Memories of Another Day (29 page)

"The men who went with you came back and said you disappeared. They said they didn't know where you had gone to."

"You kin believe that," Daniel said sarcastically. "They took off like geese flyin' south the moment they saw the Cossacks ridin' up on the sidewalk. They was goin' back for he'p, they told me."

"They said you left them and went off on your own."

Daniel didn't answer.

"The police want to talk to you about that guard that was killed. The papers are making a big stink about it." He pushed a few newspapers across the desk.

Daniel looked down at the headlines. The Times and Herald Tribune from New York, the Star from Washington and the Bulletin from Philadelphia. The head-line$ and stories were pretty much the same in each. The lead headUne: "Guard Killed by Strikers at Steel Mill." After that they went into the story, and buried somewhere near the end of the story was the additional fact that almost thirty strikers were in the hospital. There was nothing in the story that even mentioned how the police and deputies had begun the attack.

"They make it sound like that was what started the whole thing," Daniel said.

"The steel company was waiting for something like that to happen," Fpster said. "They jumped right on it."

"Seems to me they was better prepared than us. In every way," Daniel said.

Foster knew what he meant. "Not anymore," he said quickly. "We have the help now to get our side of the story out first."

"It's gonna have to run pretty fas' to catch up to this one. By the time you git your stories out, this will have gone all over the country," Daniel said.

Foster was annoyed. He took out his watch and looked at it. "It's getting late. The photographers should be all set up. We better get down there for the pictures." Murray got to his feet, and Foster turned back to Daniel. "You find one of the reporters outside and tell them about the night in jail. I'll talk to you when I get back."

Daniel looked at him. "I won' be here."

Foster shot a sharp glance at him. "Where will you be?"

"I'm leavin'," Daniel said. "I don' cotton to the

idea o' the police takin' me in. I got the feelin' I cain't expect muqh support from the boys aroun' here."

''If you run, it would be like you were admitting you were guilty."

'Tm not admittin' nothin'," Daniel said. ''I jes' don' like the idea o' hangin' up on a cross between the two of you."

Foster was silent for a moment. "Okay, go down to the paymaster and draw down your salary to the end of the week."

'Thank you," Daniel said. He turned to leave the office.

Murray's voice stopped him. He held out a key in his hand. 'This is the key to my room over at the Penn State Hotel. When you get your things together, you meet me in my room. Fm driving up to Washington this afternoon. You can ride up with me."

"Thanks," Daniel said. He took the key from Murray's hand. "I'll be waitin' fer you."

It was just after four o'clock in the afternoon when the big black Buick pulled out of the city onto Interstate 5 with Daniel sitting next to Murray, who was driving. It wasn't until they were a half-hour out of the city that Murray spoke.

He didn't turn his head, keeping his eyes on the road. "Did you kill that guard?"

Daniel answered without hesitation. "Yes."

"That wasn't very smart," Murray said. "If the police could hang that on you, it could hurt us very seriously. Maybe even lose the strike for us."

"The strike is lost already," Daniel said. "I knew that the minute Foster lost control of 'is men. He jes' froze, an' atter that he couldn' do nothin' right. For a while I was beginnin' to think the strike didn' mean nothin' to 'im atall. That it was somethin' else he was atter."

"What?"

"I don' know," Daniel answered. "I don' know enough about strikes an' politics to have an opinion— but sure as hell, I kin smell when somethin' ain't what it's s'pose tobe."

'*Do you think that battle could liave been avoided?"

"No, sir, but there, wasn't a need fer all them men to git the shit kicked out of 'em. If I was him, I would of come down from the platform and jawboned the sher'f into goin' slow. The sher'f didn' seem that anxious to me to start anythin'; he was lookin' as much fer an excuse to back down an' go slow—but we didn' give 'im the chance.''

*'Do you really think the strike is lost?"

*'Yes, sir," Daniel said earnestly. "The steel mills has ever'thin' too well organized. From what I been able to fin' out, they have over eight thousan' men depitized aroun' the country to put the strikers in their place. The cops is runnin' up and down all over Hunky Town, harassin' an' arrestin', an' they won' stop till it's over. An' I can't believe that Foster don't know it. But there's somethin' else stickin' in his craw that's keepin' 'imgoin'."

Murray glanced at him. "What are your plans?"

"I don' rightly know," Daniel said. "Amble aroun' the country. Fin' a job."

"How would you like a job with the U.M.W.?"

"Doin' what?"

"Going to school for the first two years. Getting yourself some education and knowledge that will help you approach the problems that confront labor in a more intelligent manner."

"What kin'o'school?"

"College in New York. The New School for Social Research. Even wind up getting yourself a diploma. We pay for everything.''

"What's the hitch?"

"There isn't any," Murray said. "You have a job

with us when you come out. If you don't like the job, you can always quit."

Daniel thought for a moment. "I never had much formal schoolin'. Do you think I kin handle somethin' like that?"

*'I think so. You just have one lesson to learn before you begin."

''What's that?" Daniel asked.

'The important thing about what we do is try to benefit the workingmen who entrust their representation to us. We can't afford to indulge in the personal luxury of taking revenge on people who may or may not have injured us or made themselves our enemies. The people we represent don't deserve that."

Daniel was silent for a moment. "You mean—like what I did?"

Murray's voice was direct. "Yes. There can be no more of that."

"But in spite of it, yer still willin' to take a chance on me. Why?"

Murray cast a sidewise glance at him, then looked back at the road. "Because I've got a hunch. More than that, I think you have the right instincts. Without knowing why, you've been hitting every nail on the head. I have the feeling that someday you'll be an important man in the labor movement. In some ways you remind me of John L. when I first met him. AH guts and instinctive knowledge."

"He's a great man," Daniel said respectfully. "I don' think I kin ever be like him."

"Nobody knows," Murray said. "But then, you don't have to be like him. Maybe if you're just yourself you might turn out greater than any of us."

"I'm not twenty yet."

"I know that," Murray said. "You'll be twenty-two vhen you get out of school. That's just the right age to tart."

"You mean it?" Daniel asked.

'*I wouldn't have made the offer if I didn't," Murray replied.

'TU do it," Daniel said, holding out his hand. ''I hope I won' be a disappointment to you."

Murray took his hand, holding on to the wheel with the other. ''You won't be."

'Thank you," Daniel said.

"Don't thank me," Murray said. "Just do good." He took his hand back and placed it on the wheel. "Damn! It's beginning to rain."

That had been a long time ago. Like seventeen years ago. And now Daniel sat in a hot tub in a California motel, smoking a cigar, sipping from a bottle of whiskey on the chair next to the tub and waiting for Tess to come back from the market with two steaks. And back East, it was starting all over again. A strike at the steel mills. But this time it was different. Lewis had signed Big Steel just the year before. Now Phil Murray was going to take on Little Steel. And the only thing that bothered Daniel was the feeling that Murray was walking into the same kind of disaster that Foster had walked into seventeen years before.

'That's not work," she said.

He folded the paper and put it on the table next to his chair. He was silent.

"Other men go out to work every morning and come home at night. You don't do that. Instead, / go out every morning and come home every night. And each day it's the same thing. I leave you sittin' in that chair readin' the momin' paper and when I come back you're sittin' in the same chair readin' the evenin' paper. It's not normal."

He reached for the bottle of whiskey and poured himself a drink. He swallowed it and poured another.

''That's another thing," she said. "You drink a bottle of whiskey a day."

"You ever see me drunk?" he asked.

"That's not the point. That much whiskey ain't doin' your guts any good."

"I feel fine," he said.

"Someday it'll get to you," she said. "I seen that happen."

He swallowed the second drink and stared at her for a few seconds, then finally spoke. "Okay. Out with it. What's troubling you?"

She began to cry. Several times she tried to speak, but each time the sobbing became stronger, until the tears began flooding down her cheeks. He reached across and literally lifted her out of her chair and put her on his lap.

He turned her face against his shoulder and stroked her hair gently. "Take it easy, baby," he said softly. "Ain't nothin' can be that bad."

"No?" She looked at him with tear-blurred eyes. "It's bad enough. I'm pregnant."

His voice was even and without surprise. "How far gone are you?"

"The doctor says between ten or twelve weeks," she answered. "He can't be more exact until the next examination."

He was silent for a moment, his hand still absently stroking her head. '*If he's right, then you're too far along to get an abortion?" It was more a statement than a question.

'That's the first thing I asked him. He said he wouldn't take the chance. He also told me there's some doctors in Tijuana who would do it, but he didn't recommend it."

He looked down at her. "How come you didn't notice anything earlier?"

She met his eyes. ^'I've always been irregular. Sometimes two months before I came aroun'. 'Specially when I've been fuckin' a lot."

*'We've been fucking a lot," he agreed.

She got to her feet and went to the kitchenette and came back with a glass. She held it out to him. "I think I need a drink."

He looked up at her. "I read somewhere that drinking isn't good for the baby."

''A small one won't hurt," she said.

He poured less than a finger of whiskey into her glass and filled his own. He raised his glass and clinked it against hers. "Here's to Daniel Boone Huggins, Junior."

She had the glass already to her lips before the import of what he had said reached her. The glass froze in her hand. "You mean that?"

He nodded.

"You don't have to," she said. "I'm not blamin' ou. It's my fault."

"It's nobody's fault," he said. "I'd been thinking about it even before you told me about this."

"Honest?" Her voice was incredulous.

"Honest. You're a good woman. My kind of people. We'll do good together."

She sank to her knees in front of him and put her head in his lap, the tears welling into her eyes again. 'I was so frightened, Daniel. I love you so much."

He turned her face up to him. 'There was nothing to be frightened about. I love you too," he said, and kissed her.

They were married the next morning before a justice of the peace in Santa Monica.

It was a smaU house on a side street just off San Vicente, north of Santa Monica Boulevard in Hollywood. Two bedrooms connected by a bathroom, a living room and a large kitchen with a dining alcove. A small driveway leading to a carport attached to the side of the house separated it from its neighbor. Both the front and back yards seemed to be about the same size: thirty feet across the width of the house and about twenty-five feet deep.

The real estate agent discreetly left them in the living room to let them discuss it. ''What do you think?" Daniel asked.

"I like it," she said. " 'Specially with the room on the other side of the bathroom. We kin fix it up real nice fer the baby. An' I kin make new covers fer the rest of the furniture, and with a little paint it could look real good. On'y thing is the cost. Fourteen hundred dollars is a lot of money."

"They're throwing in everything. Furniture, kitchen stove, refrigerator."

"We kin rent a place like this fer about twenty-five a month," she said.

"But then you spend three hundred a year and at the end of it you've got nothing. This way we have an equity. It's like an insurance policy."

"How much mortgage will the bank give us?"

"No bank will give me a mortgage," he said. "They don't particularly like union men."

She looked at him. "I have that money I got from sellin' niy house back East," she said. "Four hundred. That should he'p."

He smiled. "I don't need your money. I can manage it. That is, if you like it."

"I like it," she said.

"Okay, then let me make him an offer," he said, calling the agent back into the room.

They closed the deal at one thousand two hundred and seventy-five dollars and moved into the house at the end of the month. It took them a little more than a month after that to do everything to the house that they wanted to do. Daniel repainted the house and the furniture; she made new curtains and draperies with an old sewing machine that one of the former owners had left in the attic.

He was sitting in the living room reading the evening paper as usual when she came in from work. He put down the paper and looked at her. She was in her fifth month and was beginning to get large. Her face looked drawn and tired.

'*I was stuck late," she said. "We was busy an' the boss wouldn't let me out. I'U get right on dinner."

"Don't bother," he said. "You get yourself a nice bath and rest a bit. I'll take you out for dinner. We'll have some Chinks."

"You don't have to," she said. "I don't min' makin' dinner."

But he could see that she liked the idea. "You do what I said."