off her skin and toughen up more when she felt defenseless, but could let her vulnerability ride in Martha s arms. Martha held her, rocked her gently side to side on the step, saying, “It's been a long hard haul. We been pulling since June, all through the heat. Pullin' and learnin' and next time we'll know more. Now's time for rest. Now's time for takin' some rest for our tired bones.” The two of them went on swaying in silence until Folly jumped.

“What's that?”

“Nothing,” Folly said, looking around. “I thought I heard something.” She saw it had only been Mary Lou entering her thoughts, not the back yard.

“Let's go in,” Martha said, standing and lifting Folly's hand.

“I want to be home for the kids.”

“I'll let you go home in a little while.”

Folly followed Martha into the trailer, wondering how she had lived all the years up 'til then without anyone there for her like this. She was finally reaching the point of being ready for the celebration to start. “Count your wins,” Mabel had said. This was certainly one of them, this broad, steady woman who had stormed Fartblossom's office with her the night they'd heard about Cora's baby, and had been there, engaged in this struggle ever since. How heartening it was to have such a friend, how strengthening. So much of their lives were involved in pushing against, pushing up hill. Together they could encounter a different part of themselves—they could glide, feel the summation of giving energy that would be returned. Folly experienced this energy between them as a renewable resource. What she gave to Martha she could count on having back. They sat at the table with the bowls of ice cream Martha had generously scooped up, sat close to the corner of the table, Folly with one of her legs wrapped around Martha's. This was a place they both belonged in. A place of no resistance. Trust.

Folly remembered the women in the parking lot explaining to Jesse one morning: “One thing you learn here if you're gonna stay is keep your mouth shut. Better not to say what's on your mind. The gossip is so bad here you say two words at ten o'clock, it'll be made into five clear on the other side of the room by 10:10. Sally gets a new toaster. Everybody knows it 'fore she even uses it.”

“I hate it,” one woman had said. “I hate the gossip. But one thing I reckon with, it's there.”

“But isn't it different,” Jesse had asked, “talking about the conditions of your work?”

“Different?” someone said. “More dangerous, that's all. You gonna bitch about your work, you better be damn sure who's your best friend. If you ain't damn sure, you best keep it to yourself.”

“What do you think makes for all this gossip?” Jesse asked.

“Boredom. Sometimes people are just plain small, but mostly I think it's downright boredom,” Freena said.

Folly realized the great ease she took from being able to trust Martha completely. She remembered that day on her porch when they'd been talking about Mary Lou hanging out with Lenore and she'd caught herself wondering about Martha. She nearly laughed, seeing who she was now. Though she hadn't spoken, Martha, following her close, felt the change in her mood and grew attentive.

“Remember when I got so upset about Mary Lou because of that guidance counselor?”

“You bet. I remember that afternoon real well. I think you stirred me up some that day.”

“I didn't stick with it, but I had a flashing glimmer about you then.” She reached over and stroked Martha's leg.

“Sure it wasn't a flashing glimmer about yourself?”

“Nope. I sure did cover it right up with them sheets, anyway, cause I didn't want to lose the only good friend I had. I'll put this right in with them sheets, I thought, and iron it right out straight.”

They laughed. Folly went on. “I guess I was buried pretty far down myself, as far as any ideas about sex was concerned. You know, kind of like a volcano. You keep simmerin' a long time on low, when you erupt, you're gonna come forth and make up for it. When you walked me down the road that night, I tell you, I never felt such a celebration taking place inside of me. Sparklers going off every which way. Fourth of July. A little hand holding, one kiss, and hear, woman, you had my legs melting right underneath my body.”

“Good thing I was there to hold you up,” Martha said. She put her hand on Folly's shoulder, bent and kissed her on the lips, then sat back and smiled. “Go on . . . go on.” They had taken to telling the story of that first night over and over, as a ritual.

“I thought to myself, I thought, Folly, what's happening to you? What are you fixin' to do? Is this you? Where are your legs? I said, by the light of the stars, this is you. This is you and Martha. But it ain't true. I was actually
thinkin'
all this, I was
feelin'
it. I doubt I had any circulation to the brain at all. Or to the legs.”

“Where was it?”

“Come on, now. You know . . . . It was gathering force to meet you.”

Martha stood and gathered Folly to her, and they moved into the bedroom. “I love the way you tell the story, it's like being there all over again.”

In the moments of silence that followed their bodies moving with a swift force together, Folly reached that place in herself where there were no voices, no ideas, no limbs ready for action, no ears for the children. A quiet deep inside herself, she felt almost as if she were floating. As sleep was a requirement for resting the tissues of the body, these moments of quiet healed the wounds of daily living. She had never known she was missing this healing until she had come upon it, but now it seemed as crucial as sleep. And why should she need healing? She only
spent about ninety percent of her life with her head butted up against some impenetrable wall.