Honeyville (21 page)

‘Besides,’ Phoebe said primly, ‘it’s not a night for dancing. I don’t believe it would be appreciated.’

She was right, of course.

Even so, the curfew was a joke. After the Ludlow burning, General Chase lost what control he’d ever had in Trinidad. He might have ordered saloon closures until the geese flew south again. The saloons stayed open anyway.

That was the first night we all gathered at the Toltec. Inez was at the heart of it all, with Max Eastman beside her, laughing elegantly at all her sweet jokes. But it was Max Eastman who was the star of the show, as ever. And so, by association, was Inez, as she basked in his approval. Aside from Max and Inez there was Frank Bohn, the travelling companion, an activist and poet and a leading light, I learned, among the thinkers of Greenwich Village. Beside him there was Xavier and there was me, two fish out of water, gazing in. There were two lady reporters, one from a paper in New York. (I forget her name now. She managed to be simultaneously drab and dreadfully brash. I didn’t take to her much.) And there was another lady named Gertrude Singer, much more lively, from a publication in Denver. There was a young Jack Reed, charming, funny – preaching revolution (dead now, of course, his famous bones buried in the Kremlin). The writer Upton Sinclair was there too, a shrivelled, sanctimonious little figure in the corner. And there were several others.

The group grew larger as the week wore on, but that first evening at the Toltec Saloon, with the shutters pulled, and only the back room open for business, there were no more than ten of us. It was the night Inez read her poem.

I caught Xavier’s eye as she and Max were gazing at one another, deep in earnest discussion. The room was shrill with the noise of our visitors, each one straining louder to express their horror at the tragedy over at Ludlow – what it meant for America, and for the working man, and for the future of capitalism, and for revolution and for a new world … Inez had a hand on Max’s forearm, and they were leaning towards one another as if, any moment, they might kiss. I muttered to Xavier:

‘I think her heart is mended, don’t you?’

He laughed. ‘Hers is,’ he said quietly, beneath the hubbub. ‘How about yours?’

‘Mine?’ I laughed. Xavier had a habit of saying things that startled me. ‘Honestly, I’m not certain there’s anything much of it left to mend. How about yours?’ I asked.

‘Ah!’ he smiled. ‘Mine brings me nothing but trouble.’

‘Amen to that.’ I wondered if I dared to ask something further, but he beat me to it.

‘Was William Paxton a friend of yours, Dora?’ he asked. But he didn’t wait for me to reply. ‘Perhaps you’re not allowed to say. Even though I wouldn’t tell it to a soul … Only I saw your expression when Inez told me he had been killed. You’ve been kind of subdued ever since.’

‘Absolutely not,’ I shook my head. ‘I didn’t know him.’

‘Right you are,’ he nodded. ‘I hope I didn’t offend you?’

‘Not at all.’

We looked away for a moment or two, pretending to attend to the opinions filling the air around us, and then we both apologized at once. We glanced back at one another and laughed.

‘Well, the truth of it is yes, I did know him,’ I whispered. ‘I was very fond him. But you mustn’t, you really mustn’t …’

‘Gosh, no, Dora, of course not. Although, I can’t honestly imagine who I’d tell it to, in any case. It may have escaped your notice, but I don’t talk to many folk in this town. Or maybe they don’t talk to me. Anyway, you and Inez are really my only friends. At least …’ He looked bashful. ‘If that’s not impertinent. May I count on you as a friend?’

‘I should certainly say so!’ I said. And I dare say it was a combination of everything – William dying, and then the shock of that poor lad, Cody, and then the tragedy that had taken place at Ludlow, and the fury on our streets, and the anarchy, and the cruelty and injustice of it all; and the sense that nothing, anywhere, was safe … And then all these smart, clever people descending on Trinidad, telling each other, in their shrill, opinionated voices that this small town in the middle of the prairie –
our
small town in the middle of
our
prairie – was the shame of Colorado, of America, of the civilized world … All of this played its part. But I had to leave the table, just for a moment. Because when Xavier said he counted me as a friend, it seemed that his words were the kindest ever spoken. And I did not want to weep, not in front of that crowd.

When I returned, Inez was telling everyone about her ‘spying kit’, which had finally been delivered to the cottage last week. ‘Only look at this!’ she was saying, and from the secret pocket of her pantaloon skirt, she produced a tiny, kid-leather purse. It had a silver catch, which opened onto a silk-lined pouch with space enough for a looking glass and rouge pot inside; and hidden beneath the silk-lined pouch she revealed another tiny catch.

‘Look, look,
look
at this!’ she cried. ‘Only
please
,you must all look at this! You need this sort of thing, if you’re a single girl in Trinidad. Isn’t that right, Dora?’

I nodded, waiting to see what sort of thing it was we single girls might need. Tucked neatly behind the mirror, she revealed a pistol small enough to fit into the palm of a lady’s hand. Inez pulled it out by its mother-of-pearl handle, and we gasped. Or most of us did. It was, after all, the smallest, prettiest, most well-disguised little gun any of us had ever laid eyes upon.

‘For heck’s sake, Inez,’ said her brother. ‘We have enough guns in this town already. Put that thing away!’

‘Oh Xavier, don’t be so dull.’

‘Put it away!’ he snapped.

‘I will,’ she said. ‘I
will
…Only please do look! I haven’t finished … I’ll just bet you all think this is a tiny pot of rouge, don’t you?’ Beaming like a child, she held it up to the table.

‘Surely not!’ Max laughed. ‘I’m sure a girl like you wouldn’t dream of wearing any such thing! Rather, I would have said it was a tin of peppermint sweets.’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘It isn’t either of those things. It isn’t even
meant
to be peppermint sweets anyway. But never mind. If you hadn’t already seen my little gun, you would never have imagined, would you, that it contained …’ She opened the little tin, and there were the little gun’s little bullets.

And standing right behind her, his face expressionless, was Lawrence O’Neill.

He nodded at me. Didn’t look at Xavier. Ignored Inez completely. He addressed himself to Max Eastman. ‘Excuse me, sir, for butting in,’ he said. ‘I heard you were in town … You too, Mr Reed.’ He nodded at Jack Reed, whose work was often published in
The Masses
. Lawrence looked quite shy – an expression I’d never seen in him before. He explained his connection to the Union. ‘I wasn’t in the office when you dropped by. I was sorry to miss you. But I understood you made it out to Ludlow …’

‘About four of us went out there,’ Max Eastman nodded. ‘The camp guards let us in without a fight.’

‘I’ll bet you didn’t get much information out of them.’

‘Nothing but lies,’ agreed Max. ‘We need to find some characters not so well primed in talking to the press. Don’t we Jack?’

Jack Reed nodded sagely. ‘Some honest people,’ he said.

‘Well, the general’s men, who you will have found up there guarding the burned-up site today: they’ve been lying so long they can’t distinguish what’s truth any longer.’

‘That was clear enough,’ Jack said. ‘They were smooth as – whatever’s supposed to be smooth … Very, very smooth. It was creepy. Are you drinking? If you’re joining us, you have some catching up to do.’

Lawrence shook his head. ‘Don’t want to interrupt your evening. I just wanted to say – here I am. Lawrence O’Neill, at your service. I’ve been with the Union these past five years and if there’s anything you need while you’re here in Trinidad, any information, introductions – just let me know. Leave a message for me here at the Toltec. Or at the Corinado. I’m staying at the Corinado.’

‘You moved?’ I said.

He smiled. ‘Too crowded here. Otherwise you can get me at the Union. Where are y’all staying?’ And then, while they collected themselves to answer, he glanced down at Inez, whose shoulder must have felt the warmth of his body, standing so close behind her. He said: ‘Miss. You should put that away. Like the gentleman says – we have enough guns in this town already.’

‘Oh, you bet there are enough guns,’ Inez said. ‘You bet there are
.’
She sounded angry, but only for a second, and then her lips curved into a smile and the moment was gone. Slowly, she put the little gun away. She didn’t look at Lawrence. She waited until her new friends had answered his question: most were staying here at the Toltec or at the Corinado, same as him. It was only thirty or so yards further down the hill. They invited him again to sit down but again he refused. He said it had been a bad day, and they discussed that for a while, and that he was turning in, and that he hoped to see them all again in the morning. And all the while his hand rested on the back of Inez’s chair, and it seemed to me that she leaned back, and it seemed as if his fingers were tangling softly with her hair. But I asked Xavier afterwards if he had noticed and he had not. He said I was probably drunker than I realized – which of course I was – and that my protective instinct, when it came to Inez, had led me to imagine things.

There was a pause while the men (and the lady reporters) chewed on whatever solemn words they had most recently agreed upon. Inez broke the silence. She leaned forward, away from Lawrence, and announced to them all: ‘By the way, I have written a poem … It’s about today. And yesterday. And all the terrible things that are happening. And seeing as there are some terrific poets here this evening,’ she looked at Max, ‘I wondered if anyone would object to my reading it? Would anyone like to hear my poem?’

At which point Lawrence smiled for the first time, and said: ‘I think I will head for bed.’

And Max and Xavier and I groaned simultaneously.

But she read it anyway. With a great show of literary passion; and I watched Max Eastman bite his lip and lower his head, and try his hardest not to snicker, or wince, or howl. And when it was over, Upton Sinclair said:

‘
That
, my dear, was quite possibly the worst poem I ever heard. I insist that you read it again!’

And they all cheered, and chanted, ‘Again, again, again!’ And Inez giggled. She honestly didn’t care! As long as it was fun and everyone was smiling at her, and Max kept his hand on her elbow.

Max said: ‘Inez, sweetheart, they’re being odious. But it’s only because they’re jealous.’ And then his face cracked into an almighty grin. ‘Upton, you’re an idiot. It’s the finest poem I’ve read this century!’

And we ordered more liquor. And then we ordered more. And the more liquor we drank, the more remote the world outside appeared to us, and the more ludicrous and joyful Inez’s poem.

For the strikers shall fight and they shall fall …

Fight Freedom!

And they will rise

And they will call –

Fight Freedom!

’Til all

In America is fair

And the wind in the trees blows freedom to our streets and all

Good-Americans-take-care-and-pledge-forever-themselves-to-share …

‘Y’all wait and
see
,’ she said. ‘It’ll catch on!’

It was growing light by the time we parted company, and for a little while the streets were quiet. Inez had sent a message home hours earlier, and informed her helpless aunt that she was staying the night with Xavier, and so the two of them set out to walk back to the cottage together. There were plans to meet up at the Toltec again the following evening.

‘Will you be able to join us tomorrow?’ Xavier asked.

‘You better had,’ said Inez. ‘I’ve been cooking up some important plans to aid Max in his work here, and I’m certain we’ll need your help.’ She stopped, just for a moment. ‘You look tired, darling,’ she said. ‘Will you be all right, walking home alone? Perhaps Xavie and I should walk you home together?’

‘Of course not!’ I said.

But she insisted. They both insisted.

So we walked together to Plum Street. For once, Inez stopped chattering, and it was wonderful. Peaceful. We walked together through the silent streets, lost in our own thoughts. My two good friends and I.

27

Inez was back at my door just four hours later. This time she didn’t wait in my parlour for me to appear. I opened my eyes, in my own bedroom, and there she was, staring down at me, and already talking. Her clothes were changed, but she obviously hadn’t slept.

‘Dora,
wake up.
For crying out loud! This isn’t a time to sleep. Our entire world is falling apart – right outside your window. There are entire
battalions
of revolutionaries marching up down the streets, with guns and everything. And here you are, slumbering in bed. Shall I order Kitty to bring you coffee? Drinking chocolate? Which?’

‘No. Go away.’

She opened the door onto the landing and shouted down. ‘Kitty! Dora needs chocolate at once! Make it two cups. And some pastries.’ She returned to my bedside.

I smiled, without opening my eyes. ‘Phoebe will have something to say about that,’ I said. ‘She told me you were never to come back here.’

‘Oh. Well. Too bad. Dora, I thought I would pay a visit to poor dear Cody’s mother. What do you think?’

‘I think you should be staying inside your house,’ I muttered. ‘And lying low.’

‘Nonsense, Dora. You’re such a fusser! They’re not interested in us. I just walked right past a bunch of them, and I might as well have been invisible … Their fight isn’t with us, darling. It’s with the entire capitalist world … Do you suppose Kitty will be long with that chocolate? I am almost
dying
of thirst.’