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“But people saw it,” Mabel reminded them. “Once they’ve seen the truth, it’s harder to ignore. Small acts of resistance matter!” She found herself looking to Arthur, who stared back at her as if he were just seeing her for the first time, as if she were the only girl in the world. The blush burned all the way to Mabel’s toes.
A shaken Luis arrived late. “Management heard about the newsreel,” he said. “They had the militiamen tear up the camp. They beat some of the miners pretty badly. And they’ve threatened worse.”
Mabel’s misery compounded. Hadn’t the newsreel been her idea? Th
e night before, Mabel had been electric with the joy of accomplishment. Now she couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt more powerless.
“It was still a good idea,” Arthur said, trying to comfort her as the two of them sat in a basement Romanian tavern on Christopher Street, a plate of untouched cabbage rolls between them.
“It was a lousy idea. It didn’t help the miners at all. It just made things worse for them,” Mabel said. How naive she’d been to think that people would be swayed by ideas of right and wrong, by images of hardworking miners and their families trying to survive against the machinery of business. “We’re losing this fight. Jake Marlowe is so powerful. How do you fight back against that kind of power? We’re only five rebels and some striking workers.”
“Today. By tomorrow, who knows how many of us there’ll be?”
“We couldn’t even get people on our side when they could see the conditions for themselves! If they could deny that, then…” Mabel trailed off, her fists clenched on the scarred wooden table.
Arthur lifted her chin with his fingers. As their eyes met, Mabel’s stomach did its flip-flop. How had she not noticed that handsome square jaw before? “Don’t give up hope, Mabel Rose. You anchor me. If you lose hope, well, I might, too.”
A new hope did perch inside Mabel, but it had nothing to do with unions and workers.
By the time Mabel returned home, it was getting late, the lights in the windows of Manhattan blinking on, millions of glowing eyes in the jagged beast of the city. She’d promised Arthur she’d get a good night’s sleep, and the next day, they’d start planning a new resistance.
“Tomorrow,” he’d said, and he made it sound like a battle cry and a love song at the same time.
“Tomorrow,” Mabel had echoed.
When Mabel opened the door to her apartment, her parents were seated on the sofa. They looked worried.
“What is it? Did someone die? Is it Aunt Ruth?”
“No one is dead,” her father assured her. “Your mother and I want to talk to you. I heard from Micah from the IWW. He says that you have been going to the strike at Jake Marlowe’s mine.”
“Doesn’t Micah have better things to do than act like an old gossip?” Mabel grumbled as she perched at one end of the sofa.
“Mabel. Is this true?” her father pressed.
“Yes,” Mabel said, her stomach sinking.
“It’s that riffraff, Arthur Brown. It’s his fault,” Mrs. Rose said, the ghost of her former aristocratic life creeping into her tone. Mabel wished she could tell her mother how much she sounded like Nana Newell just now.
Mabel folded her arms across her chest. “You don’t know him.”
“I know of him. He’s got more passion than sense,” Mabel’s mother snapped. “The last thing we need is Arthur and his hotheaded friends in there making a mess of our efforts.”
“Why? Because they’re not your acolytes? Because it wasn’t your idea to go out to Marlowe’s mine?”
“Mabel Rebecca. Apologize to your mother,” her father warned with rare sternness.
Mabel looked down at her hands in her lap. “Sorry, Mama. But you don’t know the whole story.”
“Mabel, darling.” Mrs. Rose moved closer to Mabel. With both hands, she swept Mabel’s hair back and cradled her daughter’s face with her palms, like she’d done when Mabel was a little girl. Mabel had spent her life running to catch up in the hope that her mother would notice her. But not anymore. She wasn’t living in her mother’s shadow. She’d moved past her. Mabel was the future, and the future was with Arthur and the Six.
“Darling, rules exist for a reason. Even within disobedience, we need order,” her mother said.
“Do we? It seems like all you ever do is fight at these meetings, and change is too slow. Meanwhile, people are starving and freezing in tents! They’re being beaten up by bullies hired by the rich!”
“I appreciate your passion, my shayna, but you must marry passion to purpose and purpose to reason. Change takes time.”
“That’s what you always say, and it feels like we never get anywhere. Papa, Arthur got those people food. And he helped to set up a small school for the children. He even found a doctor to see to some of the pregnant wives. He’s making—we are making a difference.”
