The Last Ballad(67)

“But, McAdam, we need a little something more from men of your station, of your prominence in the community,” Guyon said. “I’m not talking about anything grand or overly complicated here.”

Epps took another swig from the flask and nodded in agreement. He passed it to Richard. He took a long drink and returned the flask to Epps.

“Just a few men,” Epps said. “If you can spare them. Just a few men who’ll lend us a hand keeping order around the village.”

Guyon looked at Epps as if he’d said something he shouldn’t have.

“We’re not talking about violence here,” Guyon said.

Epps looked incredulous. “Of course not,” he said. Richard realized that his head was too foggy and warm with whiskey to know whether or not Epps’s reaction was some sort of act. “Of course not,” Epps said again. “No violence.”

“Just a friendly presence,” Guyon said. “A good show of good people—mill people—to let the Reds know they’re outnumbered.”

“I’ll talk to my supervisors on Monday,” Richard said. “I’ll see if we can spare any men. Of course, it can’t cut into production.”

“No,” Guyon said. “You can’t lose money on this.”

“Money’s what this whole thing’s about,” Epps said. “No need for anyone to lose money.”

“And only contribute any funds you feel comfortable contributing,” Guyon said. “You may have seen a few of the ads placed in the Transom by the Council of Concerned Citizens of Gaston County.” He smiled, raised his eyebrows. “Those don’t come free, or even cheap.”

“One hundred sixty dollars or fifty cents an inch,” Epps said.

“The same price as anyone else,” Guyon said. “It’s costly, but it’s important that we disseminate the truth about these Bolshevists. The thing is that half these millhands wouldn’t know a damn communist from a cockroach if it weren’t for people like Fred Beal.”

“That’s right,” Epps said. “Most of them didn’t know a thing about unions before Beal.”

“Take this Ella May Wiggins woman, for instance,” Guyon said. “The one who accosted Senator Overman.”

“Claire said something about her being a singer,” Richard said. Epps laughed, took a swig from the flask, and passed it to Richard. Richard took another drink.

“She’s a linthead that can carry a tune,” Epps said. “But she’s no professional singer. That’s fake news one of the papers started. She’s no better than the rest of them.”

“She works at American in Bessemer City,” Guyon said. “It’s a nigger mill, and she’s trying to organize them there. She’s trying to get niggers to join the union.”

“And that’s what the Reds want,” Epps said. “They want niggers working alongside whites. Want them competing for the same jobs.”

“We’ve got a couple of men inside the union,” Guyon said. “Word is that the local strikers don’t want to be integrated, but the union in New York is pushing back, sending down a colored organizer next week. Going to try to rally colored workers from other mills to join the strike.”

Epps took a drink. “If he comes to Gastonia, it’ll be the last trip south that nigger ever makes,” he said. He passed the flask to Richard.

“But take this woman,” Guyon said, “this Ella May Wiggins. She gets up there onstage during the meetings and works them up and sings hillbilly songs and colored music and all kind of filth. And the whole time you know she wouldn’t have a thought in her head if it weren’t for Beal. He’s the brains of this whole thing. These hillbillies wouldn’t be picketing or marching or striking if he hadn’t shown them how to do it.”

“She’s got a whole brood of kids who live with niggers over in Bessemer City,” Epps said. “Something like ten little kids, all of them bastards.”

“She’s not the virtuous kind,” Guyon said. He nodded toward the clubhouse. “Not like these fine women here tonight.”

“No, she ain’t virtuous,” Epps said. “She’s loose. The kind of woman who’ll let a man get away with anything. Just a nasty woman.”

“That’s a shame for children to live that way,” Richard said.

“But she gets up onstage and talks about how her boy died because of the mills,” Guyon said.

“As if the mills kill people,” Richard said.

“Kid’s better off dead,” Epps said. “She’s got too many. Wouldn’t hurt if another two or three of them said good night.”

“At least he’s out of his misery,” Richard said. “Sounds like she couldn’t take care of him.”

“She doesn’t take care of the ones that are still living,” Guyon said. “Instead she gets up onstage and sings and runs wild with communists. She might be at home with those babies if it weren’t for the union. It’s all Beal’s doing.”

“And what can you do about him?” Richard asked. He was still holding the flask, but when he turned his hands out to question Guyon, it slipped from his grasp and fell to the grass. He bent down and the world seemed to move with him. He felt around the damp earth, unsure of how many drinks he’d taken, relieved to find that the cap was still on the flask once his fingers closed around it. He stood, removed the cap, and took another drink, felt the last of the whiskey trickle into his mouth. He passed it to Epps, who gave it a shake to assure himself of its emptiness before slipping it back into his coat pocket. “You really think some newspaper articles are going to scare these communists?” Richard said. “Or change the strikers’ minds?”