Sea Glass_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [95]
“Do we have to talk about this at lunch?” Vivian asks.
“If we had guns,” Sexton says, gesturing with military precision, his fingertips blue with Copiograph ink, “this thing would be over tomorrow.”
“Oh, it would be over tomorrow, all right,” Louis says.
“So then,” Sexton says.
“Don’t you see?” Louis asks, looking up at Sexton as if he were a particularly recalcitrant child. “If one of us got caught with a gun, what that would do to us?”
“The press is already portraying us as alien creatures destroying a way of life,” Sexton says.
“What way of life?” Ross asks, picking his teeth.
“They’re portraying us as Reds,” Sexton says.
“They call us the Red Menace,” Tsomides says. “Oooh, that’s so scary.”
“We could scare the scabs at the very least,” Sexton says.
“We have scared the scabs. And remember, the scabs of today are the strikers of tomorrow,” Louis says automatically, as if it were a sentence he has repeated many times.
Through the doorway, Honora watches McDermott put both hands on the railing and bend his head.
“We need relief, not guns,” Honora can hear Louis saying. “Relief supplies are inadequate.”
“We always need relief,” Mahon says. “It’s never-ending.”
McDermott pushes himself away from the railing. He turns and glances inside the house.
“Amber applejacks,” Ross says to Vivian. “Fifty cents a shot. Three, you feel like a king. Four, you feel like a czar. Five, you feel like hell.”
“Honora?” Sexton says.
“I’m sorry?” she asks, turning her gaze back to the table.
“I was asking you what you thought.”
“About . . . ?”
“Guns,” Sexton says with pained annoyance. “What your opinion is.”
Honora glances from Louis, who still looks indescribably weary, to Ross, who is sucking his teeth, to Vivian, who is taking a delicate sip of lemonade. Tsomides and Mahon are tucking into their second (or is it their third?) sandwiches. Sexton is waiting for her answer.
“No guns,” Honora says finally, and Louis looks at her with frank admiration. “I believe the strike can be won without guns,” she says. “And I believe, as does Louis, that relief is more important than firepower. As long as the strikers have food and a place to sleep, and the strike is over before the weather turns, I think they can force the mill owners to restore the wages to where they were before the last pay cut.”
Sexton sits back in his chair with obvious disgust. Ross raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised that the woman who cooks and types has an opinion.
“We’re making history here,” Louis says, turning around to face the group, and Honora thinks, not for the first time in the last several weeks, how remarkable it is that such an unprepossessing man can command such respect. “Each of us is part of something much larger, something that cannot be stopped,” he says. Honora watches his eyes travel around the table, pausing at each individual in turn. “Honora, you’ve been invaluable. Lucky Strike has already caught the attention of organizers in Boston and New York. I’m told The Federated Worker wants to take it over. We’re printing over ten thousand copies a week.” He pauses. “Vivian, you’re a firecracker. No one would be reading the thing without you.” Vivian waves the compliment away. “Ross and Mahon and Tsomides and Thibodeau, you’ve been jerks,” Louis says, and everyone laughs. “And Sexton, this never would have gotten off the ground at all had you not led us to your machines, your beautiful house, and your even more beautiful wife.”
“Hear, hear,” Ross says. Honora smiles and turns quickly to catch yet another glimpse of McDermott through the doorway, but the porch is empty now.
“How we conduct ourselves in Ely Falls will be remembered forever,” Louis says, and for just a moment it seems the ponderous weight of history itself floats and settles around the table. It is so quiet in the front room that Honora can hear Ross breathing through his open mouth at the end of the table.
“You know,” Vivian says, tilting her head and peering at her plate with unusual