by Ann Tatlock
"We're not talking about a union here, William."
"Then just what is it we're talking about, Clem?"
The sheriff flicked the butt of his cigarette onto the grass, then leaned forward from the porch railing toward Papa. "Aren't you aware of what's happening in this country?"
Papa, undaunted, looked directly at the big man. "Fill me in, Clem," he said flatly.
"The Reds, William. The Reds." The sheriff managed to send shivers down my spine, the way he pronounced the word. Maybe Charlotte didn't think we had anything to fear from the Communists, but evidently the sheriff thought we did. He let out an expletive before continuing. "They've even got a candidate on the ballot for the November election. A Mr. William Z. Foster. Till yesterday you could see his name painted on the side of the Landlaw Building downtown, along with the message `Vote Communist.' I had to send one of my deputies out there to paint it over. What's more--" Sheriff Dysinger paused and pulled a small folded newspaper from his back pocket. He tossed it onto the porch swing beside Papa, who picked it up and opened it. "That's one of their newspapers. The Daily Worker, they call it. They're selling these and all their other Red propaganda on every street corner in town. They're here, William. I'm telling you, they're right here in this city, every which way you turn."
Papa calmly laid the paper aside after giving it only a cursory glance. The swing moved briefly back and forth while Papa gathered his thoughts. "Well, Sheriff," he said quietly, "the Communists have been standing on street corners peddling their literature since 1919, and I'm sure they've been right here in our own city since that time, but that doesn't mean they're organizing the union at the grain mill. Mr. Atwater says he's with the Grain Millers Union and that what he's doing is backed by the A.F. of L. Frankly, Clem, I see no reason not to believe him."
Sheriff Dysinger shook his head and lighted another cigarette. "We don't intend to have a repeat of Gastonia around here," he said. He paused to pluck a tobacco seed off the tip of his thick cowlike tongue. Rubbing his fingers together to rid them of the seed, he continued. "You know very well it was the Commies that ran that strike down in those Gastonia mills in twenty-nine. That's a recorded fact. And it's also a fact the Reds have been leading strikes in Kentucky, Rhode Island, Pennsylvania. I'm not making this up, William. I'm talking particulars, here. And I'm telling you, it's not going to happen in this town. Now, by law I can't stop the negotiations, and I can't stop the strike if those mill workers want to go on strike, but I can do my best to see they don't win that strike. No, sir," the sheriff said, pointing to his badge with the fingers that pinched his cigarette, "it's my job to uphold the law around here, and the law of the land is capitalism."
Papa, growing obviously weary of the conversation, shifted his position in the swing. "I can't argue with you there, Clem. I know the Communist Party has something of a following here in the U.S., but I'm of the opinion that capitalism isn't in any real danger. I just don't believe it is. This country was built on free enterprise, and it's going to take a lot more than a few radicals selling newspapers to change things. Oh, I know the idea of a revolution is attractive to some people right now--the country being in the mess it's in. But once the situation gets better--and it will--I'm of the opinion that this whole frenzy about Communism is simply going to be forgotten."
Sheriff Dysinger was quiet while he took another long drag of his cigarette. It was only half smoked, but the sheriff decided he'd had enough, or else that he would use it to make a symbolic point. This time, instead of tossing the butt into the yard, he let it fall to the porch, where he crushed it beneath the toe of his boot. His huge foot swiveled back and forth at the ankle for an unnecessarily long time. "I hope you're right, William," he said finally. He blew the last of the smoke out the side of his mouth. "But in the meantime, I can't just sit around and hope that Communism will fade away."
The two men were quiet again. My eyes fell to the gun in the holster resting on the sheriff's hip, the handle dimly reflecting the porch light. As though he knew I was gazing at the weapon, Sheriff Dysinger's hand moved to the gun and gave it a slight pat. It made me nervous to see his hand resting there, but then he withdrew it and removed his cap again to wipe away the sweat that was sliding down either side of his face.
"I can appreciate your concern," Papa said, "and since we're in two different areas of public service, I can appreciate, too, that your duties are different from mine. But I'm wondering, Clem, exactly what it was that brought you here tonight. Are you hoping I'll try to convince my brother-in-law not to be involved in the union?"
"Actually, Will," Sheriff Dysinger replied, securing his cap back on his head, "my concern is for you."
"For me?" Papa's surprise was genuine. "Like I said, I'm not involved in what's going on down at the mill."
"No, but you've gotten yourself involved in something else. I hear you been visiting out in that shantytown by the river."
Papa propped an elbow up on the back of the swing and cocked his head as though he hadn't quite understood the sheriff's words. "The shantytown?" he echoed. "Yes, I've been tending to some of the people out there, but forgive me for being dull, Clem, I'm not quite making the connection between the mill and the shantytown."
Sheriff Dysinger cracked his huge knuckles, then flexed his fingers by his sides. "The connection is this," he explained. "The same people that are trying to stir up the mill workers are out there trying to stir up the unemployed. Now, just a minute--hear me out, Will. One of the favorite tactics of the Reds for winning people over and for stirring up trouble is organizing what they call Unemployed Councils. They claim the councils are designed to help the men find food and jobs, but their main concern is to organize protests and food riots and whatnot. All they really do is rile up the men to make demands on the government that the government can't meet. A bunch of jobless men in these Unemployed Councils have been marching in cities all over the country--well, I don't have to remind you of that hunger march in D.C. last November and that one in Detroit just this past March. Four men killed in that one and more than sixty injured. Yes, killed and wounded by law enforcement officials, but that's what's got to be done to keep these Communist demonstrations from getting out of hand. Like I said, we don't want to see that kind of thing happening around here. The Reds get out there and get people all worked up, and it only leads to no good.
"Now, so far we've been turning a blind eye to that shantytown because the mayor asked us to. He knows those people don't have anywhere else to go. We could pick them up on vagrancy, we could drive them out for health reasons, but we haven't done it. All we're asking is that they live there peaceably and orderly. First sign of trouble, we're going to have to run them out."
Papa swung silently a few minutes before asking, "And you say you think the Communists are trying to organize an Unemployed Council down there?"
"We know they are."
"I haven't heard anything about it."
"They've got no reason to tell you."
"I don't know, Clem. The men down there speak pretty freely with me about their situation."
"A man known to sell these Red newspapers has also been seen in the shantytown. Our deputies that patrol down that way have seen him. He can only have one reason for being down there, Will."
"I see," Papa said. "But if indeed he's trying to preach Communism or get those men to form some sort of Unemployed Council, I'm not sure he'll have much luck. The people I've tended to in the shantytown don't seem to me the type to have any interest in such things."
"I wouldn't be so sure of that. A poor man's a desperate man. They don't always see things the way you and I see them."
"Maybe so, but I still don't think there's anything I can do about it. I deal with people's physical welfare, not their political persuasions."
The sheriff scratched the back of his thick neck, then crossed his arms once again across his chest. It was a habit that relieved the pressure on his shirt buttons, and I wondered if he did it for that
reason. He said, "I just want to give you fair warning to stay away from that place. I'd hate to see you getting mixed up in any kind of trouble."
"I appreciate your concern, Sheriff," Papa replied, "but I can't imagine how I might get mixed up in any trouble. I'm just there to tend to people's medical needs as much as I'm able."
"There's them that might mistake your motives, Will," the sheriff warned.
But Papa laughed outright at the comment. "Just who do you have in mind, Clem?"
The sheriff hitched up his pants and frowned. He looked as though he'd taken offense at Papa's laughter. "No use playing the fool, William," he said. "No one quite knows who to trust anymore, not in this day and age."
Papa's head moved slightly from side to side. I couldn't see his face but I knew he was amused. "Like I said, Clem, I appreciate your concern, but as long as there are people in the shantytown who need me, I'm not going to stay away."
Just then I heard Mother's footsteps on the stairs. I held my breath, hoping she wouldn't find me eavesdropping in the parlor.
Outside the window the sheriff leaned forward again and looked at Papa through narrow eyes. "I don't get it, Will," he said. "I mean, what's in it for you? I know those people aren't paying you a dime for your trouble."
But before Papa could answer, Mother appeared at the front door. She greeted the sheriff with a hint of surprise in her voice. I saw the sheriff take off his cap before he greeted her in return.
"What brings you out tonight, Sheriff Dysinger?" Mother asked. I hadn't heard the screen door squeak open, so I knew she stood talking to him from inside.
"I was just gabbing with William about his doings down at the shantytown."
"Oh?"
The sheriff stood and stretched. "But it's getting late and I'd best be moving along."
"What about the shantytown?" Mother asked.
Before the sheriff could respond, Papa rose from the porch swing and extended his hand. "Well, thanks for stopping by, Clem," he said.
The sheriff took his hand. "Think about what I've said, won't you, Will?"
"I'll do that."
"William?" Mother asked.
"Good night, Clem," Papa said.
"Good night, Will, Mrs. Eide."
His boots landed heavily on each porch step as he walked away, and I wondered how I would make my own escape from the parlor without getting caught.
Fortunately for me, Papa said, "Come on out and sit with me awhile, Lil."
I got up quietly from the wing chair as Mother and Papa sat down together on the swing. The last words I heard were Mother asking, "What did the sheriff say, William?" and Papa answering, "Nothing of any great importance, just a lot of hot air, like one of his campaign speeches." Mother said something else, but by then I was on my way up the stairs in my bare feet, relieved that I'd been able to get away unseen, but headed for a restless night on the ghost side of the bed, fighting off the very real phantoms of fear that plagued me in the form of the sheriff's warning.
Chapter Ten
Of all the chores that defined the summer days of my youth, the one I minded least was hanging the freshly washed laundry on the clotheslines in the yard. We had a rather primitive Maytag washing machine, but Mother still insisted on scrubbing the worst of the clothes on a washboard before throwing them into the machine. She didn't think anything mechanical could work as hard as she did, so for hours every Monday morning she and Aunt Sally scrubbed piles of laundry by hand until their skin was red and chapped and their fingers wrinkled like prunes. After the clothes and linens had been washed, Mother pushed them through a wringer while Aunt Sally turned the handle, squeezing the water out. When they finished a load, I was called upon to carry the results up to the clotheslines to dry in the sun.
We didn't worry much that summer about rain interfering with our laundry's drying process. Except for Mondays, in fact, we worried that we weren't getting enough rain. We longed for rain to bring us cooler temperatures, and the farmers longed for it to moisten the earth and to keep their topsoil from blowing away. But very little rain fell, and we sweltered in the heat while Kansas blew into Nebraska, and Oklahoma and Texas traded places.
But, as I say, on Mondays I enjoyed standing out in the morning light, pinning up the laundry to dry. Sometimes I'd pause and lift a pillowcase or one of Mother's dresses to my face and press the cool dampness of it against my cheek and forehead. I can still remember the fragrance of the soap that clung to the fabric, and I thought it sweeter than any flower or perfume I'd ever smelled. Its scent was not just fragrant but clean, and it had miraculously transformed a whole household of dirty, sweaty laundry into something wonderful.
Too, while I worked I dreamed of Charles Lindbergh landing his plane right there in the alley behind our house and whisking me away to soar through the skies with him. Or I pretended I was the Gypsy drudge--the beautiful young girl kidnapped by the Gypsies and forced to work as a slave--who was rescued by a valiant Charlie Chaplin in The Vagabond. No one watching me from another yard could know the strange dichotomy of my thoughts, could know that I stood there amid the damp clothes simultaneously enjoying what was and longing for what was not.
They never came, of course--neither of the Charlies. But toward noon on one particular Monday, the Fourth of July, 1932, while I pinned the last clean pillowcase to the line, a man did rush into the backyard, causing my heart to skip a beat while an involuntary gasp escaped me.
"Sorry, miss," the man said hurriedly. "I didn't mean to give you a fright, but is this the house of Doc Eide?"
I nodded dumbly. I knew at once by his appearance that the man was a resident of Soo City. His unkempt clothes smelled dreadful and looked worse, a stark contrast to the fresh clothing I had just hung on the line. The wrinkled shirt and pants appeared slept in, and the cap the man twisted in his hands was dirty and frayed. The man himself wasn't in any better condition. His unwashed hair fell below his collar, his skin was dry and leathery, and he hadn't shaved in at least a couple of days. Remembering what the sheriff said to Papa a few days before, I wondered whether this man might have joined the Communist group for unemployed people. If so, if he were in sympathy with the Reds, no telling what kind of crazy and dangerous stunts he might pull.
"Would you mind calling him, miss?" the man asked, impatiently trying to break through my stupefied gaze. "He's needed down to the camp."
Without saying a word, I started walking backward toward the house, never taking my eyes off the man. I carried the clothes basket in my arms to act as a barrier between him and me, though its actual benefit as a means of protection was questionable. When I reached the back door, I set the basket down and hurriedly stepped inside. Mother was in the kitchen fixing lunch while Aunt Sally rolled dough for green tomato pies. "Mama," I said, "there's a man here says he needs Papa."
Mother, in spite of the heat, was stirring a large pot of soup at the stove. She stepped to the kitchen window to see who was waiting in the yard. At the sight of the man, she sighed and shut her eyes a moment, as though wishing the man away. "I suppose he's from the camp," she said, opening her eyes. "Do you know what he wants?"
"He didn't say. He just said someone needed Papa."
Aunt Sally, still clutching the rolling pin, moved to the window and glanced out. "He looks anxious, Lillian. Better see what he wants," she suggested.
Mother wiped her hands on her apron and went to the screen door. Without opening it, she called out tentatively, "Can I let the doctor know what you've come about?"
The man stepped closer but cautiously. "I beg your pardon, ma'am," he said, "but there's a baby coming down to the camp."
"A baby!" Mother exclaimed.
I tugged at her sleeve. "Don't you remember, Mama? Papa said there was a woman expecting a baby down there."
"Mercy," she whispered irritably. To the man she said, "Are you the father?"
The man shook his head. "Oh no, ma'am, not me. The old man's down by the riverbank, pacing and ringing his h
ands. We--those of us down to the camp, that is--decided someone would have to fetch the doctor for him."
Mother turned to me and instructed resignedly, "Run and get your father, Virginia."
I ran to alert Papa, bursting into the waiting room with such force that everyone sitting there jumped in alarm. I didn't stop to apologize, even though old Mrs. Greenaway clutched at her heart as if I had caused it to arrest. When I told Papa about the man in the yard, he once again left Dr. Hal in charge of the office while he grabbed his medical bag and hurried though the front hall.
As soon as he entered the kitchen, Mother stepped forward to meet him. "I had Virginia call you because there's a woman and a baby involved."
"Of course," Papa replied hastily.
"You know how I feel about--"
"I've got to be going, Lillian. Don't worry about anything."
"But if it weren't for the fact that it's a baby--"
"I might be gone awhile," Papa said as he strode across the kitchen. "I've left Harold in charge of everything."
"Please be careful, William."
Papa recognized our visitor as soon as he opened the screen door. "Well, hello, Sherman," he called cheerfully. "They have you pulling stork duty today, do they?"
The man responded gratefully to Papa's friendliness, thankful, I'm sure, that someone had arrived who didn't regard him with suspicion. "Yessir," he replied. "Old Everhart's got himself all tied up into knots with worry, so I was sent to fetch you."
Papa joined the man and, putting his free hand on Sherman's shoulder, hurried him along. "Come on, then. We'll take the car."
Aunt Sally went back to rolling out the pie crust, but Mother stepped to the door and rested one hand upon the screen. She watched the two men move across the yard, past the shirts and dresses and linens that hung on the line like reminders of better days. I saw her lips move, and I think what she spoke silently was my father's name. Evident there in her profile was a look of unmistakable concern that I had never quite seen before, and she struggled visibly to keep herself from calling out to him, from calling him back.
