and actually not different. Then on a Monday morning not long after
the Sad Sacks had begun their work he’d flung aside the chesterfield
overcoat with mangy collar he’d been assessing, and (hardly knowing
he was about to) he turned himself toward the desk where the area
supervisor, Mr. Fenniman, oversaw them all with his one good eye and
did his paperwork. Like Oliver Twist in the picture with his milk bowl,
he walked up past the eyes of the silent workers to the front table. The
boss took no notice of his standing there.
“Mr. Fenniman,” Prosper said. “There’s a matter I’d like to discuss
with you.”
“You may discuss anything you like with me, Prosper.” He contin-
ued to sort his papers, invoices and orders it appeared, but glanced up
to hand Prosper a brief encouraging smile.
“It’s about the, well the compensation provided here at the Light, as
over against the money that’s coming in.” Mr. Fenniman put down the
194 / J O H N C R O W L E Y
papers now, looked up, no smile. “Mr. Fenniman, I just don’t think I’m
getting my share of the gravy.”
Mr. Fenniman considered him. “Well now, Prosper, I believe you’re
making good money since the work here expanded.”
“Not compared to what the factories are paying.”
“You’re not at a factory, Prosper, are you?”
“I could be.”
Mr. Fenniman’s smile returned, but chilly. “I think you are making
an all right wage as a proportion of any able worker’s. All things con-
sidered.”
Now everyone was listening, at least everyone who could hear,
though many went on sorting rivets or tossing clothes as busily as
ever.
“I’m thinking I’ll go up and get myself one of those jobs,” Prosper
said. “Who’s to say I can’t.”
“I’m to say. You don’t even know what you’re talking about. The
war industries of this city have contracted with The Light in the Woods
to do work for them. We are grateful for the opportunity to do our
part.” His good eye traveled over the benches, and some—not all—
looked back down at their work.
“Well tell me this, then, Mr. Fenniman,” Prosper said, shifting his
stance, hard job standing tall after a time. “Just how much are you
taking out of what those companies are paying for our work?”
“You are an ungrateful wretch.”
“Just a question. For instance I know that the airplane company
down there is paying fifty-sixty cents an hour. An hour.”
A motion passed over the people working within earshot, a wave of
awe or restiveness. Some of them knew this fact very well, some were
just learning it.
“To able-bodied workers,” Mr. Fenniman said. “Not to the likes of
you.” He stared around himself a little wildly, as though he wished he
could take that back, at the same time daring those who now looked
frankly at him to take offense.
“Well we’ll see,” Prosper said. “For I am giving my notice.”
Mr. Fenniman’s shoulders sagged. “Now, son, don’t be foolish. Go
take your place and”—he lifted a weary hand—“the more you sort the
more you earn.”
F O U R F R E E D O M S / 195
“I’m quitting.” He spoke gently now, as though he’d made the point
a thousand times and was prepared to make it a thousand more.
“Son. The bus won’t even be here till five. You can’t quit. You can’t
get home.”
Now even Prosper could feel the eyes and ears of the Sad Sacks on
him. “I believe I can,” he said. “I believe I can.” He turned himself
around.
“You go out that door, Prosper, don’t you dare try to come back
through. Ever.”
Prosper, aflame within, wanted something more to say, some final,
utter thing, like in the movies. He thought of turning to the others and
saying “Anybody else had enough?” And if it were a movie, first one
and then another and more and more would rise up, the fearful trans-
formed, the oldsters with jaws set, the young alive at last. But what if
no one did? And if they did get up and follow him, a mass of them,
crippled and sightless and feeble, what would he do with them? He
said nothing, went without hurry to the coatrack; he lifted his woolen
scarf (taken from the tables) and laid it around his neck, and then his
wonderful houndstooth jacket. He clipped it with his hand to the cross-
piece of his crutch, not wanting to try struggling into it with everyone
looking on. He pushed out the doors of The Light in the Woods and,
holding the banister, he let himself down, hop, then hop, till he came
to the street. His heart was still hot. He supposed they might be watch-
ing through the big windows, and he thought he might toss them a
finger, but with the crutches and holding the jacket it was inconvenient,
and actually he felt no ill will toward them, not even toward Mr. Fen-
niman, who wasn’t the big boss and had formerly been kind to him.
The bus stop, as it happened, was right in front of The Light in the
Woods, but Prosper couldn’t feature standing there for however long,
peering down the street to see if the thing was coming, then negotiating
the steps up to get into it in view of the Sad Sacks and maybe failing. Or
refused service—it’d been made clear to him on other occasions that
was the driver’s right. So he set off down to wherever the next stop was,
not clear what the bus’s route was or how close it would get him toward
home. At least he had a dime in his pocket. As he went the workers
heading for the airplane plant were beginning to throng the street, lunch
boxes in hand and badges on their coats, he recognized them. He
196 / J O H N C R O W L E Y
thought maybe he would just go and see if the plant would take him
after all; but when the crowded bus lurched to a stop where he stood
with the others, and he struggled to get aboard, holding everyone up
and feeling for the first time profoundly embarrassed by his damn legs
and back, he knew he wouldn’t; and he knew what he’d do instead.
Go ahead and look, he thought, himself looking at no one there. Go
ahead, go make your money, go fight your war. If I have to look out for
Number One, I’ll look out for Number One. You don’t need me, I don’t
need you. A blond woman going out the back door glanced at him with
something that looked like pity or reproach, and a furious shame pos-
sessed him.
“You go down Main?” he called to the driver. The bus was nearly
empty now, with the industrial area behind.
“What?”
“I said. Do you. Go down. Main.”
“I cross Main.”
“Can I get out there?”
“It’s not a stop.”
“Can you just stop there? For a minute.”
No answer, dumb lump. When they reached Main he stopped and
opened the doors and gazed, indifferent, out his window as Prosper
made it out, his feet landing on the pavement with a thump he felt up
into his buttocks. It was a few long blocks down to the house where
Elaine lived. He needed to tell her, needed to recount to her what he’d
done and what he’d said, the reasons he’d been in the right, yet afraid
she’d reject his words and his action, why was it always so with her,
that he could be both sure he was right and afraid?
“Well that’s it,” Elaine said. He’d wakened her, she had the night
shift tonight. She took his side even before he finished telling her, was
instantly madder than he was. “Those, those. That’s enough. We don’t
have to, we don’t have to stand for that.” She roamed her tiny space