The Truth According to Us (36 page)

He smiled. “Yes. That's you.”

She nodded. Good.

“Don't go to the mill,” he said.

She struggled to comprehend his meaning. “I already did.”

“Again, then. Don't go again.” He stood. “All right?”

She looked at him. Ever again? It seemed a strange request. Why? “Mr. McKubin already asked me not to.”

“I don't care what Mr. McKubin asked you to do,” he said. “I'm telling you not to.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, almost to herself. “You two had a falling-out.”

“A falling-out?” He laughed softly. “Did Jottie call it that?”

“Mm-hm. Felix?”

“He's a liar, all right? Just stay away from him.”

She shook her head sleepily. “He seemed so nice. Friend of Emmett's.”

He stubbed out his cigarette with a sigh and came to stand beside the bed. For a moment, she watched him watch her, and then he bent to kiss her. “Sol or me?” he murmured.

She smiled. “Hard decision.”

He kissed her again, his tongue tracing her lips. “Sol or me?”

“Can't decide.”

He swung one knee over her and lowered himself over her body. “Sol or me?” She could feel the heat of him as his hands closed around her, and she arched up to meet his mouth.

“My God. You.”

He set her down and smiled. He rubbed his thumb along the line of her jaw and then over her lips. “Good,” he said. He lifted himself off the bed. “See you tomorrow.”

She stared wide-eyed as the door closed behind him.

The next afternoon, Emmett rose from his chair as she climbed the front steps. “Miss Beck.”

“You came!” In the shade of the porch, she pulled off her hat. “Did you go to the mill? Is it still going on?”

Emmett grinned. “Yes and yes. Have a seat. Jottie's just gone in to get some ice-tea. I'll get a glass for you, too.”

She nodded, watching his straight back as he retreated into the shadow of the hallway. He seemed exhilarated. By the strike, she supposed. And younger, too, much nearer her own age than she had thought. It was impossible to understand how she could have mistaken him for Felix. They were nothing alike.

He returned with two glasses. “What?” he said, seeing her eyes on him.

“You're the last holdout. On Miss Beck,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“No other Romeyn calls me Miss Beck now.” She tipped back her head to see his face. “Will you call me Layla?”

He hesitated. “Emmett. Please.”

She held out her hand, and he took it. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Emmett.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Layla.” He bowed slightly.

“Finishing school, I see.”

He laughed. “Jottie. Jottie and my mother.”

“Me and mama what?” Jottie came out with a beading pitcher, Willa close behind, bearing a plate of cookies. “What'd we do?”

He smiled at her. “Taught me manners.”

“You!” she scoffed. “You were born with manners. Your uncle Emmett,” she said, turning to Willa, “used to stop ladies on the street and tell them how pretty they were. When he was three years old, he did that.”

Willa giggled.

“They
were
pretty,” said Emmett. “I thought they were all so pretty and they smelled so nice.”

“You never saw a child get so much candy.” Jottie smiled at him. “Used to send Mae into fits.”

“Emmett,” Felix said, coming outside. He slapped his brother lightly on the shoulder and dropped into a chair beside Layla.

“Remember when Emmett used to tell all the ladies how pretty they were?” Jottie said.

Felix nodded. “Got so you couldn't hardly carry all your candy.”

“You helped,” said Emmett pointedly, and Felix chuckled.

Look how wonderful he is, thought Layla, her eyes on Felix. Comfortable. Normal—better than normal. Lance never jokes with me, probably can't remember a thing about me as a child. Doesn't know me, doesn't care. I wish I had a real brother, one like Emmett. I wish this were my family. Maybe it will be.

Jottie handed a cookie to Willa and then turned her attention to Emmett. “Tell,” she said. “How was it at the mill?”

“Well, like you said yesterday”—Emmett nodded to Layla—“it's pretty quiet. About two dozen men and a few women standing outside, a couple of signs saying things like We Support the Right to Unite. But quiet. Charlie Timbrook's wife—you know Cecile?” he asked Jottie. She nodded. “She says they're mostly sleeping.”

“Where?” Willa asked.

He smiled at her. “At the looms, some of them. But mostly on the floor.”

“What's Shank going to do?” asked Jottie.

“He called in Hank and Arnold yesterday afternoon, and they arrested five men for trespassing and then said they didn't have room in the jail for any more.” Emmett's smile flashed. “Said they couldn't release Winslow, because he was a menace to the community.”

“Poor Miss Betts,” laughed Layla.

“Another hope dashed,” Jottie said.

“So they left the rest of the fellows where they were and went back to the station. Now Shank's got to figure out what to do—bring in strikebreakers or just wait it out or what.” Emmett leaned forward in his chair. “Sol thinks he's going to wait it out.” Layla's eyes darted toward Felix, and she saw Jottie's do the same. Felix, however, was gazing evenly at Emmett. “He thinks Shank's too tight to hire strikebreakers.”

“What're strikebreakers?” asked Willa.

“They're people who come to a place where there's a strike,” explained Felix, “and beat up the strikers and take their jobs.”

“Ohh.” Willa recoiled. She looked from her father to Jottie. “Isn't that bad?”

“Yes,” said Jottie. “That's bad.”

“I bet Sol's right,” said Felix. He smiled blandly at Jottie's startled expression. “I bet Shank won't do it. He wants to be liked.”

“Ah, he doesn't give a damn,” said Emmett.

“Oh, he does,” Layla assured him. “You should see the portrait of the benevolent industrialist he dictated to me when I interviewed him.”

Emmett raised his eyebrow. “Fairy tales.”

“Yes, but also proof that he wants the town to love him,” she said. Felix nodded in agreement, and she felt a surge of pride. Straightening professionally in her chair, she said, “Is Shank still there, at the mill?”

“Yup. Sol and Richie and Arlen and the rest of management, too. They sent the salesmen home.”

“How long could they go?” asked Jottie.

Emmett shrugged. “Food's the problem, I guess. The fellows brought
in extra, of course, but it won't last forever. Hard to figure how to get more in.”

“Can't they pass it through the windows?” said Willa.

“No. Trespassing. Easy to spot.”

“Roof?” asked Jottie.

“No,” said Felix authoritatively. They turned toward him. “Management offices are below the roof,” he explained, “except on the Unity Street side, and that's no good because of the drop from the skylight.” He rubbed his face thoughtfully. “And that boiler room is pretty hard to get to, especially if you've got a lot to carry.” Layla saw Emmett glance at Jottie and smile. “But there's the trucks—are the trucks still at the dock?” Emmett nodded. “Okay. Easy. There's a panel in the back of the cab; it's just held on with a few screws and it'll get you into the wagon. They're backed in, waiting to fill, right?” He nodded to himself. “That'll get you into the warehouse inside of five minutes. And last time I looked there was no wire at the top of the fence, so it's just an easy up and over—” He looked up as Emmett and Jottie began to laugh. “What?” he asked innocently.

Emmett shook his head as Jottie leaned back in her chair, laughing.

Layla glanced in puzzlement between Felix and his siblings. What was the joke?

But Felix was grinning himself now. “I've always been a friend to the working man,” he said loudly. “Always.”

July 26, 1938

Dear Layla,

Close inspection of today's
Star
disclosed that Macedonia is “rent asunder by labor discord” and “the malcontents' call for blood may not long go unslaked.” Et cetera. After four paragraphs of this drivel, I managed to deduce that there's a sit-down strike at a hosiery mill in town. From the sound of it, the strike is a pretty quiet affair, and I doubt you've even noticed it (unless there have been stocking shortages). Nonetheless:

My dear niece,

If you feel the slightest disquiet I herewith order you to abandon your post
at once
and return to Washington. There is no book in the history of the project that compares in value with your safety.

And you can be assured that I have made a copy of that paragraph for the Central File. I doubt Gray will peruse the
Star
with sufficient attention to discover the story (as far as I can tell, he only reads the articles that are about him), but if the invaluable Miss Kogelshatz brings it to his notice, he will fall on me like a ton of bricks, and I want to have my defense ready. I know you understand.

Hope you're enjoying yourself up there. And keeping on deadline.

Ben

P.S. On the off chance that the strike turns dirty, be sensible and get out of town. That's an order. A real one. B.

July 28, 1938

Dear Ben,

You couldn't get me out of here with a buttered shoehorn.

Layla

P.S. I was at the mill when it struck.

P.P.S. Workers, unite! You have nothing to lose but your chains!