The Cold Millions: A Novel, стр. 94

And how far did this fantasy go? That she would no longer be married and pregnant? That Lem Brand wouldn’t still be rich, that Charlie Filigno wouldn’t be going to prison, that the speaking ban wasn’t still in effect and the IWW still banned? That his brother wasn’t off somewhere being a drunk? That Early Reston wasn’t out there waiting for him? He’d read in the newspaper that since the free speech riots, the number of job agencies had actually grown, from thirty to forty. What good were they doing out here, any of them? Even her?

He thought of Count Tolstoy’s book and how, after the horrific, bloody battle of Borodino, the war just seemed to peter out, ending not in bravery but in retreat—exhaustion and the change of seasons having as much to do with the final Russian victory as any decisive action. Was that just the way of things? Rye found himself wishing he could talk to Gig about it.

But then he remembered: Gig hadn’t read that far into War and Peace. Only he had done that.

He felt disoriented as he stepped out into the brisk February air, the sky above him chalky blue, the wind shaking the bare tree limbs. From the top of the stairs, he could see Gurley down at the curb, surrounded by reporters and well-wishers, people calling, “Gurley!” And a few others calling, “Whore!”—a blur of faces and voices and the trees shaking and then she was eased into a long automobile by good Fred Moore, the lawyer calming the crowd: “That’s enough! No more questions!”

But right before she slid into the car, Gurley happened to glance up, and she must’ve seen Rye on the courthouse steps, because she smiled just a little and raised her hand to wave—

Or did she?

He could never be sure, because then Fred Moore climbed in the car and it pulled away, stopped for a man crossing the street, and sped off.

Standing there, alone on the courthouse steps, Rye thought that history was like a parade. When you were inside it, nothing else mattered. You could hardly believe the noise—the marching and juggling and playing of horns. But most people were not in the parade. They experienced it from the sidewalk, from the street, watched it pass, and when it was on to the next place, they had nothing to do but go back to their quiet lives.

On the wide marble steps, someone bumped Rye and he moved down the staircase to the sidewalk. On the lawn in front of the courthouse, the crowd lingered, argued, made cases to people who couldn’t hear a word the other side said. Rye looked east to the big clock tower above the train depot. It was eleven-twenty, ten minutes before he was to meet Early Reston and give him the money in his coat.

Newsboys were already selling extra one-sheets from the Chronicle, and Rye bought one for a nickel, amazed at the speed of news nowadays. The verdict had been less than an hour ago, and here he was, holding a story about it in his hands. He walked away from the courthouse with the paper, leaned against a tree, and read the coverage of his friend’s trial. There were three big headlines: IWW GETS DOUBLE DEFEAT! and IRISH REBEL GIRL CUT LOOSE! and ITALIAN AGITATOR TO PRISON!

“The IWW has this day been twice defeated,” the writer opined. “By the conviction of the violent labor leader Mr. Filigno, the power of the law and the action of civil authorities is upheld. By the acquittal of pitiable Mrs. Jones, the organization loses its most delightful chance to coax money and sympathy from people in remote parts of the nation.”

But it was the last line of the story that Rye knew would infuriate Gurley, and which made him go red with anger, too. “May it be hoped that Mr. Jones now will come from Montana and take his wife back to enjoy the beautiful home life which it should be every American woman’s privilege to enjoy.”

Rye looked around. The crowd was still here on the lawn in front of the courthouse steps. He thought about that line—the beautiful home life which it should be every American woman’s privilege to enjoy. He thought of his mother, of Mrs. Ricci, of Ursula the Great. Then he turned to the back page of the special edition. It was filled with advertisements. So many companies had wanted to be part of this. Soap and pocket watches and corsets and combs and potatoes and writing desks and fine linens and Remnants! Remnants! Remnants! and one particular ad that caught his attention and seemed somehow as important as the news story on the other side: “SKILLED DENTISTS, CROWNS, PLATES, AND BRIDGEWORK, $5 EACH, EXTRACTION, 50 CENTS.”

So, it was ten times harder and more expensive to fix things than it was to extract them, to just take them out—this seemed like some philosophical truth that even Count Tolstoy would have to admit.

Rye folded up the newspaper, put it under his arm, and looked up.

A Model T was idling on the street across from him. Early Reston was in the passenger seat. And his brother was on the driver’s side. Rye’s first thought: When did he learn to drive a car?

“Gig?” He took a step toward the Model T.

But the car lurched out of its parking spot into the street. It turned a tight circle, then slowed for a moment, the passenger door flew open, but no one got out, and the car sped up, veering away from Rye and the courthouse. It looked like Gig and Early were fighting inside the cab.

The car swerved wildly as it sped away from Rye. It barely missed hitting a light pole, then a buggy, and then the car veered straight down Madison Street, the open passenger door flapping like a broken wing, back toward the web of railroad tracks, and just beyond them, the river gorge.