Folly (4 page)

5.

Folly knew something was wrong as soon as she sat down at her machine. She looked across at Martha and saw a wary look about her. There was something more in the air than lint dust.

The story came around in whispers. “Did you hear about Cora? Cora's baby? A horrible thing . . . Cora's baby dead . . . during Cora's shift . . . with her daughter, Bonnie . . . tried to call Cora at the factory . . . Fartblossom, the fuck, he called the police . . . sent them to Cora's house . . . never let her know . . . told her to go home . . . told her her kid was sick (as if she didn't know). . . last night this happened.” Folly felt sick. She stared at her zipperfoot which was stuck and hammering out a wad of thread at the same space. She knew she was behind already, but she couldn't think how to fix it. All she could think was were her own three children home safe, asleep and okay. Even though they were getting old enough to take care of themselves, she pictured them younger like they had been when she'd first had to work nights and leave them alone.

The next round of whispers set Folly back in motion. “Cora fired . . . first arrested, then fired . . . keep your work up . . . Fartblossom's nervous . . . comin' round . . . what's to be done . . . wait for coffee break.”

Reasons. Folly wanted to know what were the reasons. Why did Cora's baby die? Why did they arrest her? Why did they fire her? Why was her machine getting stuck every time she looked up? She wanted to scream her questions. She wanted to bang her fists on her machine. She glanced over at Martha and saw that Martha was trying to give her the signal—patience, have momentary patience, hold on and wait and we'll think this thing out and do something. We won't just let them take Cora away. This statement was made by the serious look of justice in her eyes and by the way she sat, her weight looking stubborn in the
chair. Martha, the rock. Folly swallowed her screams. She tried to set her mind to catching up production before the break.

It was not the first time that Fartblossom had ever stood his large, obnoxious self up there at the front of the room and swayed stupidly between line two and line three and announced that the first break would be skipped because they'd been working slow so far that shift. It was not the first time but still, the announcement had a grating effect, and in the light of Folly's need to have the break, it seemed momentarily impossible that he had dispensed with it. She thought about being a school child, about Mr. Hickey, the science teacher who went right on talking after the bell rang and no one dared move as long as he had stared out at their desks. She understood why Mary Lou might be tempted to drop out of school. At that age she had thought the faster you grew up, the sooner you wouldn't have to pay any attention to something like Mr. Hickey's eyes telling you what to do. But there was Fartblossom dispensing with their first break that they'd all been waiting for, and already crawling back into his plastic office before anyone had even gotten a mouth open to say, “No, you shit, you're stealing from us.”

He sat behind his wall of plastic which was designed to keep the lint out of his nose and glared out at the women who cursed him, called him thief under their breath.

As soon as Folly caught Martha's eye, she rolled her own back toward the bathroom. Martha stood and inclined her head toward the restroom door so Fartblossom would know where she was going. Folly waited till Martha had been gone a few minutes, hoped he'd have forgotten she was in there, then stood and putting a pained expression on her face to indicate she was sick, headed for the back, practically running down the aisle. It was not that one was actually required to get permission to go to the bathroom. Rather the management
highly recommended
one care for these needs on break time. But then, Fartblossom had made short of that.

As soon as Folly came in, Martha took two cigarettes out of her pack, put them both between her lips and lit them with the same match. She held one out to Folly and took a long drag on her own. Then she stooped down on her haunches and leaned her back and head against the wall. “Fartblossom see you?”

“Yeah. He's all eyes. I played sick.”

“Shit.”

“Damn right.”

“That poor Cora,” Martha said.

“This goddamned place,” Folly said.

After that they smoked in silence, sadness and silence. Their thoughts were on Cora, who was a perfectly good one of them. Good worker, didn't bitch a lot, didn't cheat, didn't steal, didn't talk behind your back, didn't play up to the boss, didn't ask for anything special.

“What can we do?” Folly asked Martha.

“I don't know. Maybe find out more what happened later.”

“I'm about ready to walk out,” Folly said. “I'm about ready to not put up with this Fartblossom ratfink. I'm about ready to stomp in there and I don't know what, Martha.”

“Wait,” Martha said. She closed her eyes so that Folly's being so excited wouldn't affect her so much. The house. Folly was forgetting about the house. In her anger Martha knew she was forgetting about all the time, the work, the saving, that she had done for the house. Martha got an empty feeling similar to hunger whenever she tried to imagine living without Folly and the kids in the trailer next door, but that didn't keep her from wanting them to have the house. She knew so well how happy Folly was going to be when finally she had it.

“Let's just think this out,” Martha said. “You know we can't afford to be outa work much.”

“Negligence, my ass. You know how many times I had to leave a sick kid at home? You tell me what right Fartblossom had callin' the cops on Cora?” Folly's voice was husky and cracked and demanding.

“None,” Martha said. “None of his business. It's all wrong . . . .”

“I'm going to ask him,” Folly said. “I'm going to ask that bastard what right he had. You comin'?”

Of course, Martha was coming. She followed with proud, sure strides. It was too late for the house. Folly was fired up and Martha might as well let herself get fired up too. This was one time they weren't marching back to their machines to sit and stew.

Martha marched behind Folly feeling in awe of her bravery. By the time they reached Fartblossom's door they were side by side.

He stood up, opened the door. He puffed his breath at them. No one spoke. It seemed a long time. The women stopped sewing one by one and the drone of the machines faded to silence. Martha put her hands on her hips in such a way as to make her body say
showdown
because facing down Fartblossom that way, being so close to his clammy skin and all, had taken her words away from her.

He exercised his jaw up and down a couple of times before he spoke. His double chin wobbled with the motion. “What's your problem, girls?”

“We want to know what happened to Cora,” Folly said.

“You're holding up the work,” he said. “If you'd like to speak with me when the shift is up, I'll see to it you have an appointment.”

“What right you got stealing our break?” Folly asked. “What right you got callin' the cops on Cora? What right you got makin' her come to work when her kid was sick? Answer me that?” As soon as the words were out, Folly held her breath.

They hadn't even realized that Emily had come right up behind them until her voice came from there. “Yeah. Answer us that,” she said with gravity. She stood straight and still in the silence, her body emphasizing her statement. Martha felt more strength to her balance from the presence of Emily behind her, enough to look around and discover that several other women, Black and white, had stood up at their machines.

“No one made Cora come to work,” Fartblossom said. That was all he had to say for himself. His breath puffed away at them. His face was pink. Martha had a childish feeling of wanting to smear it with a mud pie.

“Every one of us has to come to work every single night whether our children are sick or not, or you wouldn't keep us on,” Martha said, “and you know it.” Because she was one without children she felt strange as soon as she had made this statement, but no one acted as if she shouldn't have said it. In fact, Emily said, “That's right,” and Folly nodded.

“We ought to have time off even if there's no pay for it so nobody's got to run off and leave a real sick baby just so's they don't lose their job. I know'd Cora since the first grade 'til now. Went all the way through school with her, sitting next to her most of the time because of our last names falling together. She didn't do nothin' none of the rest of us wouldn't have done. Ain't no fairness in your callin' the law out on her. Law ought to be called out on you.” It was Shirley White who made this speech and made it clear from the back of the room where her machine was located right next to Cora's empty one. Her voice echoed all across the room, the sound strong and strange in this place which usually had a hum to keep the whispers from being heard. Shirley might have been a preacher for the feeling of reverence that flowed behind her words. The concentration which centered on her, fluttering in the breast of each woman there, pulsed almost audibly while her statement hung in the air. This attitude of concentration completely transformed the sewing room. A factory was a place in which each woman's mind wandered off to its own escapes, meandered on voyages that were designed for passing time. Here, time was stopped. Every eye was on Fartblossom. Every woman could feel the others' feelings and Shirley had spoken their mind.

Fartblossom worked his jaw for a second and Martha thought maybe he was going to say he was sorry about Cora's baby, but he said, “You girls can't afford to hang around chomping like this on work time. You've already shot your production to hell. You better get on back to your machines if you're fixin' to hold down these here jobs of yours.”

Folly knew he was trying to scare them. She knew because the fright came on her immediately. Admit it? Never. She couldn't help the images that came right before her—her charge list down at the store growing quickly to several pages, Skeeter never really full, eating endless pancakes if you let him. She did as she had been taught as a child to do with a snarling dog—got a steady hold on her fear and hid it. Then she realized the other fear which was even worse—would the other women retreat, slide back into their seats, man the machines? Would the first foot press the pedal, start the whir of the zipperfoot, leave her standing face to face with Fartblossom, forget the sound of silence in the factory? She reached for her own control again as if another snarling dog had to be met on the other side of the street.

Shirley's voice came clear from the back again. “You ain't answered our questions, Mr. Blossom.” She made the Mr. Blossom sound real polite.

“I've no intention to,” he said.

“I've no intention to go back to my machine then,” Folly said. She looked over at Martha. So many times they had talked this out on the way home and said all the things they would say just before walking out on Fartblossom. Now Folly didn't feel she had anything more to say and Martha didn't look like she did either. Martha just nodded and made the first step toward the door. Folly followed. Emily had been standing behind them all along. She followed Folly, but Folly still wasn't sure Emily wasn't going back to her machine until she went right past it. A couple more women stepped out from the first row and made a single file line behind Emily. Folly couldn't believe it. She thought maybe she hadn't heard Fartblossom declare second break or something. The way people exit from a church they were getting up, one right after the other and falling into line. She didn't dare turn around to see what she knew was happening. There was silence except for the sounds of feet walking until they got past the door, and then there was everyone talking at once.

6.

There was an extra catch to Martha's feelings. It had been moving along just underneath the surface in her ever since the day when Folly had talked to her about Lenore and Mary Lou, about the counselor saying Lenore was queer. The feeling was both a worry and an excitement. It had certainly not been consciously on Martha's mind when she and Folly had been standing up there staring Fartblossom down, or when the whole string of them had filed out past the machines, or when they had reached the outside and turned around to see the beautiful sight of every last woman coming out too, but that is when, joyous and without intention, she and Folly had opened their arms and fallen into a whooping hug together, and Martha's heart had felt the extra catch, a snag, an odd step.

All day long they had worked side by side on the picket line explaining to the women on the other shifts why nothing was going to work right unless everyone joined in. Over and over they told the story of how they had walked out in the middle of the night, how they had left Fartblossom standing all alone to fart his heart out. They didn't talk money. They talked about Cora and principles and being treated like shit. To themselves they wondered about their pay which was due the end of the week. By the time Folly and Martha got in the car to go home, their voices were hoarse and their bodies were heavy with fatigue. Still, Martha glanced over at Folly and remembered the hug, and the shock which had come inside her body came again just with the remembering. She was surprised at the strength of her reaction and at her body for acting almost as if it were on its own, without her permission. A warm glow came into her face. She felt shy and stopped looking at Folly and hoped she hadn't noticed anything different. She held her secret thoughts close and drove in silence.

“I reckon we'll sleep fine tonight,” Folly said. “Regular hours and all.”

“Better watch we don't get spoiled.” Martha tried for an even voice.

“I ain't willin' to worry none about going back, least not before morning.”

“Damn straight,” Martha agreed.

The kids were home from school and knew all about the walk-out by the time Folly walked in. It was the most exciting thing to hit Victory in a decade, since the time the escapees had gotten out of the state hospital up on Black Mountain, and everyone had stood around wondering and speculating on whose house they were likely to show up at when they got hungry and would you recognize them when they did if it was yours. Cora's daughter, Bonnie, was in Skeeter's grade and hadn't been in school. Mary Lou was wide-eyed, full of questions and torn between hiding her pride or showing it.

“Is it true you was leadin' the line, Mama?”

“No, that was Martha who went first.”

“Is it true you told Fartblossom to go piss in his pants?”

“No, where'd you get that?”

“Is it true Cora's gone to jail?”

“Yes, that's true enough. That's why we went out.”

“Is it true . . . .”

“Ma, Mary Lou's been tryin' to boss me around all day,” Tiny broke in.

“So,” Folly said, directing her eyes at Tiny. “I called her up this morning and told her to be the boss.” Her fatigue hanging on her like a weight, she went for the rocker.

“I can take care of myself,” Tiny said.

“So can't we all, but we still got bosses and most of us don't like who they are.”

“Well, they ain't as bad as havin' Mary Lou.” He turned his lip out in the direction of Mary Lou who, as utterly as possible, ignored him except for the brief correction,
“aren't,
stupid.”

Skeeter sat at the dinette table and drummed his fingers nervously. “Do you still have a job, Ma?” he asked. Concern sounded in the quiet of his voice.

“I vowed not to think about that today,” Folly said. “We're gonna have a party before we start figuring anything out. Mary Lou, you ride your bike down and get me some extra hamburger at the A & P, and Skeeter, you go on over to Martha's and tell her plan on bringing Daisy
over for supper tonight. Tell her I'll help walk Daisy over in about an hour. I'm going for a quick nap first.

Folly couldn't sleep. As soon as she closed her eyes she saw Fartblossom standing up there in his doorway, red-faced and puffy, and she saw her and Martha planted solid, facing him down and talking back. The memory felt like a big smile inside of her. Then he grew bigger, and they grew smaller, and she was shocked at her own audacity, shocked and frightened and awaiting his wrath. She fantasized the possibility of Fartblossom or even the mill owner, Big Sam, coming to see her, coming into her front yard and up to the front door, rapping on it, of course not realizing that they had furniture across it, that everyone had to come around back. Everyone. No matter who they were. That brought the smile back. But Fartblossom coming around back, finding her door, seeing her back porch, seeing her children . . . . The blue lights of a police car out front . . . Cora going home to that . . . to the dude with his holster slung in line with his balls . . . her baby gone blue without breath. What right would they have, bringing a police car to her house? None. She wished she had a shotgun. Fartblossom stumbling around looking for the back door. She'd hide around the comer. Wait. Face him down the sight. “You mister misery ain't got no right on my property. You best get on. You make me nervous.” She imagined Fartblossom trying to run from a shotgun on his birdlike legs.

Often when she couldn't sleep Folly would conjure up pictures of the house she was planning on getting them eventually. It didn't make sense to do that now, since if they stayed out at all, her savings would be gone right away, and she'd be back to starting over, but she did it, anyway. She pictured a large yard like some of the ones that Skeeter mowed. She had all her heaviest furniture across the front door, and he wouldn't dare just walk around back of that house.

She was tempted to get up and go sneak a look at her savings account balance as she couldn't remember exactly what it was. She didn't, only because she was the one who had declared the pact with Martha that they wouldn't start worrying until the next day. She did decide there was no sense lying there, though, with her mind flying off all over the place, in spite of the fact that she hadn't slept in what seemed like a week.

“Hey, who wants to have a party?” Folly said in the kitchen.

“Me,” Tiny said, his hands clenched, backing away from the T.V. Then, as if his sixth pace released him from a circumscribed cage, “Me, me, me, me.”

He wrapped his arms around Folly and she enclosed him and swayed with him gently back and forth. The purpose of the embrace she knew was to comfort him, and yet, it comforted her. The others had already gone from her in this way. “All right,” she said. “Let's get this barbecue going, then.”

Mary Lou was taking longer than her errand demanded. Folly had tried to avoid asking her to pick up things at the A & P ever since the counselor had called her in about Lenore, but she couldn't do right all the time. She lit the charcoal, yelled in to Skeeter to bring out one of the hardback chairs for Daisy and went over to Martha's.

“Ready, Ma?” Martha asked Daisy.

“Ready as ever,” Daisy said. She walked to the back steps herself but had to be helped from there. Daisy gave her cane to Folly and put her arm around Folly's shoulder. Martha, on the other side, took Daisy's paralyzed arm. They waited for her to take the first step. “Just go slow,” Daisy warned. “My eyes ain't used to outdoors.”

She was a shrunken old woman and Martha and Folly could easily have carried her down the steps and across the yard, but Daisy wouldn't have allowed them to. They all three bobbed down the first step, then the second, moving in unison. Then they set out across the grass, Daisy establishing the pace.

“You want the shade or the sun?” Martha asked.

“Lord, give me shade,” Daisy said. “Might as well be able to see somethin' while I'm out here.”

Martha detached herself from their unit and moved the chair. Daisy and Folly followed, still attached. The older woman's grip on Folly was a fearful one. It reminded her of the way babies had sometimes grasped onto her and not been able to let go. She was about to drop Daisy onto a chair when Daisy stood up even more rigid. “One of you better go after a chair pillow for me. My bones'll go straight through this here seat.” Folly called Skeeter to bring one out, and they all three sighed when Daisy was finally situated.

“I'll be right back. I'm goin' to get the beer,” Martha said.

“How ya feelin'?” Folly asked of Daisy.

“None too bad,” Daisy answered. “Little fresh air feels good.”

Folly studied Daisy's hands. One was fisted up tight from the stroke and never opened at all any more. The other rested gently on top of the fist and Folly stared at the ends of the fingers which were bent at almost ninety degree angles. This was the arthritis that everyone got at the factory eventually from pushing the material through the sewing
machine. She realized that her own fingers were stiff sometimes when she woke up and wondered how soon they would start to angle off like Daisy's. Folly's eyes moved to Daisy's face and studied the wrinkles, the droop of her mouth on the one side, the set of her neck which gave her the same look of determination that Martha had. It was one of those features that told Folly they came from each other, even though the ways they were different were more noticeable. Daisy was wispy. She looked like a strong wind could blow her away, whereas Martha was heavy but firm, both taller and broader than any woman in her family had ever been. Daisy had been the wind itself when she was younger—strong and sharp and ready with a sassing for whoever needed it.

Daisy's eyelids were drooped part way down and she appeared to be thinking far away, so Folly didn't talk but continued to watch her. She realized that she and Martha were more than half way to Daisy's age. Daisy seemed old for her age but then so did they. Daisy was sixty-six.

Martha returned with the beer and held out a can to break Daisy's spell. “What about you, Ma?”

“Y'all go on,” Daisy said. She waved the can away from her. “Them water pills for my pressure, you know. They keep you exercised . . . all day, back and forth to the pot.”

Martha sat back and let herself take up the whole lawn chair. “A night off,” she said, raising her beer can to Folly.

“Damn right,” Folly said. “Cause for celebration.”

“I say you girls done all right,” Daisy said. “I ain't seen Martha coming home from work with such a look of glory since she won the jackpot down at the bingo game way back when she was no more than a girl.”

Folly looked at Martha who had moved forward in her chair and was looking down at her shoes the way Mary Lou did sometimes when Folly talked about her to someone else in her presence.

Her bicycle basket jumped and bangled with the bumps in the road, putting Mary Lou in mind to everyone sitting there listening awhile before she actually appeared in the back yard. When she did appear she dismounted her bicycle with flair, flipped the package of hamburger through the air in the direction of Skeeter, who was standing in the doorway, with the last second instruction of “catch,” pitched the bike against a tree, and shaded her eyes with her hand to better see Martha and her mother. And Daisy, whom she had forgotten would be there. She went over and stood beside the straight-backed chair and said, “Hi, Gramma Daisy.”

Daisy patted Mary Lou's arm repeatedly, a brisk pat just less than a slap. “My girl,” she said. “How's my girl?”

Mary Lou felt Daisy's frailty in spite of the vigor of her pats. She felt the freshness of her own movements in comparison and the oddness of her seeming older than Daisy, regardless of Daisy's age. She stepped back from the chair. “Guess what, Ma. You won't believe it. Guess. Come on . . . please.”

“What? Give me a clue.”

“Guess what just happened to me, just now since I saw you last.”

“Something new about the walk-out.”

“No.”

“You stopped to rest and sat in chiggers.”

“No, Ma. Come on. Be serious. Your jokes aren't funny anyway.

“I give up. Give me more clues.”

“Vegetable or mineral?” Martha asked.

“Could be either.” Mary Lou shifted her weight from one leg to the other to show how her patience was running out. “It has something to do with money.”

“You found a golden egg down to the Hardy's where they let them hens run loose,” Folly said.

“You hid it,” Tiny added. “Where, where, where?” He ran in circles around the yard.

“Stop it,” Mary Lou shouted. “Just listen here. I got a job. I go to work starting Tuesday and Thursday evenings and Saturdays down at the A & P, and soon as school's out, I work everyday when someone's taking vacation.”

“Well, I'll be,” Folly said. “Guess I wouldn't never have guessed.” She gave Mary Lou a long, appraising look as she absorbed the news. She remembered the day she had told Mary Lou she didn't want her hanging out there. Getting work was not the same. She didn't know quite what to say without having time to think to herself. Finally she said, “You got another beer, Martha, for this here daughter of mine who's gone out and got her a job.”

Martha pulled one from the six-pack, popped the top for Mary Lou and held it out to her. “Sure do,” she said.

“You sure you're growed up enough?” Daisy asked.

“I reckon,” Mary Lou answered, not sure if Daisy meant old enough for the job or for drinking the beer. She sat down on a cinder block next to Martha. It wasn't the first time she'd ever had beer, but it was the first time she had been given a whole can by her mother.

“What all you think you'll be doin' down at the store?” Folly asked.

“Depends. I guess a little of everything.”