The Cold Millions: A Novel, стр. 26
“Mr. Dolan! Mr. Moore!” she said. “Please, come in.”
They did, Moore first, then Rye. The union men took a step back, repelled by his appearance, just as Gurley Flynn must have hoped. As for the Rebel Girl, she greeted Rye’s lawyer, then took both of Rye’s hands like he was her oldest-dearest, her white skin creamy against his rough, scarred mitts.
She spun and presented him. “Gentlemen, I trust you know the young hero of our movement, Mr. Ryan Dolan, only this morning released from jail. Ryan, these men are union leaders with the AFL and WFM—carpenters, metal workers, and miners—our allies in this struggle.” She leaned on that word, then gestured toward Rye’s lawyer. “You know our brilliant young attorney, Mr. Moore.” She let go of Rye’s hands and had him sit on the sofa next to her. She smiled as if this were a garden party she’d organized. “These giants of labor were just explaining to me that the people of Spokane would be scandalized to find out that engaging in sexual congress with one’s husband occasionally results in pregnancy.”
Rye felt like a firecracker had gone off in the room. One of the men gasped. Another snapped: “Mrs. Jones! We are simply asking for some decency! That you not make a spectacle of yourself and that you let others do the public speaking.”
“Others?” she said. “What others would you suggest?”
“Elizabeth—” Charlie Filigno said.
But she wouldn’t even look at Charlie, her intense dark eyes sweeping the room, challenging. “My entire membership is caged, living on bread and water,” she said. “To whom should I turn for this public speaking, Mr. Bennett?”
That’s when the oldest of the union men, a big mottled man with reddish-gray hair, stepped forward: “Enough, Mrs. Jones!” The way the other men deferred to him, Rye figured him to be the biggest labor boss. “I’m not your father, but I will speak to you like a child if you continue to act like one. You ask our union’s support and then you speak to us in such coarse language? While brashly promoting yourself as Gurley-Flynn in the newspapers?” His face kept reddening. “Maybe that’s acceptable in New York City, but here, for a married woman, it is unseemly and wrong—”
Her face flushed as well. “Mr. Cawley—”
But the red-faced man would not be quieted. “I worked alongside your husband in Butte, and I know for a fact Jack was against you taking this trip! And yet here you are, with child, run off from a devoted husband, sullying your reputation and that of every workingman in the west!”
Gurley Flynn drew her lips tight. “My apologies if I offend you, Mr. Cawley, but I use my maiden name because Elizabeth Jones is unknown as a speaker, whereas Elizabeth Gurley Flynn is a name whose reputation I burnished—”
Cawley interrupted again. “Your reputation is what we are here to protect!”
Again she interrupted her interrupter: “—whose reputation I burnished from New York to Chicago to Missoula to Spokane—”
Oh, but that got even further under the skin of the union man, and he took two steps toward her, his face going scarlet to the mottled line of his hair. “Enough! You ask for our support—now listen!”
Gurley gripped Rye’s arm. She was shaking.
The man held out a copy of the Industrial Worker. “Your first article, you call Judge Mann ‘a known bottle-tipper’ and ‘a lackey of the parasites!’ You call the Spokane police ‘hired thugs’ and ‘half-witted Hiberians.’ ”
Gurley half-smiled. “Too alliterative, Mr. Cawley?”
“Too far, Mrs. Jones! You go too far! You go too far confusing the cause of labor with that of socialism and suffrage, the Negro and Indian, and you go too far now!” He crumpled the newspaper. “My union is committed to higher wages, not a goddamn revolution! In fact, I’m not sure this outfit of yours is a union,” he continued, “and not a menagerie! Every day the Spokesman runs the names of foreign savages you trot onto soapboxes!”
“Listen—” she said quietly.
“No, you listen!” He took another step forward, until he was right above her. “From now on, you will use your married name! And if Jack doesn’t join you here soon, I will put you on a train back to Montana myself! While you’re in Spokane, you will stay off the soapbox, off the street, and indoors at all times—”
She smiled. “So, I am not free to speak about free speech?”
But Cawley was not done. “You may deliver speeches at women’s clubs, but if I hear you have been on a single street corner addressing men, or using your maiden name, I will pull my union’s support. You will travel at all times with an escort, and if you publish anything in that red rag of yours, it will be respectful, and it will be under the name Mrs. Jack Jones. Do you understand?”
Gurley glanced around at the other men but found no allies. Even Filigno was looking at his shoes.
Cawley finally took a step back and sighed, his anger having run its course. He ran his hand through his thin hair and put his hat back on. “Mrs. Jones, I don’t care if you get a nickel out of every Negro hoe-boy and half-breed Celestial whore in the state, but I will not ask God-fearing American unionists to line up behind a pregnant wayward wife.”
The air was gone from the room.
“Gentlemen, can we—” Charlie Filigno began.
Gurley sprang up and smiled broadly. “Good point, Charlie. Let’s thank these gentlemen for their support and get back to work.” She turned to the mottled man. “Mr. Cawley, I assure you, my husband will be in Spokane soon. In the meantime, I will travel at all times with an escort. In fact—” She turned to Rye. “Mr. Dolan will accompany me and speak about his mistreatment.”
The men all looked at Rye. “He’s a boy,” one of them said.
“He is a