“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?”
“We’ll do what you have to do when you kill a snake,” Epps said.
“And what’s that?” Richard asked.
“We’ll lop off its head,” Guyon said.
“And what about this woman?” Richard asked. “This singer. A snake with its head cut off can still bite you.”
Epps smiled. “I reckon we’ll just have to cut out its tongue.”
Chapter Eight
Katherine McAdam
Saturday, May 25, 1929
The band had already left the small stage and the guests had just been served their entrees when the ballroom doors were thrown open and Richard walked inside. As soon as she saw him Katherine knew that he’d been drinking. He was accompanied by Hugo Guyon and a fat, ugly man Katherine had never seen before. Guyon and the other man stopped just inside the doors and scanned the ballroom as if searching for available seats.
Richard walked toward the family’s large round table, where Katherine and Claire sat with Paul Lytle and his mother and father. Richard made a grand gesture of stooping to kiss Claire on her cheek, then he moved around to where Katherine sat and kissed her on top of her head. He pulled his napkin from the back of his chair and took a seat. Katherine caught Claire’s eye across the table. It looked as if her daughter was trying to blink back tears.
“Excuse me for stepping out,” Richard said. He didn’t seem to notice that no one had said a word since he’d appeared. The waiters had offered a choice of pheasant or steak, and Katherine had ordered Richard a steak. “This looks delicious,” he said. He reached beneath the table and gave her fingers a discreet squeeze. She hoped her hand felt as lifeless and sick as her heart.
“It certainly does look delicious,” Mrs. Lytle said. She, like Katherine, had ordered the pheasant, and now the woman stared down at her plate and set about picking at her dinner as if she’d never finish it.
“Where have you been?” Claire asked her father from across the table. Beside her, Paul was clearly watching Richard’s plate to gauge when it would be acceptable to cut into his own steak.
“Yes, Mr. McAdam,” Paul’s father said. “We’ve missed you.” He set down his silverware and passed his napkin across his mouth. He took a sip of water. “I thought you might be out there in the rain, trying to fix my car.” He winked at Richard, whose eyes were locked on the table. “I was about to go search for you and show you how to use a wrench.” He laughed.
“No,” Richard said. “Quite the opposite. I was outside, very much hoping to be seen.” He cut a hunk of steak and put it into his mouth. He chewed it slowly, glanced at Katherine, and made a grotesque face meant to show that he couldn’t believe how good the meat tasted. She tried to smile at him, if for no other reason than to keep up appearances in front of the Lytles. Earlier, while Claire and Paul had orbited the ballroom, dancing and greeting guests before dinner, she’d been locked in a dry conversation with Mr. Lytle about the differences between growing rice and cotton, instead of speaking to her friends or spending time with Claire. And then this business with the burned cakes and the things she’d overheard.