An Unfinished Season by Ward Just Read Free Book Online Page A

me something, so he opened the suitcase and took out a shallow basket. The basket looked like the hats Chinese coolies wear. He removed the lid and invited me to have a look. And there were the silkworms, scores of them no bigger than your thumb, resting on mulberry leaves. They were blurred and I thought for a moment there was something wrong with my eyesight, and when I looked closely I saw they were moving, all of them, minute movements among the mulberry leaves. As if they were shuddering, like a heartbeat. And all the time they were moving they were making silk. What you thought was still was not still at all but—seething. I thought of that time when Wils was so sick, unconscious for days on end, yet when you put your hand to his forehead you felt this tremendous heat. I knew that he would be all right. And the times I had watched you, Jo, sound asleep like a statue, not moving a muscle. But inside your head you were dreaming. And I could not see that at all.
    He said in a voice not his own, It was the damnedest thing. And then the Persian went away, taking the silkworms with him. They were for demonstration purposes only.
    I never dream, my mother said.
    Everyone dreams, my father said.
    I had a fever, I said. How did you know I would be all right?
    I knew, he said.
    We were silent again, listening to the telephone.
    Or the colored girl, my father said. The girl they found in the alley, full of gin. A pulse so faint they needed a stethoscope to find it. What do you suppose happened to her? The paper never said. Where did she go? Where is she now? My father paused, lost in thought. He said, The Persian insisted they’d love it on the North Shore. Winnetka ladies just died for silk. My silk invitations would be hotter than Ford station wagons. But I couldn’t see it. Certainly not now, with the situation. So I wished the Persian good luck and sent him on his way. My father sat quietly a moment, staring at the ceiling. He said, I would love to’ve taken a shot at it and I probably would have, before. But you need craftsmen for that sort of job. Strikebreakers are not craftsmen, they’re mercenaries. The men they replaced, my men, those men are sharpshooters. They could make a calling card out of a bat’s wing. Took pride in their work. These new men, I need them but they’re not quality men. They’re strikebreakers, that’s what they do for a living.
    I said, Where did you find them?
    My father smiled and replied, Judge Greenslat. Butch Greenslat can find you anything. He has a friend in Indiana, specializes in hard-to-get journeymen for businessmen who need them, maybe they’ve done some time in Joliet or Folsom, but they like travel and the combat pay. Men trying to find their feet. Butch finds them the feet, and takes a fee.
    Jailbirds, I said.
    Some, my father said. Not all.
    I said, I want to meet one.
    My father waved his hand, end of conversation.
    You never told me that, my mother said.
    I didn’t want to worry you. Besides, I don’t want to talk about the strikebreakers. I just wanted to tell you about those critters nesting in the mulberry leaves, damnedest thing.
    My mother had turned away, her chin in her hand, listening to the telephone.
    It could be Tom Felsen, she said.
    Could be, my father said without enthusiasm.
    With news, my mother said.
    My father did not reply, but turned to me instead. Do you want to play a round, late Saturday? We could get in nine holes before dark.
    It’s forty degrees, my mother threw in. You’ll freeze to death.
    I’d like that, I said. My father almost never asked me to play golf. He had a regular foursome, three overweight businessmen who loved the game but could not play it.
    Golf,
my mother said, her voice harsh against the ringing telephone. You ought to try thinking about your family, making us safe. Why can’t you
end this?
    My father was not listening.
    God
damn
it, he said then, rising from his chair. He