Forbidden Love (20 page)

He
shrugged,
a look of irritation on his face. "That's up to the workers, Mrs.
Enright
. The responsibility rests with them."

Lisa returned the handkerchief to her purse and prepared to leave this sizzling hot office. Her cotton dress was plastered to her, with no breeze through the open window. She assumed a look of cool insouciance that belied her inner dejection.

"Mr. Frick, I had harbored the hope--a vain hope, I see now–that possibly I could

dissuade
you from the course you seem intent to take. I fear there will be trouble at
Homestead
, for the workers and their families." She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. "But it appears there's nothing to be done."

Scarcely a trace of emotion crossed his rigid features. "No one ever said a strike was inevitable."

"Let us hope not, sir." She rose and smoothed the folds of her dress. "I shall bid you good-day, and I shall surely pray that this strike never materializes."

"That is my wish, also, Mrs.
Enright
," he said as he stood and walked her to the door. "Believe me, I have no desire to see the steelworkers or their families suffer. I'd like to see this dispute settled amicably."

She gave him a long, cool look, accepting his words with a grain of salt, for she considered him a heartless strikebreaker
whose
only thought was company profit. Hadn't Owen said the very same? In spite of her disappointment, she managed a smile as she exchanged final pleasantries with him, anxious to escape his office.

 
Emerging into the bright sunlight of a torrid June day, she mentally scolded herself for her failure to dissuade the man from his course. Yet, how could she have expected otherwise? How naive she was, she realized with a clarity that further dampened her spirits. What in the world had made her think she could change his mind?

* * *

"Strange, isn't it?" Owen remarked to Hugh O'Donnell as they walked home from the mill on a blistering hot summer day. "Frick is trying to break the union, and I can't remember when the open hearth has been so busy."

Hugh nodded.
"Same thing in the rolling mill.
I understand he's pushing to have work completed on the battleship
Maine
." He paused for a few moments as a freight train sped past on its way north to
Pittsburgh
. Then he raised his voice to speak above the clamor. "And as far as what's going to happen after that, your guess is as good as mine. But the entire situation looks rotten. We'll be lucky if we have a job by the end of the month. Let's see what happens by the twenty-fourth, when we must reach an agreement."

After the caboose clattered past, both men crossed the tracks to head for the
Homestead
business district. "That doesn't leave us much time," Hugh muttered.

"You don't need to remind me," Owen said with a grim smile. He indicated all the stores and businesses on
Eighth Avenue
. "Just look, almost all the stores are empty--even
Harrigans
," he said, nodding toward the ice cream parlor across the street. "No one's buying anything. Who wants to spend their money now, when they don't know what will happen from one day to the next?"

"And the saloons.
Never thought I'd see the day when the saloons would be deserted. Everyone's waiting for the blow to fall."

* * *

Anton
Hrajak
waited for Emil
Zeleznik
outside the mill gate in Rankin as the smoke from the mill blanketed the sky and burrowed into his throat. He cursed Emil for the tenth time, wondering why the man could never be on time. Monday, he'd start at the open-hearth department in
Homestead
, and then they wouldn't even see each other.

He congratulated himself for the change from the blast furnace in Rankin to the open-hearth in
Homestead
. He knew it was his past experience in
Slovakia
that had persuaded Owen Cardiff to hire him for the open-hearth. And Mr. Cardiff would be a damn good man to work for, not demanding any more from his workers that he was willing to do himself. Honest, too. Why, he hadn't even had to bribe Mr. Cardiff with $3.00 for his job. And now--

“
Ahoj
.
Sorry I'm late," Emil yelled above the din. "Did you think the blast furnace had exploded?" Clutching their lunch buckets, they headed home, trudging past the track-tangled yards. Whistles screeched and metal clanged on metal, the sounds heightened by the early morning stillness.

"Blast furnace exploded?" Anton shook his head.
"Not funny, Emil.
That
has
happened, you know. I can think of better ways to die."

Anton pulled his wide-brimmed hat lower on his head to protect his eyes from flying cinders. The
sulphur
fumes from the blast furnaces made his eyes water, and he quickened his step, wanting to escape the stench. He remained silent for a long while, immeasurably worried that a strike could come very soon, and his job at the open-hearth might be short-lived. Holy Mary, he prayed, please don't let a strike occur.

Soon, they reached a nameless two-story building where pots and pans and clothes dangled outside, as lifeless and still as the summer air. Basins of water sat outside for the men to wash their hands in after coming home from the mill. The odor of stale urine from the privy wafted in the air, an assault on their nostrils.

"Home," Anton said with a bitter smile. Maybe his new job would help him escape this slum . . . if the union didn't strike.

* * *

In the last week of June, Frick wrote a letter to Robert Pinkerton of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, asking for three-hundred guards as a precaution against interference with his plans to keep the mill open . . . with or without the Amalgamated workers. Within the same week, he made his first menacing move. He had a fence built around the Homestead Steel Works--a dozen feet high, three miles long with three strands of barbed wire stretched on top.

The workers ridiculed the fence:

 
There stands today with great pretense

 
Enclosed within a whitewashed fence

 
A wondrous change of great import

 
The mill transformed into a fort

* * *

The mill stood idle now. Henry Clay Frick had shut the mill down, putting hundreds of men out of work. Owen left O'Brien's Tavern with Hugh one sizzling, humid day after both men had downed a shot of whiskey with several other
Homestead
workers. They headed for home, discussing union strategy as they walked. The railroad tracks glistened like silver in the brilliant sunshine, and he shielded his eyes against the bright light. The air was still and quiet, with scarcely a breeze.

Owen shot his friend a look of grim purpose. "The sooner we challenge Frick the better we'll
be,
every worker among us. Time we showed him, and yeah, Carnegie, too, that they can't push us around. Hell, they can't keep the mill closed for long. They need the money. They need
us
."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Hugh said with a wry smile, "but didn't you say a few months ago that the vice chairman might have some tricks up his sleeve?"

"Maybe I did say that, but now I think it's time we showed him we've got a few tricks, too. Look, we already know he's hired several hundred Pinkerton guards to keep the mill open. Our spies in
New York
and
Chicago
have told us that much. So what are we going to do about it? Lay out the red carpet and greet them with a brass band? Hell, no!

"Listen, Hugh! The
Pinkertons
will arrive any day now. Let's post lookouts all along the Monongahela and blockade all the roads into
Homestead
."

"Good ideas. How about making those suggestions at the union meeting tonight?"

"I intend to," Owen said. "Two can play this game as well as one. It may be the bottom half of the ninth inning, but the game isn't over yet." Nearing Hugh's house, he stopped and clapped him affectionately on the back. "See you tonight."

Owen continued up the steep hill, past the ailanthus trees that glistened with a brilliant green after a recent rain, instead of their usual mill-blighted gray. Perspiration banded his collar and trickled down his back, staining his cotton shirt. He rubbed sweaty palms on his corduroy pants as he agonized again if he'd ever be able to leave the mill for good--assuming the labor dispute could eventually be settled. If he couldn't get out of the steel business--if he couldn't attend
Western
University
to study civil engineering . . . He clenched his fists, reluctant to consider how long the mill might be closed before this dispute was ever settled.

As he reached his house, a stray thought entered his mind, unbidden and unwanted because it caused such pain. Could Lisa be happy here? He cursed himself for such a hopeless thought. She was another man's wife, damn it! And when would he ever realize that Lisa could never be happy married to a steelworker, stuck in a grimy house in a steel town!

He jerked the front door open and strode into his parlor. The house was rich with the aroma of onion soup Emma had left simmering on the stove, but he had no appetite. He slumped into a chair as memories of Lisa overwhelmed him. He recalled all her sweet, lovely traits that made her so dear to him, that made him want to crush her in his arms, take her to bed. How long could he live without her? He had to see her again. Nothing and no one could keep her from him, now or ever. She was his!

* * *

Perched on her desk chair, Lisa looked out from the bedroom window and watched the sky turn from an
orangish
-rose to lavender to tea color as the last of evening slipped away. A few minutes later, Mary came into the room with a long pole to light each gas jet of the chandelier, a time-consuming and laborious task. Always interested in each member of the household staff, Lisa asked about her family while she worked, then bade her good-night after she finished.

Time passed, heavy clouds drifting in front of a gibbous moon. Lisa shifted her position and toyed with her fountain pen, every thought on Owen. What in the world was going to happen in
Homestead
? How would he and all the workers manage now that Frick had closed the mill?
Each day the newspapers carried fresh reports and rumors from
Homestead
, news she read hungrily, always anxious for any news about the mill.

This much she knew--the situation couldn't continue. The steelworkers wouldn't stand for it. They needed their jobs. Rage and resentment had been building up for a long time, about to explode, like the oppressive heat before an electrical storm.

Her thoughts segued to her own dilemma. She couldn't--wouldn't--go on with her life as it was. Something had to change. She could no longer stay in this wretched parody of a marriage. As soon as
Lawrence
returned from
New York
, she'd make arrangements for a divorce. And after that--

The door banged back and William barged into the room, disturbing the peaceful silence on this sultry summer evening. Lisa swallowed hard as she threw him a look of pained disgust.

Hooking his thumb in his vest pocket, he rocked on his heels. "Just think! I'll be away for two weeks." He ran a stubby finger across his mustache. "It's
Denver
this time, my dear . . . mining stocks."

Good riddance
!
Wild, wonderful fantasies rampaged through Lisa's head, every dream centered on Owen. Somehow, she'd see him again--never mind how or where. Now was her chance and she'd make the most of it. Her heart
pounded,
her pulse racing.

"Well, I see the prospect of my absence pleases you." He shook his head in mock sorrow. "And here I thought you'd grieve to see me gone." William eyed her keenly. "Or maybe you've taken a lover, my dear wife. I've heard of upper class ladies who've taken lovers. Not too unusual, actually. Is that what makes you so happy?"