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“Oh.”
“But it was like moving rocks. You could barely budge them.”
“What kind of protest?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to talk it out. In fact, I shouldn’t have used that word ‘protest.’ That was one of my mistakes. I mentioned it to Jack Forrester—you know, the Lutheran minister—and I suggested that the square would be a good place for a rally. And you know what he said? ‘We don’t want any of that ban-the-bomb stuff here. That won’t go over in this town.’ Can you believe it? You just mention the word ‘protest,’ and he immediately gets visions of people marching around with placards. He’d probably seen a picture in the papers once or something on TV.”
“So nobody wanted to do it?”
“Everybody had an excuse. ‘Let’s wait a bit.’ ‘We don’t know enough.’ ‘It’ll just make the owners mad.’ At least Wallenback was straightforward about it. ‘A minister should concern himself with spiritual issues,’ he said, ‘not these day-to-day events.’ ”
At hearing him say “Wallenback,” I felt a flash of warmth, like a sudden spot of sunlight on my cheek: Three days ago, he would have said “Reverend Wallenback” in front of me.
“But day-to-day events!” Reverend Vaughn went on. “How can you call the closing of the largest employer in town a day-to-day event? And the thing that’s amazing is that Wallenback must have dozens of families in his church who work at the factory. I mean, that’s not a wealthy congregation. Those are working-class people. Wallenback himself could be out of a job if enough people have to leave town.”
“Did you talk to Mayor Krullke?” I asked.
“Huh? Krullke’s a joke. If the owners of the KTD saw who was supposed to be running this town, they’d probably pack up tomorrow and be glad they got out when they did.”
Sidney Krullke owns a tire store outside of town, near the new Montgomery Ward’s. I know him slightly from the country club.
“No, Krullke’s no good,” Reverend Vaughn continued. “I tried Harry Childs, though. He’s on the council, and he’s in our church, but he wasn’t any help. He sounded as if he hardly knew what was going on. He’s a businessman, pretty successful. I don’t think factory workers are really his constituency. So that’s why I want to talk to this guy Johnston. At least he used to work there.”
We came to Jefferson Street, in the heart of New Town, and turned left. The street was deserted. The flat, patchy lawns baked silently under the hazy afternoon sun. Reverend Vaughn consulted an address he’d jotted on a piece of paper and turned to follow the walk leading to a trim, two-story white house tucked under the branches of a healthy-looking elm. The Cunningham house. I held back for a moment, pausing on the sidewalk. The Cunninghams had long since moved away, but when I was about five, an upstairs bedroom had burned, killing the family’s twin boys. They were younger than I, maybe two or three years old at the time, and I remember seeing their mother wheeling them, side by side, in a double stroller that looked incredibly big, as wide as a porch swing. After the fire, someone had taken me past the house. I don’t remember who it was—I can’t believe it was Bunny, it must have been one of her boyfriends. The fire had come in the winter, and, in my memory, the elm is prickly and gray, but the house looks just as it does today, except for a border of smudged black soot around one upstairs window. It looked as if you could take a damp cloth and a container of Bon Ami and wipe the smudge away. Then it would be as if nothing had ever happened.
“What’s the matter?” asked Reverend Vaughn.
“I didn’t know Mr. Johnston lived here.” I said.
He consulted the piece of paper again. “Two-twenty-two. That’s what he told me.”
/> I hurried to catch up. No reason to mention the Cunningham twins. I didn’t want him to think I was morbid.
Mr. Johnston came to the door wearing a raggedy brown bathrobe over a pair of brown pants. His thinning gray hair was disheveled, and he looked as if he’d just got up from a nap.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, when Reverend Vaughn introduced himself. “Come in.”
“And this is my friend, Martha Calhoun,” the minister said. “She came along for the walk.”
“Yeah,” mumbled Mr. Johnston.
Inside, the house felt closed up and dusty. I wondered if the councilman’s wife was sleeping somewhere. He led us down a narrow hallway. A large painting of a boat hung on one side. Suddenly, he stopped and turned. “Is that Bunny Calhoun’s daughter?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Reverend Vaughn, smiling.
Mr. Johnston studied me. “She’s big,” he said.
“Ah, where can we talk?” said the minister.
Mr. Johnston took us into the living room, darkened by a drawn curtain. “The girl can wait here,” he said.
“Why can’t she listen in? She won’t be a bother.”
“This is council business,” said Mr. Johnston gruffly. His irritation gave him energy. His shoulders straightened, and the front of the robe fell open over his worn, sleeveless undershirt. “Can’t have a girl here for that.”
“Do you mind waiting?” Reverend Vaughn asked me.
“Not at all.”
