After a time, he said, "I'm going to take a walk up to the horseshoe tournament, talk to a couple of the boys. Would you like to come along?"
She surprised him. "Matter of fact, Robert, I would."
They rose and began the walk up the hill, leaving the blanket, the picnic basket, and the cooler behind. No one would steal them; this was Hopewell. Old Bob was already thinking ahead to what he was about to do. He had promised Mel Riorden he would speak with Derry Howe, and he tried hard to keep the promises he made. He had no idea what he was going to say to the boy. This wasn't his business, after all. He no longer worked at MidCon; he was not an active member of the union. His connection with the mill and those who worked there was rooted mainly in the past, a part of a history that was forever behind him. What happened now would probably not affect him directly, not in the time he had left in this life. It might affect Nest, of course, but he thought she would leave when she was grown, move on to some other rife. She was too talented to stay hi Hopewell. He might argue that he had a lot of himself invested in the mill, but the truth was he had never been a man in search of a legacy, and he didn't believe much in carrying the past forward.
Still, there were other people to be considered, and it was not in his nature to disregard their needs. If Derry was planning something foolish, something that would affect unfavorably those who had been his Mends and neighbors, he owed it to them to try to do something about it.
But what should he say? What, that would make any difference to a boy like Derry, who had little respect for anyone, who had no reason to listen to him, to give him so much as the time of day?
But Mel thought the boy would listen to him, had respect for him. So he would try.
Evelyn's arm linked with his, and he felt her lean into him. There was nothing to her anymore–bird bones held together by old skin and iron determination. He drew her along easily,
liking the feel of her against him, the closeness of her. He loved her still, wished he could bring her back to the way she had been, but knew he never could. He smiled down at her, and the sharp, old eyes glanced briefly at him, then away. Love you forever, he thought.
They crested the rise and were back among the crowds. Children ran everywhere, trailing balloons and crepe–paper streamers, laughing and shrieking. People stood three and four deep in front of the refreshments, loading up on cans of pop, bags of popcorn, and cones of cotton candy. Old Bob steered a path behind them and veered toward the horseshoe tournament, which was setup out in the flats south of the pavilion. He could see Derry Howe already, standing easily in a crowd of other young men, tall and angular in his jeans, T-shirt, and old tennis shoes, a can of beer in his hand.
Old Bob caught sight of Mike Michaelson and his wife, waved hello, and led Evelyn over to talk to them. Mike wanted to know if Old Bob had heard anything from Richie Stoudt. Richie's landlord had called, said Richie was supposed to do some work for him and hadn't shown up. There was no answer at his apartment either. Old Bob shook his head. Al Garcia wandered over, eager to show his latest pictures of the new grandbaby. After a few minutes, Mel Riorden appeared, touting the lemonade they were selling, giving Old Bob a meaningful glance. His wife Carol joined him, a warm and embracing woman, cooing over the grandbaby and joshing Al Garcia about his camera work. Laughter and warm feelings laced the conversation, but Old Bob felt locked away from it, distanced by the task he had agreed to undertake and the implications it bore. His mind struggled with the problem of how to approach Derry Howe. Was it really necessary? Maybe Mel was mistaken. Wouldn't be the first time. Sure wouldn't be the last.
Penny Williamson strode up, his black skin glistening with sweat, his massive arms streaked with dust. Wasn't anyone going to beat him this year in the horseshoe tournament, he announced. He was on, baby, he was dead on. Four ringers already. He clapped Old Bob on the back and bent to look at the pictures, asking Al Garcia whose grandbaby that was, wasn't Al's for sure, didn't look ugly like Al, must be a ringer. There was more laughter, kidding.
Old Bob took a deep breath, whispered to Evelyn, asking her to wait for him a moment, excused himself, and moved away. He eased through the knots of people, tasting dust and sweat in the air, smelling the popcorn and cotton candy. People said hello, greeted him as he passed. He moved toward Deny Hpwe, thinking he should probably just let it go. Howe saw him coming, watched him, took a long swig of his beer, shook his head. In his eyes, Old Bob saw suspicion, wariness, and a wealth of impatience.
He walked up to Deny, nodded, said, "Got a moment?"
Howe looked at him, debating whether to give him the moment or not. Then he smiled, the soul of equanimity, sauntered forward to join him, said, "Sure, Robert. What's up?"
Old Bob swung into step with him and they walked slowly past the participants in the horseshoe tournament. He nodded toward the field. "Having any luck?"
Derry Howe shrugged, looked at him, waiting.
"Heard a rumor that you were planning something special for the Fourth."
Derry's expression did not change. "Where'd you hear that?"
"Heard you were planning an accident, maybe." Old Bob ignored him, did not look at him. "Something to persuade the MidCon people they ought to work a little harder at settling this strike."
"Man, the things you hear." Derry tossed the beer can into a metal trash bin and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. He was smiling, being cool. "You planning on coming out for the fireworks, Robert? Celebrating our independence?"
Old Bob stopped now, faced him, eyes hard. "Listen to me. If I know about it, others know about it, too. You're not being very smart, son."
Derry Howe's smile froze, disappeared. "Maybe certain people ought to mind their own business."
Old Bob nodded. "I'll assume you're not talking about me, because we've both got the same business interests where MidCon is concerned."
There was a long pause as Derry studied him. He had misread the comment. "You saying you want in on this?"
"No."
"Then what are you saying?"
Old Bob sighed. "I'm saying that maybe you ought to think this through a little further before you act on it. I'm saying it doesn't sound like a very good idea. If you do something to the company, something that gets people hurt, it might rebound on you. You might get hurt, too."
Derry Howe sneered. "I ain't afraid of taking a chance. Not like Mel and the rest of you, sitting around talking all day while your lives go right down the toilet. I said it before, I'll say it again. This ain't going to get settled unless we do something to help it along. The company's just going to wait us out. They're starting up the fourteen–inch–hell, already started it up, I expect. They'll have it up and running Tuesday morning, bright and early. They're bringing in scabs and company men to run it. Some of the strikers are talking about going back, giving in because they're scared. You know how it goes. When that happens, we're done, Robert Roosevelt Freemark. And you know it."
"Maybe. But blowing things up isn't the answer either."
Derry pulled a face. "Who said anything about blowing something up? Did I say anything like that? That what you heard?"
"You were a demolitions man in Vietnam. I can put two and two together."
Howe laughed. "Yeah? Well, your addition stinks. That explosives stuff is an ancient history. I barely remember any of that. Time marches on, right?"