Sea Glass_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [86]
Honora stops in the sand.
“Look,” he says, “if you tell me now that you don’t want us here, I’ll make sure none of us ever comes back and bothers you again.”
“Who were the men?”
“We don’t know,” McDermott says. “They were sent by the bosses who own the mills. Vigilantes. I think one of them was the chief of police, though it was dark and it was hard to tell.”
“You were there?”
He nods.
“And you weren’t hurt?”
“I got out.”
“Oh, I’m very surprised by this,” she says, putting a hand to her chest. “Though I don’t know why I should be.”
McDermott is silent, watching her.
“It’s really my husband’s decision,” Honora says.
“If we use your house,” he says, “you’re involved as well.”
Honora and McDermott walk on again, this time side by side, Honora silent, imagining a raid on her own house. They pass three small girls making a sand castle and have to walk around it. Then Honora pivots, facing McDermott. “What will happen tomorrow?” she asks, walking backward.
“If New Bedford and Gastonia are anything to go by,” he says after a minute, “there will be a mass rally and then picketers will march to the mills. The strike leaders will make sure no one goes in.”
“Scabs, you mean,” she says.
“Yes. We know already there will be armed guards, and the picketers could get belligerent. There’s a lot of anger floating around the city. Mironson’s speeches will get increasingly Marxist —”
“Not if Vivian has anything to do with it,” Honora says.
McDermott laughs. “A lot of the strikers will look for work elsewhere. There will be evictions. The mill owners might use it as a weapon. Evict all the picketers from mill housing. The unions will set up tent cities. And possibly . . .” He stops.
“Possibly what?”
He looks away. “Possibly it will be over.”
“That’s not what you were going to say.”
“No one can predict.”
“What happened in Gastonia?”
“Some violence,” McDermott says. “There were pistols and rifles. Bayonets. Tear gas, vomit gas.”
“How will I know?” she asks. “How will I know what’s happened?”
“We’ll get word to you if there’s trouble,” he says. “But don’t worry about your husband. He’ll be on the picket line for the next several days like everybody else. More than likely, the worst thing that will happen to him is that he’ll get bored.”
“And what about you?” she asks.
“I doubt I’ll get bored,” he says.
She walks with her arms held slightly away from her sides for balance. This walking backward is tricky, particularly in the sand and with all the shells underfoot. “How likely is it that the strike will be over soon?” she asks.
“Not very,” he says. “The mills have a surplus of goods. In some ways, they must welcome the strike so they can get rid of the surplus without having to pay wages or keep the mill running. After a few weeks, though, when they run out of goods to sell, that’s when the strike will make a difference.”
“A few weeks?” she asks.
“The New Bedford strike lasted six months.”
“Oh, Lord,” she says, stopping suddenly. McDermott, unable to halt his forward progress, walks into her. He puts his arms out to brace himself. For a moment, he holds her arms while her palms are pressed against his chest. Both instantly move away.
Sandpipers hop like fleas all around them. “I don’t want to worry you for no good reason,” he says.
“We’ll lose the house,” she says. “We’re barely making the mortgage payments as it is.”
“Mironson won’t let that happen.”
“Well,” she says. “I suppose that’s one good thing.” She looks for the house in the distance. “Why are you doing this?” she asks.
“Got roped into it,” McDermott says, smiling. “Been hanging out with a bad crowd.”
Sexton
“We really have to go,” Sexton is telling Honora in the kitchen. He is watching her wrap up a half dozen sandwiches and a couple of pies in waxed paper. He wants to tell her to speed it up. Mironson and Ross and McDermott are waiting to take off.
“You’ll be on the picket line tomorrow,” she says.
“I guess,” he says. “I’ll do whatever they tell me to do.”
“Be careful,” she says.
“I will.