Dennis Lehane - The Given Day

You’re in the grave, Liam, almost three decades, but I’m still standing strong.

Ellen turned from the stove and saw his bare chest. She averted her gaze and Thomas sighed and rolled his eyes. “Jesus, woman, it’s me. Your husband.”

“Cover yourself, Thomas. The neighbors.”

The neighbors? She barely knew any of them. And, of those she did, most failed to measure up to whatever standards she clung to these days.

Christ, he thought as he went into the bedroom and changed into a fresh shirt and trousers, how did two people vanish from each other’s sight in the same house?

He’d kept a woman once. For about six years, she’d lived in the Parker House and spent his money freely but she’d always greeted him with a drink when he came through the door and she’d looked in his eyes when they talked and even when they made love. Then in the fall of ’09, she’d fallen in love with a bellhop and they left the city to start a new life in Baltimore. Her name was Dee Dee Goodwin, and when he’d placed his head to her bare chest he’d felt he could say anything, close his eyes and be anything.

His wife handed him his tea when he came back into the kitchen and he drank it standing up.

“You’re going back out? On a Saturday?”

He nodded.

“But I thought you’d stay home today. We’d stay home together, Thomas.”

And do what ? he wanted to ask. You’ll talk about the latest news you’ve heard from relatives back in the Old Sod who we haven’t seen in years, and then when I begin to talk, you’ll jump up and start cleaning. And then we’ll have a silent supper and you’ll disappear to your room.

He said, “I’m going to get Joe.”

“But Aiden said—”

“I don’t care what Aiden said. He’s my son. I’m bringing him home.”

“I’ll clean his sheets,” she said.

He nodded and knotted his tie. Outside, the rain had stopped. The house smelled of it and it ticked off the leaves in the backyard, but he could see the sky brightening.

He leaned in and kissed his wife’s cheek. “I’ll be back with our boy.”

She nodded. “You haven’t finished your tea.”

He lifted the cup and drained it. He placed it back on the table. He took his straw boater from the hat rack and placed it on his head.

“You look handsome,” she said.

“And you’re still the prettiest girl ever to come out of County Kerry.”

She gave him a smile and a sad nod.

He was almost out of the kitchen when she called to him.

“Thomas.”

He turned back. “Hmm?”

“Don’t be too hard on the boy.”

He felt his eyes narrow so he compensated with a smile. “I’m just glad he’s safe.”

She nodded and he could see a clear and sudden recognition in her eyes, as if she knew him again, as if they could heal. He held her eyes and broadened his smile and felt hope stir in his chest.

“Just don’t hurt him,” she said brightly and turned back to her teacup.

It was Nora who thwarted him. She raised the window on the fifth floor and called down to him as he stood on the stoop. “He wants to stay here for the night, Mr. Coughlin.”

Thomas felt ridiculous calling up from the stoop as streams of dagos filled the sidewalk and street behind him, the air smelling of shit and rotten fruit and sewage. “I want my son.”

“And I told you, he’s wants to stay here for the night.”

“Let me talk to him.”

She shook her head and he pictured wrenching her out of that window by her hair.

“Nora.”

“I’m going to close the window.”

“I’m a police captain.”

“I know what you are.”

“I can come up.”

“Won’t that be a sight?” she said. “Sure, everyone will be talking about the ruckus you’ll make.”

Oh, she was a righteous cunt, she was.

“Where’s Aiden?”

“A meeting.”

“What kind?”

“What kind do you think?” she said. “Good day, Mr. Coughlin.”

She slammed the window closed.

Thomas walked off the stoop through the throng of reeking dagos and Marty opened the car door for him. Marty came around and got behind the wheel. “Where to now, Captain? Home, is it?”

Thomas shook his head. “Roxbury.”

“Yes, sir. The Oh-Nine, sir?”

Thomas shook his head again. “Intercolonial Hall, Marty.”

Marty came off the clutch and the car lurched and then died. He pumped the gas and started it again. “That’s BSC headquarters, sir.”

“I know right well what it is, Marty. Now hush up and take me there.”

A show of hands,” Danny said, “for any man in this room who’s ever heard us discuss, or even say, the word strike .”

There were over a thousand men in the hall and not one raised his hand.

“So where did the word come from?” Danny said. “How is it suddenly that the papers are hinting that this is our plan?” He looked out at the sea of people and his eyes found Thomas’s in the back of the hall. “Who has the motive to make the entire city think we’re going to strike?”

Several men looked back at Thomas Coughlin. He smiled and waved, and a collective laugh rumbled through the room.

Danny wasn’t laughing, though. Danny was on fire up there. Thomas couldn’t help but feel a great swell of pride as he watched his son on that podium. Danny, as Thomas had always known he would, had found his place in the world as a leader of men. It just wasn’t the battleground Thomas would’ve chosen for him.

“They don’t want to pay us,” Danny said. “They don’t want to feed our families. They don’t want us to be able to provide reasonable shelter or education for our children. And when we complain? Do they treat us like men? Do they negotiate with us? No. They start a whisper campaign to paint us as Communists and subversives. They scare the public into thinking we’ll strike so that if it ever does come to that, they can say, ‘We told you so.’ They ask us to bleed for them, gentlemen, and when we do so, they give us penny bandages and dock our pay a nickel.”

That caused a roar in the hall, and Thomas noted that no one was laughing now.

He looked at his son and thought: check.

“The only way they win,” Danny said, “is if we fall into their traps. If we begin to believe, even for a second, their lies. That we are somehow in error. That asking for basic human rights is somehow subversive. We are paid below the poverty level, gentlemen. Not at it or slightly above it, but below it. They say we can’t form a union or affiliate with the AFL because we are ‘indispensable’ city personnel. But if we’re indispensable, how come they treat us as if we’re not? A streetcar driver, for example, must be twice as indispensable, because he makes twice what we do. He can feed his family and he doesn’t work fifteen days in a row. He doesn’t work seventy-two-hour shifts. He doesn’t get shot at either, last time I checked.”

Now the men laughed, and Danny allowed himself a smile.

“He doesn’t get stabbed or punched or beaten down by hooligans like Carl McClary did last week in Fields Corner. Does he? He doesn’t get shot like Paul Welch did during the May Day riot. He doesn’t risk his life every minute, like we all did in the flu epidemic. Does he?”

The men were shouting, “No!” and pumping their fists.

“We do every dirty job in this city, gentlemen, and we don’t ask for special treatment. We don’t ask for anything but fairness, parity.” Danny looked around the room. “Decency. To be treated as men. Not horses, not dogs. Men.”

The men were quiet now, not a sound in the room, not a cough.

“As you all know, the American Federation of Labor has a long-standing policy of not granting charters to police unions. As you also know, our own Mark Denton has made overtures to Samuel Gompers of the AFL and has been — several times in the last year, I’m afraid — rebuffed.” Danny looked back at Denton sitting on the stage behind him and smiled. He turned back to the men. “Until today.”