The man and the woman ceased their nearly hysterical laughter and watched neutrally as Charles made his speech. Vera looked thoroughly disoriented. The old Wobbly took her by the hand and started to lead her out the door. The man behind the bar repeated his wish for generalized good luck, this time without the irony and snickering. The woman looked at Charles, because he had picked the bottle up again and was drinking from it as if it were a teacup, pinky extended. He told her she was right, he wasn’t finished, that the main thing for an actor to do was be clear in his action. The audience had to know why he was doing what he was doing.
He said, “It’s really true that I am a rich young man from San Francisco who is doing special work for the government because it seems like that’s what a guy whose Father once thought he might be president someday ought to be doing — until a proper outfit is located for me. over there.”
He sang the last words and repeated them. “And it’s also true that Ray John works with me, for a group you know very well, the Minnesota Commission of Public Safety. It’s true that Daisy, who isn’t here, is on a speaking tour on behalf of the Nonpartisan League, and that Vera, over there — where’d she go, is she gone.? — is going along with her because it appears the NPL was just going to, you know, let Daisy do her thing and hope for the best. And it’s true that the IWW is aiding and abetting her because she’s kinda like the only card they got to play right now, up in this game anyway, if I understand correctly — and please understand that I myself am not a Wobbly. No ma’am. No sir. My brother is chief of staff for the governor of California, and my other brother ran the goddamn Bull Moose campaign in that state. My father was nicknamed “The Regenerator” when he and some likeminded fellows tried to clean up the graft in San Francisco. He ran afoul, as we all do eventually, of the railroad people — And here now is where it gets complicated because I can no longer speak of things I know to be true, only things I suspect to be true: I think the MCPS gang knows that I have been living with Vera. I’m not sure if they think it’s because I’m in love with her or because I’m in league with her. I can tell you folks it because I’m in love with her,” he whispered. “I also think they know that Ray John here is an old specialist in dirty work who has come out of his narcotics-addicted retirement in Chicago at the behest of old friends in the IWW, the Chicago Wobblies now, not the Detroit Wobblies. At their behest because they know he is a tried-and-true daredevil who will gladly sacrifice his life to keep Vera safe. They thought they were slipping me into the MCPS via the usual kind of ridiculous deal-making that goes on all the time, the Socialist mayor of Minneapolis demanding that the MCPS, you know, open itself up and be a real governmental operation, not a secret one. But the MCPS boys didn’t believe that for a second. They suddenly, and without really planning such a thing or even dreaming of it, had me and Vera riding in the same train together, regrouping after the San Francisco Preparedness Day Parade and Minot Theater bombings, knowing there would be fireworks and hoping, thinking on their feet, that they could do a very great favor for some real friends of theirs, railroad men out west. Fellow by the name of Durwood Keogh: My father caused his uncle — to whom he was devotedly close! Never were uncle and nephew so spiritually matched! — to flee the country. My father was so hated by the United Railroad men that they tried to kill him in court. And yet here in what they persist in calling the Great Northwest but which they’re going to have to start calling the Great Midwest a Minot is a railroad man! I’m repeating myself, I’m so excited. The Western railroad men hired some idiot to waltz into court with a six-gun and fire a few rounds! And they so loathe and detest the spirit of progressive reform, of Christian soldiers, of honest devotion to the commonwealth, of temperate and wise men of business — of the principles of an enlightened and democratic — excuse me, a Platonic republic, of higher good, of common good, of decency, of compassion — that the idea of a Minot running not just a railroad but the country drives them to murder. Relentless, remorseless murder. Smart thing for me to do would be to take my beloved Vera and get the hell out of Dodge, wait for things to blow over, and then be a decent chap and citizen, or say to hell with it all and move to Alexandria. Not the one here! The one in Egypt! But I’m not smart. I’m a daredevil. I’m an anarchist. Not like you hear about in the news, but like this: if no one is ruling, all are ruling. I can’t obey and I can’t command. I see things as they are, too clearly, for any of that.”
Once they got Charles outside, he wrenched himself free of Joe the Young Wobbly’s grip and said, “Forgot to pay.” He went back inside and slammed a dollar on the bar, took the bottle, and stalked out.
A letter from Alexander was waiting for him at the Detroit Lakes Hotel.
“Dearest brother, this is the saddest moment of my life. I am sobbing my eyes out every time I try to write another word. I was able to speak by telephone to Andrew and Amelia and Tom and Gus and Tony. Or rather, spoke to Andrew, who spoke to the others, as I was unable to speak once I told him what had happened. The telephone is such a strange machine: I spoke calmly and coolly, like the diplomat I truly am, not believing it was Andrew on the other end, not believing, somehow, that anyone was really there, that it was some kind of trick. But when he started to talk, I could hear his confusion and anguish, I could hear my brother, and I broke down. Couldn’t go on. Mother does not know, as everyone agrees that a telegram will not do in these wretched circumstances.”
Mother, thought Charles, most certainly knows. What in the world is Al going on about?
“Everywhere I go,” Alexander’s letter continued, “everything I do, I think of him. I see him. I don’t mean I see a ghost. I see with something other than my eyes. But I see. It’s not memory, and it’s not imagination, and it’s not a ghost. I don’t understand, dear brother, I just do not understand. I have lived a good life. I am a strong, capable, intelligent, resourceful, sympathetic man. And I became that man largely because that was the kind of man Father was. I never lose my temper but everyone knows that the metaphorical revolvers I wear strapped to my hips are loaded and if I draw them I shoot them and if I shoot them I hit what I’m aiming at. I learned that from Father — and there! I managed that highly ironic statement not with tears but with laughter! Ha! I feel nearly as hysterical as Amelia! And let me tell you, Chick, I understand all that so-called hysteria that we heaped at poor Amelia’s feet. She just saw all this sooner than we did. In your way too: you saw this coming. I spent a lot of time being angry at you and embarrassed by Amelia because you, I don’t know, you didn’t seem to think we had any right to be who we were, as a family, as people, as a particularly powerful and interesting group of people and as solid individuals. We are — we were — cool-headed and clean-handed people. We loved beauty and we understood the ugliness of politics. We loved God and worked to make the world a better place! We were Ideal Citizens! Why do I feel so ashamed when I write those words now? Why couldn’t we take some pride in how handsome we looked in the trappings of wealth and power that God gave us and of which we were, merely and happily and always, the modest stewards? Why did we have to renounce ordinary human friendships — all of us, even you! Surely we had the right to the consciousness of our gifts, our capacities, our skills, our wills? You will forgive me, Chick old man, for going on like this, because this is something like the conversation Father and I were having the day before he was to get on the train to come to you — the night, rather. It was a conversation that went deep into the night, long after men like he and I should have been in bed, sleeping soundly. He was uncharacteristically ironic about his role as a Regenerator: I shoveled Chinatown into the bay because the Chinese were nothing but garbage to me. I put a Jew in prison because Jews aren’t Christians. When TR was shot in Michigan I gave not a thought to murder and the insanity that drives people to it but condemned labor unions instead. I imagined that if he’d been in California, Andrew would have been standing next to him and might have taken the bullet for him and I am the basest of hypocrites not simply because I blamed labor unions for this danger but because I knew, I have known all along, that Andrew could not have been easily and swiftly replaced. And if I make it to Minnesota I am going to beg Charles to do anything but go to the front because a war is no place for a Christian and I want him to live a long and happy life.”