The Last Ballad(61)

“That’s what we’re doing,” Cloninger said. He looked at Guyon and smiled. “Luring folks like you across the Mason-Dixon just like the good man down in Atlanta suggested we do.” He turned from Guyon and roundly toasted the group with a metal shot glass filled with whiskey. “Out-Yankeeing the Yankee, by God. It’s just like the war never happened.”

The men had all laughed at the joke, even Guyon, and they’d passed around a jug and refilled their cups. Guyon cleared his throat.

“It’s true,” Guyon said. “We were lured across the Mason-Dixon. It’s like Bull Run all over again.” The men laughed. “But I can tell you it’s going to be pretty damn hard for you sons of bitches to out-Yankee the Yankee when you’re trying to do it with the Yankee’s dollar.” He shot a look at Cloninger and then raised his glass. The room was silent for a moment, and then a fat man named Duke Jeffords, who’d been drunk for three days and who’d never liked Cloninger anyway, burst into laughter. The room erupted right along with him.

By Tuesday evening, the men had all turned their taunts toward Richard, who was the only man aside from Father Gregory who had yet to squeeze off a shot. He didn’t have the heart or the will or the patience to explain that he’d done enough shooting and killing in Europe to spend the rest of his life not wanting to do either, and so the next day he separated himself from his party and blasted two rounds into the woods about a mile from camp. That night, Cloninger used a Case knife to cut Richard’s shirttail before pinning it to the wall, where it remained until they caught the ferry back to Savannah on Saturday morning.

Standing on the bottom deck of the Clivedon where it had docked at the Jenkins Island Landing, Richard fished the cut shirt from his bag and looked inside its collar, where Katherine had asked her seamstress to sew a silken tag with his name embroidered on it in fancy cursive letters. He knew she would discover that the shirt had been damaged, and he knew she would ask why. It would be easier just to tell her that he’d left it behind by accident. He tossed it into the black water and watched it sink. He’d left the shirt buttoned, and as it filled with water it took on the shape of a man, its body expanding as if a rib cage bloomed beneath the fabric, its arms reaching up toward the surface like it was afraid of disappearing.

The club’s front door opened behind him, and Richard turned and saw Katherine crane her long, elegant neck onto the porch. Her eyes found his. She smiled, but Richard knew it to be a smile that showed just how weary she’d grown of him.

“There you are,” she said.

“Yes,” Richard said. He dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe. “Here I am.”

“They’re looking for you,” Katherine said.

“Who?”

“They,” she said. “The party. Claire and Paul. Our friends. Me. Everyone.” She stepped onto the porch and let the door close quietly behind her. She wore a beautiful gown of pale blue sequins that made him perfectly aware that on nights like this, Katherine appeared much younger than him and could easily pass for Claire’s older sister.

She looked toward the darkness over his shoulder and folded her arms across her chest as if she were cold, then she smiled again. She reached for him, and he let her take his hand.

“I was just telling Ingle’s girls about the Lytles’ run-in with the strikers down at Loray,” he said. He shivered ironically as if the story induced real fear.

“Richard!” Katherine said. She let go of his hand and pretended to swat at it as if scolding him. “The Lytles were simply curious, that’s all. They’re fine people.”

“Perhaps so, but no matter how fine they are, they’re still going back to Wilmington with a very skewed idea of life here in Gaston County.”

“Well,” Katherine said. She crossed her arms again. “I say, ‘Let them go, Richard.’”

“It just dawned on me that Claire must have mentioned the strikers in Washington. Paul’s father’s going to think this thing has made it all the way to the halls of Congress, which, apparently, it has.”

“Let them think what they will, Richard. I don’t understand why it bothers you.”

“It bothers me because our people do not behave that way, Kate, and the Lytles are going to paint mill people with a very broad brush, and it’s not fair. Keep in mind that we’re mill people too, but we’d never have a problem like this. We have good people. Satisfied people. Let the Bolshevists and communists and socialists come to McAdamville. They’ll all go back to New York disappointed.”

“Come back to the party, Richard,” she said. She moved toward him, stopped, came closer, and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. “Don’t worry about the Lytles, Richard, not tonight. Please.”

“I’ll be in in a moment, Kate. I promise. I’ll wait for Guyon for just a few more minutes, but I’ll be in.”

Katherine sighed. She turned and looked at the closed front door, perhaps thought of the party that was going on inside. She looked at Richard again.

“Did you talk with Ingle about Grace’s schooling?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I will. I promise.”

“She’s a fine girl, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” he said. “She always has been.”