The Story of JENNIE DENTON

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Book Eight

Jennie walked through the curtained doorway into the camera and the director shouted, "Cut! Wrap it up!" And it was over.

She stood there for a moment, dazed, blinking her eyes for a moment as the powerful kliegs dimmed. Then the oppressive August heat came down on her and she felt faint. She reached out a hand to steady herself. As if from a distance, she heard the giant sound stage turn into bedlam. It seemed that everybody was laughing and talking at once.

Someone pressed a glass of water into her hands. She drank it quickly, gratefully. Suddenly, she began to shiver, feeling a chill, and the dresser quickly threw a robe over her shoulders, covering the diaphanous costume. "Thank you," she whispered.

"You're welcome, Miss Denton," the dresser said. He looked at her peculiarly for a moment. "You feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," Jennie said. She felt cold perspiration breaking out on her forehead. The dresser gestured and the make-up man hurried up. He swabbed at her face quickly with a moist sponge. The faint aroma of witch hazel came up in her nostrils and she began to feel better.

"Miss Denton," the make-up man said, "you'd better lie down for a while. You're exhausted."

Docilely she let him lead her back to the small portable dressing room. She looked back over her shoulder as she went in. The bottles were out and the whisky flowing. Everyone was gathered around the director, shouting congratulations, supplying him with the adoration they felt necessary to insure their employment on his next picture. Already, they seemed to have forgotten her.

She closed the door behind her and stretched out on the cot. She closed her eyes wearily. The three months the picture was supposed to take had stretched out into five. Five months of day-and-night shooting, of exhaustion, of getting up at five o'clock in the morning and falling into bed like a stone at midnight, and sometimes later. Five months, until all the meaning that had been in the script was lost in a maze of retakes, rewrites and plain confusion.

She began to shiver again and pulled the light wool blanket up over her and lay there trembling. She closed her eyes. She turned on her side, drawing her knees up and hugging herself. Slowly the heat from her body condensed around her and she began to feel better.

When she opened her eyes, Ilene Gaillard was seated on a chair opposite. She hadn't even heard her come into the small room. "Hello," Jennie said, sitting up. "Was I asleep long?"

Ilene smiled. "About an hour. You needed it."

"I feel so silly," Jennie said. "I usually don't go off like that. But I felt so weak."

"You've been under a terrible strain. But you have nothing to worry about. When this picture comes out, you're going to be a big star — one of the biggest."

"I hope so," Jennie said humbly. She looked at Ilene. "When I think of all those people, how hard they worked and how much they put into the picture. I couldn't bear it if I turned out to be a disappointment to them."

"You won't. From what I saw of the rushes, you were great." Ilene got to her feet and looked down at Jennie. "I think you could use a hot drink."

Jennie smiled when she saw Ilene take down the can of cocoa. "Chocolate?"

"Why not?" Ilene said. "It will give you more energy than tea. Besides, you don't have to worry about your diet any more. The picture is finished."

"Thank God for that," Jennie said, standing up. "One more lunch of cottage cheese and I was ready to throw up." She crossed the tiny room to the closet. "I might as well get out of this."

Ilene nodded. She watched as Jennie slipped out of the costume — the sheer, flowing silk harem pantaloons, the diaphanous gauze blouse and gold-beaded blue velvet jacket that had been her costume in the last scene. She scanned the girl's figure appreciatively, her designer's eyes pleased with what she saw.

She was glad now that Jonas had sent for her. She had not felt that way at first. She hadn't wanted to come back to Hollywood, back to the gossip, the jockeying for importance, the petty jealousies. But most of all, she hadn't wanted to come back to the memories.

But as she'd studied the photograph, something about the girl had drawn her back. She could understand what Jonas had seen in her. There was something of Rina about her but she also had a quality that was peculiarly her own.

It wasn't until she'd studied the photograph a long while that she realized what it was. It was the strangely ascetic translucence that shone from the photograph despite its purely sensuous appeal. The eyes in the picture looked out at you with the clear innocence of a child, behind their worldly knowledge. It was the face of a girl who had kept her soul untouched, no matter what she had experienced.

Jennie fastened her brassière and pulled the thick black sweater down until it met the top of her baggy slacks. She sat down and took the cup of steaming chocolate from Ilene. "Suddenly, I'm empty," she said, sipping at it. "I'm all used up."

Ilene smiled and tasted her own cup of chocolate. "Everyone feels like that when a picture is finished."

"I feel that I could never make another movie," Jennie continued thoughtfully. "That another part wouldn't make any sense to me at all. Somehow, it's like all of me went into this picture and I've nothing left at all."

Ilene smiled again. "That will disappear the moment they put the next script into your hands."

"Do you think so?" Jennie asked. "Is that what happens?"

Ilene nodded. "Every time."

A blast of noise came through the thin walls. Jennie smiled. "They're having themselves a ball out there."

"Cord ordered a table of food sent down from the commissary. He's got two men tending bar." Ilene finished her chocolate and put the cup down. She got to her feet and looked down at the girl. "I really came in to say good-by."

Jennie looked up at her questioningly. "You're leaving?"

Ilene nodded. "I'm going back East on the train tonight."

"Oh," Jennie said. She put down her cup and stood up. She held her hand out to Ilene. "Thank you for everything you've done. I've learned a great deal from you."

Ilene took her hand. "I didn't want to come back but I'm glad now that I did."

They shook hands formally. "I hope we'll work together again," Jennie said.

Ilene started for the door. She looked back at Jennie. "I'm sure that we will," she said. "If you want me, write. I'd be glad to come."

In a moment, the door opened again and Al Petrocelli, the publicity manager, stuck his head in. A blast of music came from behind him. "Come on," he said. "The party's going great guns. Cord sent over an orchestra."

She put down her cigarette. "Just a minute," she said, turning to the mirror and straightening her hair.

He stared at her. "You're not coming like that?" he asked incredulously.

"Why not? The picture's finished."

He came into the room and closed the door behind him. "But, Jennie baby, try to understand. Life magazine is covering the party. How would it look to their readers if the star of the biggest picture we've made in ten years was wearing a loose black sweater and pants? We've got to give 'em more to look at than that."

"I’m not getting into that costume again," Jennie said stubbornly.

"Please, baby. I promised them some cheesecake."

"If that's what they want, give them the photo file."

"Now is no time to make with the temperament," Al said. "Look, you've been a good girl up to now. Just this once, please."

"It's O.K., Al." Bonner's voice came from behind him. "If Jennie doesn't want to change, she doesn't have to." He smiled his pleasantly ugly smile as he came into the tiny dressing room. "As a matter of fact," he said, "I think it might be a welcome change for Life's readers."

Al looked at him. "O.K. if you say so, Mr. Bonner," he said.

Bonner turned to her, smiling. "Well, you did it."

She didn't answer, just looked at him.

"I’ve been thinking about you," he said, his eyes on her face. "You're going to be a big star."

She didn't say anything.

"The Sinner is going to be a tough picture to follow."

"I hadn't thought about it," she said.

"Of course. You haven't and neither has Jonas." Bonner laughed. "But why should you? That's not your job. It's mine. All Jonas does is what he feels like doing. If he wants to make a picture, he makes a picture. But it might be another eight years before he feels like it again."

"So?" she said, meeting his eyes levelly.

He shrugged his shoulders. "It's up to me to keep you working. If you go that long between pictures, they’ll forget all about you." He reached into his jacket for a package of cigarettes. "Is that Mexican woman still working for you?"

"Yes."

"Still living in the same place?"

"Of course."

"I thought I might drop by one evening next week," he said. "I’ve got some scripts we might go over."

She was silent.

"Jonas is going away," he said. "To Canada, on a business trip." He smiled. "You know, I think it's fortunate he hasn't heard any of the stories about you, don't you?"

She let her breath out slowly. "Yes."

"I thought maybe Wednesday night."

"You'd better call first," she said through stiff lips.

"Of course, I forgot. Nothing has changed, has it?"

She looked up at him. "No," she said dully. Then she walked past him to the door. A great weariness came into her. Nothing had changed. Things turned out the way they always did for her. Nothing ever changed but the currency.

She awoke to the sight of white linen floating in the wind on the clothesline outside the window. The rich aroma of corned beef and cabbage, wafting into her room on the heavy summer breeze from the kitchen next door, told her it was Sunday. It was always like that on Sundays, only when you were a little girl it had been more fun.

On Sundays, when she'd returned from church with her mother, her father would be awake and smiling, his mustache neatly trimmed and waxed, his face smooth and smelling of bay rum. He tossed her into the air and caught her as she came down, hugging her close to him and growling, "How is my little Jennie Bear this morning? Is she sweet and filled with God's holiness fresh from the fount in the back of the church?"

He laughed and she laughed and sometimes even her mother laughed, saying, "Now, Thomas Denton, is that the proper way for a father to talk to his own daughter, sowing in her the seeds of his own disobedience to God's will?"

Her father and mother were both young and filled with laughter and happiness and God's own good sunshine that shone down on San Francisco Bay. And after the big dinner, he dressed himself carefully in his good blue suit and took her by the hand and they went out of the house to seek adventure.

They first met adventure on the cable car that ran past their door. Holding her in his arms, her father leaped aboard the moving car, and waving his blue-and-white conductor's pass, which entitled him to ride free on any of the company's cars, pushed forward to the front of the car, next to the motorman. There he held her face up to the rushing wind until the breath caught in her throat and she thought she'd burst with the joy of the fresh, sweet wind in her lungs.

"This is my daughter, my Jennie Bear," he shouted to all who would listen, holding her proudly so that all who cared to look could see.

And the passengers, who up to now had been engrossed in their own private thoughts, smiled at her, sharing somehow in the joy that glowed like a beacon in her round and shining face.

Then they went to the park, or sometimes to the wharf, where they ate hot shrimp or crabs, swimming in garlic, and her father drank beer, great foaming glasses of it, bought from the bootlegger who operated quite openly near the stands. But only to wash away the smell of the garlic, of course. Or sometimes, they went out to the zoo and he bought her a bag of peanuts to feed the elephant or the monkeys in their cages. And they returned in the evening, and she was tired and sometimes asleep in her father's arms. And the next day was Monday and she couldn't wait until it would be Sunday again.

No, nothing passed as quickly as the Sundays of your childhood. And then she went to school, frightened at first of the sisters, who were stern and forbidding in their black habits. Her small round face was serious above her white middy blouse and navy-blue guimpe. But they taught you the catechism and you made your confirmation and lost your fear as bit by bit you accepted them as your teachers, leading you into a richer Christian life, and the happy Sundays of your childhood fled deeper and deeper into the dim recesses of your mind, until you hardly remembered them any more.

Jennie lay quietly on her sixteen-year-old bed, her ears sharpening to the sounds of the Sunday morning. For a moment, there was only silence, then she heard her mother's shrill voice. "Mr. Denton, for the last time, it's time to get up and go to Mass."

Her father's voice was husky, the words indistinguishable. She could see him in her mind's eyes, lying unshaven and bloated with Saturday-night beer in his long woolen underwear, on the soft, wide bed, burying his face in the big pillow. She heard her mother again. "But I promised Father Hadley ye'd come this Sunday for sure. If ye have no concern for your own soul, at least have some for your wife's and daughter's."

She heard no reply, then the door slammed as her mother retreated to the kitchen. Jennie swung her bare feet onto the floor, searching for her slippers. She found them and stood up, the long white cotton nightgown trailing down to her ankles as she crossed the room.

She came out into the kitchen on her way to the bathroom and her mother turned from the stove. "Ye can wear the new blue bonnet I made for ye to Mass, Jennie darlin'."

"Yes, Mother," she said.

She brushed her teeth carefully, remembering what Sister Philomena had told the class in Hygiene. Circular strokes with the brush, reaching up onto the gums, then down, would remove all the food particles that might cause decay. She examined her teeth carefully in the mirror. She had nice teeth. Clean and white and even.

She liked being clean. Not like many of the girls at Mercy High School, who came from the same poor neighborhood and bathed only once a week, on Saturdays. She took a bath every night — even if she had to heat the water in the kitchen of the old tenement in which they lived.

She looked at her face out of her clear gray eyes and tried to imagine herself in the white cap and uniform of a nurse. She'd have to make up her mind soon. Graduation was next month and it wasn't every student who could get a scholarship to St. Mary's College of Nursing.

The sisters liked her and she'd always received high marks throughout her attendance at Mercy. Besides, Father Hadley had written Mother M. Ernest, commending her for her devout attendance and service to the church, not like so many of the young ladies today, who spent more time in front of a mirror over their make-up than on their knees in church in front of their God. Father Hadley had expressed the hope that the Good Mother would find a way to reward this poor deserving child for her devotion.

The scholarship to St. Mary's was given each year to the one student whose record for religious and scholastic achievements was deemed the most worthy by a committee headed by the Archbishop. This year, it was to be hers, if she decided to become a nurse. This morning, after church, she'd have to present herself to Mother M. Ernest, at the Sister House, to give her answer.

"It is God's mercy you'll be dispensing," Sister Cyril had said, after informing her of the committee's choice. "But you will have to make the decision. It may be that attending the sick and helpless is not your true vocation."

Sister Cyril had looked up at the girl standing quietly in front of her desk. Already, Jennie was tall and slim, with the full body of a woman, and yet there was a quiet innocence in the calm gray eyes that looked back at her. Jennie did not speak. Sister Cyril smiled at her. "You have a week to make up your mind," she said gently. "Go to the Sister House next Sunday after Mass. Mother Mary Ernest will be there to receive your answer."

Her father had cursed angrily when he heard of the scholarship. "What kind of life is that for a child? Cleaning out the bedpans of dirty old men? The next thing you know, they'll talk her into becoming a nun."

He turned violently to her mother. "It's all your doing," he shouted. "You and those priests you listen to. What's so holy about taking a child with the juices of life just beginning to bubble inside of her and locking her away behind the walls of a convent?"

Her mother's face was white. "It's blasphemy you're speaking, Thomas Denton," she said coldly. "If only once you'd come and speak to the good Father Hadley, ye'd learn how wrong ye are. And if our daughter should become a religious, it's the proudest mother in Christendom I'd be. What is wrong in giving your only child as a bride to Christ?"

"Aye," her father said heavily. "But who'll be to blame when the child grows up and finds you've stolen from her the pleasures of being a woman?"

He turned to Jennie and looked down at her. "Jennie Bear," he said softly, "it's not that I object to your becoming a nurse if you want to. It's that I want you to do and be whatever you want to be. Your mother and I, we don't matter. Even what the church wants doesn't matter. It's what you want that does." He sighed. "Do you understand, child?"

Jennie nodded. "I understand, Papa."

"Ye'll not be satisfied till ye see your daughter a whore," her mother suddenly screamed at him.

He turned swiftly. "I'd rather see her a whore of her own free choice," he snapped, "than driven to sainthood."

He looked down at Jennie, his voice soft again. "Do you want to become a nurse, Jennie Bear?"

She looked up at him with her clear gray eyes. "I think so, Papa."

"If it's what you want, Jennie Bear," he said quietly, "then I’ll be content with it."

Her mother looked at him, a quiet triumph in her eyes. "When will ye learn ye cannot fight the Lord, Thomas Denton?"

He started to answer, then shut his lips tightly and strode from the apartment.

Sister Cyril knocked at the heavy oaken door of the study. "Come in," called a strong, clear voice. She opened the door and gestured to Jennie.

Jennie walked into the room hesitantly, Sister Cyril behind her. "This is Jennie Denton, Reverend Mother."

The middle-aged woman in the black garb of the Sisterhood looked up from her desk. There was a half-finished cup of tea by her hand. She studied the girl with curiously bright, questioning eyes. After a moment, she smiled, revealing white, even teeth. "So you're Jennie Denton," she said, holding out her hand.

Jennie curtsied quickly and kissed the ring on the finger of the Reverend Mother. "Yes, Reverend Mother." She straightened up and stood in front of the desk stiffly.

Mother M. Ernest smiled again, a hint of merriment coming into her eyes. "You can relax, child," she said. "I'm not going to eat you."

Jennie smiled awkwardly.

The Reverend Mother raised a questioning eyebrow. "Perhaps you'd like a cup of tea?" she asked. "A cup of tea always makes me feel better."

"That would be very nice," Jennie said stiffly.

The Reverend Mother looked up and nodded at Sister Cyril. "I’ll get it, Reverend Mother," the nun said quickly.

"And another cup for me, please?" Mother M. Ernest turned back to Jennie. "I do love a good cup of tea." She smiled. "And they do have that here. None of those weak tea balls they use in the hospitals; real tea, brewed in a pot the way tea should be. Won't you sit down, child?"

The last came so fast that Jennie wasn't quite sure she'd heard it. "What, ma'am?" she stammered.

"Won't you sit down, child? You don't have to be nervous with me. I want to be your friend."

"Yes, ma'am," Jennie said and sat down, even more nervous than before.

The Reverend Mother looked at her for a few moments. "So you've decided to become a nurse, have you?"

"Yes, Reverend Mother."

Now the Reverend Mother's curiously bright eyes were upon her. "Why?" she asked suddenly.

"Why?" Jennie was surprised at the question. Her eyes fell before the Reverend Mother's gaze. "Why?" She looked up again, her eyes meeting the Reverend Mother's. "I don't know. I guess I never really thought about it."

"How old are you, child?" the Reverend Mother asked.

"I’ll be seventeen next month, the week before graduation."

"It was always your ambition to be a nurse and help the sick, ever since you were a little child, wasn't it?"

Jennie shook her head. "No," she answered candidly. "I never thought about it much until now."

"Becoming a nurse is very hard work. You'll have very little time to yourself at St. Mary's. You'll work and study all day; at night, you'll live at the school. You'll have only one day off each month to visit your family." The Reverend Mother turned the handle of her cup delicately so that it pointed away from her. "Your boy friend might not like that."

"But I haven't got a boy friend," Jennie said.

"But you came to the junior and senior proms with Michael Halloran," the Reverend Mother said. "And you play tennis with him every Saturday. Isn't he your boy friend?"

Jennie laughed. "No, Reverend Mother. He's not my boy friend, not that way." She laughed again, this time to herself, as she thought of the lanky, gangling youth whose only romantic thoughts were about his backhand. "He's just the best tennis player around, that's all." Then she added, "And someday I'm going to beat him."

"You were captain of the girl's tennis team last year?"

Jennie nodded.

"You won't have time to play tennis at St. Mary's," the Reverend Mother said.

Jennie didn't answer.

"Is there anything you'd rather be than a nurse?"

Jennie thought for a moment. Then she looked up at the Reverend Mother. "I’d like to beat Helen Wills for the U.S. tennis championship."

The Reverend Mother began to laugh. She was still laughing when Sister Cyril came in with the tea. She looked across the desk at the girl. "You'll do," she said. "And I have a feeling you’ll make a very good nurse, too."

Tom Denton knew there was something wrong the moment he came up to the window for his pay envelope. Usually, the paymaster was ready with a wisecrack, like did he want him to hold the envelope for his wife so that the Saturday-night beer parlors wouldn't get it? But there was no wisecrack this time, no friendly raillery, which had been a part of their weekly meeting for almost fifteen years. Instead, the paymaster pushed the envelope under the slotted steel bars quickly, his eyes averted and downcast.

Tom stared at him for a moment. He glanced quickly at some of the faces on the line behind him. They knew, too. He could see it from the way they were looking at him. An odd feeling of shame came over him. This couldn't be happening to him. Not after fifteen years. His eyes fell and he walked away from the window, the envelope in his hand.

Nobody had to tell him times were bad. This was 1931 and the evidence was all around him. The families on relief, the bread lines, the endless gray, tired faces of the men who boarded his car every morning.

He was almost out of the barn now. Suddenly, he couldn't wait any longer and he ducked into a dark corner to open the pay envelope. He tore at it with trembling fingers. The first thing that came to his hand was the dreaded green slip.

He stared at it unbelievingly. It must be a mistake. They couldn't mean him. He wasn't a one-year or two-year man, not even a five-year man. He had seniority. Fifteen years. They weren't laying off fifteen-year men. Not yet.

But they were. He squinted at the paper in the dim light. Laid off. What a bitter irony. That was the reason given for all the pay cuts — to prevent layoffs. Even the union had told them that.

He shoved the envelope into his pocket, trying to fight the sudden sick feeling of fear that crawled around in his stomach. What was he to do now? All he knew was the cars. He'd forgotten all about everything else he'd ever done. The only other thing he remembered was working as a hod-carrier when he was young.

He came out of the dark barn, blinking his eyes at the daylight. A group of men were standing there on the sidewalk, their worn blue uniforms purplish in the light. One of them called to him. "You got it, too, Denton?"

Tom looked at him. He nodded. "Yes."

"We did, too," another said. "They're letting out the senior men because we're getting a higher rate. All the new men are being kept on."

"Have you been to the union yet?" Tom asked.

"We've been there and back. The hall is closed. The watchman there says come back on Monday."

"Anybody call Riordan?"

"His phone home don't answer."

"Somebody must know where Riordan is," Tom said. "Let's go to the hall and make the watchman let us in. After all, what do we pay dues for if we can't meet there?"

"That's a good idea, Tom. We can't just let them replace us with fifty-five-centers, no matter what they say."

They began to walk to the union hall, about two blocks from the car barn. Tom strode along silently. In a way, he still couldn't believe it. Ten cents an hour couldn't mean that much to the company. Why, he'd have taken even another cut if they'd asked him. It wasn't right, the way they were doing it. They had to find Riordan. He'd know the answers. He was the union man.

The union hall was dark when they got there and they banged on the door until the old night watchman opened it. "I tol' you fellers Riordan ain't here," he said in an aged, irritated voice.

"Where is Riordan?"

"I don't know," the watchman answered, starting to close the door. "You fellers go home."

Tom put his foot in the door and pushed. The old man went flying backward, stumbling, almost falling. The men surged into the building behind Tom.

"You fellers stay outa here," the old man cried in his querulous voice.

They ignored him and pushed their way into the meeting hall, which was a large room at the end of the corridor. By now, the crowd had swelled to close to thirty men. Once they were in, they stood there uncertainly, not knowing what to do next. They milled around, looking at each other. "Let's go into Riordan's office," Tom suggested. "Maybe we can find out where he is in there."

Riordan's office was a glass-enclosed partition at the end of the meeting hall. They pushed down there but only a few of them were able to squeeze into the tiny cubbyhole. Tom looked down at the organizer's desk. There was a calendar, a green blotter and some pencils on it. He pulled open a drawer, then, one after another, all of them. The only thing he could find were more pencils, and dues blanks and receipts.

The watchman appeared at the back of the hall. "If you fellers don't get outa here," he shouted, "I'm gonna call the cops."

"Go take a shit, old man," a blue-coated conductor shouted back at him.

"Yeah," shouted another. "This is our union. We pay the dues and the rent. We can stay here if we want."

The watchman disappeared back into the corridor. Some of the men looked at Tom. "What do we do now?"

"Maybe we better come back Monday," one of them suggested. "We'll see what Riordan has to say then."

"No," Tom said sharply. "By Monday, nobody will be able to do nothing. We got to get this settled today."

"How?" the man asked.

Tom stood there for a moment, thinking. "The union's the only chance we got. We got to make the union do something for us."

"How can we if Riordan ain't here?"

"Riordan isn't the union," Tom said. "We are. If we can't find him, we got to do it without him." He turned to one of the men. "Patrick, you're on the executive board. What does Riordan usually do in a case like this?"

Patrick took off his cap and scratched at his gray hair. "I dunno," he said thoughtfully. "But I reckon the first thing he'd do would be to call a meetin'."

"O.K." Tom nodded. "You take a bunch of the men back to the barns and tell the day shift to come down here to a meeting right away."

The men moved around excitedly and after a few minutes, several of them left to go back to the car barns. The others stood around, waiting. "If we're to have a meetin'," someone said, "we gotta have an agenda. They don't have no meetin's without they have an agenda."

"The agenda is, can the company lay us off like this," Tom said.

They nodded agreement. "We got rights."

"This meetin' business is givin' me a awful thirst," another man said. "All this talkin' has dried out me throat somethin' terrible."

"Let's send out for a barrel of beer," a voice yelled from the back.

There was real enthusiasm in the shout of agreement and a collection was quickly taken up. Two men were dispatched on the errand and when they returned, the keg was mounted on a table at the back of the room.

"Now," said one of them, waving his beer glass in front of him, "now we can get down to business!"

The meeting hall was a bedlam of noise and confusion as more than a hundred men milled around, talking and shouting. The first keg of beer had run out long ago. Two new ones rested on the table, pouring forth their refreshment.

Tom pounded on the table with the gavel he'd found in Riordan's desk. "The meeting will now come to order!" he shouted, for the fifth time in as many minutes. He kept pounding on the table until he caught the attention of a few men down at the front.

"Quiet!" one of them bellowed. "Le's hear what good ol' Tom has to say."

The noise subsided to a murmur, then all the men were watching him. Tom waited until it was as quiet as he thought it would get, then he cleared his throat nervously. "We called this meetin' because today the company laid off fifty men an' we couldn't find Riordan to tell us why." He fumbled with the gavel for a moment. "The union, which is supposed to give us protection on our jobs, has now got to act, even if we don't know where Riordan is. The men that were laid off today had seniority an' there's no reason why the company shouldn't take them back."

A roar burst from the crowd.

"While you fellers was drinkin' beer," Tom said, "I looked up the rules in the bylaws printed in my union book, an' it says that a meetin' is entitled to call for a strike vote if more than twenty-five members is present. There's more than twenty-five members here an' I say we should vote a strike by Monday, unless the company takes us back right away."

"Strike! Strike!"

"We've all been faithful employees of the company for many years an' always gave them an honest count an' they got no right to kick us out like that."

"Y-aay!"

"Don't let the nickels stick to your fingers, Tom," a man in the back shouted. "There may be a spotter in the crowd."

There was laughter.

"If there is a spotter," Tom said grimly, "let him go back to the company an' tell 'em what we're doin' here. We'll show 'em they can't push us around."

There was a burst of applause.

Tom waved his hand. "Now we'll vote on a strike," he said. "All in favor say aye."

The men were suddenly quiet. They looked at each other nervously. The door at the back of the hall had opened and Riordan was standing in it. "What's all this loose talk about a strike, men?"

They turned in surprise and stared at him. The ruddy-faced, heavy-set union organizer started down through the meeting hall. A buzz came up as they saw him. It was almost a sigh of relief. Riordan was here. He'd tell them what to do. He'd straighten everything out.

"Hello, Tom," Riordan said, walking around the table. He held out his hand. Tom shook hands with him. It was the first time he'd done so.

"We came down here because we thought the union should be doin' somethin' for us."

Riordan gave him a shrewd look. "Of course, Tom," he said soothingly. "And it's the right thing ye did, too."

Tom sighed in relief. For a moment, he had thought Riordan would be angry at the way they'd come in and taken over the hall. He watched as Riordan turned toward the men and held up his hand. A silence came over the hall.

"Men," Riordan said in his deep voice, "the reason you couldn't find me was I beat it up to the company office the minute I learned about the layoffs. There was no time to call a meeting but I want you to know that the union was right on the job."

A cheer went up from the men. They looked at each other embarrassedly.

"And I want to express my appreciation to Brother Tom Denton here for his prompt action in bringing you all down here to the union hall. It shows that Tom Denton, like every one of you, knows that the union is his friend."

Tom blushed as the men cheered again. Riordan turned back to the crowd. "I've been working all afternoon, fighting with the management, and finally I got them to back down a little."

A loud cheer shook the ceiling.

Riordan raised his hand, smiling. "Don't cheer yet, boys. Like I say, I only got them to back down a little bit, but it's a start. They promised to have more meetings with me next month."

"Are they takin' us back?" Tom asked.

Riordan looked at him, then turned back to the men. "The management agreed to take back ten of the men who were laid off this week. They also agreed to take back ten more men next month."

A strange silence came over the room. The men eyed each other nervously. "But more than fifty of us were laid off," Tom said loudly. "What's ten men out of that many?"

"It's a start, Tom," he said. "You can't do it all at once."

"Why not?" Tom demanded hotly. "They laid us all off at once."

"That's different," Riordan said. "The company has the right to lay off if business is bad."

"We know that. What we're sore about is the way they did it. They paid no attention to the seniority they agreed to in the union agreement. They laid off all the sixty-five-cent men and kept the fifty-five-centers."

"I know," Riordan said. A harsh edge had come into his voice. "But their taking back ten men is a start. It's better than having all fifty of ye out on the street." He turned back to the men. "Ten of you will go back to work. Maybe next month, ten more will go back. That's better than nothing. The company doesn't care if you go on strike. They claim they'll save money by not running."

"I say we take it," one of the men shouted. "Ten of us workin' is better than none workin', like Riordan says."

"No," Tom said angrily, getting to his feet. "The company should take us all back. Each of us has as much right to work as the next one. If all us sixty-five-cent men would accept a cut to fifty-five cents, the company could keep us all on."

Riordan laughed hoarsely. "You hear that, men?" he shouted. "Would you like to take another pay cut?"

There was a murmur from the crowd. They shifted uneasily. "I'd rather take a pay cut than have us all laid off," Tom said.

Riordan glared at him. There was no friendliness in his eyes now. He had been angry ever since he got a call from the company personnel manager, advising him he'd better get down to the union hall. The call had caught him at a very embarrassing time. He got out of bed, cursing as he struggled into his clothing. "What is it, honey?"

"Some jerky conductor has taken over the hall and is talking strike to the boys."

"But he can't do that," his paramour answered in a shocked voice. "You promised the company they'd have no trouble."

"They won't," he said harshly. "Nobody can make Riordan break his word!"

By the time he'd driven down to the union hall, he'd simmered down. But now he was getting angry again. He had a hard enough job explaining to his wife where he was spending his Saturday nights, without having it loused up by a bunch of stupid trolley men.

He turned back to the crowd. "I propose we settle this here and now," he shouted. "You have a choice. Ten men go back to work or you strike."

"Wait a minute," Tom protested.

"The men already turned your proposal down," Riordan snapped. He raised his right hand. "All in favor of returning to work raise your right hand."

About ninety men raised their hands.

"Nays?"

There were only a few raised hands besides Tom's.

"The ayes have it. Now you men go home to your wives. I’ll let you know on Monday which of you go back to work."

Slowly the men began to file out of the room. Tom looked at Riordan but the man didn't meet his eyes. Instead, he went back into his little glass cubbyhole and picked up the telephone.

Tom walked wearily toward the door. Some of the men looked at him, then quickly hurried by, as if they were ashamed to meet his gaze. At the doorway, he turned and looked back. Riordan was still using the telephone.

The night was clear and bright and a warm breeze came in from the bay. He walked along thoughtfully. He wasn't going to be one of the lucky ten who were going to be taken back. He was sure of that. He'd seen the anger in Riordan's eyes. He turned the corner and walked to the car stop on the next block. Idly he wondered if his pass was still good now that he was laid off.

Two men came past him on the darkened street. One of them stopped. "Got a match?"

"Sure," Tom said. He fumbled in his pocket. He might not have a job but matches he still had. He struck the match. The sudden hardening in the man's eyes and the sound of footsteps behind him were a warning that came too late. There was a sharp blow to the back of his head and he stumbled to his knees.

He reached out, grabbing the man in front of him around the legs. The man swore under his breath and kicked upward with his knee, catching Tom in the groin.

Tom grunted from the pain as he went over backward, his head striking the sidewalk. As if from a long way off, he felt the men kicking at him as he lay there. He rolled over toward the edge of the sidewalk and into the gutter.

He felt a hand reach into his pocket and take out his pay envelope. Feebly he tried to grab the hand. "No," he pleaded. "Please, no, that's my pay, it's all I got!"

The man laughed harshly. He aimed a final kick at the side of Tom's head.

Tom saw the heavy boot coming but he couldn't duck away from it. Then the lights exploded in his face and he rolled over, face down, in a puddle of water in the gutter. He came to slowly, painfully, to the sound of water against his face. He moved his head wearily. A gentle rain had begun to fall.

His body ached as he pushed himself up on his hands and slowly got to his feet. He swayed dizzily for a moment and reached out to the street lamp to steady himself. The lamp flickered and then went out. It was almost morning. The sick gray light of the day spilled down around him.

He saw his blue conductor's cap lying in the gutter, not far from where he stood. Slowly he knelt and picked it up. He brushed it off against his coat and walked toward the corner. There was a mirror in the corner of the drugstore window. He paused in front of it and looked at himself.

His uniform was torn and shredded, his tie askew, the shirt buttons ripped away. He put his hand up to his face in touching wonder. His nose was puffed and swollen, and one eye had already turned purple. With the tip of his tongue, he could feel the jagged edges of broken teeth.

He stared for a moment, numb with shock, then he began to understand what had happened to him. Riordan had done it. He was sure of that. That's why Riordan had been on the telephone when he'd left the union hall.

Suddenly, he realized he'd never be able to go back to work for the cable-car company. Riordan would see to that, too. He stood there looking at himself and the tears began to run down his cheeks. Everything had gone wrong. Everything. Now he had no job and no money. And worst of all, he'd have to tell Ellen.

She'd never believe he hadn't been out on a drunk, and the ironic thing was that he hadn't so much as taken one glass of beer.

"Are ye goin' to be sittin' there all day reading the newspapers, studyin' what kind of a job would suit your highness best?" Ellen Denton asked caustically.

Her face was grim as she wrapped Jennie's lunch in a piece of wax paper. Tom didn't speak, looking down at the paper again as Jennie came into the room. "Good morning, Mom," she said brightly. "Morning, Daddy."

"Good morning, Jennie Bear," he said, smiling at her. "How's my Winnie Winkle this morning?"

"Just fine, Daddy." It was a private joke between them. He'd called her that when she got a job as a typist in the insurance company last month. It had been just five weeks after he'd lost his job on the cable cars and two weeks after she graduated from Mercy High School.

"You're the Winnie Winkle," he'd said. "But I’ll get something in a few weeks. Then you'll be able to go to St. Mary's, like you planned."

"Ye have too much lipstick on, Jennie," her mother said. "Best take some of it off."

Tom looked at his daughter. She didn't have that much lipstick on. It was much less than most of the girls wore whom he used to see every morning on the cable car.

"Oh, Mother." Jennie protested. "I’m working in an office now, not going to school. I have to look decent."

"Decent ye should look, not painted."

"Aw, Ellen, leave the girl alone," Tom said slowly.

Ellen glared angrily at him. "When you're bringin' home some of the money to feed your family, then ye can talk."

Tom stared at her, his face setting grimly. He could feel the color draining from it. Jennie smiled sympathetically at him and that made it even worse. He never expected Jennie to be pitying him. He tightened his lips against a flood of angry words.

"Golly, I'm going to be late," Jennie said, jumping to her feet. She snatched at the paper bag on the table and started for the door. " 'By, Mom," she said over her shoulder. " 'By, Daddy. Good luck today."

Tom could hear her footsteps running down the stairs. He looked down at the paper again. "Could I have another cup of coffee?"

"No, one cup is all ye get. How much coffee d'ye think we can afford on the child's eleven dollars a week?"

"But you have the coffee right there. It's already made."

"It's for warming again tomorrow mornin'," she said.

He folded the paper carefully, got up and walked into the bathroom. He turned on the tap and let the water run as he took down his shaving brush and razor. He held his hand under the tap. The water was still cold. "Ellen, there's no hot water for my shave."

"Use the cold, then," she called. "Unless ye have a quarter for the gas meter. I'm savin' the gas we have left for the child's bath."

He looked at himself in the mirror. His face had healed from the beating, but his nose was a little crooked now and there were broken edges on his two front teeth. He put down the brush and walked into the kitchen.

Ellen's back was still toward him. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. "Ellen, Ellen," he said gently. "What's happened to us?"

She stared up into his face for a moment, then reached up and pushed his hands from her shoulders. "Don't touch me, Thomas Denton. Don't touch me."

His voice was resigned. "Why, Ellen, why? It's not my fault what happened. It was God's will."

"God's will?" She laughed shrilly. "You're the one to be talkin' of God's will. Him that hasn't been in the church for more years than I can remember. If ye thought more of your Saviour than you did of your Saturday-night beer. He'd have shown ye some of His mercy."

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he turned, went back into the bathroom and began to shave with the cold water. She hadn't always been like this — sharp-tongued and acid-touched. And fanatical about the church and the priests. Once, she'd been Ellen Fitzgerald, with laughing eyes and dancing feet, and he remembered her at the Irish Ballroom on Day Street the time he first met her.

She was the prettiest girl on the floor that night, with her dark-brown hair and blue eyes and tiny feet. That was in 1912 and they were married the next year. A year after that, Jennie had been born.

He was a motorman with the car line even then, and when he came back from the war, they moved into this apartment. A year later, a son was born.

Poor tiny little Tommy. The world was not long for him and when he was two years old, they laid him to rest in Calvary Cemetery. Jennie was eight then and barely understood what had happened to her brother, but Ellen found her solace in the quiet of the church, and every day she took her daughter there with her. At first, he didn't pay much attention. Ellen's overattachment to her church was only natural; it would wear off soon enough.

But it didn't. He found that out one night, when he reached for her in the bed and found her cold and unresponsive. He felt for her breast inside the heavy cotton nightgown but she turned her back to him. "You've not made your confession in months. I’ll not have ye planting another child in me."

He tried to make a joke of it. "Who wants to make a baby? All I want is a bit of lovin'."

"That's even worse, then," she said, her voice muffled by the pillow. "It's sinful and I'll share no part of that sin."

"Is that what the priests have been dunning into your ears? To deny your husband?"

She didn't answer. He gripped her shoulder and forced her to turn toward him. "Is that it?" he asked fiercely.

"The priests have told me nothing. What I do is of me own doing. I know the Book enough to know right from wrong. And stop your shouting. You'll be waking Jennie in the next room."

"I’ll stop shouting," he said angrily, as the heat of her shoulder came warm into his hands and the fever rose up in him and he took her by force. The spasm shook him and he subsided into a heavy-breathing quiet atop her, his eyes staring into hers.

She looked up at him quietly, not moving, passive as she had been all through his assault upon her. A last shiver drained his vitals. Then she spoke. Her voice was calm and distant and detached, as if he weren't there at all. "Are ye all through spending your filth in me?"

He felt a cold sickness rising in his stomach. He stared at her for a moment more, then rolled off her onto his side of the bed. "I'm all through," he said tonelessly.

She got out of the bed and knelt beside the tiny crèche she had placed beneath the crucifix. He could sense her face turning toward him in the darkness. "I shall pray to the Virgin Mother that your seed has found no home in me," she whispered harshly.

He closed his eyes and turned his back. This was what they'd done to her, spoiled everything between them. A bitterness began to gall him.

He never set foot in a church again.

It was quiet here in the nave of the church. Ellen Denton, on her knees before the holy statuary, her head bowed and her beads threaded through her clasped fingers, was at peace. There was no prayer on her lips, no disturbing thoughts in her mind — only a calm, delicious emptiness. It permeated her whole being and closed off the world, beyond the comforting walls.

The sins of omission, which plagued her hours while she was outside these walls, were but faint distant echoes. Little Tommy lay quiet in his grave, no reproach on his tiny rosebud lips, for her neglect during his illness. No memories rose to torture her of her white, naked body, writhing in passion and pleasure, while her son lay dying in the same room.

It had seemed just a tiny cold, a cold such as children have so often and awaken free from in the morning. How was she to know that while she lay there, whispering her delight into her husband's ear, a minute piece of phlegm had lodged in her son's throat, shutting off the air from his lungs? So that, when she got up to adjust his covers, as she usually did before she closed her eyes for the night, she found him strangely cold and already blue. How was she to know that this was to be her punishment for her own sins?

Father Hadley had tried to comfort her in her grief. "Do not blame yourself, my child. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. His will be done."

But she'd known better. The memory of her joy in her sin was still too strong within her, though she sought to free her soul of its burden by a thousand visits to the confessional. But all the soothing words of the priests brought no solace to her soul. Her guilt was her own and only she, herself, could expunge it. But here, in the quiet peace of the nave, beneath the silent, sorrowing Virgin, there was calmness and emptiness and oblivion.

Johnny Burke was bored. He took a last drag on the butt and spun it out into the gutter. The pimply-faced boy next to him said, "Let's go over and see if Tessie is busy."

"Tessie is always busy. Besides, I hear she give a feller a dose. I ain't takin' any chances." Johnny took out another cigarette and lit it, his eyes nervously looking up the street. "Just for once, I'd like to get me a dame that nobody else has banged."

"How yuh goin' do that, Johnny?"

"There are ways, Andy," Johnny said mysteriously. "There are ways."

Andy looked at him interestedly. "You talk like yuh know."

Johnny nodded. He tapped his pocket. "I got a little somethin' in here that'll make any girl put out."

"Yeah, Johnny?" Andy asked quickly. "What?"

Johnny lowered his voice carefully. "Mosca cantharides."

"What's that?"

"Spanish fly, yuh dope," Johnny said. "I stole some when Doc asked me to watch the store while he went upstairs."

"Gee," Andy said, impressed. "Will it work on any girl?"

Johnny nodded. "Sure. If yuh can slip it into her drink. Just a little an' she's as hot as a biscuit right out of the oven."

The druggist stuck his head out of the doorway. "Johnny, watch the store for me, will you? I want to run upstairs a minute."

"O.K., Doc."

They watched him turn into the entrance next door, then went into the drugstore. Johnny walked behind the counter and leaned carelessly against the cash register.

"How about a Coke, Johnny?"

"Uh-uh," Johnny said. "No handouts while I'm watchin' the store for Doc." Idly Johnny opened and closed some drawers under the counter. "Hey, Andy," he called. "Want to see where Doc keeps all the rubbers?"

"Sure," Andy said. He walked around behind the counter.

"May I have a Coke, please?"

The girl's voice came from the soda fountain. Both boys looked up guiltily. Quickly Johnny snapped the drawer shut. "Sure, Jennie."

"Where's Doc?"

"He went upstairs for a minute."

"She saw us," Andy whispered. "She knows what we were lookin' at."

Johnny looked at Jennie as he walked over to the soda fountain. Maybe she did. There was a peculiar smile on her face. He pressed the plunger on the Coke-sirup pump and watched the dark fluid squirt into the glass. "Yuh hear from the Champ yet, Jennie?"

She shook her head. "We were supposed to go to the movies tonight but he didn't get back from Berkeley. I hope nothing went wrong with his scholarship."

Johnny smiled. "What could go wrong with it?" he said. "He already took the state finals."

Andy came up behind him. "Will it work on her?" he whispered. Johnny knew what he meant. He looked up suddenly. All at once it seemed to him that he'd never really seen Jennie. She was one of the cherries and usually he paid no attention to them. She had left her Coke and was over looking at the magazines. He liked the way the thin summer dress clung to her. He never knew she had such big ones. No wonder Mike Halloran kept her on the leash. Suddenly, he put his hand in his pocket and took out the little piece of paper and emptied the pinch of powder into her glass.

Jennie took a magazine from the rack and went back to the fountain. Johnny looked down at her glass. Some traces of powder were still floating on top. He took it and put in another squirt of sirup, then held the glass under the soda spigot while he stirred vigorously. He put the drink down in front of her and looked up at the clock. "Kind of late for you to be out, isn't it?"

"It's Saturday night," Jennie answered. "It was so hot in the apartment, I thought I'd come down for some air." She put a nickel on the counter and took a straw from the glass container.

Johnny anxiously watched her sip the drink. "Is it all right?"

"A little sweet, maybe."

"I’ll put a little more soda in it," Johnny said quickly. "How's that?"

She sipped at it. "Fine now. Thanks."

He picked up the nickel, went back to the cash register and rang it up. "I saw what you did," Andy whispered.

"Shut up."

Jennie was turning the pages of the magazine slowly as she sipped her drink. Her glass was half empty when the druggist came back into the store. "Everything O.K., Johnny?"

"O.K., Doc."

"Thanks, Johnny. Want a Coke?"

"No, thanks, Doc. See you tomorrow."

"What did you go an' do that for?" Andy asked, when they came out onto the street. "Now we won't never know if it worked."

"We'll know," Johnny said, turning to look through the window.

Jennie had finished her drink and was climbing down from the stool. She put the magazine back on the rack and started for the door. Johnny moved over to intercept her.

"Going home, Jennie?"

She stopped and smiled at him. "I thought I'd go down to the park. Maybe there's a cool breeze coming in from the bay."

"Mind if we come along?" Johnny asked. "We're not doin' anything."

She wondered what made Johnny ask to walk with her all of a sudden. He'd never seemed interested in her before.

It was almost ten o'clock when Tom Denton came out of the saloon across from the car barn. He was drunk. Sad, weeping, unhappy drunk. He stared across the street at the car barn. Old Two-twelve was in there. His old car. But she wasn't his car any more. She'd never be his car any more. She was somebody else's car now.

The tears began to roll down his cheeks. He was a failure. No car, no job, not even a wife to come home to. Right now she was probably sitting in a corner of the church, praying.

Didn't she understand a man had to have more than a prayer when he got into bed? If he had a couple of dollars in his pocket, he knew where he'd go. The girls at Maggie's knew how to treat a man. He fished in his pocket for some coins. Carefully he counted them. Thirty-five cents. He thought about going back into the saloon. He had enough for one more drink. But then he'd have to ask Ellen for pocket money on Monday.

He felt the effects of the liquor beginning to wear off. Angrily he put the change back in his pocket. Drinking wasn't any fun when you had to worry about every nickel you spent. Almost sober now, he began to walk home slowly.

He was sitting at the kitchen table in the dark when Ellen came home half an hour later. He looked up wearily as she turned on the light. "I didn't expect ye home so early," she said. "What happened? Did they run out of whisky?"

He didn't answer.

She walked out of the kitchen into the narrow hallway. He heard her open Jennie's door, then close it. A moment later, she came back into the kitchen. "Where's Jennie?"

"I don't know. She's probably out with Mike."

"Mike is still in Berkeley. Jennie was here when I left for church. She said she was going to bed early."

"It's warm," he said. "She probably went out for a breath of air."

"I don't like her being out alone like that."

"Now, don't start on her, Ellen," he said. "She's a big girl now."

She took a kettle down from the shelf and filled it with water. She placed it on the stove and lit the gas under it. "Would ye like a cup of tea?"

He looked up in surprise. It had been a long time since Ellen asked him to share an evening cup of tea. He nodded gratefully.

She took the cups from the cupboard and placed them on the table. Then she sat down opposite him to wait for the water to boil. There was a worried expression on her face.

"Don't worry," he said, suddenly feeling sorry for her. "Jennie'll be home any minute now."

She looked up, and in a rare moment of insight, saw what she was doing to him and to herself. She felt the tears coming into her eyes and placed her hand over his. "I'm sorry, Tom. I don't know what's the matter with me. Half the time, I imagine things that never happen."

"I know, Ellen," he said gently. "I know."

It was then that the policeman came to the door and told them that Jennie had been found in the park, raped and beaten. And from the look on Ellen's face, Tom knew that they were lost forever.

The three of them came out of the church into the bright sunlight. They felt almost immediately the curious watching eyes. Tom felt the sudden shrinking in his daughter and noticed the flush of shame creeping up into her face, still puffed from the beating of almost two weeks ago. Her eyes looked down at the steps as they began to walk down toward the sidewalk.

"Hold your head up, Jennie Bear," he whispered. "It's their sons should bear the shame, not you."

Jennie lifted her head and smiled at him gratefully. "And you, too, Ellen Denton," he added. "Stop lookin' down at the ground."

In a way, Ellen felt a sort of triumph. Her husband had finally returned to the church. She thought of how it had been early that morning. She'd been all dressed and ready to leave for church when she called Jennie. She opened the door of Jennie's room. Her daughter was sitting in a chair, staring out the window. "You're not dressed yet, Jennie," she said in a shocked voice. "It's time we were leaving for Mass."

"I'm not going, Mama," Jennie said tonelessly.

"But you've not been to church since ye came home from the hospital You've scarcely been out of the house."

"I've been out, Mama." She turned toward her mother and the dark circles under her eyes looked even darker in the light. "And everybody stared at me and whispered as I went by. I can't stand it. I won't go to church and be a freak for everybody to stare at."

"You're denying the Savior!" Ellen said heatedly. "How do ye expect forgiveness for your sins if ye don't attend

Date: 2015-12-24; view: 654