by Ann Tatlock
Charlotte continued, "Must have been a year ago I saw him last, but now that he's moved in with you, I can see him a whole lot more. Do you know how old he is?"
"Fifteen, I think."
"Oh!" Charlotte thought a moment, then said, "Does he have a regular girl?"
"Naw." I shook my head. "Not that I know about, anyway."
"Uh huh." Charlotte remained outwardly calm, but I knew her so well I could practically hear her heart beating wildly in her chest.
Not wanting to talk about Rufus just then, I changed the subject by asking, "What does your mother say about Communists?" Not that I agreed with Mrs. Besac's opinions about God, but because Mother had more than once called Charlotte's mother a woman of the world, I thought Mrs. Besac might have better insight into political affairs than she did spiritual matters.
"Communists?" Charlotte echoed dully. For a moment she seemed startled by the abrupt change in the course of our conversation, and she shook her head as though trying to find the path I'd suddenly veered down. Finally she said, "I can't remember her saying anything about them. Why?"
"Do you think they're going to take over America?"
My friend peered at me quizzically, two small lines forming between her brows. "Well," she answered with a hint of sarcasm, "to tell you the truth, I can't say I've spent a whole lot of time contemplating that question."
I frowned back at her and threw up my hands as though reprimanding a child. "Don't you know there are Communists right here in our country, right here in this city, who are saying there's a revolution right around the corner?"
"I thought prosperity was supposed to be around the corner."
"Not according to the Reds," I replied, trying out the word Dr. Hal had used.
"Well, whatever it is, I just hope there's something around the corner. Things are getting pretty boring as they are."
"But don't you know what it means if the Communists take over?"
"They can't take over."
"Why not?"
"Because we're too strong for them."
"How do you know?"
"Well, we beat them in the Great War, didn't we?"
"Did we fight them in the Great War?"
Charlotte shrugged again. "Must have. They're the enemy, aren't they? If we beat them once, we can do it again. You sure worry about stupid things, Virginia. Why are you even thinking about the Communists?"
I told her then about the visit from Rex Atwater the night before and the possibility of the strike down at the mill.
When I finished, Charlotte asked, "Your uncle Jim's going to march in a picket line?"
"Looks like it," I replied.
"Well, that is exciting."
"It's dangerous, is what it is. Don't you know that men in picket lines get beaten up and shot and sometimes killed?"
My friend's dark eyes widened in wonder. "Will you tell me when the strike starts?"
I sighed. "Yeah, I'll tell you." I had forgotten momentarily that she was in her gangster phase and any tussle with the law appealed to her.
"But what's this got to do with Communism?" she asked.
"Nothing, I guess. Except that that union organizer, Mr. Atwater, said so many times he wasn't a Communist that it made me start to think he was one."
"Oh." Charlotte paused to pull a leaf out of the buckle of her shoe. Instead of tossing the leaf aside, she twirled it between her thumb and index finger while she thought. Finally, she asked, "Is this Rex Atwater a handsome man?"
I shook my head vigorously. "No. He's kind of small and funny looking."
"Is he rich?"
"I don't think so. He didn't dress like he was rich, anyway."
"Well, if he's not handsome and he's not rich, why would the Communists want him?"
I couldn't argue with her, and yet it seemed to me there was something faulty in her reasoning. Since I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was, I simply replied, "Well, I just hope you're right."
"Of course I am. People go on strike all the time. It doesn't have anything to do with Communism."
We had almost reached the box office of the theater when Charlotte, steering our conversation back to the original subject, asked somewhat shyly, "What did you say your cousin's last name was?"
"I didn't say."
"Well, what is it?"
"Dubbin."
"His name is Rufus Dubbin?"
"Yup."
We handed our money to the young woman behind the glass and received our tickets. The price of our admission had jumped from a dime to a quarter when we turned thirteen, but we were proud to pay the difference. Inside the lobby other kids were clustered around the concession stand, stocking up on soft drinks, candy bars, and popcorn in the last few minutes before the show. Charlotte and I breathed deeply of the aroma of popcorn.
"Want some?" Charlotte asked.
"Yeah."
"Got any money left?"
"No. Do you?"
"No. I tell ya, when I start dating, any boy wants to take me to the movies better have enough money for two bags of popcorn and a soda, and he better have money left over for a cherry Coke afterward."
"You're asking a lot."
"Not if he's rich."
"There's a depression on."
"That's no excuse."
We made our way down the aisle and chose a couple of seats in the middle of the theater. The movie house was filling up all around us with popcorn-chewing, gum-snapping, soda-guzzling kids.
Charlotte laced her fingers across her stomach and looked pensive. "What do you think of the name Charlotte Dubbin?" she asked. It was another pastime of ours, sounding out what our names might be when we married.
"I like Charlotte Capone better."
"Hmm, yeah." She sank down in the chair so that her head was resting on its rim. "Rufus Dubbin is kind of a silly name, isn't it?"
"Not as bad as Mitchell Quakenbush."
The lights in the theater started to go down. The kids around us let out a howl. A piece of popcorn flung from several rows behind landed in my hair. I picked it out and ate it.
"Let me have the next piece," Charlotte said.
"Sit up higher so you can catch your own."
The curtains across the front wall parted, and in another moment the screen came alive with the flashing images of the latest newsreel. The black-and-white shots were of men's shoes--all kinds of shoes in various stages of dilapidation. Scruffy oxfords, dirty loafers, worn boots with flapping soles. And the shoes were walking, walking, endlessly walking. A commentator's deep voice boomed, "All across the United States men are beating the pavement, desperately looking for work...."
Charlotte leaned over and whispered, "I've been thinking about that."
"About men looking for work?"
"No, about going through life with the name Charlotte Quakenbush."
"What about it?"
"I've decided it's just no good. I can't go around introducing myself as Mrs. Quakenbush and expect people to respect me. I'm just going to have a take a crush on someone else soon as school starts up again."
"What about Rufus?"
"I'm not that keen on being Mrs. Dubbin, either, but I'll keep Rufus in mind. Just in case."
Chapter Nine
With Charlotte's illogical assurances taken to heart, I forgot all about the threat of a Communist revolution--at least until the sheriff came around to talk with Papa about the Reds who were trying to take over the grain mill.
It was another warm evening with just a whisper of a breeze that didn't so much as ruffle the lace curtains in the open windows or disturb the leaves of the red maple in the front yard. Papa and I sat together on the porch swing while Simon straddled the railing just in front of us. My brother and I relished these moments with Papa, as they were all too rare. That his office was in our home meant he was generally close by in proximity, but what we children wanted--his attention--was more often than not focused somewhere far away. Not that that was how Papa wanted it. That'
s simply the way it was when a person was a doctor. The office hours posted on his shingle meant nothing. Papa was never off duty. He could be called upon to meet the needs of an ailing patient at any time, day or night. Illness and accidents didn't pay attention to the clock. They didn't care whether they called a man away from his family on a Sunday afternoon, at two in the morning, on the evening of his son's or daughter's birthday. In fact, it seemed that most of humanity's ailments actually preferred to rise up at the hour of greatest inconvenience. How thankful Simon and I were when calamity decided to rest long enough to allow us a little time with Papa.
The time we had with him was spent, for the most part, simply talking. For days we saved up all sorts of things to tell him--news of our latest accomplishments, our dubious adventures, our disappointments. Papa always listened with both ears, nodding intently, injecting grunts and other sound effects at all the pertinent spots, and finally plying us with questions to show the depth of his interest in our lives. When we had exhausted our storehouse of information about our own lives, I always begged Papa to tell us stories about his childhood, which he proceeded to do with all the alacrity of a seasoned storyteller. Simon, the budding physician, preferred to talk about Papa's work, pleading for all the gruesome details. Papa laughed and said there wasn't much that was gruesome about sore throats and fallen arches.
That particular night our household was unusually quiet. Earlier, Mr. Turbin from the next block came by and said his wife had slipped on the cellar stairs and hurt her ankle, but Dr. Hal volunteered to take the call so Papa could stay home with us. Mother was upstairs giving Claudia and Molly a cool bath before putting them to bed. Uncle Jim was off at one of his endless union meetings, but my suspicions of Mr. Atwater had subsided, and I wasn't much worried at the moment about Uncle Jim's activities. I don't remember where Aunt Sally and the cousins were--with so many people in the house I tended to lose track of everyone--but it seems to me they must have been out for the evening.
So there was no one to disturb the three of us except the occasional passerby. Those were the days when neighbor knew neighbor, and to walk past a group of porch-sitters without offering a greeting was unthinkable. Our three-way conversation was interrupted at odd intervals when someone might call out, "Evening, Doc Eide. Evening, Ginny, Simon."
And Papa would lift a hand and say something like, "Evening, Mr. Harper. Nice night for a walk, isn't it?"
And the passerby would respond, "A bit hot yet, but not too bad a night at that."
And Papa, always the medical man, then asked, "How's young Albert's stomach? Did the bicarbonate of soda help?"
And the man would say, "Much obliged, Doc, it did the trick straight off."
In this friendly fashion, Papa kept updated on the health of many a patient during the course of an evening.
Through the warm still air there came to us the music of a neighbor's radio, the rumbling of traffic through distant streets, the singing of the cicadas as twilight fell. I rested my head on Papa's shoulder while listening to him talk. The swing we occupied together moved lazily as he pushed us with his one foot anchored to the floor. I thought I could stay there for the rest of my life--surrounded by the last light before nightfall, cradled in the motion of the swing, listening to Papa's strong yet gentle voice--and be completely satisfied.
That was why, when the sheriff's car pulled up in front of our house and the badge-wearing man himself came up our walk, it was an interruption that didn't so much pique my curiosity as make me angry. What had calamity been up to now to separate us yet again from Papa?
"Evening, William," the sheriff said as his heavy boots pounded up the porch steps.
"Evening, Clem," Papa said. He didn't bother to stand but extended his hand, and the sheriff shook it briefly. "Everything all right?"
The sheriff removed his cap and pulled the back of his hand along the edge of his dark sweat-matted hair. "If you mean has someone been hurt, no. I'm not here because someone needs doctoring. But I would like to talk with you, Will, if you have a minute."
"Sure, Clem. What can I do for you?"
The lawman glanced at Simon and me and said, "Might be best if we was alone."
Papa nodded. The arm he'd been resting on the back of the swing came around me in a half hug. "You two run along inside for a few minutes. This won't take long."
"Aw, Papa!" Simon protested.
"Go on now, son. I'll finish the rest of the story later."
Simon hopped off the porch railing with an audible huff and turned his eyes away from the sheriff as he passed by him into the house. Before getting up from the swing I took a moment to look up into the face of Sheriff Dysinger, Danny's father. I wondered whether Danny would grow up to be so big and ugly. The sheriff was probably more than six feet tall and evidently heavier than he cared to admit, for he wore his uniform at least a size too small. The buttons of his shirt strained to stay together, and one of the front shirttails hung out over the belt that was lost beneath the man's ample belly. When he put his cap back on, fitting it over his round head with one hand on the brim and the other on the back, I noticed two full moons of sweat beneath his arms. His face hung heavy as a hound dog's, his nose was bulbous and ill defined as putty, and his chin was a series of ripples captured finally in the knot of his tie. If he stood as a portent to Danny's future appearance, I thought perhaps I ought to think twice about pursuing a romance with the boy.
I rose and asked politely, "How's Danny enjoying his summer out on the farm, Sheriff Dysinger?"
The man seemed pleased that I would ask. "Well, now, he's having himself a really fine time. His grandpa says he's one strong worker, that one. I'm afraid he won't be wanting to come home again once school starts."
"That's nice," I replied dully, revealing no hint at all of my feelings for this man's offspring. "Well, good night, sir."
" 'Night, Ginny." He leaned his hefty body against the porch railing that Simon had just vacated and crossed his arms across his wide chest.
Simon had gone into the kitchen to get something to eat, but I for one wanted to hear what the sheriff had to say to Papa. I figured that the night had become just dark enough that I wouldn't be noticed if I crept into the unlighted parlor and sat in one of the wing chairs beside the open window. There was no danger of Papa seeing me. Though he was right outside the window on the swing, he was facing the street. I kicked off my shoes and tiptoed into the parlor, hoping that Sheriff Dysinger wouldn't notice any shadow of movement in the room beyond Papa's head. I crept stealthily to the wing chair, avoiding every squeaky part of the floor, and reached my destination with success. Curling up in the chair with my head only inches from the window, I didn't have to strain at all to hear the two men as they spoke. In spite of the falling darkness, I had a pretty good view of the sheriff and a side view of Papa.
Sheriff Dysinger had paused to light a cigarette, but when he had the tobacco burning he said, "So he's out at one of them union meetings right now, is he?"
"He should be back within the hour, I'd say, if you'd like to talk with him," Papa said.
The crunching sound of an apple being bitten into came from the hall, followed by Simon's footsteps on the stairs. I hoped he would go directly to his own room and not wonder where I was.
Outside, the sheriff was shaking his head while he inhaled deeply on the cigarette. The smoke came out while he spoke. "Tell you the truth, I'd rather he not even know I came around tonight. This is strictly off the record. I'm here to talk to you friend to friend."
If Papa and Sheriff Dysinger had a friendship going, it couldn't have been a very strong one. The sheriff wasn't exactly a regular visitor around our house, and I even remembered some harsh words on his side when it became common knowledge that Papa was supporting Sid Jeffers for sheriff in the last election.
Papa, in spite of the dubiousness of their relationship, said kindly, "If that's how you want it, Clem."
"I suppose, Will, you're fully aware of what's going
on down at the grain mill, seeing as how Jim's so involved."
"Well, I know the men are trying to organize a union, and I know they're in the middle of negotiations with Mr. Thiel and his sons and the board of directors. But I'm afraid I don't know any of the particulars beyond that. I'm pretty busy--"
"I'll get straight to the point here--we've got trouble on our hands. A bunch of men have come into this town under the pretext of being union organizers, but those of us in law enforcement know what they really are."
"And what might that be, Clem?" It was a rare day that sarcasm crept into Papa's voice, but I thought I detected it just then.
"Now, William, you know as well as I do that whenever there's talk about workers' rights, them doing the talking are Communists."
"Well, not necessarily--"
"They might not admit it themselves, might not come right out and say they're members of the Communist Party, but that's what they are all right."
Papa chuckled softly and shook his head. "That Mr. Atwater sure was right about one thing," he remarked.
"Rex Atwater?"
"Yes, Rex Atwater. Of the Grain Millers Union."
"You know him?"
"Wouldn't say I know him. I only met him once."
"How'd you happen to meet him?"
"He came around to the house not long ago. Jim invited him."
"What'd he want?"
"He was just looking for help and support for the union."
"He didn't persuade you to help him in any way, did he?"
"Clem, with a schedule like mine, there's not much more I can take on. I'm afraid there's really nothing I can do for the man."
"Good thing for you, Will. I'd advise you not to get involved."
"Well, now, like I say, it's my schedule, not my convictions, that's keeping me from getting involved. I fully support what the men are trying to do down at the mill. A union can only be good for both employees and employers alike."
