The Truth According to Us

by Annie Barrows

  “A falling-out?” He laughed softly. “Did Jottie call it that?”

  “Mm-hm. Felix?”

  “He’s a liar, all right? Just stay away from him.”

  She shook her head sleepily. “He seemed so nice. Friend of Emmett’s.”

  He stubbed out his cigarette with a sigh and came to stand beside the bed. For a moment, she watched him watch her, and then he bent to kiss her. “Sol or me?” he murmured.

  She smiled. “Hard decision.”

  He kissed her again, his tongue tracing her lips. “Sol or me?”

  “Can’t decide.”

  He swung one knee over her and lowered himself over her body. “Sol or me?” She could feel the heat of him as his hands closed around her, and she arched up to meet his mouth.

  “My God. You.”

  He set her down and smiled. He rubbed his thumb along the line of her jaw and then over her lips. “Good,” he said. He lifted himself off the bed. “See you tomorrow.”

  She stared wide-eyed as the door closed behind him.

  34

  The next afternoon, Emmett rose from his chair as she climbed the front steps. “Miss Beck.”

  “You came!” In the shade of the porch, she pulled off her hat. “Did you go to the mill? Is it still going on?”

  Emmett grinned. “Yes and yes. Have a seat. Jottie’s just gone in to get some ice-tea. I’ll get a glass for you, too.”

  She nodded, watching his straight back as he retreated into the shadow of the hallway. He seemed exhilarated. By the strike, she supposed. And younger, too, much nearer her own age than she had thought. It was impossible to understand how she could have mistaken him for Felix. They were nothing alike.

  He returned with two glasses. “What?” he said, seeing her eyes on him.

  “You’re the last holdout. On Miss Beck,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “No other Romeyn calls me Miss Beck now.” She tipped back her head to see his face. “Will you call me Layla?”

  He hesitated. “Emmett. Please.”

  She held out her hand, and he took it. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Emmett.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Layla.” He bowed slightly.

  “Finishing school, I see.”

  He laughed. “Jottie. Jottie and my mother.”

  “Me and mama what?” Jottie came out with a beading pitcher, Willa close behind, bearing a plate of cookies. “What’d we do?”

  He smiled at her. “Taught me manners.”

  “You!” she scoffed. “You were born with manners. Your uncle Emmett,” she said, turning to Willa, “used to stop ladies on the street and tell them how pretty they were. When he was three years old, he did that.”

  Willa giggled.

  “They were pretty,” said Emmett. “I thought they were all so pretty and they smelled so nice.”

  “You never saw a child get so much candy.” Jottie smiled at him. “Used to send Mae into fits.”

  “Emmett,” Felix said, coming outside. He slapped his brother lightly on the shoulder and dropped into a chair beside Layla.

  “Remember when Emmett used to tell all the ladies how pretty they were?” Jottie said.

  Felix nodded. “Got so you couldn’t hardly carry all your candy.”

  “You helped,” said Emmett pointedly, and Felix chuckled.

  Look how wonderful he is, thought Layla, her eyes on Felix. Comfortable. Normal—better than normal. Lance never jokes with me, probably can’t remember a thing about me as a child. Doesn’t know me, doesn’t care. I wish I had a real brother, one like Emmett. I wish this were my family. Maybe it will be.

  Jottie handed a cookie to Willa and then turned her attention to Emmett. “Tell,” she said. “How was it at the mill?”

  “Well, like you said yesterday”—Emmett nodded to Layla—“it’s pretty quiet. About two dozen men and a few women standing outside, a couple of signs saying things like We Support the Right to Unite. But quiet. Charlie Timbrook’s wife—you know Cecile?” he asked Jottie. She nodded. “She says they’re mostly sleeping.”

  “Where?” Willa asked.

  He smiled at her. “At the looms, some of them. But mostly on the floor.”

  “What’s Shank going to do?” asked Jottie.

  “He called in Hank and Arnold yesterday afternoon, and they arrested five men for trespassing and then said they didn’t have room in the jail for any more.” Emmett’s smile flashed. “Said they couldn’t release Winslow, because he was a menace to the community.”

  “Poor Miss Betts,” laughed Layla.

  “Another hope dashed,” Jottie said.

  “So they left the rest of the fellows where they were and went back to the station. Now Shank’s got to figure out what to do—bring in strikebreakers or just wait it out or what.” Emmett leaned forward in his chair. “Sol thinks he’s going to wait it out.” Layla’s eyes darted toward Felix, and she saw Jottie’s do the same. Felix, however, was gazing evenly at Emmett. “He thinks Shank’s too tight to hire strikebreakers.”

  “What’re strikebreakers?” asked Willa.

  “They’re people who come to a place where there’s a strike,” explained Felix, “and beat up the strikers and take their jobs.”

  “Ohh.” Willa recoiled. She looked from her father to Jottie. “Isn’t that bad?”

  “Yes,” said Jottie. “That’s bad.”

  “I bet Sol’s right,” said Felix. He smiled blandly at Jottie’s startled expression. “I bet Shank won’t do it. He wants to be liked.”

  “Ah, he doesn’t give a damn,” said Emmett.

  “Oh, he does,” Layla assured him. “You should see the portrait of the benevolent industrialist he dictated to me when I interviewed him.”

  Emmett raised his eyebrow. “Fairy tales.”

  “Yes, but also proof that he wants the town to love him,” she said. Felix nodded in agreement, and she felt a surge of pride. Straightening professionally in her chair, she said, “Is Shank still there, at the mill?”

  “Yup. Sol and Richie and Arlen and the rest of management, too. They sent the salesmen home.”

  “How long could they go?” asked Jottie.

  Emmett shrugged. “Food’s the problem, I guess. The fellows brought in extra, of course, but it won’t last forever. Hard to figure how to get more in.”

  “Can’t they pass it through the windows?” said Willa.

  “No. Trespassing. Easy to spot.”

  “Roof?” asked Jottie.

  “No,” said Felix authoritatively. They turned toward him. “Management offices are below the roof,” he explained, “except on the Unity Street side, and that’s no good because of the drop from the skylight.” He rubbed his face thoughtfully. “And that boiler room is pretty hard to get to, especially if you’ve got a lot to carry.” Layla saw Emmett glance at Jottie and smile. “But there’s the trucks—are the trucks still at the dock?” Emmett nodded. “Okay. Easy. There’s a panel in the back of the cab; it’s just held on with a few screws and it’ll get you into the wagon. They’re backed in, waiting to fill, right?” He nodded to himself. “That’ll get you into the warehouse inside of five minutes. And last time I looked there was no wire at the top of the fence, so it’s just an easy up and over—” He looked up as Emmett and Jottie began to laugh. “What?” he asked innocently.

  Emmett shook his head as Jottie leaned back in her chair, laughing.

  Layla glanced in puzzlement between Felix and his siblings. What was the joke?

  But Felix was grinning himself now. “I’ve always been a friend to the working man,” he said loudly. “Always.”

  July 26, 1938

  Dear Layla,

  Close inspection of today’s Star disclosed that Macedonia is “rent asunder by labor discord” and “the malcontents’ call for blood may not long go unslaked.” Et cetera. After four paragraphs of this drivel, I managed to deduce that there’s a sit-down strike at a hosiery mill in town. From the sound
of it, the strike is a pretty quiet affair, and I doubt you’ve even noticed it (unless there have been stocking shortages). Nonetheless:

  My dear niece,

  If you feel the slightest disquiet I herewith order you to abandon your post at once and return to Washington. There is no book in the history of the project that compares in value with your safety.

  And you can be assured that I have made a copy of that paragraph for the Central File. I doubt Gray will peruse the Star with sufficient attention to discover the story (as far as I can tell, he only reads the articles that are about him), but if the invaluable Miss Kogelshatz brings it to his notice, he will fall on me like a ton of bricks, and I want to have my defense ready. I know you understand.

  Hope you’re enjoying yourself up there. And keeping on deadline.

  Ben

  P.S. On the off chance that the strike turns dirty, be sensible and get out of town. That’s an order. A real one. B.

  July 28, 1938

  Dear Ben,

  You couldn’t get me out of here with a buttered shoehorn.

  Layla

  P.S. I was at the mill when it struck.

  P.P.S. Workers, unite! You have nothing to lose but your chains!

  July 30, 1938

  Layla,

  Are you trying to get me fired?

  Ben

  August 1, 1938

  Yes!

  35

  Out on the porch, Bird flopped down on a wicker chair and hoisted one knee over the armrest. She brought the newspaper close to her face and read, “…Mr. Shank, president of American Everlasting, disputed the statement. ‘I am a patriotic American. I’ve done more than anyone in this town for the workers, and I’m not going to sit back and let foreigners and Communists tear down what I’ve built.’ ”

  Built? Bird frowned. Mr. Shank built the mill? That didn’t make sense. Maybe one building, but he couldn’t have built all of it. Still, she comforted herself, she was reading the newspaper. Not many nine-year-olds read the newspaper. She’s a very sophisticated child, she imagined Minerva saying. A prodigy, Mae agreed in hushed tones. Fortified by this hypothetical admiration, Bird redoubled her efforts. “Mr. Charlie Timbrook, leader of the prospective”—what did that mean?—“local, took issue—”

  With relief, Bird noticed a figure standing outside the screen door. A lady—a thin shadow of a lady—leaned in, shielding her eyes, and spotted Bird. “Afternoon, miss,” she said.

  Miss! Bird liked that. She rattled her newspaper ostentatiously. “Good day,” she said.

  “Is your aunt Jottie at home?”

  “Yes,” said Bird, wishing there were a longer word for yes.

  “Will you ask her to step out, please, miss? You can tell her it’s Zena here.”

  “Okay.” Bird went inside and found Jottie, in the kitchen. “Someone named Zena is on the porch.”

  Jottie frowned in puzzlement, wiped her hands on her apron, and moved swiftly down the hall. Bird watched to make sure she was gone, and then she set the newspaper down on the kitchen table, licked her finger, and put it in the sugar bowl.

  “Why, Zena!” exclaimed Jottie. “How-you? It’s been a long time. Have a seat.” She gestured to a chair, trying to look pleased instead of curious.

  Zena tucked a wisp of her no-color hair under her hat and bobbed her head. “No. No thank you, Miss Jottie. I come—”

  “Miss Jottie?” asked Jottie incredulously. “Zena, don’t. We’ve known each other for thirty years.”

  Zena licked her lips. “I guess. If you say so.”

  “Come on and sit.” Jottie sat and patted the chair next to hers. “Sit down and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Zena sat with the tiniest of creaks on the edge of the chair. “Thank you.”

  Jottie saw that her dress was limp with sweat. Surely she hadn’t walked all the way from her house, not in this heat; it had to be three miles. “How about I get us some ice-tea, all right?” she said. And as many cookies as I can fit on a plate, she thought, eyeing Zena’s thin arms. I wonder if she’d take a sandwich. “I’ll be right back, and then we can have us a nice—”

  “No! No thank you! I ain’t thirsty!” Zena said nervously. “Please”—she held up her hand—“I just got to say something.” She pulled in a breath, preparing to speak, but the breath fractured into a hiccup, and a pair of tears trickled into the hollows of her cheeks. She gave a long sniffle.

  Filled with pity, Jottie watched her shuffle in her bosom for a handkerchief. Zena had never had a chance. There was Zena at seven, with her matchstick legs and her ruffled, too-big dresses. Zena at thirteen, at the American Everlasting picnic, squealing, I done it, I done it, as she tossed a horseshoe. Zena at twenty, walking along False River Road, freighted with a big baby in her arms and a sunken, silent husband at her side. “What is it, Zena?” Jottie said gently. “Don’t cry. Just tell me.”

  “Jerry lost his job,” Zena choked. “Down at the mill.”

  Jottie sighed. “I’m sorry to hear that. Real sorry.”

  “We sold everything we could and now all the money’s gone and we’re down pretty low, Jottie, and”—her words rushed out—“I thought maybe you could ask Mr. McKubin. I bet if you asked him he’d give Jerry something; it don’t have to be the same job as before, but just something, he’ll do it. He’ll do anything—”

  Jottie’s eyes widened. “Wait, Zena. What?”

  “You could ask Mr. McKubin,” Zena repeated. “Anything, Jottie. Like you said, we’ve known each other thirty years, and I wouldn’t come if—we just got to have something, Jottie. Please.”

  “But Zena.” Jottie swallowed, trying to select an obstacle that Zena could understand. “You know there’s a strike on. They can’t hire anyone during a strike—”

  Zena broke in, “Yeah, that’s what I mean! Jerry don’t want a union, anyway. He’d be glad to go in and work if they don’t wanna. You can tell Mr. McK. that Jerry hates Charlie Timbrook and always has done!”

  Jottie licked her lips. “But I can’t, Zena,” she explained. “I’m not in a position to ask Mr. McKubin for anything.”

  Zena smirked. “Tell me another. I seen you two. Just the other day, there you was, drinking milk shakes. Been a lotta years since I had a milk shake.” She laughed mirthlessly. “People say you’re going around. He’d do whatever you wanted.”

  “That’s not true, Zena!” Jottie said quickly. “None of what you’re saying is true. Mr. McKubin and I are—well, I’ve known him as long as I’ve known you, I guess, but that’s all. We’re acquaintances.” She swallowed. “I have no influence with him. Jerry should talk to Mr. McKubin himself.”

  “You think we ain’t tried?” Zena snapped. “He said he can’t do nothing. Says it’s Shank who decides when to hire.”

  “And have you tried asking Mr. Shank?” suggested Jottie helplessly.

  Zena snorted. “Pff. He don’t talk to no one, and, anyway, from what I hear, he ain’t gonna be there much longer. That’s what Ceecee Timbrook says.”

  “What?”

  “You ain’t heard?” asked Zena, enjoying her rare authority. “The unionizers said they wouldn’t—ah, whaddaya call it?—negotiate to anyone except Mr. McK., and now him and the big shots in New Jersey are talking all the time, and everyone says they’re gonna get rid of Shank and make Mr. McK. president.”

  Jottie stared at her, speechless. Sol, president? Sol, in her father’s place? Could it be true? She considered the source. No. Zena had probably misunderstood. Or exaggerated. Or made it up to sound important.

  “So could you ask him?”

  Jottie returned to the present. “Zena,” she said, “you’re mistaken about Mr. McKubin and me. I have no more—”

  “Just ask him. Please.”

  “Zena, I don’t—I can’t—”

  “You could if you wanted; you just don’t want to,” said Zena bitterly. “You got your milk shake.”

  “Listen—”

  “No, you liste
n to me, Jottie Romeyn,” snapped Zena. “You think you’re so high up you don’t have to treat someone like me right, but you’ll find out different. You Romeyns always did think you were better than anyone.” She rose and stood over Jottie. “But you ain’t.”

  Jottie tried again. “It’s not that I don’t want to help you—”

  “I don’t need your charity!” Zena spat, her voice rising. “The big Romeyns ain’t so almighty high anymore, huh?” Her eyes raked over the shabby porch. “That Felix, he’s going to get caught any day now, is what Jerry says.” She yanked the top of her dress straight. “He’s a two-bit bootlegger and a thief. He set that fire at the mill, too, and stole the money. Everyone knows he done it and he killed Vause Hamilton, too.”

  Jottie lifted her chin. “Get off my porch now, Zena.”

  “You won’t be so uppity when he’s in jail, will you?” Zena went on gladly. “You’ll be needing a job yourself then, uh-huh?” She grinned. “Ask Mr. McK. Maybe he’ll pay for what he’s getting.”

  “Get off my porch now, before I turn the hose on you.”

  Zena gulped up some air, her hollow cheeks inflating with spite. “And if those snippy little girls’re anything like their mama, you’re gonna run yourself ragged pulling them out of every barn in town. Those apples won’t fall far from the tree, I bet.”

  Jottie rose and went to the screen door. Without a word, she proceeded to the hosepipe that stood against the steps and unfurled the coiled brown hose that lay beneath it. “The good thing about that furniture,” she called over her shoulder to Zena, “is that when it gets dirty, I just hose it down. Like a dog.” She turned the spigot and placed her thumb expertly over the opening, dousing the rhododendrons in a curving arc of water. She turned toward the porch, spraying water in a vast circle as she did so.

  “Hey!” Zena cried, taking cover behind the screen door. “Cut it out! You can’t turn the hose on me.” She cracked open the door and craned her neck around it.