City of Hope (25 page)

“But do they not understand that they are working on the houses instead of paying rent? Perhaps that hasn't been explained to some of the newer—”

“Oh, I've explained all right.”

He turned his face to look out the window, afraid to hold my eye. There was a fresh gash under his ear, a drip of dried blood gathered in his neat sideburns.

“Have you been fighting, Matt?”

He instinctively moved his hand up to cover it, saying, “It's nothing.” I saw that his knuckles were bruised.

His jaw was set in fury. I had never seen him like this before. Was he furious with the men, or with me? I could not quite tell.

“It's like I said before: they are complaining that the women aren't looking after them, because they are working for you in the shop—and meanwhile they are working as hard, for no pay . . .”

“But they are being paid”—I was getting angry—“with food in their stomachs and roofs over their heads!”

“They say that you're creaming off a profit from the shop and—”

“What! And you put them straight, I hope—defended me?”

He indicated his bloody ear. It wasn't the first time, I suspected, that Matt had bloodied himself, and I was certain it wouldn't be the last.

“I'm sorry,” I said, rather more curtly than he deserved, but it seemed to soften him.

“They are all roused up into a rabble, Ellie. I can't talk sense into them.”

I was incandescent: with the men, with Matt for being so weak as to let this happen and so stupid as to fight. Charles would have all this sorted out in an instant. I cursed him for going away, then cursed myself for having chased him off as I did.

“I am going over to see them and sort this out.”

“No, Ellie, really. They are all roused up, I just wanted to let you know so that—”

I turned on him, “So that what? I would start paying them from the money the women are earning in the shop, to pay for the food to put in their bellies? For the upkeep of the children? So that they can spend the money—
my
money—on liquor and cigarettes and hats to make them look like big, clever gentlemen?”

He followed me out, saying, “No, Ellie, please . . .” as I marched into the hall, threw aside my apron and straightened my hair.

“I'll not have it, Matt—and I'll not have you scrapping like a
fool
in my defense. I can look after myself.”

“Wait—let me talk to them again this afternoon.”

But it was too late. My blood was up.

Mario was sitting on the wall of his house, smoking and talking with Cazper and Johnny.

“Morning, gentlemen,” I said.

“Morning, Ellie,” Mario replied. He seemed normal enough, as if he was simply on a work break.

“Matt, would you please go and gather the rest of the men?”

I stood there, my arms folded. Johnny casually lit a cigarette, smiled at me and doffed his cap, saying, “Morning—
Ma'am
.”

He was surely the ringleader, cheeky little upstart. I marked his card.

“Follow me inside,” I said, moving toward the Balduccis' front door. “We've business to discuss, and I'll not do it out on the street.”

“Hadn't you better wait to be
invited
into Mario's house?” Johnny said. Cazper laughed, his cheeky, sneering sidekick. I turned, and as Johnny raised the cigarette to his lips I saw the cuts on his knuckles.

“Mario.” I addressed him directly. “Please may I conduct a meeting in your house?”

“Of course,” he said brightly, “no problem!”

He wasn't on their side. Thank God. In all likelihood he didn't even know what was going on. These two upstarts were the problem. Punching Matt? A good man—an older man they'd do well to respect! I'd fling them out on the street in a heartbeat, although their wives were both lovely girls and hard workers. Shame on them, the ingrates! Taking advantage of my generosity and my kind heart. They'd soon see what I was made of—they all would!

Mario offered to make coffee for the nine or so men who were gathered in his cozy sitting room, but I said, “No, Mario, let's get this over and done with. Matt has brought it to my attention . . .”

Nine big, heavy men all stood with their arms folded, looking at me: defensive, expectant, ready. All except Mario, who sat relaxed in his favorite armchair, signaling at one or two of them to do the same, like a good host. Matt stood “guard” at the door behind me. Those who remained standing—among them Johnny and Cazper—I assumed to be the discontents, so I aimed my firmly delivered words directly at them. How I wished Charles were here, but I could do this.

“Matt has brought it to my attention that some of you are unhappy with the arrangement we have.”

Johnny raised his top lip and looked at Cazper, who shrugged. I couldn't read them. From his place in the armchair Mario spoke.

“Is like this, Ellie. We know the men in the new houses is getting paid by the landlords to do the work. We just want the same as them.”

“But those men are paying rent,” I said. “It's a different setup entirely.”

“So we've formed a union,” said Johnny.

Mario put his head in his hands. “What you go tell her that for?”

I was completely flummoxed. I thought Mario was my friend.

“You've done what?” I truly was as angry as hell. I looked at Matt and he shrugged. He seemed as angry as I was.

“All above board, like,” said Cazper.

“Is this true?” I asked Matt.

“Don't look at me, Ellie—this is nothing to do with
me
.”

“We've all signed up with the Socialist Workers' Union.”

“Chuck arranged it,” Johnny said.

“Clever guy,” Cazper added. “He reckons if we workingmen stick together, we can just about get anything we want.”

“It's men like us that are going to rebuild this country,” somebody said from behind Mario.

“If we stand together and fight, the poor man will win out.”

“We've got to stand up for our rights as US citizens.”

I stood, dumbfounded. Charles had arranged all this. Behind my back. This was his doing.

I looked at Matt, half expecting a triumphant sneer, but he was looking at the ground and would not catch my eye. He, too, was embarrassed for me.

Mario moved over and placed his hand reassuringly on my arm. “Chuck's one of the good guys, Ellie. He's just looking out for us.”

“Like you,” Cazper said.

“We're grateful for all you've done for us, Ellie,” said Johnny. “We just want the chance to make things more even. Pay you back properly.”

I didn't care about any of that. Charles had betrayed me.

“Chuck said he was going to sort things out with you—then, when he went away and hadn't said anything, Mario said—”

“Well, Charles didn't say anything at all about it to me,” I said. “Mario? Matt? I'll sit down with you both tomorrow and come to an arrangement we're both happy with. As to whether you work or not, I really don't care. It's your families who have to live in the houses, not mine.”

Brave words, but my insides were shaking. How could I have been so naive, so blind? I had given Charles the part of my heart that still belonged to my husband, and he had thrown it back in my face.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-
EIGHT

I went straight back to the house and calmed myself down. I was shaken by Charles's betrayal, but there was also a creeping fear that I was into something that was over my head.

All the other women, aside from Nancy who was upstairs nursing the baby, were down in the shop working, so I started to prepare the evening meal to keep myself busy.

Matt came into the kitchen as I was cooking. I ignored him as he sat down at the table and waited for me to join him.

Doubtless he was here to gloat about Charles.

“I'll not talk about it now, Matt,” I said, continuing about my work, “we'll talk about it all together later—I have a meal to prepare.”

“They're not bad men, Ellie.”

I huffed. “Surely you mean ‘we'?”

“Ellie . . .”

“No, no, Matt—no need to explain. I get it. You and your ‘comrades' must stick together.”

I hated the way my comment sounded—sarcastic and clipped. I made tea and resigned myself to talking to him. He looked contrite enough, although made no attempt to apologize.

“What was all that about, getting into a fight on my behalf?”

He put his head down and mumbled awkwardly.

“That was something else entirely.”

“Drink?”

God!—I had turned into Bridie.

He shook his head gravely.

“You don't need defending against
the men
, Ellie—
most
of us are very grateful to you for what you've done.”

He didn't need to spell it out any further. The set jaw, the tight lips—he had fought with Charles. Both his manner and the gash above his ear told me that Charles had won.

“Why, Matt—why didn't you come and warn me that this was happening? Why didn't you come straight to tell me, when this union business became a problem?”

“Because . . . I don't believe it is a problem.” He was facing me fully now. “Much as I”—he closed his eyes to find the right word—“
disagree
with Charles on some things, I agree with him on this.” The contrite schoolboy was gone, as he added assertively, and with all the intelligence I knew him to have in him, “The only problem with a fair, happy arrangement for all of us is you.”

So he was betraying me, too.

“I'm not listening to this nonsense. I have work to do.” I was confused and hurt. I'd deal with this another time—later, not now.

“Listen, Ellie . . .”

He reached across for my arm and held me at the table. His grip was firm; I shrugged it off, but stayed sitting, putting my hand to my forehead and holding my face down. I could feel tears stinging the backs of my eyes. I tensed my mouth and held them at bay.

“We are all grateful for the help you have given us: you have changed our lives. But no man likes to take charity—not from anybody—especially not from a woman.”

I wanted to argue back
“Why not from a woman?”
but I was afraid that if I spoke I would have to face him, and he would hear a tremor in my voice and see the vulnerability of emotion that I knew was spreading softly across my face. I was losing control. I had been the one spinning the carousel: deciding who got on and who got off—where and when, and how they were a part of my new world. This hurriedly thrown-together universe that I had created was spinning faster than I could manage. What would happen if I let go? I had tried to pass the baton on to somebody else, and Charles had sent me spinning off in another, unfamiliar direction. What mire would I be flung into next? What would become of me, if I let somebody else take charge?

He continued.

“Men are proud, Ellie—maybe it's a false pride, that's what I thought at first; but then I realized that what they—Charles—was saying made some sense. Not the way they planned to go about it; and, in fairness, the strike was never Charles's idea.”

Matt didn't call him Chuck anymore. He called him Charles, as I did.

The two of us worked out an agreement, based on the numbers and principles of the contracts that Charles had drawn up with the landlords of the new houses. Matt was delighted at the opportunity to steal his rival's thunder.

I gave him the address of my own lawyer to draw up some papers. The men could join or not join a union, as they pleased, I assured him.

If it made them feel more important, more power to them. I had had my fill of them all.

After Matt left I struggled to get up from the table. I was exhausted with the strain of it all, and so I sat for a while, thinking. About what I was doing here, what murky political and complicated personal situation I had got myself into. I did not feel angry anymore, I was just tired. Tired of working, and of being in charge and of running. I wanted to go home: back to John. How long had it been since I had been away? “One short year,” I had promised him. “I'll be back in one year, as soon as your operation is paid for—you'll be walking again, and we'll have the money to start a new life.”

But no, it wasn't 1920 now; it was 1934. John was not waiting for me back in Ireland, not any longer. Those ten years in Ireland that I seemed to have forgotten had passed in a haze of happiness and small domestic struggles. I had given myself over to some trick in time; grief's clock had turned time back, and my world upside down.
John is dead.
I said it to myself aloud: “John is dead.” The same three words I had said to Maidy the night he died. They were as meaningless to me now as they had been then, but the panic was gone. I could say the words and know they were true—but when I closed my eyes I could not bring John's face into my mind. It was as if he had disappeared, was buried somewhere beneath the mountain of worries and daily duties and chores with which I had filled my life. In my head I had not forgotten him, but John had always lived in my heart. It was where he had resided since we were children. He had stepped into the cold, hollow cave that my strict parents had created, lit a fire and brought me to life. He was dead now, and so was the fire. If John was still in there, he was a cadaver wasting in a dark corner. I didn't want to look on him with my heart, or my mind, any more than my eyes had wanted to look on his body back in Kilmoy.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-
NINE

Two days later I was alone in the house. The children had left for school. Congregating on our porch at 8:30 a.m., they followed each other single-file for the half-mile walk down to the village, with the older children at either end of the younger ones. All of the women had gone to the shop.