Part 6 (1/2)

Simmons checked his papers again. ”Corner of Emma and Bakewell, it says here. You know where that is? This ain't my town, you know.”

”I know where it's at, yeah,” Cincinnatus said. ”Over on the west side, gettin' out towards the park. Twitch.e.l.l's over here on Third, and Dalyrimple's on Was.h.i.+ngton, so I reckon I'll deliver theirs first and then head over to Conroy's.” He held out his hand. ”Give me the papers I got to get signed.”

”Here you go.” The steamboat clerk handed them to him. ”That's the other reason I pay you like I would a white man, or almost: you read and write good, so things get done proper.”

”Thank you,” Cincinnatus said, pretending not to hear that or almost or almost. He couldn't do anything about it. Stowing the papers in his s.h.i.+rt pocket, he started crowding barrels of oatmeal into the back of the truck. He did end up with one of them on the seat beside him; Simmons was a keen judge of how much s.p.a.ce merchandise took up.

The truck rode heavy, the weight in back smoothing out its motion and making it laugh at b.u.mps that would have jolted Cincinnatus had it been empty. He appreciated that. The ponderous cornering and the greater likelihood of a blowout were something else again. He drove carefully, avoiding the potholes that pocked the street. A puncture would cost him precious time.

His first two stops went smoothly, as he'd thought they would. He'd delivered to both Hank Twitch.e.l.l and Calvin Dalyrimple before. Twitch.e.l.l, a big, brawny fellow, even helped him lug barrels of oatmeal into his general store. Calvin Dalyrimple didn't; a strong breeze would have blown him away. They both signed their receipts and sent Cincinnatus on his way in jig time.

He drove out to the west side of town with much more trepidation. That didn't shrink when he discovered Conroy's new general store sat between a saloon and a p.a.w.nshop. None of the looks he got from pa.s.sersby as he stopped the truck in front of the store was friendly, or anything close. Most of them translated to, What the h.e.l.l you doing here, n.i.g.g.e.r? What the h.e.l.l you doing here, n.i.g.g.e.r? He hoped the truck would still be there when he got done with his business with Conroy. He hoped the truck would still be there when he got done with his business with Conroy.

He also hoped the storekeeper wouldn't recognize him. When he brought the first barrel into the store, all he said was, ”Here's your oatmeal, suh, straight off the docks. Got two more barrels in the truck; fetch 'em right in for you. All you got to do is sign the receipt shows you got 'em, and I be on my way.”

Joe Conroy grunted. He was a round, middle-aged white man with narrow, suspicious eyes. He was also a Confederate diehard, and a friend of Cincinnatus' former boss, Tom Kennedy. Kennedy had involved Cincinnatus with the diehards, too, having him plant firebombs on cargoes heading down to U.S. forces. Eventually, Cincinnatus had planted one in Conroy's old store, but the white man had never figured that out.

Cincinnatus had never decided how smart Conroy was. Smarter than he let on, was the Negro's guess. He proved smart enough to recognize Cincinnatus, whom he hadn't seen in a year, and who would have been glad never to see him again. ”Well, well,” he said slowly, the unlit cigar in his mouth jerking up and down. ”Look what the cat drug in.”

”Mornin', Mistuh Conroy.” Cincinnatus hurried out to the truck to haul in the second barrel of oatmeal. As long as he was working, he didn't have to talk. He wished a customer would come into the cramped, dark general store. Conroy couldn't afford to talk, not where anyone could hear him.

But n.o.body came in except Cincinnatus. Conroy gave him an appraising stare. ”Hear tell it was that d.a.m.nyankee you was workin' for who shot Tom Kennedy,” he said.

”Yes, suh, that's a fact. Hear him say so my ownself,” Cincinnatus agreed. He got in a dig of his own: ”Wasn't the Reds, like you told me in the park last year.”

”No, it wasn't the Reds,” the storekeeper said. ”But it was a friend of yours, just the same. We don't forget things like that, no indeed, we don't.”

”I saved Tom Kennedy's bacon from the Yankees back when the war was new,” Cincinnatus said angrily. ”I hadn't done that, I never would've met you-and believe you me, that would've suited me fine.”

”We know where you're at.” Conroy put menace in his voice.

”And I know where you're at, too,” Cincinnatus said. ”I get into trouble from you and your pals, Luther Bliss'll know where you're at and what you've been doin'. Don't want no trouble, Conroy.” He used the white man's unadorned surname with relish, to shock. ”But I get trouble, I give it right back.”

”d.a.m.n uppity n.i.g.g.e.r,” Conroy growled.

”Yes, sir sir.” Cincinnatus went outside and manhandled the last barrel of oatmeal into the store. He thrust the receipt at Joe Conroy. ”You want to sign right here, so I can go on about my business.”

”Why do I give a d.a.m.n about that?” Conroy said.

”On account of if you don't sign, I take this here oatmeal back to the docks and you don't get no more s.h.i.+pments.” Cincinnatus wondered how much Conroy cared. If the store was nothing but a front for the diehards, he might not care at all. That would make Cincinnatus' life more difficult.

But Conroy grabbed a pencil, scrawled his signature, and all but hurled the paper back at Cincinnatus. ”Here, G.o.d d.a.m.n you.”

”Much obliged, Mistuh Conroy.” Cincinnatus headed for the door. ”Got me a lot of work left to do.”

”Come on,” Sylvia Enos said to her children. ”Get moving. I've got to take you over to Mrs. Dooley's so I can go to work.”

”I like it better when you're not working, Ma,” Mary Jane said. She would be five soon, which Sylvia found hard to believe. ”I like it when you stay home with us.”

”When she stays home with us, though, it's because she's out of work again, silly.” George, Jr., spoke with the world-weary wisdom of his seven years-and wasn't shy about scoring points off his sister, either. ”We have to have money.”

He had a hard streak of pragmatism in him. His father had been the same way. George, Jr., looked very much like his father, though he was missing the brown Kaiser Bill mustache Sylvia's husband had worn. Seeing her son, Sylvia again cursed the fate that had put a submersible in the way of the USS Ericsson Ericsson the night after the Confederate States yielded to the USA. the night after the Confederate States yielded to the USA.

With the CSA out of the war, she thought, she thought, it had to be a British boat. it had to be a British boat. George hadn't worried about the Royal Navy. A Confederate submarine had almost sunk his destroyer earlier in the war. He'd fought Rebel boats all the way up to the end. To have his s.h.i.+p sunk by the limeys after that...even now, it was hard to take. George hadn't deserved that much bad luck. George hadn't worried about the Royal Navy. A Confederate submarine had almost sunk his destroyer earlier in the war. He'd fought Rebel boats all the way up to the end. To have his s.h.i.+p sunk by the limeys after that...even now, it was hard to take. George hadn't deserved that much bad luck.

”Come on,” Sylvia said again. ”I can't be late on account of you. I can't be late at all.”

That was nothing less than the gospel truth. With men home from the war in droves, jobs for women were harder and harder to come by. She didn't know how long the work at the galoshes factory would last, and she couldn't afford to anger the people over her in any way. She was the sole support for her family as much as any man was for his, but n.o.body looked at things that way. Men came first. Women had been fine during the war. Now...

Now she couldn't even vote for anyone who might better her plight. Ma.s.sachusetts had no women's suffrage. Had she been able to cast a ballot, she would have voted Socialist in a heartbeat. The Democrats had been fine when it came to winning the war. What were they good for in peacetime? Only counting their profits, as far as she could see.

She hurried the children out of the apartment and down to the clamorous streets of Boston. With a sigh of regret, she walked past a newsboy hawking the Globe Globe. She couldn't justify laying out a couple of cents on it, not when she didn't know if she'd have work next week.

”England signs treaty!” the newsboys shouted, trying to persuade others to part with pennies. ”Limeys give up all claim to Sandwich Islands and Canada! England signs treaty! Recognizes Ireland and Quebec!”

It was, she supposed, good news. The best news, though, as far as she was concerned, would have been for the ocean to swallow England and all her works. And while the ocean was at it, it could swallow the CSA, too.

Mrs. Dooley was an aging widow with wavy hair defiantly hennaed, and with bright spots of rouge on her cheeks. To Sylvia, it looked more like clown makeup than anything alluring, but she would never have said so. The woman took good care of her children and did not charge too much.

After kissing George, Jr., and Mary Jane good-bye, Sylvia went back to the trolley stop, tossed another nickel in the fare box (and soon she would have to start paying Mary Jane's fare, too: one more expense), and headed to the galoshes factory. To her relief, she got there on time.

The place stank of rubber from which the rubber overshoes were made. Sylvia's post came just after the galoshes emerged from the mold. She painted a red ring around the top of each one. Had the firm been able to train a dog to do the job, it would have. That failing, it grudgingly paid her.

When she'd worked in a mackerel-canning plant, she'd been able to operate the machine that glued gaudy labels to cans almost without thinking about it; sometimes, when she was lucky, she would hardly notice the time going by between getting to the factory and dinner or between dinner and going home. She hadn't had that luxury at the shoe factory where she'd been working when George was killed. If she didn't pay attention to what she was doing there, the powerful needle on the electric sewing machine would tear up her hand. She'd seen it happen to operators who'd been at the place longer than she'd been alive. A moment's lapse was all it took.

All that could happen with a moment's lapse here was her ending up with red paint on her hand, not red blood. Still, she couldn't let her mind wander, as she'd been able to do in the canning plant. What she did here wasn't simple repet.i.tive motion, the way that had been. She had to pay attention to painting the rings precisely. If she didn't, the foreman started barking at her.

Frank Best wasn't a hardened old Tartar like Gustav Krafft, the foreman at the shoe factory where she'd worked, who gave a walking demonstration of why the limeys and frogs thought of Germans as Huns. Best's style was more the sly dig: ”Thought you were going to slip that one by me, did you?” was a favorite remark.

The other difference between the two men was that Krafft had been too old to serve in the Army. Frank Best wore a Soldiers' Circle pin with the year 1904 on it. That being his conscription cla.s.s, he was only a handful of years older than Sylvia. He was also single, and convinced he was the greatest gift to women G.o.d had ever set on the planet.

A lot of women who worked in the galoshes factory were widows, some still wearing mourning, others not. Most of them, like Sylvia, heartily despised the foreman. ”Like to put a certain part of him in the mold-the size-two mold,” Sarah Wyckoff, one of those widows, said at dinner on a day when Best was being particularly obnoxious. ”Wouldn't need nothin' bigger.”

That produced a good set of giggles. Sylvia said, ”No, for goodness' sake, you don't want him vulcanized there there. He'd never keep quiet about it then.” More giggles rose.

”If so many of us hate him,” said May Cavendish, another widow, ”why does he he think he's so bully?” think he's so bully?”

”He's a man,” Sarah Wyckoff said, as if she expected that to cover everything. By the way the other women nodded, it probably did.

May Cavendish tossed her head; her blond curls bounced on her shoulders. ”What frosts me is that some of the girls do do like him.” like him.”

”I can't imagine that anybody would really like like him,” Sylvia said with a shudder. Her companions nodded. She went on, ”But if he says, 'Be nice to me or go look for another job,' some of the girls are going to be nice to him. Times are hard. Believe me, I know.” him,” Sylvia said with a shudder. Her companions nodded. She went on, ”But if he says, 'Be nice to me or go look for another job,' some of the girls are going to be nice to him. Times are hard. Believe me, I know.”

”We all know, sweetheart,” Sarah said. ”If he said anything like that to me, though, I'd break him in half.” She was built like a longsh.o.r.eman; Sylvia didn't think she meant it any way but literally.

”There ought to be a law,” Sylvia said. She'd had that thought before, when she lost her job at the canning plant because she'd had to stay home and tend to her children after they came down with the chicken pox.

”There ought to be a lot of things that there ain't,” Sarah Wyckoff said with authority. ”If I was Teddy Roosevelt-”