The Jig of the Union Loller

by Michael Burnham

  “Foreman of a cleaning crew. Non-union. But I think my dad would be okay with it.”

  Joan raised her eyebrows.

  “Naw, it’s bull,” Claude said. “He’d be steamed. That company was everything to him.”

  Claude sat at his place at the table. Joan turned the stove to low and set the table with plates, glasses, and utensils.

  “Maybe that’s why I always tried to be such a good union brother,” Claude said, “you know, to make him proud by doing my best for the UUW, to get an attaboy from him for walking the walk with the guys. The thing I ask myself, though, is why couldn’t he be proud of me anyway? Why did I have to shine in the union to be something to him? Why did the company always come first?”

  Joan slipped the chicken onto the plates and dolloped whipped potato next to the chicken. She let Claude’s questions hang in the air as she opened the refrigerator door. She scanned the contents for a beer, but didn’t see one.

  “Pepsi for you?”

  “Sounds good. Looks good too. Thank you.”

  Joan sat in her own place. She took a napkin from the holder on the table and set it on her lap. Claude took a napkin too. Neither began eating.

  “This whole disability thing,” Claude said, “it isn’t what I imagined. It’s been so hard, not having the guys to hang around with, not having anyone to joke with, not having nothing to do all day, not having no money. It made me appreciate a lot of the things I had at Rhode Island Electric. But not having you, and not having Jamie, that was a hundred times worse. Work is important, but it should never be more important than family. Until you left, even for a long time after you left, I really didn’t get that, but I get it now. I’m so proud of Jamie, and so proud of you, and now I want you to be proud of me too. Really proud. Will you come back?”

  Joan put a forkful of potato in her mouth and washed it down with a swig of soda.

  “I’m already here,” she said.

  #

  When Jamie saw a pair of headlights run across three walls of Connie’s living room, she lept to the window and pulled back the curtain. Two heads. In the Buick she saw two heads. She turned to Connie.

  “We’re going home,” Jamie said. “They wouldn’t bring one car if we weren’t going home.”

  Jamie opened the inner door and threw herself into Claude’s arms.

  “I’m sorry daddy. I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’m so sorry.”

  “No, no, Princess, it’s me who’s here to apologize to you. I got lots more to be sorry for.”

  Jamie stepped back. “My god, what happened to your face?”

  “Little scrape.”

  “Is that how you became a criminal?”

  “Alleged criminal, princess, alleged.”

  Joan slid behind Claude and set her purse on the kitchen table. Connie appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, leaning against the frame with her arms folded. She wore an odd smile. For a moment Joan looked at her, waiting for her to speak, but Connie said nothing.

  “Your mother’s coming home,” Claude said. “I came here to ask you to come home too. I should’ve been more proud of your new job, though I’m not gonna lie to you, I’ll miss watching you play softball, and I’m sorry for the way I acted after I wound up being home all day. You are the most important thing in the world to me, you and your mother, and this time I’m going to show you. I got a new job today.”

  “And not even at the electric company,” Joan said. “Not even a union job.”

  “And guess who my boss is,” Claude said. “Russell Tagaki.”

  “No way!” Jamie said. “You’re working for Russell?”

  “Yup. Start a week from Monday.”

  “And starting a week from Monday you’re playing Bingo with Joan whenever she goes?” Connie said.

  Claude smiled. “Well, let’s not get carried away. But we’ll find things to do, I’m sure.”

  Jamie pulled extended index fingers from imaginary holsters and with a flick of her thumbs shot her father in the chest. “Pop the trunk. I’m getting my stuff.”

  Claude helped Jamie load her things into the car. Upon their return Joan had two armfuls of items for them to bring outside. As they put them in the trunk, Joan put a hand on Connie’s shoulder.

  “I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me,” she said. “I know I’ve been a burden, and now I’m going home where I belong. I’m excited. I think Claude’s really seen the light, about the electric company, about Jackie, about himself, even about me.”

  “You’ve been no burden,” Connie said, “no burden at all. I was happy to get to know you again after all these years.”

  Tears welled in Joan’s eyes, and with her bulky coat still on she reached out to hug her sister.

  “Me too,” Joan said.

  Joan and Connie heard a horn honk, and Joan shrugged as she gave one last wave. She closed the inner door with a thump, and let the screen door slam shut. Connie turned to walk to the window to watch them go, but heard the screen door open again and wheeled around. Claude opened the inner door.

  “I didn’t want to leave without saying thanks to you too,” he said without releasing the knob. “You been a big comfort to Joan, and I know she’s glad. If it wasn’t for you, I might have lost her forever. You’ll come over for supper once in a while, won’t you?”

  Connie let her folded arms drop and grabbed her wrist behind her back. “Of course I will. Be good to Joan and Jamie.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Chapter 52

  After a weekend of meals and resettling, the Amognes gathered in the family room like many a previous Monday. Claude and Jamie invited Joan to play cribbage with them, but she said she just wanted to sit back on the couch and veg. The television blared. Claude drank a giant lemonade. Jamie sat in gray sweatpants, her hair tied to a ponytail with a maroon velvet scrunchie. Joan saw the Rhode Island Electric logo appear on the screen, and called for everyone to look. The anchor of the local evening news looked grim.

  “Today we open our coverage with breaking news of a tragedy at Rhode Island Electric, where two workers are dead and three are in critical condition after a shelf holding six tons of equipment collapsed on top of them. Newscenter 8’s Maureen Kirkness is on the scene.”

  A thin brunette in a trenchcoat appeared, standing with a microphone about sixty feet in front of the middle bay of the stores department. Several types of lights—yellow, blue, red—twirled behind her. She too looked grave.

  “Thank you Jill. Police have said a forklift struck the base of a forty-foot-high shelf at 2:30 this afternoon, sending at least a dozen half-ton transformers crashing onto five people. Hospital officials have confirmed two people are dead, but the names of the victims are being withheld pending notification of immediate family members. Here with me now is Rhode Island Electric spokesperson Grahame Ravitch. Grahame, what can you tell us about today’s tragedy?”

  “Well, tragedy is the right word, Maureen. These are hard-working people who keep the lights on for all the good citizens of Rhode Island. Our hearts and our prayers go out to the friends and family of everyone involved in this terrible tragedy.”

  “Police said the shelf collapsed when a forklift rammed into its base. Have you had any difficulty with forklifts before?”

  “Our safety record at Rhode Island Electric is outstanding, Maureen, and we’re very proud of the great pride all our employees take in safe work operations. Our employees have the finest safety equipment available, and are required to wear such items as helmets and protective eye gear whenever they work in any type of hazardous situation. I’m sure when our investigation is complete we’ll find that even though this accident had tragic, tragic results, it might have been worse if not for the company’s steadfast commitment to safety.”

  “So there will be an investigation?”

  “Yes there will be,” Ravitch said. “We’ll demand proof from the shelving company that those shelves were put together
correctly, and we’ll demand records showing every forklift in our fleet met specifications when it was delivered. And if anything turns up that isn’t one hundred percent satisfactory, we will do everything in our power to make sure those who caused this terrible, terrible, tragedy take responsibility for the damage they have inflicted.”

  “Thank you Grahame. Maureen Kirkness, Newscenter 8, reporting live from Rhode Island Electric headquarters.”

  The news anchor thanked the reporter, announced the address of a fund set up to help the families of the victims, and segued to the weatherman, who teased the audience about a winter storm making its way toward the area.

  Claude flipped through the dials to try to find a channel still talking about the accident. He paced the back of the family room. At his recliner he took a long drag from a giant cup of lemonade. The accident must have been the top story on all the Rhode Island television stations, because the other newscasts were either onto something else or at commercial. Claude snapped his fingers, raced to the phone, and began dialing.

  “Come on,” he said, “answer already. Answer. Come on—Hello, Bertha? It’s Claude. Did you hear about the accident?”

  “Yes, Claude, thank you for calling. Frank’s all right. He was in the crane when the whole thing happened.”

  “Did he say who was hurt?”

  “They don’t think Tom Schulke and Dave Darezzo are going to make it. It’s just horrible. I can’t believe it. Scotty’s on the operating table now. Oh, Marge must be frantic. I started baking as soon as I heard, because Scotty and Marge love my apple pie.”

  “Who else was involved?”

  “John and the new girl.”

  “Felicia?”

  “I don’t know her name. My timer’s going off and I have to get a pie out of the oven. Shall I have Frank call you when he gets home?”

  “Please.”

  “Okay, I will. Bye Claude.”

  “Bye Bertha.”

  #

  When the eleven o’clock news came on, all three Amognes parked themselves in front of the television, leaning forward toward the screen. The anchors revealed few new details. Two were confirmed dead, but still no names had been released. The lieutenant governor affirmed the support of everyone in state government for the families of the injured, and called for Rhode Islanders to light candles the following evening at 7 in remembrance of the still-unnamed dead. Both Rhode Island congressmen weighed in live from Washington with their sympathy. Ravitch brushed aside questions about the accident itself to announce that a scholarship fund would be set up in the name of all those injured.

  “Can’t you call someone?” Joan said.

  “I tried Frank. Bertha said he’d call when he got a chance, but I haven’t heard from him. And Bertha said Scotty was one of the injured.”

  “How about someone else? Who are some of your other friends at the company?”

  Claude shook his head. “Isn’t it sad?”

  #

  The morning paper revealed the names of the injured: Thomas Schulke and David Darezzo dead, Felicia Lopez, John Carrollton, and Scott Williams seriously injured. A front page photo showed Darezzo’s mother crying. In the story, his minister recalled him as a hard-nosed hockey player who went to church regularly.

  At 9:30, the phone rang. Claude reached it before the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Claude? It’s me, Frank.”

  “I’m dying here. What’s going on? Where you been?”

  “I been at the hospital. I been in Clarke’s office. I been with Shepard. I been back to the hospital. Scotty’s gonna make it. He lost a leg, but he’s gonna live. Transformers pinned him backwards with his leg stuck behind him. Most horrible screams you ever heard. Felicia has head and neck injuries and isn’t conscious, never was, from when the boxes fell to last night in the hospital. John’s got a broken back and may not walk again. Elton’s the lucky cocksucker. Goddam prick.”

  “What happened?”

  “Strutterbugging,” Frank said. “Fucking showing off for Felicia. Schulke was at some meeting, so Elton and Darezzo talked Felicia into riding a forklift with them. They’re whipping around the department in a big circle, one time, two times, three times. Then with the fucker at full tilt, Darezzo decides to cut a right into the aisle heading toward meter reading. I see Schulke, Scotty, and John coming around the corner, so I lean on the horn, but it’s too late. Darezzo swerves hard to avoid them and rams into the base of the number six shelf, and the whole thing comes crashing down. The jolt sent Elton flying, and that’s the only reason nothing fell on him, but the others took the full brunt. I almost jumped off the fucking crane, honest Claude I almost did. I needed to be down there helping get shit off them, but by the time the crane reached the back wall, the rescue teams had already begun to arrive.”

  “Who sounded code blue?”

  “I don’t know. Gino, I guess. Schulke’s head was crushed like a grapefruit. That’s why they took so long to announce the names, because Winnie was at a conference out west. Darezzo was still twitching when they hauled him off. And you know what? We saw more fucking executives today than we have in the last ten years combined. Said they’d fire the first person that spoke to the press. Told us not to tell the family members anything—can you fucking believe that? Like I’m going to make Marge Williams rely on information from Ravitch, come the fuck on. Then when I get back from the hospital, the entire number six shelf is already removed, and Clarke calls me in and says it’s because it was unstable and more people coulda been injured. I said did you take any pictures? He said a thorough investigation is underway. Then he said they were considering filing charges against Elton. I fucking exploded. It’s your goddam fault, I said. Safety doesn’t mean shit to you and never has. We say it’s a problem and you wave us off. Whenever something happens, you cave if the union puts up the slightest fight, so the Ginos of the world think they can do anything they want and not get punished. You created the environment where this could happen, and now you pretend to be shocked? You go on the news ask how could this happen? You wipe your eye to make it look like you’re crying and say, oh my god, how on earth is this possible? Fuck you, I said. Fuck you and everyone above you.”

  For a moment neither Claude nor Frank spoke. Claude clicked a button on the remote and muted the television.

  “What did Clarke say?”

  “What could he say? He said to go home. He’d talk to me tomorrow. The funerals should be Friday or Saturday. I’ll let you know what time.”

  “Are you sure I should I go?”

  “Hell yes. You’re part of the company family. And visit Scotty. He’s in Room 442 at Providence General. Hey, I gotta go.”

  Chapter 53

  A red sun cast its pink upon the morning as Claude and Joan trudged up the hill to Darezzo’s funeral. The Methodist church to host it was a modest building, white with black trim, with stained glass windows on each side of an arched double doorway that served as the main entrance. The window to the left of the double doorway contained four clear panes, including one where the face of Christ should have been. A crumbling stone-and-cement wall ran the last twenty yards of the hill. A glass-encased marquee read “Welcome loved ones of David Paul Darezzo” in plastic white letters.

  Two dozen people milled around the bottom of the stairway leading to the church, most with collars up and backs turned to the wind, now blowing straight in the faces of Claude and Joan. A woman with frizzy hair and thick glasses handed out yellow ribbons.

  “Pin these on your lapels,” she said. “To support the families.”

  Joan paused to pin hers on. Claude stuffed his in the front pocket of his coat. He scanned the group of people in front of the church, but only recognized Dan Thompson, who gave a quick, solemn wave. Claude waved back. He took Joan’s left hand and led her up the stairs to the church.

  Inside the double doorway, the little lobby was stuffed with people. To either side of the main entrance were stairs,
presumably leading to balcony seats, but before Claude could move toward one side or the other he saw Frank and Bertha. He tugged Joan through the crowd toward them.

  After the Amognes and Dombrowskis exchanged greetings, Frank leaned toward Claude.

  “Clarke wants to see me after the funeral,” Frank said in a low voice.

  “About what?” Claude said.

  “Not sure. Maybe he wants to give me my script for the investiga­tion.”

  Claude smiled. The church had a center section of long pews and two wing sections of short pews. It did have a balcony, which in addition to fifty or so seats also housed a huge pipe organ. Frank led the others to the center of the church and sidestepped to the middle of the pew. Bertha sat next to him, followed by Claude and Joan. None took off their coats. At the front of the church, Claude saw a closed casket next to a table where photographs of Darezzo had been placed. Soft organ music played. He heard Frank say a muted hello, and looked left to see Seamus O’Leary, seated at the far end of the pew, smiling in their direction. When Claude looked away, he noticed Junior and his wife settling in on the right end of the pew. Claude tried to get Junior’s attention without speaking, but wasn’t able to. Elton and Gino sat in the wing section to Claude’s left. Munson, Clarke, Ravitch, Mickleson and Feeney sat in the first pew of the wing section to Claude’s right. Already sobbing could be heard from the front of the church. Joan whispered to Claude that she thought there’d be more union people at the funeral. Frank overheard her.

  “They made us take vacation days to come,” he said.

  A minister in white emerged from a doorway behind the coffin and everyone stood. After welcoming the mourners, the minister asked them to sit and read a brief passage from the Gospel of John. He then said it was his privilege to introduce the president of Rhode Island Electric, Harrington Munson, to say a few words about David Darezzo.

  Frank leaned across Bertha and called Claude’s attention to Elton, who had clutched his coat and was quickly excusing his way past people to leave his pew. It took Claude a moment to see why: one row ahead, Brad, Felicia’s boyfriend, knelt on his pew, facing Elton.

  “I’m going to kill you,” Brad mouthed. “I’m going to kill you.”