The Last Ballad(34)

“I’ve been working on the words for a few days,” Ella said. “It’s to the tune of ‘Little Mary Phagan.’”

“That’s about the girl getting murdered at the pencil factory,” Sophia said. “But she changed the words.”

“That might not be a good one for a meeting,” Velma said.

“It’s just the melody,” Ella said.

“Look here,” Sophia said. She plucked the leaflet from Ella’s hand, held it up to Velma’s eyes, turned it so that she could see the handwriting on the once-blank paper. “She wrote the words on this side.” She turned it over so that the black print that outlined the union’s demands could be seen. “And I wrote the words on the other.” She looked at Ella. “It’s almost like we’re sisters.”



An hour later Ella stood on the edge of the field, the world around her dark but for the oil lamp that hung above the headquarters’ door.

To the south, a steady stream of people crossed the railroad tracks and made their way up the road from the Loray village. Cars and trucks sat parked along either side of the road in long rows. Men in nice suits with cameras in hand took notes and snapped pictures of the strikers. Exploding flashbulbs cast long shadows that stretched toward the railroad tracks behind them.

“Beal likes a lot of media.” Ella looked to her right, found Velma standing beside her, the woman’s jaw moving as she chewed. She held something wrapped in wax paper. “He says it’s free press, even though nothing’s free about it. Everybody knows the newspaper’s tied up with the mills and the government.” She popped something else into her mouth, balled up the paper, stuffed it into her pocket.

Ella watched Velma chew and swallow, watched her pass the back of her hand across her mouth. A glowing heat in Ella’s stomach signaled its emptiness. She couldn’t remember her last meal.

“Sophia told me there might be something to eat tonight,” she said.

“We eat after the meeting,” Velma said. She cleared her throat, ran her tongue over her front teeth. “People stick around for food. If you feed them first they’ll get their bellies full and go home.”

They watched the crowds gather, watched as more cars and trucks passed and searched for empty places to park. Velma nodded at people as they passed by, smiled, said hello to the ones she knew, kept her silence when newspapermen drew close.

The field began to fill with people. Velma swatted at a mosquito on her arm, looked at the dollop of blood it had left behind. She wiped her hand on her dress and nodded toward the field. “Hard to believe we’re going to fill this whole field with tents that aren’t here yet.”

“When should they get here?” Ella asked.

“I don’t know,” Velma said. “Yesterday? Evictions begin tomorrow at dawn in the village. They’re going to look to us, and I’m going to look to Beal, and I’m going to say, ‘We’re all looking at you, Fred.’”

“Maybe they’ll get here tomorrow.”

“They’re always getting here tomorrow,” Velma said. “Everything’s getting here tomorrow: tents, food, supplies. It’s all getting here tomorrow.” She seemed to catch herself, seemed to want to unsay the things she’d said. She looked down, toed at the gravel with her shoe. “We like to keep things moving during the meetings,” she said. “So, if you hear your name you be ready to get up there and tell your story, sing your song.”

Ella closed her hand around the leaflet in her pocket. It had grown tissue-soft from her sweaty palm. Velma crossed to the other side of the street, disappeared into the crowd. Ella followed. She passed through clouds of cigarette smoke, caught snatches of conversations about the strike, about the next day’s evictions, about the union. She kept moving until she reached the right-hand side of the stage. Three stairs led up to the platform. The moon had risen on the other side of the trees. A form passed through its light, stopped in the middle of the stage, rapped its knuckles on the podium. It was Sophia. She rapped her knuckles again, waited for the crowd to quiet. She welcomed everyone to the meeting.

Ella did her best to focus on the things Sophia said—something about the union’s efforts to reach Gastonia’s young people, about mothers and fathers bringing their children to the meetings, what to do in the morning if you found yourself homeless. She glanced around her, where men and women and a few small children had pressed in close to the stage so they could hear everything being said. Ella noted the man standing to her right. He slid his hands in and out of his pants pockets. He caught her looking at him, nodded at her, and smiled. He reached into his breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes. Ella noted his shaking hands. He pushed his red hair away from his eyes before lighting his cigarette.

The man was young, only in his thirties. He did not have the hardened look about him that the rest of the strikers had. His face was full, pale and soft, almost childish. His navy blue suit was so worn that the material appeared shiny at the knees and elbows.

“Tonight, we’ve got Mr. Carlton Reed, a reporter from the Labor Defender, here with us all the way from New York City,” Sophia said onstage. “And of course we’re going to hear from Mr. Fred Beal himself.” There was clapping, whistles from the audience. Sophia paused, waited for quiet. “But first, we want to remind you that one of the best things about these meetings is the opportunity it offers us to fellowship with one another and welcome new friends. One of those friends is here with us tonight.”