Smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
—Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
There is a woman waiting at the workhouse door when the union men are released. Short and stout. A round face ringed by coiling curls. Bifocals flashing in the sunlight. Easily fifty, she waves a handkerchief coquettishly and calls, “Yoo-hoo! Boys! Over here!”
Michael Sweeney looks behind himself to see if she’s waving at someone else. Before he can decide whether she is confused, she cries, “Hail the conquering heroes, bloodied but unbowed!” then comes near to say, “I’m Ella Bloor, and I’m here to take care of you!” Smiling, she herds them toward two motorized cabs idling in the street behind her. “Let’s get you out of this cold! I have meals and hotel rooms waiting for you in downtown Marquette.”
“Can’t afford it,” Charlie Miller mutters around his broken teeth, balking before she can get him into a taxi. “No money.”
“There is now, dear,” Mrs. Bloor soothes. “You’ve got thirty-six thousand dollars in the bank, donated to Calumet by the General Electric strike fund. And I’m going to use part of that to get a dentist in to see you this afternoon. The goons have made a mess of your smile.”
“Where’s Mrs. Clements?” Mike asks. “Is she all right?”
“You’re the photographer. Mr. Sweeney, am I right?” When he nods, she says, “I’ve seen your work. Is she as beautiful as you’ve portrayed her?”
“Yes,” he says. “And as brave.”
She gazes at him, makes an assessment, and nods. With something approaching pride, she reports, “Her sentence has been extended another two weeks. She is, I am reliably informed, not behaving herself inside.”
* * *
With their bogus debt to society paid, the five union men, along with Moishe Glass’s son Ike, are driven to a clean but simple hotel and led to three rooms on the second floor. Soup and soft rolls are delivered to the rooms while bathtubs are being carried up and filled with hot water, bucket by bucket. A barber arrives to cut their hair and shave them. A doctor comes to check them over, and a while later, a dentist appears. Charlie’s nose and mouth will never be the same. Ben Goggia and Yanko Tersich have half-healed gashes in their scalps. Peter Jedda’s fingers have been broken. Ike Glass’s cheekbone is broken. Still, they’ll all recover, barring infection.
A full meal, quite substantial, awaits them in the dining room when they look and feel more presentable. As the last man lays down his fork, Mrs. Bloor heaves herself off her chair and onto stubby legs. “Back up to your rooms now. Two to a bed, I’m afraid. We need to stretch the dollars,” she says. “Get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning about what comes next.”
* * *
With Charlie Miller snoring away next to him, with his own belly full, feeling warm and safe, at least for the present, Michael Sweeney finally is able to think clearly enough to wonder what Annie’s done to get an extended sentence. The workhouse makes prisoners wash and iron sheets for the hotel trade. Is she leading protests? Organizing a prison laundress union? Maybe even starting a hunger strike, though God knows there’s little enough food given to prisoners under the best of circumstances.
He himself has been ravenous while serving out his time, shoveling snow by hand on public property. On his first morning in Marquette, he was ignorant enough to believe he was lucky to have been arrested in November, when there were only nine hours of daylight in which to work. Shoveling kept him warm until sweat soaked through his woolen underdrawers and shirt. Then the shivering began. By noon, the cold was crippling. Nose running, lips chapped and bleeding, he despaired of his fingers and toes. By the end of the day, he was numb all the way back to his elbows and knees.
And the work itself! Shoveling bent over, lifting and tossing, lifting and tossing, hour after hour after hour. The snow was heavy, and he couldn’t imagine doing this with copper ore. Dear God, he thought over and over, how do the miners stand this for twelve hours a day? At least Annie Clements is inside, he’d think, by way of comforting himself.
It helps now to imagine her standing over a giant vat of steaming water, stirring sheets with a wooden paddle. She’d be tired and hungry, but warm, he thinks as he drifts off between linens she herself might have ironed. . . .
* * *
In the morning, Mrs. Bloor has arranged for a big breakfast, and when they’ve eaten their fill, she presents Ike Glass with a train fare back to Calumet. “The rest of you are coming with me to Lansing,” she informs them. “I’ve spoken to Governor Ferris about negotiating an end to the strike. He’s giving us an appointment on Monday afternoon.”
She listens to their doubts. There is skepticism about the cost of traveling to Lansing. There is no direct rail route from the Upper Peninsula to Lower Michigan. One day there may be a bridge across the Mackinac Straits, but for now, getting to Lansing by train takes days. South, from Marquette to Milwaukee to Chicago. East, around the bottom of Lake Michigan. Then north again to the state capital. And then they’ll have to make the same long trip in reverse to get back to Calumet.
“Yes, I understand,” Mrs. Bloor replies serenely. “Nevertheless, I am quite convinced the journey will be worthwhile and I’m certainly not going to insult the governor of Michigan by refusing his offer. He is, by all accounts, a man capable of moral indignation. I want him to see your faces before the cuts heal and the bruises fade. In any case, the tickets are paid for. Our train leaves in an hour.”
In the end, even Charlie Miller capitulates, his mouth too sore to go on arguing. When they rise from the table, Mike Sweeney hangs back. “What about Mrs. Clements?” he asks again. “How will she get home from the workhouse?”
“I’ve left money with the hotel clerk, and I spoke to the matron about sending Annie here when she gets out.” She aims shrewd blue eyes at him. “Of course, if you were to take a photograph of her at the moment of her release, it would make for a good headline,” she says. “America’s Joan of Arc freed at last from unfair imprisonment!”
“The camera was wrecked, Mrs. Bloor. During the riot. They used the tripod to break Charlie’s face.”
“I’m sure there are camera vendors in Lansing,” Ella says comfortably. “Replacing yours will be a legitimate union expense. When we’re finished in Lansing, I want you to come back to Marquette. I want a picture of Annie in front of the workhouse gates on the front page of every newspaper in the country.”
* * *
Days later, after a night in an inexpensive hotel, barbered, shaved, and wearing cheap but respectable new suits paid for by the unions of Schenectady, the representatives of Local 15, Western Federation of Miners, are promptly ushered into Governor Woodbridge Ferris’s office, along with Ella Bloor. Smiling at them like a proud mother, her round cheeks rosy, she introduces them to the governor, who is visibly shocked by the evidence of the men’s mistreatment. A few minutes’ conversation demonstrates that Charlie Miller’s injuries make it difficult for him to speak clearly, and that Ben Goggia, Yanko Tersich, and Peter Jedda are not entirely fluent in English. During their long journey to Lansing, the four union officials have recognized that Ella Bloor is an experienced and canny negotiator who has a way with politicians. They have agreed before the meeting that they will take a step back when she has steered the conversation to the general manager of Calumet & Hecla.
“You know, Governor Ferris,” she says, “I have heard such unpleasant things about James MacNaughton! It must be difficult for you—a man of genuine importance who must serve all the people of this state—to deal with someone who is so unwilling to compromise.”
“Compromise! James MacNaughton doesn’t know the meaning of that word, Mrs. Bloor. He is, I am sorry to say, utterly impossible to work with. I can barely stand to speak to him,” the governor admits. “And I must tell you, in my opinion, hell will freeze before he gives an inch to the union.”
“Oh, my goodness! So you’ve given up on him? That’s not very Christian of you, Governor,” Ella says, peering over the top of her spectacles. “Surely anyone can be redeemed! Mr. MacNaughton may well be an awful man, but the alternatives to negotiation are not very attractive for any of us. If he is allowed to persist in his intransigence, the result will be a prolonged labor battle that will drag all of Michigan’s economy down!” She leans over her round little belly then to confide, “I have it on good authority that Samuel Gompers is taking an interest in the Copper Country now. That means the American Federation of Labor will take a stand, and that means the copper strike could involve many other industries in the dispute. If labor sees no movement on management’s side, I fear we may be forced to take up an offer from Mr. Clarence Darrow to sue Calumet & Hecla on behalf of the union . . .”
Ferris goes still. “Is that under discussion?”
She looks away, eyelashes fluttering, as though she is dismayed even to bring this up. “It is a possibility,” she warns reluctantly.
After a thoughtful pause, the governor says, “Well . . . while it might be rather entertaining to see Clarence Darrow cross-examine James MacNaughton, I suppose I can send a state’s attorney up to the Copper Country. We can try at least to reopen the negotiations.”
“Oh, that is such good news!” Ella cries, sitting back in her chair and folding her plump little hands in her lap. “I am so very grateful to you, Governor, and I’m sure these good men can tell you what your own representative will need to know about the union’s positions.”
With that, she inclines her head toward the men as if to say, My work here is done. The discussion becomes general and, like the good gray schoolmaster that he is, the governor of Michigan makes a neat list of the miners’ demands and aspirations.
Recognition of the union for collective bargaining.
A decent living wage: three dollars a day for all underground workers—trammers included.
An eight-hour day, five days a week.
Improvements in mine safety—and an end to the one-man drill.
* * *
“That was a bluff, right?” Michael Sweeney asks Mrs. Bloor when the Calumet delegation is in the hallway outside the governor’s office.
“What was, dear?”
“Sam Gompers?” Yanko Tersich asks, brows high.
And Charlie Miller lisps, “Clarenth Darrow?”
With a bright smile, she continues her lively stride down the corridor, and the men follow her out of the building. Standing at the top of the stone staircase, she squints into the hazy outline of the sun behind the clouds, pulls on her gloves, and settles her hat more firmly on her head before she speaks. “Mr. Darrow has indeed made the offer to represent you,” she says. “As for Mr. Gompers . . . well, he is a busy man, of course, and the Western Federation of Miners hasn’t joined the A.F. of L., so—technically—I suppose you could call that a bluff.”
Yanko Tersich laughs. Charlie Miller snorts, and shakes his head, and smiles around his broken teeth; his dentures will take some time to make. Ben Goggia kisses her hand. Peter Jedda tips his hat.
“Mrs. Bloor,” Michael Sweeney says, “I expect you could bring about a visit from Jesus Christ if you put your mind to it.”
She reaches up and puts a fond hand on his cheek. “I’d certainly do my best, dear.”
Their plan now is for the delegation to split up. The union officials will return to Calumet. Mrs. Bloor will travel down to Detroit to speak to some automobile workers about more support for the miners.
“And I have a few things to do here in Lansing,” Mike Sweeney tells the others. “I’ll see you soon.”
There are good-byes and good lucks and handshakes, after which Michael Sweeney and Mrs. Bloor stand side by side, watching the others leave.
“Now, you make sure you get that picture of Annie!” Ella commands, giving him a hug and pressing an envelope into his hand. “This is my own money. Use it to take care of any extras you incur on her behalf.”
* * *
His first stop is a courtesy call on the Lansing home of Major Henry Van Den Broek. The major, it transpires, has kept up with the events in Calumet. Since he retains no warm feelings with respect to James MacNaughton, he is inclined to be helpful to the photographer: one press man to another. A few phone calls later, the major has arranged for Michael Sweeney to do a series of illustrated articles about the Calumet strike for newspapers in Lansing and Detroit. He himself provides the photographer with a small cash advance, to be repaid at some convenient date in the future.
With the major’s money added to what he’s received from Mrs. Bloor, Michael Sweeney goes shopping to replace his camera. It takes some searching, but that afternoon he finds it: a used Sanderson quarter-plate. Hand and stand. Excellent lenses. Exposure times from pneumatic bulb release to one-hundredth of a second. Struts to hold the bellows in a variety of positions. Brass fittings with an integrated case of polished wood. A beautiful thing, just to look at. Better technically than the one he bought with his inheritance from Frances Logan. And there is film stock that can take the cold.
By nightfall, he is on a train again, not willing to wait even one extra night in Lansing before he is on his way to Marquette, and to Annie Clements.
* * *
Mrs. Bloor has distributed liberal tips to Marquette hotel staff, and Michael Sweeney is greeted like a long-lost brother when he checks in. Every morning, he reads a stack of newspapers with his breakfast and then packs up and leaves for the women’s workhouse in time for the day’s prisoner release. With the camera steady on its stand, he sets the exposure and focus for two feet outside the gate, for he intends to frame America’s Joan of Arc with the massive sandstone walls and that medieval-looking door. Shutter release in hand, he stands ready to take a picture that he hopes will make headlines, and considers how to give some scale to the photo. Would it be better to capture her height and strength, or will there be more sympathy if she seems smaller than she is?
Each day, his hopes rise when the workhouse doors creak on their iron hinges. Each day, his heart sinks when he sees only a small, thin woman or two emerge: prostitutes, petty thieves. Working girls, just trying to feed their families, Miss Frances would have said. Each day, the gates close, and he is left to wonder how many times Annie’s sentence can be extended for bad behavior.
He attempts to pry answers from the guards, but they slam the door in his face. Increasingly anxious and angry when he returns the next morning, he has a new plan of action: if Annie doesn’t come out today, he will telegraph Ella Bloor about hiring a lawyer—
Then he sees her. A tall figure in the dark just inside the door, surrounded by a gaggle of girls. He grins and waits, but when he can see her clearly in the thin winter light, his smile fades and he sets aside all thoughts of photography. Drawing back the bellows, snapping the camera into its case, collapsing the stand, he stuffs it all into its canvas carrier, and goes to her.
“Thank you,” he tells the girls who are supporting her. “I’ll take care of her now.”
They glare at him and look to Annie.
“I know him,” she says, her voice raspy. “Go. Thank you.”
There are embraces and murmurs of encouragement—from the girls to the woman, not the other way around. That alone is alarming, and confirms the changes Michael Sweeney sees in a face he has studied in a thousand negatives and a hundred prints. Sparkling brown eyes, dulled and sunken. High round cheeks, hollowed out. In all the months he’s known her, he’s rarely seen her standing still and silent, apart from the moments when she stopped her cheerful, purposeful bustling to decide on her next task. What he recognizes now is not a thoughtful stillness. It is a kind of frightening passivity.
“Where’s Joe?” she asks, her voice husky. “Why isn’t he here?”
“He . . .” Not now, he tells himself. “He couldn’t come.”
She makes a small sound—a little snort of derision that turns white in the dry, cold air. “He went back.”
“That’s what the papers are saying.” He doesn’t tell her about the smug editorials praising a man for not being ruled by his wife. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I thought he would.”
Camera bag in one hand, he grips her arm with the other. He can feel the bone through the wool of her coat. Hunger strike, he thinks. “Did you eat at all?”
“Eventually . . .” she says vaguely. “They make you.” She winces when she swallows, her throat raw from the feeding tubes. “But then I . . .” She starts to cry. “I couldn’t keep it down.”
My God, he thinks. My God. “Ella Bloor has arranged a room for you at a hotel,” he says. “It’s not far from here.”
* * *
He expected her to insist on going straight back to Calumet, straight back to the strikers. He expected an argument about the expense of the room, modest though it is. He has heard all the stories about how prison guards treat women who get above themselves, and yet . . .
Somehow, he expected Annie Clements to emerge defiant and unchanged.
She’s tired, he thinks. She needs to eat. “Food first,” he asks, “or bed?”
She shrugs, an almost invisible movement. So he makes decisions for her. When he has her settled into her room, he goes back down to the front desk and orders a meal. Soup. Tea. A soft roll. Not too much, or she’ll vomit. He waits to carry the tray to the room himself, ashamed that he needs that time to come to grips with her condition.
There is a chair in the corner of her room, so he sits and watches while she eats: methodically at first, then with a kind of rapt attention.
“Who’s dead?” she asks when she is done.
He blinks, not understanding.
“Back in Houghton. Before we came here. You said . . .”
“Mrs. Clements, get some rest first.”
“Who.”
He tells her about the six he is sure of, stumbling over the Slavic and Finnish names. She nods at some, closes her eyes at others. He mentions an Italian-looking immigrant nobody recognized. He leaves one name off the list. There will be time later to break the news about Eva’s brother.
He tells her instead about Ella Bloor. About the money from the Schenectady unions. About the negotiator Governor Ferris will send to the Upper Peninsula to talk to MacNaughton. He’s not sure how much of this is getting through. She is looking at him. He can’t tell if she is seeing him.
Presently, a tarnished bathtub arrives. Copper clad, of course. An irrational wave of hatred sweeps over him, for he knows the price that metal extracts from everyone who gouges it from the earth. Even so, he has it placed behind the dressing screen, and they wait silently while buckets of hot water are delivered, along with towels and soap.
“Mrs. Clements?” he asks. There’s no response. “Annie? The bath is ready.”
When she finally stirs, he says, “I should go . . .”
* * *
“I should go,” she hears Michael say. “Annie? I should go.”
She looks up then and meets his eyes.
“No,” she whispers. “Stay. You should stay.”
* * *
Remember this, she tells herself. It cannot happen again. Remember . . .
That first simple meal. The careful way he undressed her. His silent anger at her discolored body, the bruises now faded to yellow and green. The long, curving lines of her ribs beneath them.
The warmth of the bathwater. The scent of the soap. His hands, washing her filthy hair, rinsing it over and over. The crisp, white cleanliness of the freshly ironed sheets. Sleep that came within seconds. Waking sometime during the night. Seeing him sitting in the corner, watching over her.
In the morning, there is more for her to remember. The softness of his lips. The weight of him. The comfort. The safety.
“This can never happen again,” she says. “My husband will kill us. It can never happen again.”
But it does. It does. It does.
* * *
Later, much later, she will tell him what it was like in the workhouse. How prisoners were forced to work without pay—slave labor, really. How angry she was, how she protested. The punishment cells. How cold they were, how dark. The hunger strike. How the jailer would bring tea and oatmeal in the morning, leaving it there all day, just to taunt her. How she would turn her face away from the food and lie still on a straw mattress, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. Dazed by hunger, then feverish with it, nauseated by emptiness.
It took less than a week to kill any sense that what she was doing could possibly be worthwhile. She was alone. Nobody knew what she was doing. Would this blank, stupid, gnawing misery fill the belly of one miner’s son? Would it keep one daughter off the street, or put food on the table of one family, or bring dignity to one man? In the end, there was nothing left in her mind except darkness and cold and hunger. She hardly knew who she was.
“Don’t be a fool,” someone told her. “Here. Take this crust. No one will know. Don’t swallow. Just hold it in your mouth. Let it in slowly or you’ll throw up.” Who was it? Betty? Beatrice? A matron even? Somebody. Just . . . somebody.
I am not alone, she thought, sucking on that crust, crumb by crumb. Somebody is with me.
And that’s what broke her.
* * *
On their last morning in Marquette, he lies behind her in bed and whispers into her ear, “Run away with me. No one will know. We can just . . . go.”
“I can’t,” she says. “I can’t let everyone down.”
“You’re not the only woman in the Copper Country! Let somebody else carry that damned flag. You’ve done enough. Come away with me.”
She does not answer for a long time. He wonders if she has fallen asleep.