Holding

 

By Tom Fallon

 

 

      Jim Bartkus rolled over in bed.  The metallic sound and sulfur smell of the paper mill came in through his open window.  He reached out and shut the window, then slowly sat up on the edge of the bed.  He felt terrible.

      Jim walked slowly to the bathroom in the dark trying not to think of this afternoon.    He really didn't want to work tonight but he'd stick Bugs for a sixteen if he didn't.  In the old days, he'd have had Sheila call in for him no matter who was stuck on the job.  He'd developed a conscience about that sort of thing since he went on the wagon .

      He flipped the bathroom light switch and sat on the toilet.  He felt himself very tired, thinking of work, wondering if 27 rewinder would be down so he'd have an easier night tonight than last night.  Maybe the track would be down so he'd have to move and pile rolls all night.  No rest for the wicked, he thought, running his hand over his mustache.

      Jim flushed the toilet and looked in the mirror at his unshaven chin of white and grey whiskers, his white mustache and thick white unruly hair.  He ran his hand over his mustache.  He wasn't going to shave, not 11 to 7, he really didn't care how he looked on the graveyard shift, no one would see him.  He washed and put on clean underwear and pants and shirt. 

      He walked slowly  down the stairs picking up television voices from the living room as he neared the den. He knew Sheila was knitting in the living room watching tv. 

      Jim raised his hand to his wife as he passed through the den into the kitchen.  He didn't want to say anything: she'd been upset enough this afternoon and he'd been caught between both of them.  His lunch basket was sitting on the kitchen table as usual.  He carried it back into the den, set it on the stairs, took his jacket and baseball cap from the clothes tree and lay the jacket over his basket as he positioned the cap just right over his hair.

      He walked slowly into the living room and stood in front of his wife for a moment, then bent down to kiss her on the cheek.  She leaned toward him and stopped her fingers knitting for a moment.  Neither smiled. 

      "Well, only two more nights of this," Jim said quietly, in his measured, even-toned voice.

      Sheila looked up at him but didn't answer.

      Jim knew what she was thinking.  Is he going to say anything or isn't he?  He didn't want to say anything.  He didn't want to start thinking about it.  He didn't want to go back to this afternoon.  He returned to the den, put on his jacket, hooked his arm through his lunch basket's handles and put a hand on the door knob. 

      He waited a moment, uncertain, then took a step back into the den so he could see his wife in her chair.

      "See ya in the mornin', Sheila," he said to her evenly, raising his hand slowly, half-smiling, then he went out the door, closing it firmly but quietly.

 

      Sheila heard him close the door as he had for so many other nights in their lives when he worked the night shift.  The door closing on this shift always sounded different than on the day or swing shift:  it was a definite closing, the announcement of the end of the day.  She knew with the door closing that she'd sleep alone tonight as she had all the other nights when he'd worked nights.  She didn't like sleeping alone any more than he liked working the night shift, but she knew she had to just as he had to work the night shift.

      The door closing tonight almost felt painful to her because of this afternoon with Louise. 

 

She wished he had asked her to call in for him so he could stay home.  Maybe they could have

talked about it.  She knew he was upset about it just as she was.

 

      Jim started the car and backed it slowly out of the driveway into Pine Street, moving away from the house through the street-light dark night.  The lights of his home were in his mind and he

could see Sheila knitting in the living room alone.

      He drove down Pine Street and his daughter Louise came to mind.  He was more tired than usual after this afternoon. He felt washed out, he thought, as he passed his Uncle Al's house.  The lights were on as they always were at this time of night, every light in the house except the cellar, and he smiled, thinking of the old man probably asleep in the chair in front of the tv.  He was glad the old man had stopped smoking because he'd probably have burned himself up by now.

      Jim stopped at the corner, facing Cicco's Hardware, waiting for an opening in the line of cars and trucks passing on the highway.  Just enough space between each vehicle so he couldn't move in.  Same route to work for 30 years, he thought, sitting in the car waiting for his chance. The only thing that had changed was the number of cars on the road.  His family never had a car when he was growing up. His father had bought a second hand Desoto after he'd left home for the Army, but he'd used it only once a week, for church on Sunday.  He'd never even taken the younger kids to the lake with it.

      Jim pulled into the highway and speeded up, drove past the one street shopping district of Harrison Falls and saw the lighted paper mill buildings and big pyramid-shaped wood piles as he descended the highway slope. 

      He saw the smoke pouring from the paper mill smokestacks as he slowed, turned left into the lighted parking lot, coasted slowly toward the Time Office and lighted mill buildings with the big wood piles on his left. He slowed at the gate, waving to the the watchman, Babe Souble, then drove into the South Mill paper machine building night shadow toward the North Mill parking lot.

      Only two more nights, Jim thought.  His daughter Louise and this afternoon came to mind, and an eternity of nights like this one seemed to fall on him, nights without end, life without end.  He felt worn from the afternoon's news, as if he somehow had the weight of the world on him.

      He knew he was tired from 11 to 7.  This was usually the night he began to feel the unnatural shift, then he began to feel better the last two nights.

      He pulled into the North Mill lot behind a row of trucks and cars, turned off the ignition, and holding his hands on the steering wheel, hung his head.  He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes and face as if to bring some life into himself or to wipe away his trouble.  He put on his glasses, ran his hand over his mustache, and hooked his arm through his lunch basket's handles as he opened the car door to the loud noise of the mill. 

      Jim stepped into the shadow of the North Mill building which rose five stories above him.  It was the old Central Maine Paper Mill where his father had worked on Number One paper machine, a great brick structure of the early century with many windows of small glass panes.  Number One paper machine no longer existed and the building had been converted to the rewinder and supercalendar room.

      He crossed the parking lot in the noise and the sulfur smell, pushed the heavy mill door inward, entered the cellar of the building, the deafening noise from the big speeding machines engulfing him.  Rotten cabbage, he thought, taking in the sulfur smell, the air pollution, knowing that his car would be peppered white in the morning. 

      Not as noisy as the paper machines down here, he thought, or the high-pitched screaming of the beater room Jordans.  He walked under the maze of dripping rusting pipes and avoided the floor drains, pushing the bent metal door to the old locker room open to the sound of showers and steam and chattering naked men.

 

      "Ay, Jim," C'bum Giroux said as he came naked around a row of bent rusting lockers in clogs heading for a shower.  "Easy night so far, easy night," he said with French enunciation, scratching his white, bony, hairy chest.

      Jim walked down the aisle toward his locker past naked dripping standing and sitting men drying themselves with towels.  Ragged felt patches were on the pitted cement floor, cut from the paper machine felts, catching the water from the naked men's bodies, keeping feet clean.

      "Hello there, Porky," Jim said evenly to Porky Miner, "How's everything been goin'," he

asked, stepping around the seated naked fat man, easing his lunch basket to the bench, slowly moving the dial of his lock with the combination. He rattled the old locker open as other lockers rattled around him.

      Porky didn't answer Jim: he never did.  He might wave, but he seldom spoke.  He was sitting on the bench, cutting his toenails, struggling over his great stomach and fat legs to reach his toes. 

      "Well, how's it goin', Jim," tall Harold McInnis said in his bass voice as he walked behind him.

      "Oh, not too bad, Harold," Jim said in his quietly.  "How's everything with you now," Jim asked, turning from his locker to talk to his neighbor two houses up on Pine Street.

      Harold stopped a few feet away from, on the other side of Porky, smiling.

      "The usual.  You know how it goes.  A dollar a day's better'n a nickel a day," the tall man said, smiling his broken eye-tooth. 

      Showers, laughter and rattling lockers sounded in the room.

      "How's Martha feelin'?  Any better this week, Harold?

      "No.  Just about the same, Jim.  Doc said yesterday she won't get any better neither.  She's always gonna have that pain.  Gotta learn to live it, he said.  Nothing he can do.  Aspirin, he said, and more aspirin.  That's the only cure.  Hellova thing. Martha's always gonna be bad tempered from now on I guess. 

      "Too bad, Harold," Jim said sympathetically.  "Martha doesn't deserve it. 

      "No, she doesn't, Jim.  And I don't either," Harold laughed. "Well, life ain't supposed to be a bowl of cherries, I guess.  We ain't in high school anymore.  Have a good night if ya can," he said, and tapped Porky on the head with his his finger.

      "Porky, you need longer arms to reach those toes a yours. You want to borrow mine," he said, winking to Jim with a smile, walking to the door, ducking his head as he pushed through it.

      I don't know how he does it, Jim thought, always smiling, with Martha in a wheelchair, him doing all the house work as well as coming in here.  Always smiling, nothing gets him down."

      Jim took his neatly folded work pants, shirt and boots from his locker and set them on the bench.  He took off his cap and jacket and placed them in the locker, then sat on the bench and took off his clean clothes, folded them neatly beside himself, and redressed in his work clothes.

      He tied the rope belt around his waist listening to the laughter and curses mixing with the sound of only a few showers and rattling lockers.  The locker room was almost empty now.

      Porky shut his locker, waved his hand at Jim and teetered on bowed fat legs down the now empty locker aisle, bumping against the bench as he went. 

      "See you tomorrow, Porky," Jim said evenly, as the fat man went out the door without answering him.

      Porky barely fit between the bench and the lockers he was so wide, Jim thought.  He'll stop a few times before he gets to the Time Office.  He never made it all the way out the gate without stopping as long as I've known him. 

       Jim's aisle was empty now. The locker room was quiet but for a shower and a couple of rattling lockers. He sat on the bench, turned to see old Jack Corey unsteadily push his way out the

 

door.  Drunk as usual, he thought.  He didn't know how the old man did it on the paper machines. 

Not one accident in forty two years and he must've been drunk every day of those forty two years.  Half the time he slept, of course, his crew got him out of the way so he wouldn't foul the job up and make them work all night.       

      Thank God those days are gone for me, Jim thought.  Wasn't really much fun.

      Big, barrel-chested Tom Taylor came around the lockers down his aisle and said in his clear strong voice as her passed, "Comin' up," his arm crooked through his lunch basket's handles.  He'd caught the arm in a paper machine when he was a kid, broken it and it was permanently crooked now.

      "Yeah, in a minute I guess, Tom," Jim said quietly, half-smiling, reaching for his neatly folded home clothes.  He put them into his locker. 

      Tom disappeared into the locker room and then Jim could hear the big man pounding up the 

old wooden stairs to the rewinder-supercalendar room above.

      Jim closed his locker door, spun the dial on the lock, then sat back down and sighed, hooking his arm into his basket's arms.  He ran his hand over his mustache.

      He said a few Hail Mary's to prepare himself for the night. 

      The locker room was quiet.  No showers, no lockers rattling.  He was alone.  He needed the quiet; he needed the break before he went to work.  He thought of this afternoon even though he didn't want to.  He didn't know what to do:  Louise pregnant, not married, his little Louise, seventeen, and a tear came to his eye as many tears had come to him this afternoon.  He had gone into the bedroom and closed the door.  He shook his head slowly now, looking at the pitted cement floor and rusting lockers. It was something he could not believe, something he did not want to believe.  Not Louise, not our Louise, he thought.

      "Hey there, Bartkus, what the hell you doin' down there, goddammit," Bugs Lovejoy snarled.  The little man was standing down the end of the aisle of lockers.  "Your my mate, y' know.  Get the hell upstairs, squarehead, I wanna go home, dammit," he said and disappeared, pounding up the stairs.

      "Okay," Jim said evenly. "I'm comin', I'm comin'."  He crossed himself, shaking his head, stood with his basket and lurched off-balance toward the lockers, steadied himself, wiped his cheek of a tear and began to walk along the aisle toward the stairs.

      "Okay, comin' now," he said as he stopped at the end of the lockers, wiping his face of any moisture, ran his hand over his mustache, and taking a breath to compose himself climbed the stairs, seeing Bugs Lovejoy's small red face.

      "Get your goddamn squarehead ass up here, Bartkus, I wanta get home, for Chrissake," Bugs snarled with irritation as he turned away from the top of the stairs.

      Jim came into the deafening noise of the high-ceilinged rewinder room and followed Bugs in his filthy t-shirt past 16 and 17 supercalendars and 24, 25 and 28 rewinders to the old wooden table by the track. Bugs grabbed his lunch basket and walked away without looking back at his mate.

      I'll come in early for him tomorrow night to make up for tonight, Jim thought as he unpacked the rice pudding and sandwiches from his lunch basket, placed the basket on the hook over the table, then walked toward the ice chest by the back wall passing between number 10 and 11 small salvage rewinders, waving to Sam Mason reading Playboy beside his running winder. He walked past Mason's tool chest with cut-out magazine pictures of big breasted naked women pasted on the inside cover. 

      Jim fit his pudding and sandwiches down into the ice chips, covered them, and returned to the table, looked at the clipboard with the 3-11 report to see if Bugs had had any problems:  none. He flipped the page to see what paper grades the

calendars were running tonight.  He looked up

 

and down the track and saw that it was empty. 

      He looked at the big rewinders, all of them were running, then at the supercalendars:  17 was down, 18, 16 and 15 were running.  Well, he thought, with 17 down, 27 should be down before the night is over, depending on how many spools are in the pile.  He looked across the room at the pile of giant paper spools and saw that there were only three.  He looked at the five small salvage rewinders:  all of them were running.

      Mac Knight came walking slowly along the track with his clipboard in hand.

      "Hey, Jimmy," he shouted in the loud machine noise, standing close to Jim's left ear.  "There's some rolls over by the office I need piled.  And then, you see those rolls over by 25 winder, there's five of 'em," he said, pointing toward the rolls in front of Johnnie Morin, Jim's cousin, standing back to at the 25 rewinder console.  "Put those by 9 salvage winder for Whitey.  He's got three rolls right now but he'll need more 'fore the night's over."

      "Okay, Mac," Jim said evenly into his ear in return.

      "Won't take long," Mac shouted. 

      "Yeah," Jim said, raising his hand in agreement.

      "Do that for me now, Jimmy.  If you need me, you know where I'll be," he said, cupping the man's shoulder.  He moved off down the track toward 25 winder and Morin. 

      Mac always made the rounds to everyone in the room and gave them something to do, even if it wasn't much, just to let them know he was still foreman.  Then he disappeared into the office for the night. In twenty minutes the office lights would be off, Mac's feet would be up on the desk and nobody would see him until five o'clock when he'd come out to make the rounds again to pick up the reports from the rewinders and supercalendars.  He never bothered anyone, but the crew always gave him production.

      Jim took his lunch basket off the hook and set it on the table.  He took a cigarette pack from inside, tapped out a cigarette, and sat on the table to smoke, waiting for the rewinders to put the rolls on the track. He took the Citizen out of his basket, put on his glasses, and opened the newspaper.

      The five big supercalendars were lined up against the far wall to Jim's right.   Giant spools of paper were stacked between 15 and 16, 17 and 18 calendars. The five big rewinders were at his right, separated from the supercalendars by an aisle. The track ran in front of the big rewinders, next to the table, and on his left were the line of five small salvage winders, with an aisle after them, with rewound rolls piled three tiers high next to the outside wall.   

      The noise from the supercalendars and rewinders was deafening.

      Lanky Paul Goude came over and sat down beside Jim on the table. "Got an extra, Jim," he asked close to his ear, looking around ther room, turning his head from side to side nervously.

      Jim pointed to his basket.  Paul reached in and took a cigarette from the pack.  He put the cigarette in his mouth, but didn't say anything.  He looked around nervously.

      Jim handed Paul his cigarette and the man lit his, handed the cigarette back, then walked away, looking around nervously as if to see someone were watching him. He always looked around like that, his head always in motion, as if he were trying to catch someone watching him.

      Jim watched Paul go toward 17 supercalendar and disappear behind it. 

      Paul never bought his own cigarettes.  He bummed from first one guy, then another around the room, every shift.  Never said thanks, but halfway through the shift he'd come back with a cup of coffee, leave it, then go back to work.  Never said thanks when he brought the coffee, just set it down and walked away.  The only time Paul every talked was when someone mentioned the word union:  then he'd rant and rave until you had to tell him to shut up.  He hated the union because his brother had lost his job and the union hadn't been able to do anything for him.  No one could convince him that his brother shouldn't have been peeping into the women's locker room.

      Jim heard the track jolt into action and white glossy paper rolls began to pass him.  He folded the newspaper neatly and put it on the table in his basket, took of his glasses and put them into the basket, hanging the basket up on the hook.  He butted out his cigarette in the Maxwell House butt can and walked slowly toward the lowerator, stooping to pick up scraps of paper on the floor.  He threw the paper into the

broke box beside the lowerator.

      Jim pressed the stop button on the operater's console to stop the track when a paper roll moved in front of the lowerator's crosshatched-wire cage door which was opening automatically.  He came around behind the roll, pressed his knee against it, put each hand on the top side of the roll and pushed it forward with hands and knee pressure. 

      The paper roll went into the lowerator and the cage door closed automatically in front of the it as the lowerator dropped downstairs to the roll wrap area. 

      Jim started the track again and stopped another roll in front of the lowerator.  The lowerator rose, the door opened and he pushed the roll forward.  The door closed when the roll was inside and the lowerator dropped downstairs again.

      Jim started the track again, stopped it when a roll was in position.  The lowerator rose, stopped, and he pushed the roll toward the opening cage door.  The door closed when the roll was inside and the lowerator dropped downstairs.

      He started the track again and stopped it when a roll was in front of the lowerator. The lowerator didn't return.  He leaned on the top of the roll, waiting, watching the door, his knee behind the roll. 

      The lowerator didn't return.

      Jim waited patiently.  The lowerator didn't return.

      He went to the lowerator door and looked down the shaft. The lowerator was visible downstairs, empty.

      He called down the shaft:  "Hello there, Willie.  Hello."  He never shouted.

      "Yo," a voice came back and Willie Masters bald head appeared inside the lowerator shaft.

      "You havin' a problem," Jim asked.

      "No, Jim. Just ran out of wrapper and heads.  We'll be down until we load up.  'Bout twenty minutes, okay?  Hey, how's the old lady?"

      Willie had been married to Shelia's younger sister Gloria until two years ago when she'd run off with a construction worker.  He was still waiting for her to come back to him and the three kids.

      "She's okay," Jim shouted down the shaft as Willie waved once and disappeared. 

      Jim began to position rolls so that he would be ready when roll wrap started up.  He pushed a roll off the track, toward the lowerator door, then started the track until another roll was in place, rolled that beside the first roll.  He maneuvered twelve more rolls from the track in a line before the lowerator cage door so the rewinders could use the track while roll wrap was down.  He had room for more rolls behind him, on the other side of the track, if necessary.

      Jim took the broom from behind the broke box beside the lowerator shaft and began to sweep the floor, slowly and steadily.   When he had cleaned up the dirt and paper scraps around the lowerator area, he swept it into a dustpan made with folded paper, then dumped it in the barrel.       He began to slowly sweep along the track and he thought of this afternoon as he moved along in the loud noise of the machines.  About his daughter.  About Louise. He knew there was nothing he could do about it.  She was pregnant. It was still a shock to him.  He felt numb thinking about it as he swept.  It couldn't be real, he thought.  This was a dream.  He had never conceived that such a thing could ever happen to his girl.

      Jim swept up to the table, swept the dirt and paper scraps into a pile, scooped it up with another paper dustpan and dumped it into the barrel behind the table.

 

      Jim felt empty as he walked slowly back down the track toward the lowerator.  The track

jolted into action after PeeWee pushed rolls from 25 rewinder on.  He put the broom back behind the broke box at the lowerator and waited for the rolls to arrive, stopped the track, pushed a roll off behind the track, started the track, stopped it, pushed another roll off, maneuvering it beside the previous one.  He pushed off ten rolls and lined them up side by side.

      The lowerator rose and the cage door opened.

      He pushed the front roll into the lowerator.  The door closed and the lowerator disappeared down to roll wrap.

      How do such things happen, he thought.  He knew it happened to other people, to other families, things like this, but it  shouldn't have happened to him, to Sheila.  He felt a pain inside.  A hurt.  He felt wounded.  It was crazy, out of control.

      The lowerator rose and the door opened.  He did not move the roll, but stood with a hand on each side, knee pressed against the roll, staring into the senseless mind-world he had entered, trying to insulate himself from the hurt, from the reality.  He awoke, took a breath, moved his knee forward and the roll went into the lowerator.  The door closed.

      Jim turned to another roll and remembered Bucky saying one day last summer that his boy Louie had come home with a girl one day to say he was moving out of the house to live with the girl.  They weren't getting married, they were just going to live together.  It was a sin, Bucky had said, and he and his wife were really upset by it.  They had gone to the priest, but the boy and girl wouldn't go.  He remembered that Bucky had felt helpless when the boy had done it because nothing he or his wife had said had made any difference.  The boy didn't care what they thought, didn't care what the priest through and didn't care what the neighbors thought.  The girl didn't either, they were doing what they wanted, "the hell with everybody," Bucky had told him his boy had said to his wife. 

      He had sympathized with Bucky when he'd told him the story, but he hadn't really

understood what it meant to him and his wife.  Not until this afternoon, not until now.  Now he knew what Bucky and his wife had thought and felt.  A tear came to his eye and he looked around to see if anyone was coming.  He ducked his head and went to the broke box, pretending he had something in his eye.  He took a deep breath.  Little Louise, not our little Louise, not this.

      Carey came by on a clamp truck and shouted at him, "Hey, Jimmy, old man, how's it goin'," as he speeded off down the aisle. 

      Jim waved slowly at him, smiling falsely to cover up his thoughts. Some day he's going to hit some one, he thought, shaking his head sadly.  Fool.  Always speeding down that aisle.  Someday he's going to hit some one.

      Bucky O'Leary came loping down the track, buck-toothed, bald, heavily muscled, with sloping shoulders from years working the bull gang unloading and reloading shafts from the rewinders, in his usual grease-stained red t-shirt, raising a hand awkwardly as he met Jim's gaze.

      The lowerator rose and Jim pushed a roll forward as Bucky stopped just behind him, leaning on a roll, rubbing his big club of a hand over his bald head.

      "Well, I think we're gonna have a good night t'night, Jim boy.   Twenty seven winder'll be down before the night's over.  I think we're gonna have a good night.  I think I'll enjoy myself when 27 goes down.  How's everything with you," Bucky said, wiping his big hand across his head again.

      "Oh, not too bad, Bucky," Jim answered evenly, running his hand over his mustache. 

      "Go to the union meeting this afternoon, did ya," Bucky asked.

      "No.  I didn't get there this afternoon, Buck," Jim answered as he pushed another roll toward the lowerator.

      "Well, I guess you can't tell me then, Jim boy.  Been tryin' to find out what they did with the grievance we put in.  Nobody went up here.  I thought sure Ta-Ta would go since he's our shop steward, but his boy had a baseball game.  Can't find out what happened to the grievance now.  I thought you went every  now an' again."

      "I missed this one, Buck.  First one I missed this year, you're right.  I'll make it next month.  But I'll call the office tomorrow to find out about the grievance if you want.

      "No thanks, Jim.   I'll hit up Ta-Ta.  It's his job," Bucky said. "That's why we're payin' him to be our shop steward.  I don't pay union dues for my shop steward to get a free ride.  I'll call him when I wake up tomorrow. 

      A piercing whistle came down the track and both men turned toward it.  Benny Martin was waving Bucky back up the track.

      "Well, guess Benny's takin' a set of paper off the winder now.  See ya, Jim boy," Bucky said as he turned and loped off up the track toward the rewinder, running his big hand over his head.

      Jim watched him, then turned and pushed a roll toward the lowerator, thinking of Bucky telling the story of his boy leaving home, going to live with the girl.  He felt the weight of this afternoon's revelation:  Louise pregnant.  He felt the numbness again.  He felt ashamed.  He pushed a roll forward.  Everybody in town would know pretty soon.

      There was nothing either he or Sheila could do.  She was pregnant. It couldn't be changed.  And she wouldn't tell them who it was.  She wasn't going to get married, she said. And if they weren't going to let her stay home, she'd move out and the state would support her until she had the baby.  He'd never heard her talk that way before.  She didn't actually say "the hell with everybody," but she might as well have said it the way she had acted.

      The lowerator disappeared downstairs.

      Jim pushed another roll forward, stopped and waited for the lowerator to come back up, staring at the cage door.  The lowerator rose, the door opened and he pushed the roll forward.  He looked at his watch and knew that this would probably be the last roll before lunch break.  He waited and the horn sounded to announce the break.

      He tore off a large piece of paper from a slab in the broke box and walked slowly down the track as the rewinders began to stop one by one for the lunch break.  He spread the paper out on the table under his basket, walked to the ice chest for his rice pudding and sandwiches and returned to the table.  He placed lunch on the table and took his lunch basket from the hook, took his jar of tea from the basket.  Three tea bags swam in the copper colored water.

      The supercalendars were still running and wouldn't shut down for lunch.  The union had lost the lunch break for the calendars during the last contract negotiations.  The company had bought the lunch break for 50 cents an hour.  Everyone was afraid they would lose their lunch break because the company had wanted to take all lunch breaks away:  the union had fought and only lost with the supercalendars this time around.

      Jim sat on the table beside his lunch spread and thin Fred Carrier, his brother-in-law, came up the track with his usual duck walk, carrying a lunch basket bigger than his head. Fred worked downstairs at roll wrap so they had the same lunch break.  He put his lunch basket on the table beside Jim's spread, pushed the rewinder dolly up to the table and sat down on it.

      "Well, how's it goin', Jimmy," Fred asked in his nasal voice.  He cleared his throat and spit on the floor.  Jim grimaced with disgust as he did.  He ran his hand over his mustache.

      "The same as usual, Fred.  The same as usual.

      "Well, it's the same as usual for me, too," Fred said, chewing his sandwich fast.  "I never should have married that damn sister of yours.  She's gonna put me in the poor farm, I'll tell ya that.  Spend, spend, spend, that's all she lives for. Spendin' my money.  I can't keep her home.

      Jim almost laughed.  He knew Fred couldn't keep a dime in his pocket, but was always complaining that Betty was the one who spent all his money.

 

      "Well, Fred, if you didn't work so much overtime Betty wouldn't have all that money to spend," Jim answered sipping his tea from the jar.

      "Yeah, yeah.  She'd get all I got no matter how much or how little it is.  I never should've let her cash my check years ago.  I was a young kid soft in the head.  She turned my head all right

and once she got her hands on my paycheck it was all over," he complained, wolfing his sandwich.  "I tell ya, it's not funny, Jimmy.  And I've got a phone bill that pays all Northeast's salaries.  She's always on the phone to Jackie and Jim.  I don't know, I jus' don't know," he said, shaking his head and chewing quickly.

      "Well, Fred, you could always divorce her, you know," Jim said, smiling, looking at the man tearing the cellophane from twinkies.

      "Divorce her," the man said, looking up at Jim.  "She'd take me to the cleaners, Jim.  I'd be lucky to get away with the pants and shirt I'm wearin' now.  Oh ho, wouldn't she take me to the cleaners.

      "I guess I can't help you then, Fred.  I didn't think Betty was that bad when we were kids," Jim said. "You know my mother had her canning and working in the garden.  She should have learned something about thrift back then.

      "Workin' in the garden, ha!  I work in my garden.  She has never gotten her hands dirty in our garden, now I'll tell ya.  But she wants the vegetables all right.  She sure does.  Always on my back about what I should grow and what I shouldn't grow.  An' how come my tomatoes aren't as big as Marty's next door.  Never in all my life," Fred said swallowing the last of the twinkies fast.

      "I guess you really have a problem," Jim said evenly. 

      "Freddie came up t'see me t'night.  They got him workin' in the beater room with Sammy Dragoon, on number 4," Fred said.  "Said they might keep him in the beater room for two weeks. 

      "That's pretty good, Fred.  Spares usually hop all around the mill.

      "Yeah.  I told him to work hard an' they might keep him longer'n two weeks.  Y'never know, y'never know.  Well, I'll catch a smoke before we start up, Jim," Fred said, repacking his basket.  "See ya later," he said, spitting on the floor, pushing the rewinder dolly back and walked like a duck down the track with the big basket. 

      Jim sat, half smiling, running his hand over his mustache, shaking his head at his brother-in-law.  It was comical to see him walk like a duck with his big basket.  He'll never change, he thought, Fred'll never change.  I don't know what Betty ever saw in him. And then he remembered that she was pregnant when they were married.

      Fred had come back from World War II and she had gotten pregnant.  Nobody could understand why she'd gone out with Fred.  Of course, he was much better looking when he was younger.  And he wore his uniform a lot when he came home even though he was out of the Army.  Maybe it was the uniform that made Freddie look romantic to Betty.  He wasn't a complainer when he was young either, Jim remembered.

      Betty was pregnant when they got married, he thought.  His daughter Louise came into his mind: she was pregnant.

      The track jolted into action and Jim put his dish and tea jar back into his lunch basket.  He crumpled the wax paper and threw it into the barrel: he'd wash the dish and tea jar in the locker room before he went home.  Louise came into his mind as he hooked the basket up and walked down the track slowly, stopping behind a paper roll, pressed his knee against it, holding the top of each side, and pushed it slowly forward, waiting for the lowerator to come up.

      His sister Betty was pregnant.  He felt a sadness.  The tiredness returned, the numbness that he had felt earlier tonight.  Louise was pregnant. He shook his head.  His eyes filled with tears and he clenched his jaw to hold them back.  He felt a hurt in his throat.

      The lowerator came up and the cage door opened.  He pushed the roll into the lowerator as a tear filled his eye.  The lowerator disappeared to the roll wrap area. 

      Jim positioned another roll, hung his head almost to the top of the roll and wiped his eye with his hand, looking around to see if anyone could see him, and took a deep breath.  He could feel the tearing of emotion in him and he wanted to cry out.  He didn't understand.

      He stood up and put each hand on the top side of the roll, pressed his knee against it, and waited.

      The lowerator rose and the door opened.  He pushed the roll forward remembering that he had to move the five rolls from 25 rewinder to Whitey at the salvage winder.  He'd better hurry up and before he forgot it.

      The lowerator disappeared as Jim positioned another roll in place.

      He waited, holding the roll, his knee pressed against it, looking at the cage door.  He held his emotion.

 

                                                            Tom Fallon

                                                            July-Sept 1998

     

      Edited May 1999, after publication in Puckerbrush Review XVII, ii, Winter Spring 1999.

      Three transition paragraphs were omitted from my submitted manuscript; I have edited word arrangements in five places which were published as submitted in the manuscript.   

     

E-mail:  aopoetry@yahoo.com

 

Tom Fallon has been the Maine Times poetry editor and a director of the Maine Writers and  Publishers Alliance.  Fallon was awarded two Maine Arts Commission grants, has published three books with poems in university  and independent literary journals. He is presently editor and webmaster of Apples & Oranges Poetry Magazine, the first Maine online-dedicated poetry magazine and the first email literary calendar. He explores poetry form and is presently writing stories from his experience working in a Maine paper mill. He has read at the Maine Festival, New Year's Portland, Bates College, the University of Maine and Maine high schools.  Fallon is a member of the Maine Poets Society, SpiritWords/Maine Poetries Collaborative and the Maine Writers and  Publishers Alliance. Prefers to be known as "a human being who writes..."  He is father of seven children and grandfather of 13.  His wife and companion, Jacqueline, has been the most influential and positive person in his life.