A Room of My Own

by Ann Tatlock

  Dr. Hal pulled back one side of his mouth in a half smile. "You mean, perhaps, a man of about my age?" When Mr. Atwater said nothing, Dr. Hal looked over at Papa. For a moment the two doctors seemed to be speaking to each other without words.

  Finally Papa leaned forward in his chair and said, "I'm in full sympathy with what you're trying to do, Mr. Atwater. Naturally, I'd like to see men like my brother-in-law get a better deal for themselves. But I'm afraid my schedule won't allow me to take on a duty such as what you've just proposed." From the corner of my eye I saw Mother sink back into her chair in relief. Papa continued. "However, I'd be willing to let Dr. Bellamy volunteer his services from time to time, if he'd be inclined to do so."

  Mr. Atwater looked eagerly at the younger man. Dr. Hal held his palms up and said, "I'll be glad to help, if I can. I can't be there around the clock, of course, but maybe I could fill in if you need an extra pair of hands."

  "That's all we're asking, Dr. Bellamy. Much obliged," Mr. Atwater said.

  "When do you think this ... this strike will start?" Aunt Sally asked breathlessly.

  "I'm afraid I can't answer that, ma'am," replied the ever polite Mr. Atwater. "I've seen negotiations go on for weeks, and I've seen talks break down before they even got started."

  "Oh, Jim," my aunt cried, turning to her husband, "why didn't you tell me it might come to this?"

  Instead of answering the question, Uncle Jim said quietly, "We could use your help on the women's auxiliary, Sally. The men would appreciate your fine cooking."

  "But, Jim--"

  "I'm going to be out on the picket line, Sally, if it comes down to having to strike. I made up my mind a good long while ago. I could use your support."

  Aunt Sally gazed silently at her husband for a moment. Then she nodded so slightly the movement of her head was almost imperceptible. "All right," she said finally. She turned to face the union organizer. "I'll help in the commissary, Mr. Atwater." Her words came out on a sigh of strained resignation.

  Rex Atwater nodded respectfully. "Thank you, ma'am. We'd be grateful for your help."

  Aunt Sally looked over at Mother. But refusing to acknowledge her sister's expectant gaze, Mother addressed the little man on the couch. "I'm sorry, Mr. Atwater, but I don't see how it would be possible for me to take part in this--undertaking. I have four children to take care of, two of which are barely more than infants. I'm--"

  Mr. Atwater interrupted with a wave of his hand. "I understand, Mrs. Eide. We have no intention of taking mothers away from their children. But I'm pleased Dr. Bellamy here and Mrs. Dubbin have both expressed their willingness to help. With Jim to boot, that's more than I have a right to ask of any family." He cleared his throat again and raised his glass to sip the water from the melting ice cubes.

  Uncle Jim put the cigarette between his lips and I thought he was finally going to light it, but he didn't. He took it out again.

  Mr. Atwater went on. "Now, I want to tell you straight out before you get involved that you're going to hear rumors saying those of us trying to organize the mill are Communists. Those rumors follow us wherever we go. I am not and never have been a member of the Communist Party, nor are any of the other organizers I'm working with. We are backed by the A.F. of L., and you all know they won't have anything to do with the Communists."

  Dr. Hal thrust out his chin knowingly. "I suppose the mill owners want to accuse you of being Red so they don't have to recognize the union."

  "That's about the way of it," Mr. Atwater replied. He chuckled and shook his head. "I've been called a Commie by every grain mill owner from here to South Dakota and back, but I wouldn't side with the Reds if my life depended on it. No, I'm just trying to see the working man get a fair shake within the ranks of capitalism, that's all."

  Uncle Jim said, "I happen to know that some of the men down at the mill are in fact what you would call `fellow travelers.' That is, they have Communist leanings, though they may not actually belong to the Party."

  "Sure," Mr. Atwater agreed. "They're down there, all right. I can spot them like so many flies on a wall. There's not a mill or a factory in this country that doesn't have its fellow travelers as well as its card-carrying members. It's a real popular thing right now. All the time Hoover is tooting his horn about prosperity being right around the corner, the Communists are swearing there's a revolution right around the corner. They think the United States of America is going to end up touting allegiance to Moscow. They're pretty sure of themselves right now, since it looks like capitalism has failed. Well, capitalism might have taken a pretty bad tumble, but it isn't like Humpty-Dumpty who can't be put back together again. In my opinion, the economy's eventually going to come back stronger than ever--the way a bone that's been broken ends up being stronger after it's healed." He smiled at Papa and Dr. Hal, obviously proud of his medical analogy.

  Papa smiled briefly in return. "So you're asking us to turn a deaf ear to anyone who might want to label you a Communist?"

  "Yes, sir. For your own sakes and for the sake of the mill workers, I'm asking you to pay no mind to those rumors. They only hurt what we're trying to do."

  "Well, I for one have no doubt you're not a Communist, Mr. Atwater," Papa assured him. "But I can see how you might have a hard time convincing a lot of people of that. Even if Mr. Thiel himself doesn't think you're a Communist, if he says you are, there are plenty of people in this town who'll believe him--just because he's Emerson Thiel." Papa paused and shook his head. "If I hear any such rumors, I'll do my best to squelch them."

  "Thank you, Dr. Eide," Rex Atwater said with a nod. "I'd appreciate that."

  As the grown-ups went on to talk about Communist infiltration of legitimate unions, I tried to remember what I'd learned in school about Communism. I recalled our teacher speaking about life in Russia with disdain, saying we ought to thank our lucky stars we were born in America where we could live in freedom. She said the Russian people weren't even allowed to believe in God anymore, and that the churches had been shut down at the time of the revolution in 1917. She made it clear to us that Communism was a way of life to be avoided at all costs.

  In spite of my earlier impressions of Rex Atwater and my admiration of his having been shot, I suddenly felt a bit mistrustful. His insistence that he wasn't a Communist led me to think that he certainly must be one--at least that was how it always worked in the movies. The person you're sure is the good guy turns out to be the bad guy in the end.

  Maybe it was all the talk about violence, or maybe it was just the heat, but I suddenly felt sick at the thought of Uncle Jim being mixed up with this man and his mission. My personal opinion--unspoken, of course--was that Uncle Jim ought to start looking for another job and forget all about this union stuff.

  Aunt Sally must have been feeling the same way because I heard her sniff and saw that she was wiping at her eyes with Uncle Jim's handkerchief. When she noticed me, she smiled bravely and pretended to be only dabbing at beads of perspiration, but I knew it was tears that moistened her cheeks.

  Finally Mr. Atwater rose and said, "Well, I'm afraid I've taken up too much of your time--"

  "Not at all," Papa said, getting up himself from the wing chair and stretching his legs. "I only wish there was more we could do...."

  Mr. Atwater reached out his hand to shake Papa's. "You've done plenty already, sir," he said.

  "Can I offer you a fresh glass of iced tea?" Mother asked stiffly. I knew she wanted only for the man to go.

  "Thank you, no, ma'am. I really best be on my way." He shook hands with Dr. Hal and Mother and was about to turn to Aunt Sally when Uncle Jim intercepted him.

  "Thank you for coming, Rex," Uncle Jim said, leading the union organizer out to the hallway before the latter could notice Aunt Sally's tears. "Listen, nine o'clock tomorrow morning, right? Down at headquarters."

  "I'd appreciate your being there, Jim."

  "I'll be there."

  A few more words were exchanged at the screen door befo
re we heard it squeak open and slam shut again. Then Uncle Jim appeared in the entrance between the hall and the parlor. He chewed at his lower lip and his eyes were wide and expectant.

  "Well," Papa said to Uncle Jim, "looks like you've got your work cut out for you."

  "Looks like it," Uncle Jim echoed.

  Papa turned to Dr. Hal. "Shall we do that inventory on the medicine cabinet and then call it a night?"

  "I'm right behind you," agreed Dr. Hal.

  The two doctors started toward the hall. Papa stopped when he came up beside Uncle Jim and put a hand on his shoulder. "Just be careful, Jim," he said quietly.

  "I'll be careful, Will."

  My father patted my uncle's shoulder and, with Dr. Hal following, walked away whistling "O Holy Night." In the parlor, Uncle Jim, Aunt Sally, and Mother stood silent and unmoving, like a trio of statues. I sat equally motionless on the piano bench, holding my breath and waiting for someone to say something. The clock behind me went on ticking away the time.

  Finally Mother said, "I don't care for the thought of violence, Jim."

  "I don't much like it myself, Lillian, but I hate injustice even more."

  "But, Jim," Aunt Sally cried, the handkerchief to her lips, "men could end up ... dead." The last word came out in a whisper.

  "Could be," Uncle Jim agreed. "It's been known to happen in a strike." With those words Aunt Sally's tears began to flow freely.

  Mother said, "Now, Jim, men are always quicker than women to settle their differences with violence. I'm going to ask you to think this through for a minute. You've a wife and three sons. You've already lost your job. Are you sure it's worth the risk to go on fighting for a union?"

  Without hesitating, Uncle Jim replied, "I've thought about it for a long time, Lil, and I don't have to think anymore. It's worth the risk."

  Aunt Sally gave a sharp cry and ran from the room. Neither Uncle Jim nor Mother tried to stop her, and neither went after her. Instead, they remained to consider each other without speaking.

  Finally, in what seemed an attempt to justify himself, Uncle Jim asked, "What kind of man would I be, Lillian, if I weren't willing to fight for my own rights and for a better life for my family? As long as there's a chance I can get my job back--with better wages and benefits, too--I've got to try."

  Mother sighed deeply and dropped her eyes to the floor. Then she looked at my uncle kindly and said, "You're in a hard position, Jim, and I don't envy you. You need the support of your family, so I'll tell you that in theory I support you. I hope everything turns out for the best for all the men down at the mill. I would only ask, along with William, that you not do anything foolish."

  "I'll be careful," Uncle Jim promised. "You have my word."

  "In the meantime, let's pray that a strike can be avoided."

  "And that if we have to strike, we'll win."

  "Yes, well--come on, Virginia, help me clean up the kitchen, and then it'll be time for you to be off to bed."

  As we washed and dried the dishes, Mother said nothing about my staying in the parlor to listen. In fact, she said nothing at all. When we had finished and I was ready to go upstairs to join my little sisters in bed, I saw Uncle Jim leaning against the frame of the front door, staring out at the quiet street and the starry night beyond. He had one hand in his jeans pocket. With the other he was holding the Mouth-Happy cigarette he had finally lighted. He took deep breaths and blew the smoke out through the screen. He was so lost in thought that he didn't hear me when I said good-night. I supposed he must have been thinking about the future, and I wondered myself what was in store for him. Would he catch a billy club across the skull or take a bullet in the chest? Would he lead the strikers on to victory? Were the Communists right after all, and rather than prosperity looming right around the corner, it was a political take-over?

  I shivered at the thought. Then and there I immediately dropped for good the Besac philosophy that God was only a myth. It sounded a little too much like Communism to me. It was tempting to toy with atheism when I was angry, if only to make God aware of my displeasure at some of His decisions. But I could never, when it came right down to it, dismiss His existence altogether. I knew He was there, and I believed He was willing to offer help to those who called on Him. And I planned as soon as I slipped into bed to call on Him and to keep calling until sleep came. Because at that moment I felt at last as though the ripples of Black Thursday had not only reached us, but that all of us were in danger of drowning beneath its waves.

  Chapter Eight

  Charlotte showed up at our house when, according to the clock on the piano, I still had fifteen minutes left of my half hour of practice. We had plans to go to the Saturday matinee, as usual. Strangers in Love with Fredric March and Kay Francis had just opened at one of the theaters downtown, and we were both anxious to see it. But I'd had a busy morning, and the fact that I'd had to start over half-a-dozen times while trying to recite to Mother Thomas Campion's "When Thou Must Home" set me behind in my schedule. Claudia and Molly were in the parlor with me, forcing poor Gardenia and Petunia to dance to the tunes I was banging out on the piano. Claudia saw Charlotte first out the front window and cried, "Lottie's here, Ginny! She's sitting on the porch steps with Rufus."

  At once my fingers picked up speed as I tried to rush through the song I was practicing--until I realized that rushing the song wouldn't speed up the clock. "Tell her I still have fifteen more minutes to go," I called to Claudia. "Tell her we'll still have plenty of time to get to the theater."

  Claudia obediently pressed her nose up against the screen and yelled louder than necessary, "Lottie! Ginny says she still has fifteen more minutes to go! She says you'll still have plenty of time to get to the theater!"

  In a moment, Charlotte's own voice came from the other side of the screen. "That's all right, Virginia," she said mildly, almost too sweetly. Her words were meant for me, but her tone of voice, I knew, was for my cousin. I went on playing but looked over my shoulder to find her smiling at me from where she stood between the porch swing and the window. She licked the tips of her fingers and patted at her wavy hair. "Take your time," she continued. "I'm just out here having a little tête-à-tête with Rufus."

  I rolled my eyes and turned back to the piano. Where Charlotte got some of her expressions was beyond me. She was always trying to sound like a sophisticated debutante, and what was most frustrating was that she very often succeeded. I sat there agitated and sighing and fumbling over the keys for the remaining fifteen minutes, then rushed out to the front hall, hollered to Mother that I was off to the movies, and made my escape past the squeaking screen door to where my best friend and my cousin sat tête-à-têting together on the front steps. Charlotte had that coquettish look on her face that surfaced whenever she spoke with Mitchell Quakenbush or any of the other boys she happened to be sweet on.

  The broom that Rufus had been sweeping the porch with leaned against the railing, neglected. "Aunt Sally asked me to tell you to finish sweeping the sidewalk," I lied, grabbing the broom and handing it to Rufus. "Charlotte and I are going downtown and won't be back till dinnertime."

  Rufus took the broom but made no effort to get up from the steps. "In a minute," he mumbled.

  "What's the rush, Virginia?" Charlotte complained. "Rufus was right in the middle of telling me a story, and it was so exciting." To my cousin, she purred, "Go on, Rufus, what were you saying?"

  Before Rufus could continue, I said, "If we don't leave now, we'll miss the beginning of the movie."

  "Just the cartoon and the newsreel," Charlotte said, her voice reverting from kitten to angry alley cat. Then she laughed coyly. "Honestly, I don't much care about cartoons or the news, do you, Rufus? I'd much rather hear the end of your story."

  I wasn't certain just why I didn't like Charlotte flirting with my cousin, but I didn't. Maybe it was because she was so much better at getting a positive response from boys than I. It seemed a bit traitorous on Rufus's part to succumb to her charms. H
e could have at least pretended for my sake that he didn't find her so attractive. Had we not been related and had I tried myself to gain the attention of this young man, he probably would have gone right on sweeping the porch and the sidewalk and been halfway down the block by now.

  "Well, I'm going now," I announced stubbornly, pushing my way between Charlotte and Rufus and pounding down the steps. "I'll save you a seat, Lottie, should you decide to come."

  "Virginia! What in the world's the matter with you?" she cried. "I just wanted to hear the end of the--oh, good-bye, Rufus!"

  "Be seeing you, Lottie," Rufus replied.

  I had reached the street and could hear Charlotte's hurried footsteps coming up behind me and the whisk of the broom as Rufus went back to sweeping.

  "Ginny!" Charlotte huffed loudly as she reached me. Her own use of my nickname didn't escape my notice. "What's come over you?"

  "I just don't want to be late for the movie, that's all," I said evenly.

  "Well, good heavens, the rate you're going you'd think Fred March himself was going to be there in person. We've got plenty of time, I tell you. Slow down or I'm going to wear through the soles of my shoes before we reach downtown."

  I slowed my pace and we walked in silence for a moment. Then Charlotte sighed moonily and said, "I didn't know your cousin was such a good-looker."

  Through clenched teeth, I muttered, "He's all right, I guess."

  My opinion was understated. Rufus plainly was a handsome boy. He was blond and fair like his mother, and tall and lean like his father. He had eyes as blue as a clear-day sky, a narrow, well-formed nose, and teeth that were perfectly straight. And strong hands. I liked strong hands on a man. I was sorry that he and I were kin, and I was sorrier still that he had never paused in the middle of a chore long enough to tell me a story. In the weeks since he'd moved in with us, he'd never even commented on my bobbed hair. I was just his kid cousin, not a girl to be admired like Charlotte. And as I said, even if we weren't related, it was doubtful he would have admired me.