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“We?” Mrs. Rose scoffed. “I see. Did you know he’d been in prison?”
“You mean his brother,” Mabel said.
“No. I mean Arthur.”
It was as if her mother’s words had cut off the oxygen in the room. Why hadn’t Arthur told her? Above all, she didn’t want her mother to suspect that she hadn’t known. “You and Papa know plenty of people who’ve gone to jail!”
“For peaceful protest. Arthur and his brother blew up a factory! A foreman died in that explosion. A man with a family.” Mrs. Rose’s eyes glinted. “This is what comes of reform without rules: chaos. And children without their fathers.”
Mabel’s stomach hurt. Arthur wouldn’t do that. He was so very kind. He’d been looking out for her, protecting her. From the start, he’d taken her seriously, brought her in, respected her ideas. She was sure he’d been waiting for the right moment to tell her about his time in prison. No doubt it was embarrassing for him—why wouldn’t he want to keep it hidden? Mabel would let him know that she was his true friend, that he could trust her. If her parents had meant to dissuade her by blurting out this bit of gossip, they’d miscalculated. If anything, she was even more committed to Arthur and their mission. They were treating her like a child.
“I forbid you from seeing Arthur Brown,” her mother said, as if Mabel had absolutely no say over her own life.
“Isn’t that what your mother said to you when you wanted to marry Papa?” Mabel shot back.
“Mabel!”
“Shayna, we don’t want to see you get hurt,” her father said, the peacemaker again. “If you want to work the picket line, you can volunteer with the IWW or the AFL. They always need help.”
“They’ll have me making coffee. Not on the front lines.”
“The front lines. Do you hear yourself?” her mother said. “As if this were a war!”
“Isn’t it?” Mabel asked.
“Sweetheart—” her father started, but Mabel had had enough.
“You don’t understand! You don’t know me! You only see me the way you want to see me—as another part of you. Well, I’m not you and I am not a child! I am my own person. And I wish you could see me, the true me.”
Mabel stormed from the apartment with no clear idea of where she was headed. She walked to Fifty-seventh Street and boarded the train, and before she knew it, she was running up the back stairs of the Bohemian Reader and pounding at Arthur’s door.
He opened up, rubbing his eyes. “Heya, Mabel. Sorry. I was asleep. What is it?”
“When were you going to tell me about the explosion at the factory? The foreman who died? About the time you spent in jail?”
Arthur chewed at his lip, then opened the door wide. “I suppose you’d better come in.”
Mabel took a seat at the table. Arthur lowered the blinds halfway, then poured Mabel a cup of lukewarm coffee from the percolator and sat across from her.
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know what you’d think of me. I was afraid you’d stop coming around.”
“I…” Mabel didn’t know what to say. The inside of her was at war: He wanted her around; he’d killed a man. There should be no balance between the things weighed in those two scales, but she liked Arthur. She liked him a lot.
“You killed a man,” she said quietly.
“I know. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret that choice. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish that man were still alive. Not one, Mabel.”
His eyes were pained. She believed him. Mabel got up and moved across the room to the safety of the window. “You should have told me,” she said, turning to face him.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“What you did, that was terrorism.”
Arthur’s eyes flashed. “What do you call it when they shoot up our camp with machine guns and terrify the workers? Why does no one hold them accountable? Where are the prisons for them, huh?”
Mabel wanted to say something, but she had no easy answer. It was all so confusing.
Arthur came toward her with his loping boxer’s stride. “You want the truth, then here it is: The time for placards and peace and newsreels is gone. We have a plan. We’re going to sabotage the works at Marlowe’s mine.”
