“Maybe,” said the widow. “But maybe it ain’t only trouble, Mr. Bonali. Maybe it really is the real end of the world. I know your Pope he don’t like it none, but we been expecting that. See, maybe it’s you all who’s in trouble.”
“If there was any reason for us to think so,” said Ted gently, “would we be here now?” Vince relaxed; somehow you always knew Ted could do the job, could carry the ball — he watched to see it happen. “Mrs. Harlowe, we’re trying to save you from shame and embarrassment. It’s not West Condon we are primarily worried about, or Bruno, or anybody else. We’re worried about you personally. You and your children and your future here with us.”
The widow weakened. She chewed on one reddish finger, stared out the window. A steady rain, now, fell in a tumbling hush on the low roof. “Well, I’ll think about it more. I know I sure do have doubts sometimes, and even when I’m talkin’ with Hank or whoever it is if it’s anybody at all, why, I’m not sure I know what I’m doin’. I’ll sure think about what you say, I promise.”
Vince and the others got up to go. Good work. But Ted remained seated, leaned his big athletic body forward. “Mrs. Harlowe, could you make a decision right now? Could you turn away from these people and join us today, now, on Good Friday, in our efforts to keep West Condon wholesome and Christian?”
The widow hesitated, twisted her thin hands, then started to cry. Vince wanted to pat her on the shoulder, tell her it was okay, let her be, but Ted waved him off. The man sat there calmly and gazed at her. She looked up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I don’t know what to do!” she whimpered.
“Come with us. Now.” Ted wasn’t letting go.
“But the kids—”
“Do you have a phone?”
She nodded, pointed to the small passageway that led to the kitchen. Ted dialed his house, asked his wife to drive over in Tommy’s car, gave the address. Ted and Burt talked to the widow while they waited. Vince suggested he could stay with the kids while they went on to the Widow Cravens’ house, then could catch up with them there. While Ted was still considering that, Mrs. Cavanaugh arrived, smiling, to take over. Handsome woman from upstate that Ted had brought back from college with him.
On the drive around the circle to Wanda’s house, Vince broke out in a cold sweat. Just so she didn’t act too fucking friendly, but he doubted she had enough sense to fake anything. It was bad enough, but with that bastard Johnson along, just itching for comedy — damn! He chewed down hard on his cigar. Mrs. Harlowe snuffled all the way.
“This it, Vince?” Cavanaugh asked, slowing to a stop.
Vince squinted out into the rain. “Can you see the number?”
“This is the place, okay,” Johnson said.
Mrs. Harlowe seemed reluctant to go with them, but Ted hooked one hand under her arm and she had little choice. They found the door open. Wanda would probably ask him why he hadn’t just walked on in. That dumb bitch. Or: why hadn’t he been coming by? Or: we done talked all this out before, Vince hon, what’s the point a goin’ through it agin? Sal knocked. Little Davey came to the door.
“Your mama home?” Sal asked.
The little boy just stood there staring at them. Vince had maneuvered to the rear, but the two guys in front of him for some goddamn reason stepped aside. The kid fixed his gaze on Vince: right on the fly. That goddamn kid was abnormal.
Sal beat on the door again.
“Must be out,” Vince said, and turned as if making to go.
“I don’t know, I think I hear somebody in there.” Probably pulling some pants on. She slouched around in almost nothing most of the time, he’d noticed.
Georgie knocked, shaded his eyes, tried to see in. “Should we just go on in?”
Before Vince or anybody could say no, Chester Johnson jerked open the screen door, pushed past the kid into the house. Almost like he’d been here before, too. Old buddy of Lee’s maybe. Robbins and Cavanaugh edged down off the porch with Widow Harlowe, and Vince followed. Johnson came out. “Ain’t nobody in there ’cept another little kid,” he said.
“Let’s go,” said Cavanaugh. Vince was ready, damn near flew to the car. Oh man! he was glad now he’d been going to Mass! The worst was over. Vince noticed Ted was starting to keep his eye on Johnson. Seemed a little pissed off.
When Widow Harlowe learned that their next call was upon Ben Wosznik, she went white and trembly, said she wasn’t feeling good and wanted to go home. Ted used the old arguments again, but this time they didn’t seem to work. Vince guessed she was scared of old Ben. Maybe what he’d heard about the whips was true. When Ted drove on out of the housing development anyway, and toward the edge of town where Wosznik worked an acre or two, she almost got hysterical. Ted told her she could stay in the car if she wanted to, and finally she calmed down.
Wosznik welcomed them warmly, invited them into his shack to have a hot cup of coffee, get out of the rain. Big heavy-shouldered man, a little stooped now, the still-impressive remains of a powerful though very mild-mannered guy. Vince remembered the man from the days of the union struggles: quiet and easygoing, but one of the toughest bravest bastards in the movement. He could’ve gone places in the union, but always joked that he didn’t have the brains for it.
“Well, what brings you boys around?” he asked, smiling good-naturedly. There was no place to sit down. Just a stove, a table, a rocker, and a cot, and the cot was taken up by a big dog, an old gray German police, who had Wosznik’s sense of aging power, but not his friendliness. Johnson settled into the rocker, while the rest stood. Wosznik put a kettle on for coffee.
“Ben, we just come by, as old friends,” Vince began, “to—”
“Wozz, old buddy,” Johnson cut in from the rocker, “why are you fuckin’ around with them goddamn loonies anyhow?”
Wosznik frowned, looked down at Johnson, then around at each of them. “Well now,” he said, “I don’t like you talking about my friends like that. They’re fine people, kind and sincere, and I don’t think you’ve got any call to come in here and—”
“Mr. Wosznik,” said Ted, calming the scene down, “you’re right. Mr. Johnson was not speaking for the rest of us. Our only hope was that we might, as men, talk this thing over, using the common sense and good will that God gave us to—”
“Well, now as you mention that, Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Ben, “I should tell you that’s exactly why I’m associated with these people. We all thought it was a little funny that you folks should call yourselves a ‘common sense committee,’ when it was just that, common sense, that you was forgetting to use. Now, not one of you has had the common sense to come hear first what Mr. Bruno has to say. Not one of you has had the good will to listen to the other side of the story. Not one of you had the common sense to find out what it was poor Mrs. Norton believed before you went and fired her from the school.”
“Maybe,” said Burt Robbins, talking up for the first time. “But there’s no need to now. We’ve read all about it in the paper. And now you’d just have to be pretty crazy to—”
“Just a minute now, Burt,” Ted interrupted. Robbins’ neck had started to go red, his face to blanch. Vince felt a smug pleasure at Robbins’ comedown. “Well, then, why don’t we talk about it right now, Mr. Wosznik?”
“I’d be glad to, Mr. Cavanaugh, on account of I think—”
“Listen, Ben,” said Johnson, grinning from the rocker. “Let’s not shit around. How many of those broads you been screwin’?”