Now that she’d seen the U.S. Capitol, this one also seemed a little less splendid than it would have. It was built in the same neo-Roman style, but the dome was smaller and narrower, the proportions altogether less grand. Well, so what? Indiana wasn’t Washington, and most of the time that was a good thing.
Dressed in black, she got out of the family Pontiac. Ed sat stolidly behind the wheel, lighting a Chesterfield. This wasn’t his show-it was hers. He mourned their son by himself, within himself. Diana was the one with the fiery conviction that what had happened to Pat shouldn’t happen to any other mother’s son. She was the one who was damn well going to do something about it, too.
She glanced at her watch. It was still a quarter to ten. Of course she’d made sure she got here early. Things wouldn’t start for another forty-five minutes. And when they did…She wasn’t sure what would happen then. You couldn’t be sure till you went and did something.
A man across the street whistled and waved. It wasn’t a wolf whistle-he was trying to get her attention. When she looked up, he called, “Mrs. McGraw?”
“That’s me.” She nodded automatically.
He loped across the street toward her, dodging cars like a half-back. He wore a snap-brim fedora and a sharp suit that didn’t hang well on his pudgy frame. Behind him came a bareheaded guy in his shirtsleeves who carried a big camera. “I’m E. A. Stuart, from the Times,” the man in the lead said. “S-T-U-A-R-T. No W. We talked on the phone. This sounds interesting. Jack here’ll take photos.”
“Hi,” Jack said around the stub of a smelly cigar.
“Pleased to meet you both,” Diana said. “What does the ‘E.A.’ stand for?”
Jack grunted laughter. E. A. Stuart sighed. “You really want to know? Ebenezer Amminadab,” he answered resignedly. “My ma read the Bible too darn much, you want to know what I think. But that’s how come I use E.A.”
“Amminadab,” Diana echoed in wonder, hoping she was pronouncing it right. “Well, now that you mention it, yes. About your mother, I mean.”
“He was the only kid in kindergarten who went by his initials,” Jack said.
“Oh, shut up,” E. A. Stuart told him, and Diana was sure the reporter had heard the joke way too many times before. Stuart turned back to her. “How many people you expect here?”
“Hundreds,” she said, more confidently than she felt. Where were they? She’d made phone calls. She’d sent wires. She’d got answers. No, more: she’d got promises. Satan surely fried people who said they’d do something and then didn’t come through. That wouldn’t do her any good, though. If this fizzles…I’ll try something else, that’s all, she told herself. Quitting never entered her mind.
Another woman wearing mourning got out of a car. The old De Soto drove off. The woman, who shouldered a sign as if it were an M-1, came over to Diana.
So did another reporter. He introduced himself as Chuck Christman, from the Indianapolis News. The photographer he had in tow might have been Jack’s younger brother. The way the newspapermen razzed one another showed they’d been covering the same stories for a long time.
The other woman was Louise Rodgers, from Bloomington. She was about Diana’s age-no big surprise there-and she’d lost a boy to a roadside bomb two weeks after the German surrender. “The papers and the news on the radio just whitewash everything,” she told E. A. Stuart and Chuck Christman.
“We’re here now,” Christman pointed out.
“Months late and how many lives short?” Louise Rodgers said. “Till I heard from Diana, I didn’t think I could do anything about David-that’s my son; no, was my son-except sit around the house and cry all day. But if we can keep other mothers from crying, that’s better.”
“You said it,” Diana agreed. The reporters scribbled.
More women drifted in. Some of them had lost sons after the Nazis allegedly gave up, too. Others hadn’t, but still hated the idea of so many soldiers dying after the war was supposed to be over and victory won. Some men joined them, too-not many, but some. Two were veterans who’d been wounded in France or Germany. Another, older, was like Ed; he’d caught a packet in 1918.
“They called the last one the war to end war. This time, the stupid war can’t even end itself,” he said. The reporters liked that. They both wrote it down.
Diana went back and opened the Pontiac’s rear door. She took her own picket sign off the backseat. BRING OUR BOYS HOME FROM GERMANY NOW! it said. “Come on,” she told the other demonstrators.
Heart thuttering, she led them to the sidewalk in front of the capitol. She’d never done anything like this before. Till Pat got killed, she’d never imagined doing anything like this. Nothing like a kick in the teeth to boot you out of your old routine.
HOW MANY DEAD? one sign asked. TOO MANY DEAD! another answered. WHY ARE THEY STILL THERE? another demanded. ISN’T THE WAR OVER YET? a sign inquired rhetorically. STOP THE WAR DEPARTMENT’S LIES! another said. 1000+ DEAD SINCE SURRENDER! another sign declared. Anybody who carried one without either a question mark or an exclamation point seemed out of place.
Another contingent of picketers came up the street. ILLINOIS MOTHERS SUPPORT BRINGING TROOPS HOME! announced the sign their leader carried. GERMAN OCCUPATION WASTES AMERICAN LIVES! another one said. A decorated veteran carried that sign.
“Good to see you!” Diana called to the Illinoisans. She could hear how relieved she sounded. Well, she’d earned the right, by God. They’d said they would come down. It was an easy train trip from Chicago. But promises were worth their weight in gold. She remembered what she’d thought a little earlier about the Devil and people who didn’t come through.
Now, where were the people from Ohio? They’d promised, too. Which meant…She’d have to see what it meant, or whether it meant anything.
A man driving a battered Model A Ford stopped right in the middle of Capitol Street. The bakery truck behind him almost rearended him, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He leaned out the window and shouted, “Communists! You’re all nothin’ but a bunch of lousy Reds!”
“We’re Americans, that’s what we are!” Diana shouted back. The demonstrators near her cheered. We have to carry flags next time, she thought, and wished she could write that down so she wouldn’t lose it.
“Communists!” the man in the Model A yelled again. He shook his fist at the people on the sidewalk.
The bakery-truck driver leaned on his horn. So did somebody stuck in back of him. The man in the Model A shook his fist once more, maybe at them, maybe at the picketers, maybe at the world. He put the decrepit old car in gear. It wheezed on down the road.
“Well, people are noticing us,” said the woman at the head of the Illinois group. Her name was Edna Somebody-right this minute, Diana couldn’t remember what.
She nodded. “That’s the idea. Now where are those folks from Columbus and Cincinnati? They said they’d be here.”
“Isn’t that them?” Edna Somebody pointed up the street. Lopatynski, that was her name. No wonder I couldn’t come up with it for a second, Diana told herself.
Sure enough, here they came, like the cavalry riding up over a hill in the last reel of a Western serial. OHIO SAYS TOO MANY HAVE DIED FOR NOTHING! their leader’s sign said. THE WAR DEPT. STILL WANTS WAR! declared another. And a haggard woman’s sign poignantly asked, WHAT DID MY ONLY SON DIE FOR?
Another car stopped on Capitol, this one with a screech of brakes. “Traitors!” yelled the man inside. His face was beet red; he all but frothed at the mouth. “They oughta string up the lot of you!”
Diana worked hard to stay calm. She’d feared-no, she’d known-people would shout things like that. She’d done her homework, too. “The Constitution says we can peaceably assemble and petition for a redress of grievances. My son got blown up months after the surrender. Isn’t that a grievance?”