Harry quickened his step to catch up to Ben. Gina lumbered behind them. “Nice car,” he said. “Yours?”
“Want to drive?”
Harry stared at the keys in Ben’s hand. “Probably shouldn’t. I haven’t driven in over a decade.”
“Your wife drives now.” Ben stretched out the hand with the keys to her. “Want to show him?” He didn’t call her by name. Gina knew Ben couldn’t say her name out loud without giving himself away in the caress of his voice.
“My wife drives now?” Harry climbed into the passenger seat. “Surprises all around.” His deep gray eyes deepened to concrete.
Gina got behind the wheel. Her hands were unsteady. Ben sat silently in the back. They were on the road a while before Harry spoke. “Where are we going?”
“I thought home,” said Gina. “Unless you have other plans.” She wanted to ask if maybe there was a demonstration or a strike he would prefer to be driven to, but knew that Harry hated it when she was snide.
“Ben’s coming too?”
“Well, it is his car. We’ll give it back to him after he drops us off.”
“Harry,” Ben interjected, “you must be glad to be out.”
Harry shrugged. “Are you glad you’re out of Panama?”
A slight pause from Ben. “Are you equating Panama with prison?”
“Not in a negative way. I consider it a badge of honor to be in prison for the things I believe in.”
“Ah. Well, in that case, me too.”
Into minutes of strained silence Gina folded in a defeated thought about herself. There she was working at the mission, at Rose’s, at the looms and the mending rooms, taking in sewing, helping clean Mimoo’s houses, and here he was, her newly sprung husband mentioning offhandedly that he was proud to have been away for over a year from his young wife who desperately wanted to have a baby. Gina wanted to ask Harry if maybe he didn’t believe in her. But again—no use saying things that would only incite trouble. She kept her mouth shut, inside the cauldron swirling, outside her eyes stinging from hurt.
Back in Lawrence, Mimoo was not especially elated to see her liberated son-in-law. Gina concluded this because her trouble-making mother asked Ben to stay for dinner.
“I should be getting back,” Ben said. “But thank you, Mimoo.”
“Won’t hear of it,” she said. “You stay.”
“Yes, Ben, stay,” Harry said. “Right, Gina?”
“He said he had to be getting back,” Gina said, busying herself with setting the table. “I take him at his word. Would you like to put your things upstairs, Harry? Freshen up?”
“I’m fresh like a flower,” said Harry, sitting at the round table in his customary seat. “Ben, sit. Please. We’ll eat like we used to in Barrington on Sundays when Louis served us. Better. Because I don’t know if you know this, but Gina is a wonderful cook. And we’ll talk like we used to. Right?”
During dinner of mustard chicken and dill potatoes, Harry didn’t ask Ben about Louis, or his father, or his sister, or his erstwhile betrothed, Alice. His interest seemed to be only in Ben. “Where are you working now?”
“Still with the Army Corps.”
“What else is there for the Army Corps to do?” Harry poured himself more wine. “Is there another world-changing canal you can build?”
“No, but there are roads all over New England that need to be mapped and planned and paved. There were no cars on the road in 1900. Now there are hundreds of thousands.”
“The car is folly,” said Harry. “A plaything for the rich.”
“Be that as it may, even playthings for the rich need new roads. Plus,” Ben added, “the car is cheap now. It’s not like it was. It costs a dollar for a pound of car. You can’t get good steak that cheap.”
“I’d rather have steak,” Harry said.
“Gina is saving for a car,” Mimoo piped up. “Aren’t you, child?”
“Yes, Mimoo. Slowly.”
“Well, perhaps we could go to the bank and borrow what you need,” Harry said, getting up and going to the counter to open another bottle of red wine.
“No, we won’t borrow,” Gina said quickly. “We’ll have enough for a car by next spring. If you get a job, we’ll have it even sooner.”
“I have a job,” Harry said, downing his wine by the counter. “I work for Big Bill.”
“Big Bill has long left these parts,” Gina said. “After the failure of the Paterson strike he went out west.”
“It didn’t fail,” Harry said, coming back to the table and sitting down with a sharp humph. “We couldn’t raise enough money to feed the strikers.”
“Right,” Gina said. “They went without work until they couldn’t anymore and then returned to their jobs. That’s called a failed strike.”
He waved to dismiss her. “I know Bill’s people. I’ll get in touch with him.”
“He’s busy,” said Gina. “He is about to witness one of his other speechwriters, one Joe Hill, face the firing squad for murdering a cop and his son in Salt Lake City.”
“A travesty,” Harry said. “I read about it. Joe Hill was wrongly accused.”
“Yes, I’m sure so are they all, all honorable men,” said Gina. “But you still have to find work.”
“Yes, yes,” Harry said. “I heard. You want a car.”
“Harry,” Ben cut in, “I may be able to get you a job with the Road Works. They’re always looking for people—”
“Thanks, but no. So tell me,” he asked without pause, “you spent all these years building a canal for the capitalists on the back of slave labor. The capitalists are now getting richer. But the Panamanians are still poor as mud, right?”
“Who are these capitalists you speak of?” Calmly Ben continued to eat. “Just the opposite. The economy around the canal has pulled up all Panama by its shoelaces. New housing, new stores, a massive influx of foreign cash, of tourism, of consumer goods. There are schools and hospitals where before there weren’t any. And there is an enormous amount of work. Everywhere. And because of the work, the standard of living has gone up.”
“For none more so than the canal investors, right?”
“Well, yes,” Ben said. “The people who risked their own money also benefit. Is it your position that they shouldn’t?” When Harry said nothing, Ben continued. “Had the canal gone under, failed like the French canal efforts had failed, the investors would have been out three hundred and sixty-six million dollars. Your father would have lost his entire substantial investment. Instead he’ll build a mill, pave a road, put up another residence. Everyone benefits.”
“Not equally.”
“Proportionately equally, yes. The pauper won’t become a king,” Ben said. “But he won’t stay a pauper either.”
“Capitalism means a few kings and a million paupers.”
“Does socialism mean no kings and a million paupers?”
“No! Socialism means a million kings.”
Ben took a breath. “A million kings. Your father’s wealth creates wealth for others. He employs hundreds of people. Because of him, men support their families, buy food, build homes, eat, live.”
“Wealth for others? He pays them a pittance.”
“He pays them a living wage. But forget your father. What about Salvo?”
“What about him?” Harry glared at his wife. She looked away.
“Salvo employed twenty-two people when he owned Antonio’s.”
“Yes, and they couldn’t pay their doctors’ bills on the trifle he paid them.”
“They can hardly afford even their rent now,” said Ben.
“Clearly the solution is not Salvo’s way or my father’s way,” Harry said. “But another way. They would get a decent wage from the start. I’ve seen the effects of these so-called free markets on human beings. It’s not pretty.”
“But the standard of living has risen for everyone. Wealth creation is an undeniable fact.”
“I deny it.”
“Look at
Lawrence. People live better now than a hundred years ago. They live better than sixteen years ago when Mimoo and”—he couldn’t say Gina’s name—“your wife came to this country. They eat better, their children are healthier, die less in infancy, they dress better, they have cars, they take vacations. By every conceivable measure, their quality of life has risen.”
“Quality of life is not measured just by the standard of living,” Harry said. “Life is not all economics, you know. Only the naïve can make this conclusion.”
Ben nodded. “You and I are in perfect agreement on that score, my friend. Because that’s exactly what I believe. Life is not about how much your neighbor makes or has. Life is not about the paycheck. Life is about other things too.”
Gina raised her hand. “Harry, Ben . . .”
They both ignored her.
“Ben, you’re not blind,” Harry said. “You must see that we’re on the brink of a massive social transformation. Slavery is gone, feudalism is gone. Soon capitalism will be gone, left behind by progressive, educated people. Socialism is the wave of the future, it will come to wash everything away.”
“Like a tidal wave,” said a weary Gina.
“You don’t believe that, do you?” asked Ben.
“With all my heart,” Harry replied. “Instead of fighting a useless war abroad to overthrow the German government, I’d much rather petition my own government for its overthrow, to be blunt with you. With the ballot box or the bayonet, I’m not choosy.”
Ben shook his head. “How precious can the right to overthrow your own government be if you won’t even petition the Germans in support of it?”
“I would, I just don’t want to petition them with bayonets!”
“You can try to petition them through the ballot box, but I don’t think they’ll listen.”
“Just like this government.”
A gust of wind flung the front door open, letting the chill in. Gina stood up to go close it, moved behind Harry, widening her pleading eyes at Ben, shaking her head.
She came back toward the table. “Ben, would you like something else to eat?”
“No, thank you. Overthrow it and what?”
“Build a new world order,” Harry said. “A modern socialist utopia.”
“A utopia?”
“Yes, because my idea hasn’t failed,” said Harry. “Unlike capitalism. I’m allowed to call it utopia until it does.”
“Harry?” Gina held out the bowl of boiled potatoes.
“What?”
“Would you like something else to eat?”
“No!”
Mimoo and Gina exchanged a helpless glance.
“Men don’t believe in free markets.” Ben rolled his eyes. “They live them. And capitalism hasn’t failed.”
“No? Then why is there so much strife in the world?”
“I don’t know,” Ben said. “Perhaps it has something to do with the likes of Big Bill turning a smorgasbord of brotherly love into the battle-cry of a class fight. Sitting around the fireplace, holding hands, singing songs, and growing wheat together has become a robber raid and a land grab, the imposition of this pleasant utopian dream you talk about down unwilling throats. I can’t imagine why there would be strife.”
“If business were run on cooperative principles, life would be friendly and peaceful,” Harry said. “We shouldn’t strive to be ignorant and selfish. We should strive to be enlightened beings, to unite all interests and eventually remove this cause for conflict between men.”
“And we’re going to get this cooperation whether men want it or not?”
“Only the hopelessly bourgeois wouldn’t want it.” Harry shook his head. “I think you’ve worked too long digging a ditch, Ben. It’s clouded your thinking.”
“And you think Big Bill hasn’t clouded yours?”
Harry turned his stone gaze to Gina.
Gina hung her head, hung it low.
“You’re right,” Harry said. “The ideal world of which Bill and I speak—and Max Eastman and John Reed—doesn’t happen by itself. Equality and unity for all does require effort, hard work, and a transformation of our ingrained selfish principles. Every man can’t be just for himself. Taking what he wants. Taking when he wants it.”
Ben glanced at Gina and opened his mouth. She shook her head imperceptibly. He got up and, smiling, picked up his hat. “At the center of any economic theory, heck, of any theory at all, at the center of every question, every problem facing us, is man. Capitalism is not an idea. It’s freedom. And without man, freedom is meaningless. Like air without us to breathe it.”
“Capitalism is not freedom,” Harry said. “It’s usurping our earth’s natural resources.”
“What are these natural resources?” Ben asked. “Are you talking about a tree? So go cut it down. It still won’t build you a house, a factory, buy your food, put bread on your table, or float a ship to bring your bride to you from a far-off land.” He swallowed, but went on. “Those things didn’t spring forth like gods from rocks, Harry. They were all built. By free men.”
“No man who works for another man is truly free,” said Harry.
Gina, Ben, and Mimoo all stared at Harry. A foreboding silence gathered in the parlor of their little house. “Well, then, my old friend,” Ben said, “I guess that makes you the freest man of all.” He put on his hat and took a short bow. “I must head back. Thank you, Mimoo, for a lovely dinner, and Harry, for a spirited conversation, as always. I miss our talks. You and I used to spend many a fine Sunday like this. Would you like me to give Esther and Herman your regards when I see them next?”
“Absolutely not,” said Harry, stabbing his cold food.
Ben nodded, curt in return. “Understood.” He allowed himself a gaze at Gina, one small, regretful smile. He shook Harry’s barely proffered hand. The recently jailed man would not get up from the table.
Unsteadily, Gina walked Ben to the front door.
“Goodbye, Gina.”
“Goodbye, Ben,” she said, her voice giving out.
At the bottom of the porch steps, in the dark, he turned to her, looked up, took off his hat, and took a deep last long bow.
Alone in bed, Gina waited for Harry to come, but he sat outside on the wet porch, reading, drinking his tea, his wine, smoking, staring into the darkness. By the time she felt him crawl in next to her, she had been asleep for hours.
His cold hand went around her. She was on her side. Her back was to him. He fitted in behind her and lifted her nightgown above her hips, pressing his trembling icy lips to her warm neck. She cried when she heard him whisper her name. Oh Gina.
Desperately, quickly, mutely it was over. But even after he was long asleep, Gina’s hands continued to grip the sheet in her fists.
Three
THANK GOD FOR WORK. In the early morning she jumped out of bed, got dressed, made Mimoo toast with jam, herself a cup of tea, and ran to Wood Mill. At six when she was done and it was dark, she walked to St. Vincent’s, all bundled up, shivering, her eyes to the ground. By the time she got home it was nearing nine.
“Is every day going to be like this?” Harry asked, standing by the sink as she sat by herself eating her cold dinner at the table. “You not coming home until all hours of the night?”
Gina wanted to remind him that’s how every day was for her—or had he forgotten? Their house was too little for big words. “Some days are longer,” she said, hiding behind little words. “Some days I also clean houses if Mimoo can’t manage without me. And some days I go to Boston.”
“What for?”
“To visit my brother in the North End. And on some weekends I’d still like to go to Concord to help Rose.” At the mention of Rose, sudden tears sprang to her eyes. He didn’t mention them. And she could not. “She needs my help,” Gina whispered.
Harry’s silence was his only response.
“I don’t have to go,” she said, wiping her face. “If you don’t want me to.”
“Why would I
not want you to work with Rose?” he said, turning to the sink. “It’s God’s work, isn’t it?”
Weeks crawled by. They talked around the borders of their life. They talked about the things they could talk about. Like current events. Joe Hill was put to death in Utah. Bill Haywood became the sole president of the IWW. And from Rose, Gina heard that Ben had sailed back to Panama just before Christmas. Not wanting Harry to see how upset she was, she didn’t return home until late that Saturday night, her eyes red and puffy, but her demeanor finally composed by the time she walked through her front door.
“Must have been a late night in Concord,” Harry said. “I’m surprised the trains are still running.”
When she told Harry about Ben he shrugged indifferently.
“I thought you would want to know.”
“It’s no concern of mine,” he said.
It became 1916. Now that Harry was back, Salvo didn’t come for New Year’s. Gina missed her brother, Mimoo missed her son. But one evening her mother’s grumbling became too much. “Listen, Mimoo, Salvo has a choice, but Harry and I have none. You don’t want Harry here? So go live with Salvo in Boston.”
“I’m going to leave my own house because your husband won’t leave mine?”
“You want us to move out, Mimoo? We’ll find a room somewhere, like Angela did. You do understand that if he goes, I go, too, right? Say the word. Is that what you want? I’ll do as you please. I’ve always been an obedient daughter.”
Mimoo scoffed.
“Outwardly obedient.”
“You’re a mule,” said Mimoo, relenting. “So now I’m not allowed to complain in my own house about your dirt-poor choices?”
“No,” Gina said. “You’re not.”
“Your husband is home,” Mimoo said. “He told me he got a job. I think he’s already in bed. Even the interview tired him out.”
“What did I say, Mimoo? Basta!” Gina went upstairs.
Apparently Max Eastman had hired Harry to be his New England contributing editor for The Masses magazine. He was going to help Floyd Dell edit the literary fiction column called “Books That Are Interesting.” When Gina allowed herself to be excited and asked Harry how much he was going to be paid, he stared at her with what looked like contempt.