“What? Is this out of bounds to ask?”
“Max Eastman is the editor-in-chief of that historic publication,” said Harry. “He doesn’t get a penny.”
She flung her cardigan on the bed with rank exasperation. “So how can it be called work then? You said work.”
“I don’t know, Gina,” he said. “You spend all your weekends at the Wayside, and you don’t get paid. Do you call that work?”
She sat down on the bed to take off her shoes.
“John Reed doesn’t get paid,” Harry continued. “Neither do Sherwood Anderson or Upton Sinclair. But you want me to get paid?”
“I wouldn’t mind it if you got paid for something, yes,” Gina said. “Like me. Find something to do that makes you money, not leaches money away from our family. I know—what a harpy I am.”
“Did I say a word?”
She tried to remain calm and failed. There had been a countrywide depression the year before and it hit Lawrence hard. St. Vincent’s had cut her hours. Wood Mill eliminated her overtime pay in the mending room. Fewer women asked her for custom-sewn dresses, layettes for their babies, the darning of their old skirts. The sewing machine stood in the corner unused. Mimoo lost two of her five domestic jobs. They barely had enough money for two meals a day. If Salvo didn’t help with Mimoo’s half of the rent, they would go under, for sure.
Gina force-fed herself a generous helping of constrained Methodist manners—not Catholic manners, not Italian manners, certainly not the histrionic, passionate bowl of Sicilian agitation that overflowed from being constantly thwarted to bursting by the one she loved and had indulged beyond all reason.
“Well, Harry,” she said through a tight and proper mouth. “Sherwood Anderson must be making a living some other way. As is Max Eastman, no?”
“I really don’t know, Jane,” Harry said, using her Anglicized name, as if to detach himself from her true self. Any more detached and they’d be on different continents. “What I do know is that this is an incredible opportunity for me, a tremendous opportunity, to be asked, to be invited to work with people, all of whom are striving to change the world for the better, while you are doing nothing but obsessing about money.”
“That’s what you think? That I do nothing but obsess over money?”
“You’re always running from one place to another to make a buck. You’re always lamenting the silence of your sewing machine because you can’t make another dollar.”
“But Harry,” Gina said, “if you and Max Eastman are tirelessly changing the world for free, someone’s got to pay our light bill, no?”
He waved at her dismissively as if both she and her comments were irrelevant. “Are you or are you not willing to move to Greenwich Village?”
“Will you get paid if we do?”
“Do you see what I mean? Are you willing to move even to Boston?”
“Will you get paid if we do?”
“Gina!”
Gina’s meager wage started going not just toward the living expenses they could barely afford, but also toward Harry’s train commute and money he needed in Boston, where he often stayed so late he started borrowing a couch at someone’s apartment—Gina didn’t know whose and Harry wouldn’t say. When she complained about his hours, he said, “I thought you’d be happy. I’m trying to do what you want. Work.”
“But you’re not making any money!”
“I’m away from the house like you’re away from the house with your nuns and your sewing circles.”
“Except I make money. And I’ve stopped going to Rose’s, haven’t I?”
“Did I ask you to?”
“No, but—” Rose had told her not to come anymore in her condition. She bit her tongue.
“I’m working just like you and just as hard,” Harry said. “I’m just not getting paid. By staying overnight in Boston, I’m saving money on my train fare. I thought you’d be happy. But no, you’re never satisfied.”
“Yes, that’s me, I expect too much.”
“Don’t you, oh snide one?” He paused. “Don’t you keep expecting from me what I cannot give you?”
She ran outside and threw up.
Mimoo consoled Gina after the argument subsided. “What’s wrong with the both of you? Salvo promised he would give us extra until we get some of our work back. But you have to stop it. You have to take care of yourself this time.”
“I’m doing my best, Mimoo. I don’t feel good, but I can’t rest, I can’t lie down.”
“I don’t know why you won’t just tell him.”
“I want a little time to pass.”
“Why?”
“In case I’m not lucky again.”
“The first time it was that horrible man’s fault. But now you have to be smarter. Don’t scream and carry on like you do. Relax. Tell him. Make him happy. Let him help you.”
“You think it will make him happy?” She hugged her mother. “I just want a little more time to pass. I want to be sure.”
“Sure of what?”
Four
THEY SAT DOWN TO DINNER on a rare Saturday night when they were all home. Well, Harry and Gina sat down to dinner. Mimoo was in the back, in the washroom. They both heard her crying.
“What’s the matter with your mother?” asked Harry, cutting the bread.
“I don’t know.”
“Why is she sobbing as if someone died?”
Gina’s pale lips trembled. “She’s just blowing her nose. Mimoo! Come!”
“She was so distraught today, you had to go and clean two of her houses.”
“I don’t mind helping. She’s feeling poorly.”
“I didn’t go to Boston to work this weekend so we could spend the day together. I thought I was going to take you to the market.”
“Maybe next week. Mimoo! Please come. Dinner’s getting cold.”
Her mother finally appeared at the table. She wouldn’t look at either Harry or Gina. “I’m not feeling poorly,” she said, sitting down. “You’re feeling poorly.”
Harry glanced at Gina, at her mother. “Have you two caught the flu or something? Gina, I heard you throwing up a few days ago. And you both look white.”
Mimoo started to cry again, right at the table. Gina gave her mother a withering look. “Basta!” she mouthed as she served the rigatoni with mozzarella and garlic to a troubled husband and a disconsolate mother.
“Nice Saturday dinner we’re having,” Harry said. “Mimoo, why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying.”
“Ah.”
“That’s right,” said Gina. “She’s not. Have some bread, Mimoo. Butter for you, Harry? A glass of wine?”
Harry studied Gina’s wan face.
For a long time he was silent as the two women ate. He did not pick up his fork.
“Aren’t you going to eat, marito?”
“How many weeks was it this time?” he asked.
No one spoke.
He raised his voice. “How many?”
“Just a few,” said Gina.
“Twelve!” cried Mimoo.
“Mimoo!”
“Twelve . . .” Harry repeated, going pale himself.
“Does that seem like a few to you? A third of a baby! Gone, gone! O forza mia, affretti ad aiutarmi!”
Harry shot up. He wiped his mouth on a napkin, though he hadn’t eaten a bite. “Will you please excuse me, Mimoo?” He did not forget his manners. “I’m not very hungry.” He fled the house, taking care not to slam the door.
Gina threw down her napkin. “Why?” she cried. “Can’t you help me once, just once, by not making everything harder?”
“I’m sorry! I can’t help it.”
“I wish you could help it, just once! I told you I didn’t want him to know. Everything would have been all right if you had just kept your mouth shut.”
The old woman was sobbing.
Gina grabbed her coat and, slamming the door, ran to follow him.
He was halfway down
the street.
“Harry.”
He didn’t stop, or answer her.
“Where are you going?” she panted, catching up.
“To clear my head.”
“Please. Slow down. I can’t keep up.”
“So don’t keep up.”
“Please.” She grabbed his arm, held on to him. Reluctantly he was forced to slow down. They crossed the street and entered the Common, smiling thinly at another couple passing them arm in arm. Gina liked this park. In late spring the ducks had babies, and dozens of them waddled after their mothers along the paths, over the lawns, and among the flowers. Sometimes she would come here at lunchtime to watch them.
They found a quiet perch, sank onto it, and were themselves mute, like the bench, like the overhanging willows.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
“Tell you what?”
“Are there so many things to tell me that you honestly don’t know what I’m talking about or are you just pretending to be dense?”
She suppressed a sigh. “I was going to tell you. I wanted to make sure everything was okay first. And then when it wasn’t . . . well, you were busy. I thought the less said the better.”
“Really, you thought that. How many other pregnancies have you kept from me?”
“Harry, please.”
“Please what?” He was staring straight ahead. “Tell me. How many?”
“What are you asking me? None, of course.”
“Is that so? How many failed pregnancies did you keep from me while I was in prison for fifteen months?”
She jumped up, but couldn’t face him.
“None,” she breathed. “Stop it.”
“Am I being irrational?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I thought it was for the best. I just wanted to get on with things, that’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“Is that right? So tell me now.”
“What do you want to know? There’s little to say at this point.”
“Is there really little to say?”
“Yes.” The less said the better. She crumpled back into the corner of the wet bench, away from him.
“Mimoo said twelve weeks.”
Gina couldn’t help it, she started to shake.
Harry pretended to count backward three months from March. “About December, then?”
She found her smallest voice. “You were home in December, were you not? In our bed?”
He said nothing. The unsaid was so crashingly loud that Gina put her mittened hands over her ears as if words were being screamed, as if the sound were deafening.
It was the end of March, and wet, and cold. It was so cold.
“What about the ice skates in your closet?”
Gina swallowed. “What about them?”
“I didn’t know you knew how to skate.”
“I didn’t know you knew how to skate.”
“How do you know now?” Harry said. “Did you find my skates in our closet?”
“No.” She stared straight ahead, never looking at him. “What does this have to do with the baby?”
“You tell me. And why do I suspect everything?”
She was flush out of words and defenses.
“I don’t care,” he said. “But when you hide things so poorly it really makes me think you don’t give a shit. I mean, if you didn’t want me to know, you might have considered throwing out the skates. Doing with them what you’re doing with the bloodied gauze. Putting them into the trash so I wouldn’t find them.”
“That’s not what I’m doing. And . . . I’m not hiding anything. I have nothing to hide. You’re busy. Economic Interpretation of the Constitution, Winesburg, Ohio. You have a lot to do. Buried in your books and pamphlets. I didn’t want to disturb.”
“I bury myself in what I can so I don’t come home and see what rags of life you’re scattering for me all over our house.”
“Don’t say that. It’s not what you do.”
“It is what I do.”
“Harry, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
He didn’t look at her as he spoke, his eyes like windows paved over with cement to keep her out. “What do you want?” he said. “For me to weep?”
“No,” she whispered.
“I will weep an eternity in hell before you take my pride from me too.”
They sat, hollow and defeated.
The cold pierced her skin to the bone. The truth was Gina didn’t know how to answer his questions. Had she kept the skates so he would find them? And could she say with certainty—absolute certainty—that the skates and la piccola vita had nothing to do with one another? Her knuckles were stiff, her barely beating heart felt faint and pallid.
He stared out at the pond.
“You need powers of second sight to figure out how I might feel about you not telling me you were pregnant?”
“It was a mistake not to tell you,” she said. “I know that. I thought it would make you feel bad.”
“You thought that’s what would make me feel bad?”
On the frozen dead grass in front of them, the baby ducks were trying to keep up with their mother, but the last one was having trouble. The mother was not slowing down. Gina was about to get up and help the baby duckling, hurry it along.
“Sometimes it’s really hard to tell what you feel, Harry,” she said at last. “You tell me nothing, you keep it all so close to the vest. And you’re busy, busy, busy. With strikes, with prison, The Masses. Busy, in other words,” she added, “with anything and everything but me.”
“I can hardly be busy with you when I’m in prison.”
“Prison is a choice, though, isn’t it?”
“Everything is a choice, Gina,” he said. “Even ice skating.”
She weighed her words. “I came to see you every Sunday.”
“Not every Sunday. In the beginning, maybe. But not at the end. Not nearly.”
“I came when I could. I brought you things you asked for. Had you asked me for other things, I would have brought you those. I brought you newspapers, books. You worked in the laundry. It must have been nice to work with your hands for once, not just your head. You had time to think about things, learn Russian. You had time. You didn’t write letters, but then who writes anymore—oh, wait,” Gina said, as if just remembering. “That’s not entirely true. You didn’t write to me. But apparently you did write some letters. You wrote to John Reed, and to Max Eastman, and to Big Bill, you wrote to Elizabeth Gurley Flynn—oh, and also to some woman named Mary Heaton Vorse, a poetess apparently, a suffragette.”
Harry rubbed his eyes. “You have seen Mary Vorse, right? You and I went together to New York last month, you met everyone. You found Max Eastman very handsome, remember? Mary Vorse was by his side.”
“She’s quite the letter writer, no?”
“I don’t know. Is she?”
“She is, yes. And I met the attractive Elizabeth Gurley Flynn. You and she were quite chummy in New York. You poured her drinks and held open her doors.”
“Yours first.”
“As long as we’re in the right order then.”
He said nothing.
“I don’t sit in judgment of you, Harry,” Gina said. “You cannot ask your lover to be your judge.”
“You are not my lover,” he said, bolting up and facing her. “You’re my wife. You keep from me skates in your closet and lost babies. And you don’t find it,” he added, “even remotely ironic, Miss Lover of Irony, that you would go to Nathaniel Hawthorne’s daughter’s home to meet someone in secret?”
“Harry, I didn’t meet anyone in secret at Rose’s. I worked with many people, Ben included, in full view of everyone.”
“He decided to come to Concord every weekend to work for free by your side?”
“Why not? You go to Boston every day including the weekends to work for free by Mary Vorse’s side.” How Gina kept herself from crying, she didn’t know.
Shivering, Harry walked away. r />
She came after him. The ducks were forgotten, the freezing March evening unfelt. She was hot around the throat, hot in her eyes. “When your husband is in prison or on strike three and a half years out of the last four, someone has to pay the bills, no?”
“You weren’t just paying the bills, were you? And we are not armchair debaters, Sunday dinner argumentarians like you and your ditch digger. We’re remaking the world. You’d expect it to take some time, no?”
“I don’t know how well you could be advocating for anything while sitting on your rump in prison throwing linen down laundry chutes.”
“I’m not afraid of prison. Not anymore.”
“Yes, but while you were there someone still had to buy food for Mimoo and me. Who do you think that was?”
“I don’t know, Gina,” Harry said. “Perhaps the ditch digger?”
“And who do you think feeds you now?”
He increased his pace until he was almost running. She increased hers to stay by his side. “Perhaps I should write to your father, ask him for a small monthly stipend for you?”
“Get away from me,” he panted.
“Well, why not? The money to feed you has to come from somewhere.”
He whirled to face her. “Change the subject all you wish,” he said, grabbing her around the waist and pressing his fist hard to her chest. “But I hear the pounding of your telltale heart!”
Gasping, she recoiled from him, tried to free herself.
He wouldn’t let her go, blazing and breathless. “Just like I suspected. The whole of Lawrence hears it. Like the fucking bells of Notre Dame.”
“Why do you torture me?” she exhaled, not even trying to push him away. She grabbed at his coat.
He ran off, leaving her with the mother ducks and their babies.
Five
SHE WAITED FOR HIM near the duck pond, leaning on a railing in Boston’s Public Garden. They had agreed to meet at half-past one in the afternoon. Their overnight train to Chicago was leaving at five, and they wanted plenty of time to do everything properly. It was the end of June, and warm. She hadn’t overdressed, but oh, had she dressed! She had packed her bag for the few days they were going to be away. She had to wear something simple enough for the secular registrar at City Hall, yet glamorous enough to mark this day as she would mark no other. With Harry’s money she went to a fashion store on Newbury Street and bought herself a lawn dress nonpareil, in the lightest creamiest silk and lace, with short cap sleeves and an empire waist but no corset or petticoat because that was what he loved best. He said only the truly liberated woman was courageous enough to go without a corset. The dress fit her as though it were stitched onto her body, like a second skin. It sported large pearl buttons on a high bust bodice, like porcelain nipples on cotton milk breasts, and its slim slender train of cascading silk highlighted the length of her legs. The dress came with a short cream silk jacket. Gina added white patent leather pumps and long white gloves past her elbows. On her head was an exquisite wide-brim organza couture hat with wispy layers of tulle flowers and white ostrich feathers. She bought a few daisies and tucked them around her hat and into her hair. She expertly styled her curly hair around the hat to frame her eager face. As she waited for him, afraid to sit down on a bench lest she get dirty, she knew she was a vision, knew it. Well, if Harry was discarding his old life for her, changing his world order for her, she wanted to give him a picture of herself like an oil painting, so that he would always remember: her standing under the willows and the flowers in the Public Garden, indifferent to the falling rain, more beautiful than ever. At an instant he would be able to recall her and always know how much she loved him.