The Tin Horse A Novel - By Janice Steinberg Page 0,65
American union organizer, Patricia, to the barrio east of Boyle Heights to see dressmakers in their homes. The conversations took place in Spanish, which Mollie knew well enough not to need constant translations, so I didn’t always follow. Still, it was impossible not to feel the women’s excitement about the union, along with their terror that if they got involved, they might get fired or worse—some owners had threatened to deport them. And to see Mollie in action! She listened intently to the women, seeming to know just the right tone to take—sober or rousing or indignant—for each one. Sometimes she had to meet a suspicious husband before she could speak to his wife, and a few men refused to let her in; usually, though, Mollie won over the husband, who ended up laughing and joking with her or solemnly nodding and agreeing about la justicia.
It was impossible, too, not to see how badly the women needed help. I knew, of course, that Los Angeles had poor people, but the poorest home I’d ever been in was Danny’s, and even though the two rooms where he and his father lived were shabby and cramped, at the very least the walls stood at right angles, and the building itself looked solid. In the barrio, I entered flimsy shacks that made me think of the house of sticks in “The Three Little Pigs.” The houses were nicer inside, neatly kept and brightened up with pictures of nature scenes or movie stars cut from magazines, and many boasted a single luxury: a radio or a refrigerator. Still, the interiors were stifling on a warm early fall afternoon. And when I asked to use the toilet at one house, a blushing woman had her little boy lead me to an outhouse. Outhouses didn’t sound so awful in Mama’s stories of Romania, but she’d never mentioned the smell or the flies. I thought of trying to hold my pee, but Mollie planned to spend hours in the barrio. And I didn’t want to disappoint her or insult the lady, whose son was waiting for me. Holding my nose, I lowered myself to an inch above the seat and peed as fast as I could.
The following week, I had no trouble hearing Mollie’s alarm clock. I bolted awake every day at five-thirty when she did. Sitting in bed while she dressed, I heard about union members getting fired and the growing number of women joining the union in spite of firings and intimidation. And Mollie was starting to scout around for a building to be strike headquarters, if it came to that.
I wanted to visit the barrio with her again the next Sunday, but she gave Barbara a turn. I had talked excitedly about my experience all week, and Barbara had seemed eager to go, but she came home afterward complaining that she felt ill; she skipped dinner and went to bed with a hot water bottle on her stomach. Later that evening—when Mama and Papa were at a card party and Mollie at a meeting—she came into the kitchen wanting something to eat.
“How was it?” I asked, sitting at the kitchen table with her while she ate beef-barley soup and toast.
“I don’t know. Okay.” She stared into her soup, using her spoon to poke at a shiny blob of fat floating on the top.
“Isn’t Mollie wonderful?”
“Isn’t Mollie wonderful?” she mocked.
I fell silent, stunned by the venom in her voice. And because I always froze when someone confronted me. Especially Barbara.
She said crossly, “We talked to a girl named Teresa. She was only seventeen. She started crying, she was really scared, and Mollie held her. An hour later, I said something about Teresa, and Mollie didn’t know who that was.”
“Well, I guess …” I had noticed the kind of thing Barbara objected to, but I’d also seen that with all of the people Mollie spoke to in a day, she was absolutely present for each one; how could she do that if she was still thinking about the last woman she’d seen, or the dozen before that? Still, even if Barbara hadn’t perceived what I had, it didn’t explain her animus toward our extraordinary cousin. “Are you mad because I got to room with her?” I asked.
“Who says I’m mad?” She took a big, aggressive bite of toast.
“Why don’t we trade next week? I’ll move back in with Audrey.”
“I don’t want to trade.”
“Come on. I’ll promise Mama I’ll be nice to Audrey.”