Sea Glass_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [54]
Ross means the stories the Ely Falls Gazette has published about Mironson’s involvement with the Communist Party, about his belief in free love, and about the fact that he’s been married three times. They followed up with an article accusing Mironson of stealing union funds in North Carolina. The bit about being a Communist is probably true, McDermott thinks, but he’s prepared to bet the rest are lies.
“We get the weavers and the carders,” Ross says, “we’re set.”
“But what about the others?” McDermott asks. “You can’t have a successful strike without the nonunion workers. They’re ninety percent right now.”
“They look to the unions,” Ross says. “It happened in Gastonia. It happened in New Bedford.”
“Beal wouldn’t picket.”
“Mironson won’t either,” Ross says. “You read about how they stripped that woman who was a scab? Stripped her naked right on the street.”
A movement catches McDermott’s eye. A man in a now-familiar brown overcoat takes a table by himself. In the heat of the basement speak, he shakes the coat off and yanks his tie through its knot. He puts his hat on the table, runs his fingers through his hair, and then pats it down. His face is no less waxy than it was at the hosiery counter.
“The Francos don’t trust Mironson anyway,” McDermott says.
“They don’t trust anyone who isn’t Franco,” Ross says. “If we strike, we’ll go to our own. The church, the Ladies’ Aid Society, St. Vincent de Paul. When the strike is under way, we’ll call for help from the TWU. They’ll want to move in and take over, and by that time everyone will be more than happy to let them.”
The English girl, without her glasses today, slips into the empty seat at the table with the waxy-faced man. McDermott watches the man order and then drink in quick succession three shots of whiskey, the next as soon as he puts down the first. The English girl has on the orange lipstick, and when she smiles, McDermott can see a bit of it on her eyetooth.
“The thing we need,” says Ross, “is propaganda of our own. We have no way to get information to the workers. It’s all rumor.”
The English girl and the man are laughing. The English girl isn’t stupid: a woman can jack up the price for a stranger in a gabardine coat and silk tie who downs three straight shots.
“We need a press. For leaflets and posters,” Ross says.
McDermott gazes over Ross’s shoulder at the shoes passing by the basement window. He likes to imagine the people inhabiting those shoes, particularly the women, and particularly the women in the pumps or the pretty fur-lined boots. It’s a fleeting pleasure: one minute the ankle and calf are visible, the next they’re gone; McDermott has only a second to imagine a face. He watches a pair of impractical high heels mince along and imagines a blonde in pink lipstick. He sees a pair of serviceable brogues cross the window and thinks of Eileen.
“What are you doing for Christmas?” McDermott asks.
“Go to church,” Ross says. “Eat a meal. We’ll go to my brother’s for the meal. I got Rosemary a watch. Six bucks at Simmons.”
“Nice,” McDermott says.
The man whose face now has a bit more color stands with the English girl and lifts his coat off the back of his chair. McDermott watches the man walk away, only then noticing a slim packet on the floor. He dips his eyes for just a second to catch a light from Ross and when he looks over at the table, thinking to call to the man with the English girl, McDermott sees that the package has already been snatched. He quickly scans the faces of the men sitting nearest to the table, but not a one gives away his sleight of hand. He hopes the man realizes he has lost the package before the stores close.
McDermott glances up at the window, thinking he might see the man pass by, though what McDermott could do by then he has no idea. Beyond the passing feet, he can see a newsstand, and occasionally, he can read the day’s headline. New England Business Outlook Good. A slight figure moves in front of the headline. Spindly legs