Pride. William Wharton

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СКАЧАТЬ of setting them on top where he usually did.

      ‘This whole year is like money in the bank, Dickie. In a certain way, for a whole year this house is really ours. But we aren’t going to work any more Saturdays while school’s on; you can have your Saturdays for yourself, now. Maybe next summer we’ll go back to work if we have to.’

      He stopped, smiled, pulled the straps of his white carpenter’s overalls down over his shoulders. He had regular clothes on under his overalls. It was summer but it was cold and wet that day. It wasn’t raining but it was wet enough so it was hard to make the paint stick. He was wearing his old sweater with the holes in the elbows and all raveled at the cuffs.

      ‘You remember this, Dickie. No matter how much you earn in your life you haven’t made one dime if you haven’t put some little bit aside. If you only earn it and spend it right off, you get nothing for your days, you’re just a working machine, working for somebody else. The money you save is work you did for yourself, and the only thing really worth buying is your own time. You remember that.’

      By this time, Dad had gotten the letter from J.I. saying they were opening again and there was a job for him. They were going to pay him $37.50 a week. That’s more than twice as much as he got with the WPA. Waxing floors in banks all night he made $22, at the most.

      I was there when he opened that letter. It’d come in the morning but Dad had already gone to sleep after coming home from the waxing job. He’d get up when we came home from school for lunch and we’d all eat together, then he’d go back to work after we had dinner.

      Lunch in our house is usually just tomato soup, pepper pot, or Scotch broth and sandwiches but it was fun having Dad there. He’d always have some funny story to tell about waxing the bank floors. His favorite was how he’d push the machine, waxing away, and keeping his eyes open in case somebody had dropped a little bit of all that money on the floor during the day. He’d tell the story going along as if he’d really found some money, but it would always turn out to be a Wrigley gum wrapper, or somebody’s handkerchief or, one time, it was an empty pencil box. I know if Dad did find money he’d give it back to the bank, but it was fun listening to those stories; it was the way he told them.

      His other stories were about the waxing machine breaking down. These machines were old and I think only my father could really keep them going. He worked with three other men but they didn’t know anything about machines, not even the boss, Roy Kerlin.

      But this day, at lunch, Mom gave Dad the letter that came in the mail. She was all excited. Dad sat down and broke pieces of bread into his tomato soup; he put the letter on the table beside him and just looked at it, breaking bread into his soup. Mother couldn’t sit down and was leaning over his shoulder. It was one of those envelopes with a little cellophane window in it so you could see my father’s name and our address, 7066 Clover Lane, Upper Darby. It didn’t say anything about Stonehurst Hills.

      ‘Come on, Dick. Open it, I’ve been waiting on pins and needles all morning for you to wake up. Come on, open it. Don’t just stare at it like that.’

      Dad looked up at Mom, put his hand over her hand on his shoulder. ‘I can’t think of anything J.I. could have to say to me I’m really ready to hear, Laura. Even if they say they’re sorry they shut down the place just because they weren’t making enough profit, laying everybody off, even somebody like me, with nine years’ seniority. I don’t really think I’d be interested even in that.’

      But he used his knife to slit open the envelope; there was still some margarine on it. Then he read it out. He leaned back in his chair, speaking slowly like a priest reading the Gospel. He read how there was work and a position was open for him at the same bench and the salary was thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents a week. There was a lot of other stuff, too, about when and where he was to report and everything, but that was the main part.

      Mom squeezed Dad around the neck from behind while he still held on to the letter. His bread was sinking into his soup. I looked over at Laurel; she wasn’t paying much attention. I couldn’t look at Mom or Dad, maybe she couldn’t either.

      ‘Thirty-seven dollars a week! But, Dick, that’s wonderful. You could stop working nights and wouldn’t have to spend all your Saturdays building porches any more. Aren’t you excited?’

      Dad stared at the letter. He glanced up at me, then back at the letter.

      ‘I don’t mind building porches, Laura. We have a good time out there in the alleys, don’t we, Dickie?’

      I nodded my head but I couldn’t smile. I was hoping he wouldn’t take the job. Going back to J.I. would be like saying ‘uncle’ in a fight.

      It was a Wednesday when Dad got that letter. He was supposed to report at the main plant on Monday. It was all Mom and Dad talked about for the rest of that week. I tried to listen whenever I could, but a lot of the talking they did in their bedroom, and Laurel and I aren’t allowed in there unless we’re invited. Mom wanted Dad to take the job because it was such good money and it was hard to get jobs. Dad didn’t want to work there because of the way they fired him. One time coming down the stairs on Friday, he said, ‘But I hate that place, Laura. I hate everything about it. I don’t like the people I work with and I don’t like the work; it’s dirty, hard and dangerous. The whole building is dark and damp; they even have the windows painted blue so we can’t see out. It’s like a jail. I’ll bet they get Sanderson back as foreman, too. I can’t stand that guy.’

      Saturday night at dinner he said he was going to take the job. He said he had a responsibility to all of us. He said we’d have enough money for things we needed and Mom wouldn’t have to worry so much. He promised us we’d go to Wildwood in the summer when he had two weeks’ vacation. It’d been four years since we’d been to the shore. I hardly even remembered it.

      I still didn’t want him to work for J.I. and I was ashamed, but I couldn’t get myself to say anything.

      ‘But I told your mother, and I’m telling you kids right now; I’m going back there to start a union if there isn’t one, or join one if there is. A union is the only tool the working man has to fight back with.’

      I know this doesn’t mean anything to Laurel, but I can tell it scares Mom. I don’t know why he has to tell us. Then, and right now, there are big fights between the companies and the unions. I guess the Depression made a lot of the men like Dad mad. It makes me feel better knowing Dad is going to fight J.I. even if he is going back, so I guess that’s why he told us, he was really telling me.

      But I’d rather be building porches. We could build porches for other people than Mr Marsden. Then Dad’d be his own boss and I could work for him. Maybe I could even get out of going to school.

      There was a workers’ union at J.I. The United Electrical Workers, called the UEW. Dad joined it right away and before long he was elected shop steward. This means he represents all the men on his floor to the bosses. He’s a kind of boss against bosses.

      One night about a month after that, Dad came home late. The dinner was in the oven and Mom wouldn’t let us eat even though it was past seven o’clock, and usually we eat at five-thirty. Dad came in and one whole side of his face was swollen, with his lip cut and his shirt ripped. Mom almost went crazy.

      Dad climbed upstairs to the bathroom and Mom ran right up behind him. When he came down he had some Mercurochrome and bandages on his face and a bandage on one finger that was bent back. He’d been beaten up just outside the gates of J.I. by some men the company hired to beat up union men, especially shop stewards like Dad. Dad ate his dinner quietly, grunting СКАЧАТЬ