Flags flying, horns blaring, rails decked in bunting of red, white, and blue, the USS O’Brien came into Cork harbor. The Irish had laid on a spectacular welcome for the destroyer with the fortunately Hibernian name, with fireboats shooting streams of water high into the air. On the shore, a brass band in fancy green uniforms blared away. Schoolchildren had the day off. Some of them waved American flags, others the orange, white, and green banner of the Republic of Ireland—which, with U.S. help, had finally gained control over the whole island.
From his station at the forward four-inch gun, Ensign Sam Carsten grinned at the celebration. He’d seen the like before, in Dublin. He was a tall, muscular, very blond man who burned whenever the sun came out, no matter how feebly. A cloudy day in Irish late winter suited him down to the ground. He didn’t have to worry about smearing zinc-oxide ointment and other things that didn’t work onto his poor, abused hide, not for a while he didn’t.
He turned to the petty officer who was his number two at the gun. “They wouldn’t have been so friendly if we’d come in while the limeys were still running this place, eh, Hirskowitz?”
“You’re right about that, sir.” Nathan Hirskowitz was a dour Jew from New York City, as dark as Carsten was fair. He had swarthy skin, brown eyes, and a blue-black stubble he had to shave twice a day.
Getting called sir still bemused Carsten. He was a mustang, up through the ranks; he’d spent going on twenty years working his way up from ordinary seaman. If the officer in charge of the gun he’d served on an aeroplane carrier hadn’t encouraged him, he didn’t think he would ever have had the nerve to take the qualifying examination. He wished he were still aboard the Remembrance; naval aviation fascinated him, even if he was a gunnery man first. But the carrier hadn’t had any slots for a new-minted ensign, and so. . . .
“Matter of fact, they’d’ve tried to blow our heads off,” Sam said. Hirskowitz nodded. Carsten scanned the harbor. Lots of fishing boats, some merchant steamers, a couple of old U.S. destroyers now flying the Irish flag, and . . . He stiffened, then pointed. “We’ve got company. Nobody told me we were going to have company.”
Hirskowitz let out a disdainful sniff. “You think they’re going to tell you things you need to know just because you need to know them?”
The S135 was a German destroyer, a little smaller than the O’Brien, mounting three guns rather than four. The German naval ensign fluttered from her stern: a busy banner, with the black Hohenzollern eagle in a white circle at the center of a black cross on a white field. In the canton, where the stars went on an American flag, was a small version of the German national banner: a black Maltese cross on horizontal stripes of black, white, and red. As the O’Brien edged toward a quay, the S135 dipped her flag in salute. A moment later, the American ship returned the compliment.
“You see? They’re allies,” Nathan Hirskowitz said.
In a different tone of voice, that would have sounded light, cheery, optimistic—all words noticeably not suited to the petty officer’s temper. As things were, Hirskowitz packed a world of doubt and menace into four words.
“Yeah.” Carsten did his best to match him in one. Without a doubt, the United States and the German Empire were the two strongest nations in the world these days. What was in doubt was which of them was stronger. Officially, everything remained as it had been when they joined together to put Britain and France and the CSA in the shade. Unofficially . . .
“If our boys go drinking and their boys go drinking, there’s liable to be trouble,” Carsten said.
“Probably.” Hirskowitz sounded as if he looked forward to it. After making a fist and looking at it in surprise—what was such a thing doing on the end of his arm?—he went on, “If there is trouble, they’ll be sorry for it.”
“Yeah,” Sam Carsten said again. For one thing, the O’Brien had a bigger crew than the German destroyer. For another, winning the Great War had made him certain the USA could win any fight. He shook his head in bemusement. That was certainly a new attitude for an American to take. After losing the War of Secession and getting humiliated in the Second Mexican War, Americans had come to have a lot of self-doubt in their character. Amazing what victory can do, he thought.
He peered toward the S135. By the polished way the sailors over there went about their business, they’d never heard of self-doubt. And why should they have? Under Bismarck and under Kaiser Bill, Germany had gone from triumph to triumph. Victories over Denmark and Austria and France let her unite as a single kingdom. And victory in the Great War left her a colossus bestriding Europe in almost the same way the USA bestrode North America.
Sailors aboard the O’Brien threw lines to waiting longshoremen, who made the destroyer fast to the quay. “Welcome!” one of the longshoremen called in a musical brogue. “I’ll be glad to buy some of you boys a pint of Guinness, that I will.”
“What’s Guinness?” Hirskowitz asked Carsten.
“It’s what they make in Ireland instead of beer,” Sam said helpfully. “It’s black as fuel oil, and almost as thick. Tastes kind of burnt till you get used to it. After that, it’s not so bad.”
“Oh.” Hirskowitz weighed that. “Well, I’ll see. They make real beer, too?”
“Some. And whiskey. Got some good whiskey the last couple of times I was here.”
“When was that, sir?”
“Once during the war,” Carsten answered. “We were running guns to the micks to help ’em give the limeys hell. They paid us back in booze.” He smacked his lips at the memory. “And then again in Remembrance afterwards, when we were helping the Republic put down the limeys and their pals up in the north.”
The captain of the O’Brien, an improbably young lieutenant commander named Marsden, assembled the crew on the foredeck and said, “I’m pleased to grant you men liberty—this is a friendly port, and everybody has gone out of his way to make sure we’re welcome. I know you’ll want to drink a little and have a good time.”
Sailors nudged one another and grinned. Somebody behind Sam said, “Skipper’s all right, ain’t he?” Carsten frowned. He knew boys would be boys, too, but that didn’t mean an officer was supposed to encourage them. He wouldn’t have done that as a petty officer, and he wouldn’t do it now.
But then Marsden stiffened and seemed to grow taller. His voice went hard as armor plate as he continued, “Having a good time doesn’t mean brawling. It especially doesn’t mean brawling with the Kaiser’s sailors. We’re on the same side, us and the Germans. Anybody who’s stupid enough to quarrel with them will have the book thrown at him, and that’s a promise. Everybody understand?”
“Yes, sir!” the sailors chorused.
“What do you say, then?”
“Aye aye, sir!”
“Good.” Lieutenant Commander Marsden’s smile showed sharp teeth. “Because you’d better. Dismissed!”
Sam Carsten didn’t get to go into Cork for a couple of days. He was less than impressed when he did. It wasn’t a very big city, and it was grimy with coal smoke. And he almost got killed the first two or three times he tried to cross the street. Like their former English overlords, the Irish drove on the wrong side of the road. Looking right didn’t help if a wagon was bearing down on you from the left.
Before long, Carsten discovered he’d given Nathan Hirskowitz at least half a bum steer. Along with the swarms of GUINNESS IS GOOD FOR YOU! signs, pubs hereabouts also extolled the virtues of a local stout called Murphy’s. Sam strolled into one and, in the spirit of experiment, ordered a pint of the local stuff. He’d changed a little money, but the tapman shoved his sixpence back across the bar at him. “You’re one o’ them Yanks,” he said. “Your money’s no good here.”
“Thanks very much,” Carsten said.
“My pleasure, sir, that it is.” The fellow left a little more than an inch of creamy head on the pint, and drew a shamrock in the thick froth with the drippings from the tap. Catching Sam’s eye on him, he smiled sheepishly. “Just showing off a bit.” Sam smiled back; he’d seen the same stunt and heard the same line in Dublin. Every tapman in the country probably used it on strangers. This one slid Sam the glass. “Enjoy it, now.”
“I bet I will.” Carsten took a sip. The tapman waited expectantly. Sam smiled and said, “That’s mighty good.” But in truth, he couldn’t have told Murphy’s from Guinness to save his life.
A couple of American sailors came in not long after he did. He nodded to them. They sat down well away from him—he was an officer, after all, even if he sometimes had trouble remembering it—and ordered drinks of their own. Then a couple of more sailors came in. An Irishman stuck his nose in the door, saw all the blue uniforms, and decided to do his drinking somewhere else.
Carsten raised his finger to order another Murphy’s. The tapman was pouring it for him when half a dozen more sailors walked into the pub. They too wore navy blue uniforms, but theirs were of a different cut, and their hats struck Sam’s eye as odd. They were off the S135, not the O’Brien.
They eyed the Americans already there with the same wariness those Americans were showing them. Sam didn’t know German rank markings any too well, but one grizzled German sure had the look of a senior petty officer. The man spoke English, of a sort: “Friends, ja?”
“Yes, friends,” Carsten said, before any of the O’Brien’s men could say anything like, No, not friends.
“Gut, gut,” the German said. “England, Frankreich—” He shook his head. “No, France . . .” He made it sound more like a man’s name—Franz—than a country’s, but Carsten nodded to show he got it. “England, France—so.” The squarehead made a thumbs-down gesture that might have come from a Roman amphitheater.
All the Americans got that. “Yeah,” one of the sailors said. “To hell with England and France, and the horse they rode in on.”
The German plainly didn’t know about the horse they rode in on, but the smiles from the Americans encouraged his pals and him to come in and order beers for themselves. Sam noticed the tapman took their money, where he hadn’t for any of the Americans. If the Germans noticed that, too, it might cause trouble.
Picking up his pint of Murphy’s, he went over and sat down by the German who knew a little English. “Hello,” he said.
“Good day, sir,” the veteran said. He didn’t come to ramrod attention, the way he would have for one of his own officers—the Germans were devils for discipline, even by the tough standards of the U.S. Navy—but he wasn’t far from it. One of his own officers probably wouldn’t have deigned to talk with him at all.
“We should stay friends, your country and mine, eh?” Sam said.
“Jawohl, mein Herr!” the petty officer said. He translated that for his pals. They all nodded. Sam got out a pack of cigarettes. He offered them to the Germans. The tobacco was as good as prewar, imported from the CSA. All the Germans took a cigarette or two except one man who apologetically showed him a clay pipe to explain why he didn’t. “Danke,” the petty officer said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Carsten raised his mug. “Let’s stay friends.”
Again, the petty officer translated. Again, his men solemnly nodded. They all drank with Sam. A couple of the Americans came over. One spoke a little German, about as much as the petty officer spoke English. A couple of hours passed in a friendly enough way—especially since the tapman had the sense to stop charging the Germans. But Sam knew he would have to draft a report when he got back to the O’Brien. He suspected the German petty officer would be doing the same thing on the S135.
Friends? he thought. Well, maybe. He eyed the capable-looking German sailors. The fellow with the clay pipe sent up a cloud of smoke. Maybe friends, yeah. But rivals? Oh, you bet. Rivals for sure.
Winter, spring, summer, fall—they didn’t matter much in the Sloss Works. It could be snowing outside—not that it snowed very often in Birmingham, Alabama—but it would still be hell on earth on the pouring floor in the steel mill.
Jefferson Pinkard shook his head. Sweat ran down his face. It was hot as hell in here, no doubt about that. But he’d seen hell on earth fighting the Red Negro rebels in Georgia, and again, worse, fighting the damnyankees in the trenches in west Texas. You could hurt yourself—you could kill yourself—right here, but nobody was trying to do it for you.
When the shift-change whistle screamed—a sound that pierced the din of the mill like an armor-tipped shell plowing through shoddy concrete—he nodded to his partner and to the men who’d come to take his crew’s place. “ ’Night, Fred. ’Night, Calvin. ’Night, Luke. See y’all tomorrow.”
He clocked out by himself. Once upon a time, he’d worked side by side with his best friend and next-door neighbor, Bedford Cunningham. But Bedford had got conscripted before he did, and had come back to Birmingham without most of his right arm. Pinkard had stayed at the Sloss Works a while longer, working side by side with black men till he got conscripted, too.
But after he’d put on butternut . . . After he’d put on butternut, Emily had got lonely. She’d been used to getting it regular from him, and she wanted to keep getting it regular regardless of whether he was there or not. He’d come home on leave one night to find her on her knees in front of Bedford Cunningham, neither of them wearing any more than they’d been born with.
Pinkard growled, deep in his throat. “Stinking tramp,” he muttered. “It was the war, it was the goddamn war, nothin’ else but.” Even after he’d come back when the fighting stopped, their marriage hadn’t survived. Now he lived in the yellow-painted cottage—company housing—all by himself. It was none too clean these days—nothing like the way it had looked when Emily took care of things—but he didn’t care. He had only himself to please, and he wasn’t what anybody would call a tough audience.
He headed back toward the cottage, part of the stream of big, weary men in overalls and dungarees heading home. He walked by himself, as he always did these days. Another, similar, stream was coming in: the swing shift. It had a few more blacks mixed in than the outgoing day shift, but only a few. Blacks had taken a lot of better jobs during the war; now whites had almost all of them back.
“Hey, Jeff!” One of the whites waved to him. “Freedom!”
“Freedom!” Pinkard echoed. “When you gonna get your ass to another Party meeting, Travis?”
“I be go to hell if I know,” the other steel worker answered. “When they take me off swing, I reckon, but God only knows when that is. Remember me to the boys tonight, will you?”
“Sure will,” Pinkard said. “That’s a promise.” He walked on. When he got to the cottage, he lit a kerosene lamp (there was talk about putting electricity into the company housing, but so far it was nothing but talk), got a fire going in the coal-burning stove, and took a ham out of the icebox. He cut off a big slice and fried it in lard, then did up some potatoes in the same iron frying pan. The beer in the icebox was homebrew—Alabama had been formally dry since before the war—but it washed down supper as well as anything storebought could have.
He put the plate and the frying pan in the sink, atop a teetering mountain of dirty dishes. One day soon he’d have to wash them, because he was running out of clean ones. “Not tonight, Josephine,” he muttered; he’d started talking to himself now that he was the only one in the house. “I got important things to do tonight, by God.”
He scraped stubble from his chin with a straight razor, splashed on water, and then shed his overalls and work shirt for a clean white shirt and a pair of butternut wool trousers. He wished he had time to shine his shoes, but a glance at the wind-up alarm clock ticking on his nightstand told him he didn’t, not if he wanted to get to the meeting on time. And there was nothing in the world he wanted more.
The trolley stopped at the edge of the company housing. Looking back over his shoulder, Jeff saw the mills throwing sparks into the night sky, almost as if it were the Fourth of July. A couple of other men came up to wait for the trolley. They too wore white shirts and khaki trousers. “Freedom!” Jefferson Pinkard said.
“Freedom!” they echoed.
Jeff sighed. Back in the days before Grady Calkins had shot down President Hampton when he came to Birmingham, a lot more men would have come to Party meetings. The Freedom Party had looked like the wave of the future then. Now . . . Only the dedicated, the men who really saw something wrong with the CSA and saw that Jake Featherston knew how to fix it, went to Freedom Party meetings these days. And even now . . . “Where’s Virgil?” Jeff asked.
Both other men shrugged. “Don’t rightly know,” one of them said. “He was at the foundry, so I don’t reckon he’s feelin’ poorly.”
Bell clanging, the trolley came up. Jeff was glad to climb aboard and drop five cents in the fare box so he wouldn’t have to think about what Virgil’s absence might mean. He was also glad to pay a fare measured in cents and not in thousands or millions of dollars. After the war, inflation had ripped the guts out of the Confederate States. Its easing had hurt the Freedom Party, too, but that was one bargain Pinkard was willing to make.
Several more men in white shirts and butternut trousers got on the trolley at its next few stops. Jeff liked the uniform look they had. It reminded him of the days when he and a lot of others who were now Freedom Party members had worn Confederate butternut together. They’d been fighting for something important then, just as they were now. They’d lost then. This time, by Jesus, we won’t!
The Freedom Party men all got out at the same stop. Not far away stood the old livery stable where the Party met in Birmingham. As a livery stable, the place was a failure, with motorcars and trucks driving more horses off the road every year. As a meeting hall, it was . . . Tolerable, Jeff thought.
But he was smiling as he went inside. This was where he belonged. Emily was gone. She was gone, at least in part, because the Freedom Party had come to mean so much to him. Whatever the reason, though, she was gone. The Party remained. This was such family as he had left.
Party members crowded the floor. The hay bales on which men had once sat weren’t there any more. Folding chairs replaced them. Their odor, though, and that of horses, still lingered in the building. The smells had probably soaked into the pine boards of the wall.
Jeff found a seat near the rostrum at the front. He shook hands with several men sitting close by. “Freedom!” they said. Pinkard had to be careful to whom he used the Party greeting at the Sloss Works. Whigs and especially Radical Liberals had no use for it.
Caleb Briggs, the Freedom Party leader in Birmingham, ascended to the rostrum and stood behind the podium, waiting for everyone’s attention. The short, scrawny dentist looked very crisp, the next thing to military, even if he’d never be handsome. Party men who’d been standing around chatting slipped into their seats like schoolboys fearing the paddle.
“Freedom!” Briggs said.
“Freedom!” the members chorused, Jefferson Pinkard’s shout one among many.
“I can’t hear you.” Briggs might have been a preacher heating up his congregation.
“Freedom!” they shouted again, louder—but not loud enough to suit Caleb Briggs, who cupped a hand behind his ear to show he still couldn’t hear. “FREEDOM!” they roared. Pinkard’s throat felt raw after that.
“Better,” the leader allowed. Jeff heard him through ringing ears, almost as if after an artillery bombardment. Briggs took a sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his white shirt. “I have a couple of important announcements tonight,” he said. “First one is, we’ll be looking for an assault squad to hit a Whig rally Saturday afternoon.” A host of hands shot into the air. Briggs grinned. “See me after the meeting. You need to know there’ll be cops there, and they’re taking a nastier line with us after the unfortunate incident.” That was what the Party called President Hampton’s assassination.
“I’ll go,” Pinkard muttered. “By God, I want to go.” He hadn’t been a brawler before he got conscripted, but he was now.
“Second thing,” Briggs said briskly. “The damnyankees are backing the Popular Revolutionaries in the civil war down in the Empire of Mexico. Goddamn lickspittle Richmond government isn’t doing anything about that but fussing. We need to do more. The Party’s looking to raise a regiment of volunteers for the Emperor, to show the greasers how it’s supposed to be done. If you’re interested in that, see me after the meeting, too.”
Jeff kept fidgeting in his seat through the rest of Briggs’ presentation, and the rest of the meeting, too. Not even the patriotic songs and the ones from the trenches held his interest. He swarmed forward as soon as he got the chance. “I want to volunteer for both,” he said.
“All right, Pinkard,” Caleb Briggs replied. “Can’t say I’m surprised.” He knew about Emily. “I don’t make any promises on the filibuster into the Mexican Empire, but the other . . . we’ll find a way to get you over by city hall.”
And they did. Pinkard worked a half day on Saturday. As soon as he got off, he hurried to the trolley and went downtown. He gathered with the other Freedom Party men at a little diner one of them owned. There he changed from his overalls into the white shirt and butternut trousers he carried in a denim duffel bag. There, too, he picked up a stout wooden bludgeon—two and a half feet of ash wood, so newly turned on the lathe it smelled of sawdust.
Along with the other Freedom Party men, he hurried up Seventh Avenue North toward the city hall. They naturally fell into column and fell into step. People scrambled off the sidewalk to get out of their way. Jeff made a horrible face at a little pickaninny. The boy wailed in fright and clung to his mother’s skirts. She looked as if she might have wanted to say something, but she didn’t dare. You better not, he thought.
In front of city hall, a Whig speaker with a megaphone was exhorting a crowd that didn’t look to be paying too much attention to him. Eight or ten policemen stood around looking bored. “Outstanding!” Briggs exclaimed. “Nobody gave us away. They’d be a lot readier if they reckoned we were gonna hit ’em.” His voice rose to a great roar: “Freedom!”
“Freedom!” Jefferson Pinkard bawled, along with his comrades. They charged forward, tough and disciplined as they’d been during the war. Whistles shrilling, the Birmingham policemen tried to get between them and the suddenly shouting and screaming Whigs. If the cops had opened fire, they might have done it. As things were, their billy clubs were no improvement on the Freedom Party bludgeons. Jeff got one of the men in gray in the side of the head.
Then he was in among the Whigs, yelling, “Freedom!” and “Damnyankee puppets!” at the top of his lungs. His bludgeon rose and fell, rose and fell. Sometimes he hit men, sometimes women. He wasn’t fussy. Why fuss? They were all traitors, anyway. A few of them tried to fight back, but they didn’t have much luck. The Whig rally smashed, their enemies bloodied, the Freedom Party men withdrew in good order. Jeff had a hard-on all the way back to the diner. Those bastards, he thought. They got just what they deserved.
Sylvia Enos wasn’t used to being a celebrity. She wished people wouldn’t stop her on the streets of Boston and tell her she was a hero. She didn’t want to be a hero. She’d never wanted to be one. All I wanted was to have George back again, she thought as she hurried back toward her block of flats.
But she’d never see her husband again. George Enos had been aboard the USS Ericsson when the CSS Bonefish torpedoed her—after the Confederate States yielded to the USA. Roger Kimball, the captain of the Bonefish, had known the war was over, too. He’d known, but he hadn’t cared. He’d sunk the destroyer that carried George and more than a hundred other sailors, and then he’d sailed away.
He’d tried to cover it up, too. No one could prove a British boat hadn’t done the deed—till the Bonefish’s executive officer, in a political fight with Roger Kimball, broke the story in the papers to discredit him. The story said Kimball was living in Charleston, South Carolina.
And so Sylvia had taken a train down to Charleston. Customs at the border hadn’t searched her luggage. Why should the Confederates have bothered? She looked like what she was: a widow in her thirties. That she also happened to be a widow in her thirties with a pistol in her suitcase had never crossed the Confederates’ minds.
But she was. And when she got to Charleston and found out where Kimball lived, she’d knocked on his door and then fired several shots into him. She’d expected to spend the rest of her life in jail, or to hang, or to cook in an electric chair—she hadn’t known how South Carolina disposed of murderers.
Instead, thanks to politics and thanks to an extraordinary woman named Anne Colleton, she found herself free and back in Boston. The CSA couldn’t afford to be too hard on someone who killed a war criminal, she thought. And why? Because the United States are stronger than they are. That was heady as whiskey. Till the Great War, the CSA and England and France had called the tune. No more.
But, no matter how strong the United States were, they weren’t strong enough to give her back her husband. The hole in her life, the hole in her family, would never heal. She had no choice but to go on from there.
A tall, skinny man in an expensive suit and homburg stopped in front of her, so that she either had to stop, too, or to run into him. “You’re Sylvia Enos,” he exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for you. Give me a moment of your time.”
He didn’t even say please. Sylvia’s patience had worn thin. “Why should I?” she asked, and got ready to push past him. She reached up to fiddle with her hat. She had a hat pin with an artificial pearl at one end and a very sharp point at the other. Some men were interested in her for the sake of politics, others for other, murkier, reasons.
But this fellow proved one of the former sort. “Why? For the sake of your country, that’s why.” He had the map of Ireland on his face; the slightest hint of a brogue lay under his flat New England vowels.
“Look, whoever you are, I haven’t got time for anything except my children, so if you’ll excuse me—” She started forward. If he didn’t get out of the way, maybe she’d use the hat pin whether he had designs on her person or not.
“My name is Kennedy, Mrs. Enos, Joe Kennedy,” he said. “I’m the head of the Democratic Party in your ward.”
No hat pin, then, except in an emergency. If she got on the wrong side of a politician, he could make life hard for her, and life was hard enough already. With a sigh, she said, “Speak your piece, then, Mr. Kennedy—though I don’t know why you’re bothering with me. After all, women can’t vote in Massachusetts.”
His answering smile was forced. The Democrats had always been less eager for women’s suffrage than either the Socialists or what was left of the Republican Party. But he quickly rallied: “Do you want us weak, too weak to take our proper place in the world? If you do, the Socialist Party’s the perfect place for you. They’re trying to throw away everything we won in the war.”
That did hit home. “What do you want from me, Mr. Kennedy? Tell me quickly, and I’ll give you my answer, but I have to get home to my son and daughter.”
Something glinted in his eyes. It made Sylvia half reach for the pin again. Kennedy wore a wedding ring, but Sylvia had long since seen how little that meant. Men got it where they could. George, she made herself remember, had been the same way. But all the ward leader said was, “An hour of your time at our next meeting would be very fine, to show you stand with us on the issues of the day.”
He acted as if it were a small request, something where she wouldn’t need to think twice before she said yes. But she shook her head. “You must be rich, to have hours you can throw around. When I’m not working, I’m cooking or minding the children. I’m sorry, but I’ve got no time to spare.”
Kennedy’s mouth tightened. He drummed the fingers of his right hand against his trouser leg. Sylvia got the feeling he wasn’t used to hearing people tell him no. The vapor that steamed from his nostrils as he exhaled added to the impression. It also made him look a little like a demon.
But then, as suddenly as if he’d flipped the switch to an electric light, he gave Sylvia a bright smile. “If you like, my own wife will watch your children while you come. Rose would be glad to do it. She knows how important to the country winning the next election is.”
That couldn’t mean anything but, My wife will watch your children if I tell her to. Whatever it meant, it did put Sylvia in an awkward position. She said, “You know how to get what you want, don’t you?”
“I try,” Joe Kennedy said. This time, the smile he gave her had nothing to do with the automatic politician’s version he’d used a moment before. This one was genuine: a little hard, a little predatory, and a little smug, too.
How could anyone marry a man with a smile like that? But that, thank heaven, wasn’t Sylvia’s worry. Kennedy stood there with that hot, fierce smile, waiting for her answer. Now he’d gone out of his way to give her what she’d said she wanted. How could she tell him no? She saw no way, though she still would have liked to.
With a sigh of her own, she told him, “I’ll come to your meeting, if it’s not at a time when I’m working.”
“I hope it isn’t,” he said. The smile got broader—she’d given in. She might almost have let him take her to bed. He went on, “We hold them Saturday afternoons, so most people can use the half-holiday.”
Sylvia sighed again. “All right, though heaven only knows how I’ll get my shopping done—or why you think your people want to listen to me.”
“Don’t worry about your shopping,” Kennedy said, which had to prove he didn’t do much for himself. “And people want to hear you because you took action. You saw a wrong and you fixed it. Teddy Roosevelt would be proud of you. Even the Socialists had to take notice of the justice in what you did. And I’ll be by to pick you up Saturday afternoon at one o’clock, if that’s all right.”
“I suppose so,” Sylvia said, still more than a little dazed. Joe Kennedy tipped his homburg and went on his way. Sylvia checked the mailbox in the lobby of her block of flats, found nothing but advertising circulars, and walked up three flights of stairs to her apartment.
“What took you so long, Mother?” George, Jr., asked. He was thirteen now, which seemed incredible to her, and looked more like his dead father every day. Mary Jane, who was ten, was frying potatoes on the coal stove.
“I ran into a man,” Sylvia answered. “He wants me to talk at the Democratic club’s ward meeting. His wife will keep an eye on you two while I’m gone.” She went to the icebox and got out the halibut steaks she’d fry along with the potatoes. Mary Jane still wasn’t up to main courses.
“Saturday afternoon? I won’t be here anyway,” George, Jr., said.
“What? Why not?” Sylvia asked.
“Because I got a job carrying fish and ice down on T Wharf, that’s why.” Her son looked ready to burst with pride. “Thirty-five cents an hour, and it lets me get started, Ma.”
Slowly, Sylvia nodded. “Your father started on T Wharf right about your age, too,” she said. People who caught fish in Boston almost always started young. But George, Jr., suddenly didn’t seem so young as all that. He was old enough to have convinced someone to hire him, anyhow.
He said, “I’ll bring all my money home to you, Ma, every penny. Cross my heart and hope to die if I don’t. I won’t spend a bit on candy or pop or anything, honest I won’t. I know we need it. So did the fellow who hired me. He asked if I was Pa’s boy, and when I said yes he gave me the job right there. His name’s Fred Butcher.”
“Oh, yes. I know him—you’ve met him, too, you know.” Sylvia nodded again. “He used to go out with your father on the Ripple. He was first mate in those days, and he’s done well for himself since.”
“As soon as I can, Ma, I’ll go out and make money,” Mary Jane promised, adding, “I don’t much like school anyway.”
“You need to keep going a while longer,” Sylvia said sternly. She rounded on her son. “And so do you. If you study hard, maybe you can get a good job, and you won’t stay down on T Wharf your whole life.”
She might as well have spoken Chinese. Staring at her in perfect incomprehension, George, Jr., said, “But I like it down on T Wharf, Ma.”
Sylvia flipped the halibut steaks with a spatula. She thought about explaining why all the backbreaking jobs associated with the fishing weren’t necessarily good choices, but she could tell he wouldn’t listen. His father wouldn’t have, either. She didn’t start a fight she had no hope of winning. Instead, she just said, “Supper will be ready in a couple of minutes. Go wash your hands, both of you.”
Joe Kennedy and his wife knocked on the door that Saturday afternoon a few minutes after Sylvia got home. Rose Kennedy was pretty in a bony way, and more refined than Sylvia had expected. She did warm up, a little, to Mary Jane. “You’re sweet, dear. Will we be friends?”
Mary Jane considered, then shrugged. Joe Kennedy said, “Come on, Mrs. Enos. My motorcar’s out in front of the building. People are looking forward to hearing you; they really are.”
That still astonished Sylvia. So did Kennedy’s motorcar. She’d expected a plain black Ford, the kind most people drove. But he had an enormous Oldsmobile roadster, painted fire-engine red. He drove as if he owned the only car on the street, too, which in Boston was an invitation to suicide. Somehow, he reached the Democratic Party hall unscathed. Sylvia discovered a belief in miracles.
“Here she is, ladies and gentlemen!” Kennedy introduced her as if she were a vaudeville star. “The brave lady you’ve been waiting for, Sylvia Enos!”
Looking out at that sea of faces frightened Sylvia. The wave of applause frightened and warmed her at the same time. She stammered a little at first, but gained fluency as she explained what she’d done in South Carolina, and why. She’d told the story before; it got easier each time. She finished, “If we forget about the war, try to pretend it never happened, what did we really win? Nothing!” The applause that came then rang louder still.