The Truth According to Us (28 page)

Mentally, she sneered. You think I'm scared of you, Mr. Ralph Shank? You never met my father. “It certainly would be a blow to Macedonia if the company were removed to Martinsburg.”

“It's not going to happen,” he said. “They don't have the capital anymore.” He showed his teeth in a smile. “And I take the interests of my employees to heart, of course. They're like part of my own family. I will never let them down.”

“And yet there's no union here, is there?”

He flushed. “I treat them right, and they don't have to pay a union to tell them so.”

“But weren't a number of men recently let go?” she asked. “I would think that would give rise to—”

“You some sort of Socialist?” he broke in roughly.

“Pardon?”

He eyed her suspiciously. “There's no need for a union at American Everlasting,” he said. “And that's all I have to say about it.”

She dropped her eyes to her paper. “Have you changed the operations of the company much since you became president?”

He gave a short laugh. “Yeah, we make a profit now.”

“It didn't before?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. St. Clair was—well, he wasn't a modern businessman, let's put it that way.”

“St. Clair?”

“Romeyn.”

Wickedly, she said, “I understand he was much beloved. Mr. Romeyn.”

Mr. Shank crossed his legs. “Much beloved. Sure. But what they really love is having enough money to put food on the table, right? That's what I give them, and they respect me for it. You can't say the same about St. Clair. He ran this place like Santa Claus. Psht.” He gestured disparagingly with his cigar. “In the long run, people don't care about anything but putting food on the table. All that other stuff fades like—like an old photograph. Sure, you look at it every once in a while and you think of the good old days, but after a couple of years you can't even remember who the hell it's a picture of.” He smiled, luxuriating in his metaphor. “St. Clair's gone, and everyone thinks, Ah, those were good times—but did he have a Depression on? No, and he'd have run the place into the ground by 1933 if he had. You mark me, miss. He would have. People just don't like to think about that. They say I'm a hard man. Let 'em. They'll thank me later, when American Everlasting is still around in 1950. Then they'll thank me.”

Layla smiled, hoping he would continue, but he didn't. “Well. Mr. Shank, can you tell me any other changes that have occurred during your tenure here?”

He nodded decisively and reached for a closely written sheet of paper that lay on his desk. Setting it in his lap, he began to read: “When I came to American Everlasting in the year 1922, it was in the humble position of…”

Let the history commence, she thought, her pencil recording his words almost before he said them.

Jottie felt shrunken, engulfed in the giant noise of the looms. Nothing could be heard over their monstrous rhythmic gnashing. Next to her, Sol smiled and waved his hands toward one gyrating contraption that seemed to have a particular significance she couldn't discern. Maybe it was new. Her father had always announced the arrival of a new loom as if it were a new baby, until it became a family joke and he stopped. She noticed a few of the men looking at her curiously—did they maybe think she was Sol's girl? Puh, she reproved herself; they're thinking, Who's that old lady? She stood up straight and smoothed her skirt, glad that it was a nice one. Her mother had gone to the mill sometimes. At Christmas, of course, and to have lunch with her father every once in a while. It was something a married lady did, visiting her husband's place of business. She started a little, noticing the precipitous turn of her thoughts.

Sol touched her elbow and led her into a room lined with sample cards. “Reinforced toes,” he commented. “That's our biggest line. ‘Twice as durable.' ” He leaned close. “Tell you a secret.” She looked up, waiting. “I like the plain kind better. Don't tell Shank.” They looked at the advertising office, the box room, the docks, and the thread warehouse. They sidled past the accountancy office—“They'll talk your ear off in there,” Sol said—and then they came to a large room containing many tables but only three men, clustered in a tight knot of conversation. At Sol's entrance, they turned to face him.

“Hi, fellas,” Sol said. “You looking for Mr. Dailey?”

“Hey, Sol,” said one of them, a shoulderless man with deep creases in his face. “Yeah, we couldn't find him nowhere. Order here's all bunked up.” He held out a crumpled pink paper. “Dunno what he means.”

Jottie gazed politely into space while Sol scrutinized the paper. “It says purple,” he said after a moment. “That can't be right.”

A second man scratched his neck. “That's what we thought.” His faded eyes rested on Jottie. “Say, you're Mr. Romeyn's daughter, ain'tcha?” He smiled. “That's nice. Nice to see you here, ma'am.”

“Thank you,” she said, warmed.

The shoulderless man nudged the third man, who stared first at Jottie and then at Sol. “You sister to Emmett, miss?” he asked finally.

“Yes, that's right,” she said. “Are you a friend of his?”

“Yeah. Charlie Timbrook's the name.” He nodded thoughtfully. “He's a real sharp one, Emmett. He's got lots of interesting ideas.”

Sol's head jerked up, and he gave Charlie Timbrook a penetrating look but said merely, “Wish I could say the same for Dailey.” The three men chuckled. “Okay, can you fellows get started on the Kenneshaw now? I'll find Dailey and shake it out of him later this afternoon.”

“A-yup, will do,” said the shoulderless man. “Thanks, Sol.”

Jottie nodded good-bye, and Sol swept her away, through yet another corridor to the dye shop. But that was the end; the dye shop led to the lobby, with its still-empty desk.

“Is there someone supposed to sit there?” Jottie asked.

Sol frowned. “I don't know.”

Jottie turned to him, holding out her hand. “Well, Sol, thanks for touring me—”

“Jottie,” he said quickly, “can't you and I ever—say hello?”

She smiled. “Hello.”

“No,” he said impatiently. “That's not what I mean. Can't we see each other? And don't say we're seeing each other right now.”

His frustration made him seem childish. Feeling adult, she said, “What kind of seeing do you mean?”

“Could we—well, we could go to the pictures, for instance.”

She wanted to laugh: The pictures, a harmless amusement. And she wanted to flee: The pictures? In public? Where everyone would see? What was he thinking? He's irreproachable, she reminded herself. He doesn't have any idea what it's like not to be. She took a breath. “Yes. We could.”

“Really? I can call you?” he asked, his words stumbling in eagerness.

Now that was hard. Not harmless at all. She closed her eyes for a second. “What if I call you? I could telephone you, couldn't I?”

“But will you?” he said, shaking his head, knowing the answer already.

They had reached it so quickly: the moment she would have to turn back. This very second must bring the idea to an end, the point at which her freshly painted stairs, her carefree Willa, her simple platter of cookies, all of it would be forced to return to the primordial dust of her imagination. It was a daydream, nothing more, and she had been a fool to carry it so far. Because Sol had told a terrible lie about Felix, and Felix would never forgive him. And what she owed Felix could only be paid in loyalty.

She glanced up at Sol and saw him readying himself for disappointment; his eyes were steady but guarded. There wasn't any sweet twenty-year-old, she saw. He was lonely. Pity pressed on her heart: At least she wasn't lonely, not most of the time. Felix would never have to know. She had every right. It was just the picture show. It was just friendly. Before she knew what she was going to say, she was saying it. “Listen, Sol. How about I meet you at Sprague's Palladium next Tuesday for the eight o'clock show? I think it's supposed to be Rosalind Russell in something or other.”

For a moment, he was speechless with surprise. And then, quickly, “Yes! Sprague's Palladium next Tuesday. Eight. Yes, I'll meet you there.” He seized her hand and gazed at her delightedly.

He was too glad; he shouldn't be so glad. She said, “If it turns out to be that Andy Hardy, we'll have to go buy some whiskey off George Houdyshell and get drunk before the show.”

He laughed immoderately. “Oh, Jottie, I've missed you! You promise you'll be there?”

“Yes,” she said, and meant it.

“Even if Felix finds out?”

“I can go where I please,” she said. “It's a free country.” It wasn't. If Felix found out, she'd pay.

“Good,” he said, squeezing her hand. “That's good.”

“A vigorous Mr. Shank avers, ‘American Everlasting will be here next year and the year after that. Why, I fully expect that we'll be going strong in 1950!' The second president in the history of the company, he is known for—”

“Your Co-Cola.”

Layla nodded to the doughy girl on the other side of the counter—“Thanks”—and returned, frowning, to her pad. Vigorous. Honestly. She penciled “obnoxious” lightly over “vigorous.”

“Miss Beck?”

She looked up. “Mr. Romeyn! Please! Sit down!”

“But you're working.” Emmett glanced at the papers in front of her.

“I'm stuck. You'll be doing me a favor.”

He eased on to the stool next to hers. “What are you stuck on?”

She grimaced. “The charming Mr. Shank.”

He grinned. “Dazzled you with his charisma, huh?”

“I had been warned,” she said. “I wasn't surprised.”

The waitress reappeared. “Something for you, Emmett?” she asked eagerly.

“I'll have the same as Miss Beck here, thanks, Mab.”

Layla's eyes followed her as she trundled away. “Her name is Mab?” she asked under her breath.

Emmett nodded, permitting himself a small sideways smile. “So. You're having a hard time capturing Ralph on paper.”

“Oh, I can capture him on paper, all right….” She tilted her pad so he could read what she'd written, and he laughed. “What I don't understand is how he gets away with no union.”

He glanced at her sharply. “You going to put that in your book?”

She shook her head. “I don't think it's exactly what the town council had in mind. It's just—I don't understand. They're textile workers, aren't they?”

“Shank makes them sign—” Emmett broke off as Mab slid a spoon and a brimming glass his way.

“I put some peanuts in for you.”

“Oh, that's real nice of you, Mab. Thanks.”

“Now, drink it all, Emmett. You're looking mighty thin.”

He nodded heartily. “I sure will.”

She gazed at him with a satisfied air and then turned back to the kitchen.

Layla's eyes followed her. “Must be nice to have people fuss over you like that.”

“Trade you,” Emmett said instantly.

She snickered. “All right, I guess it could get a little close sometimes. But still.”

“No one fusses over you?” he asked, carefully making wet 8's on the counter with the bottom of his glass.

“Not now,” she said. “Not anymore. Shank makes them sign what?”

He watched her as he explained, absorbing her understanding, her indignation. “But that's ridiculous!” she exclaimed. “That's completely ridiculous!”

He raised one eyebrow. “There are plenty of people who think like you, and you'd be surprised who they are. But there's plenty more who need a job too bad to argue.”

She sat up very straight. “Maybe I will put something in my book. Just a little description of the hiring policies at American Everlasting.”

He smiled. “Would you? Brave girl.”

She gave him a troubled look. “That's funny. The last time someone called me brave, I got in a big mess.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing, really.” She bounced her pencil against the counter, thinking. “To tell the truth, it was a lot like this. Only not so important.”

He frowned with concern. “Be careful, Miss Beck. Don't go losing your job over this.”

She smiled at him. “Good. I got someone to fuss over me.”

—

After the sweltering walk home, Layla dropped her handbag and notepad on the bench below the stairs and went straight to the kitchen. She leaned against the sink, relishing the almost-coolness of the tiles through her thin dress, and cupped her hand under the spigot. She bent and greedily lapped at the water in her hands, sighing with relief as it touched her lips, her tongue, her throat. She splashed her face with water and tipped her head back, letting the drops run where they would. “My God, it's hot,” she whispered, running her wet fingers through her hair.

The cellar door banged open, and Felix strode into the kitchen with an apple in his hand. He stopped, and she saw his eyes widen at the sight of her. It was the first time she had ever seen him surprised, the first time she had ever had the advantage of him, and she felt a sudden tingle of power. She smiled at him, shaking her wet hair back, flirting. “I'm just getting a drink of water,” she laughed.

He crossed the space between them in some unimaginable fraction of a second and kissed her. His mouth tasted of apple, and his hand was warm against her cheek. He broke away slowly and smiled, and then, to her astonishment, he bent his head and she felt his tongue in the hollow of her neck, where the drops of water had pooled. “I'm thirsty, too,”
he murmured against her skin, and the light movements of his lips made her giddy.

She was panting, she could hear it, and she wanted more and more of him. When he straightened again, she put her arms up around his neck, and he bent her back easily and opened her mouth with his.

The porch door slammed, and they heard Willa's voice: “—needlepointing the whole time, like that Madame Defarge.”

Felix stiffened. He dropped his forehead to Layla's shoulder and rested it there for a moment. “Goddamn it to hell,” he said under his breath.

“Felix,” she whispered, and, briefly, his fingers curved around her hips and pulled her hard against him.

“Awful small drink of water,” he murmured, and stepped away from her.

“At least knitting is useful,” Jottie's voice came closer. “Needlepoint never did anyone any—oh.” She stopped in the kitchen doorway, her eyes darting from Felix to Layla and back again. “Willa,” she called quickly, without turning, “run get my purse. I left it on the porch.”

“What? You did?” Willa's voice moved back down the hall.

It's not as if there's anything wrong about it, thought Layla defensively. She glanced at Felix for reassurance and found his eyes on Jottie, his expression unreadable. He's divorced, isn't he? Just because she's an old maid doesn't mean that I can't kiss someone if I want to.

“You're back,” Felix said softly.

“I sure am,” Jottie replied, her voice cool. “Attending to the household gods.”

“Keeping the home fires burning,” he agreed.

Her eyebrow shot up. “Keeping some fires burning, putting some out.”

He chuckled. “You're a regular one-woman fire brigade, aren't you?”

Layla watched them, confounded. How could they joke? It wasn't—gallant, that was the word—it wasn't gallant for him to joke. He should be consumed, like she was. He should be wanting what she wanted. She blushed, thinking of what she wanted.

“Do you know,” Jottie said, “I've heard about firemen going to fires for fun, on their days off, just for entertainment. Sometimes they even start fires themselves, I've heard.”

Felix tilted his head. “Is that right?”

The screen door slammed. “Jottie! It's not on the porch.”

“Well, what do you know? It's right here under my arm,” called Jottie.

“Your aunt Jottie's losing her marbles,” called Felix so Willa could hear.

“Father!” Willa clattered into the kitchen. “I didn't know you were here!” She caught sight of Layla and recoiled a little, her face falling.

“ 'Course I'm here, honey,” he said. “Look at Jottie's purse, right under her own arm.”

“Pooh,” said Jottie. She dropped the purse on the counter. “You're older than I am, Felix. You'll lose your marbles before I will.”

Willa looked happily between them, obviously subtracting Layla from the scene. “I'll take care of you both. When you both go crazy, I'll take you out for walks.”

Jottie and Felix laughed.

“I think I'd better go write up some notes,” said Layla. Holding herself very erect, she stalked out of the kitchen.

In the dark wasteland of night, Jottie kicked her sheet away and rolled to her side, seeking a cool patch of pillow. There wasn't one. She lurched up to look at the clock again; it claimed, ludicrously, that only ten minutes had passed since her last look. Sol, Sol—what had she been thinking? She wasn't supposed to speak to him. She was supposed to toss her head and look away. But she hadn't. “Oh, Jottie, I've missed you!” She knew it was true. She sighed, rolling over in the other direction. For so many years, he had been part of the inner circle, had been, in fact, her guard.
Don't you dare go up on that roof! I'll tell your mama, I will!
How many times had he dragged her, raging, to safety? Dozens,
and she had hated it. But now? Now safety was the pirate treasure, long ago stolen and buried and gone. And Sol had it. Sol, so eager and glad. Sol, so safe and happy that he couldn't imagine a movie would keep her awake half the night. She'd do it. She'd go. She would. She'd do it, for Willa and Bird. Pooh, sneered her sly enemy. It's for yourself, as well. Been a long time since anyone asked you to a movie. Vause never did. No movie theaters back then, back when he was alive. When he was alive—stop it, she warned herself—we never even thought about safe. Only cowards thought about safe. We did anything and laughed about it afterward. Even when I almost killed him, Vause laughed. Stop that. Don't go thinking about him. Stop it—

“Come on out of there, Josie!” It was Vause, standing at the barn door. “You don't know how to drive.”

She'd been eleven; she'd been running away from home. She'd planned it all out: Vause and Felix were going to drive her to the ferry. She'd given them a dollar, even, to do it, and they'd promised. And then they'd forgotten, or pretended they had. And then they'd laughed at her.

“Go away! I hate you!” She wished she had something to throw at him. “You better get out of my way or I'll run you down.”