The Last Ballad(33)

The truck in which the three women rode left the fields and the trees of the darkened countryside behind, and now the open highway had turned into Franklin Avenue. Streetlamps glowed with a dull light. Brick storefronts with glass windows lined the boulevard on either side. They passed people on foot. The sparse automobile traffic grew heavier. The air smelled of gasoline and exhaust and the myriad scents of cooking food as they passed a section of Franklin known to locals as Greasy Corner. Sophia stood and looked over the truck’s railing. She whistled, pointed south. “There she is.”

Ella stood, faced the direction in which Sophia stared. The colossus of the Loray Mill rose before them, its six stories of red brick illuminated by what seemed to be hundreds of enormous windows that cast an otherworldly pall over the night. The mill stretched across several city blocks, its central tower looming like a giant eye that stood sentinel above the surrounding village and its muddy streets, weed-choked lawns, and clapboard houses. From what Ella understood, life in the Loray village wasn’t much different from life in the dilapidated cabins of Stumptown, except that the Loray village, like the mill itself, was nearly all white.

“Ella, it’d mean a lot if you could speak at the rally tonight,” Sophia said. She looked at Ella. “People here need to know that our message is getting out. You coming from another mill in another town is a big deal. People need to see a stranger who’s on their side.”

Sophia’s request hit Ella like one of the bricks or bottles that the men had thrown at them back in Lincolnton. Her head swam, and she gripped the truck’s railing to keep from stumbling. She forced a laugh that gave her cover to catch her breath. “I don’t know what I’d say,” Ella said. “I can’t imagine.” But as soon as she said it she regretted it; she’d come this far and she needed this girl’s help, needed the promises outlined on the leaflet she still carried in her pocket like a talisman.

“Hell, tell some of the story you just told me. You could sing something too.”

Ella thought of the song she’d been writing. She slipped a trembling hand into her pocket and felt the folded leaflet. “I might could say something, might could sing too,” she said. “I’ve been working on a song about the mill, but it ain’t finished yet.” She reached for the pencil she’d kept behind her ear, but it was gone. It must have come loose during the fight back in Lincolnton. “You got something I can write with. I might could finish it real quick.”

Sophia smiled, reached into a pocket, and pulled out a thick stub of pencil. Ella took it in her hand, thought of how its thickness reminded her of one of Giles Corley’s fingers.

The truck came abreast of Loray, turned left, and crossed the railroad tracks, headed north as if leaving town. Sophia turned and looked back at the mill, its lights floating in her eyes.

“We’re going to shut that place down,” she said. “You watch, Ella May. You’re going to help us do it.”

The busy thrum of Franklin Avenue gave way to small houses and grassy fields. The truck stopped on the side of the road by a simple, newly constructed A-frame. A hand-painted sign that read Gastonia Local of the N.T.W.U. hung above the small porch that sheltered the single door. Behind the headquarters, a white tent housed the commissary. The rumble of the truck’s engine died away, followed by a cough of exhaust and a brief tremble that traveled up Ella’s spine. The noise of the evening rose to meet her. A couple dozen men in overalls and women in homespun dresses stood talking by the building. Others were gathered in the grass around it. Children chased each other and played in the fields. The sound of a guitar came from somewhere Ella couldn’t see.

“Well, come on, Ella May,” Sophia said. They climbed down from the truck. The driver came around to meet them. Her name was Velma Burch. She was from New Jersey and was a veteran labor organizer. She was only forty years old, but the gauntness of her face and the streaks of gray hair beneath her bell-shaped hat made her seem much older.

“Ella May’s a singer,” Sophia said, “and she said she’ll sing something for us tonight.”

“Well, Beal wants them to sing,” Velma said.

“Who’s Beal?” Ella asked.

“And she knows a whole bunch of colored workers,” Sophia said. She raised her eyebrows, smiled in a way that made it clear that a secret thing had just passed between her and Velma.

“Beal’s not going to know what to do with that,” Velma said. “Best tell him about the singing first.”

“Who’s Beal?” Ella asked again.

“Who’s Beal?” Velma asked. She widened her eyes and opened her mouth in mock surprise. “Why, he’s the strike leader, right Miss Blevin?”

“Yes, indeed, Miss Burch,” Sophia said. “He thinks he’s the strike leader.”

“Yep,” Velma said. She turned back to Ella. “He’s the strike leader all right.”

The three of them looked toward the field across the road, where a stage had been erected. Poles had been set into the ground and a man on a ladder was lighting lanterns. Dense woods crouched behind the stage. It looked like a cow pasture that was about to be employed for a tent revival.

“What are you going to sing for us, Ella May?” Velma asked.

Ella looked down at the union leaflet on which she’d written new lyrics.