Butterfly's Shadow - Lee Langley [38]
‘Those guys . . .’ Ben shook his head. ‘They’ve got this crazy idea. They’ve tried petitions, speechifying . . .’
He’d read the stories about rioting; newspapers could take a lofty tone, but he thought about Charlie lying in some French field and he understood the frustration that erupted into the breaking of windows and bones.
And today, as the procession wound its way towards town, Ben had seen that these men held within them a slow, determined anger that was building up, and taking them on a long journey.
‘Crazy,’ he said again, ‘Some of them are in really bad shape, half crippled.’ He sounded tired. ‘Washington, DC? They’ll never make it.’
Stirring beans, dicing ham, her back to the other two, Nancy listened as Ben talked on.
‘See, Joey, they have no work, no homes. This is a chance of grabbing the President’s attention. They need their army bonus payments now; they can’t hang around another twelve years or whatever, they’re pretty much starving.’
Nancy put down the knife and rinsed her hands. She pivoted slowly from the sink, wiping her hands on her apron, smoothing her palms repeatedly over her thighs.
‘Ben?’
‘I mean they haven’t thought it out.’
‘You’re going to Washington, aren’t you.’ Not a question.
He stopped. ‘What?’
‘You’re planning on going to Washington.’
‘Who said anything about – did I say anything – I said they’re crazy, you’re not listening—’
‘I hear you, Ben, even when I don’t seem to be listening. Why would you want to join this march? First off, you’re not a vet. Second, you have problems of your own. You have responsibilities. Third.’ She stopped. ‘You want to say something?’
He was slow, digging for the words he needed like a farmer sifting through clogged earth. She cut in:
‘You need to be here for us, for Joey and me.’
Washington was about his brother, even if Ben refused to admit it.
‘You’re worrying about the vets? You should be thinking about us.’
‘I think about you all the time. It’s what you do when you love someone.’
Nancy noted, distantly, that in his own way he had just told her he loved her; something she hadn’t heard for a long time. But they had drifted so far apart that the signal was too weak to reach its destination; she remained untouched.
‘The letter from my mother . . .’ She appeared to be changing the subject. ‘She thought maybe Joey and I might stay with them for a while. Not a bad idea, seeing that the nursery can’t afford to keep me on.’
She knew what she was really saying and she knew that he knew.
He nodded, slowly, as though thinking over a complex problem. But what he was hearing was the solution; problem solved, the words had miraculously found their way to him, the situation that could no longer be concealed.
‘Honey, that’s great. I’d like to drive you but the thing is, I won’t have the truck.’
‘It broke down?’
‘I had to hand it in. Repo time.’
She gave him a fierce look, aware of the child listening. ‘We’ll talk later. Let’s eat. Joey, wash your hands.’ She gave him a bright smile. ‘Busy day tomorrow. We need to pack. We’re visiting with Granny and Gramps. And your father’s going to Washington.’
Later, seated on the edge of the bed, whispering, she questioned him, tired, angry.
‘What happened?’
‘No one needs a truck and driver any more, Nance. The farmers are burning their own corn to keep themselves warm, nobody’s buying anything.’
‘Why in hell didn’t you tell me? I could have asked Dad—’
‘I can’t drag your parents into this; they have problems enough already. I’ll find a way. Digging ditches, even.’
‘There are no ditches to dig, Ben. If there were, the vets would be digging.’
Without her parents, they would be moving into Hooverville.
In what other country, what other life, had it been that she occupied an electric kitchen? In a house with two whole floors and a staircase that led from one to the other, all air and space and high ceilings? She recalled the soft shag rugs scattered around the house that gave off