In the Pacific, though, what seemed to be a drawn battle worked for the United States, not against them as it had on the other side of the world. Where the Germans hadn't been able to break out into the Atlantic, the British and Japanese hadn't been able to break in toward the Sandwich Islands, which remained firmly in American hands.
Though the Globe hadn't been the paper whose headlines screeched loudest about the Dakota, its account of the fight did prominently mention the battleship's double circuit straight into the guns of the opposing fleets. "The valiant vessel sustained twenty-nine hits," the reporter said, "nine definitely from the enemy's large-caliber guns, eleven definitely from smaller shells, and nine that might have come from either. Although drawing thirty-six feet of water at the end of the battle, as opposed to thirty-one at the outset, the Dakota and the heroes aboard her also inflicted heavy damage on the ships of the foe and, miraculously, suffered only fourteen killed and seventeen wounded, a tribute to her design, to her metal, and to the mettle of her crew."
Sylvia left the newspaper on the trolley seat when she got out and hurried over to the plant: let someone else have a free look. She'd wondered why the Navy, in its wisdom, had sent George to the Mississippi rather than the open sea. Now she thanked God for it. The Dakota had got off lightly as far as casualties were concerned, but what about the cruisers and destroyers and battleships that had gone to the bottom with all hands, or near enough to make no difference?
Going down with all hands could happen to a monitor, too. Sylvia made herself not think about that. Coming up the street toward the factory was Isabella Antonelli. Sylvia waved to her friend. "Good morning," she called.
"Good morning," Mrs. Antonelli answered. Seeing her, though, did not take Sylvia's mind as far away from the war as she would have liked. Isabella Antonelli wore black from head to foot, with a black veil coming down from her hat over her face. In her imperfect English, she said, "All this talk of the big Navy fight, I think of you, I think of your husband, I pray he is all right-" She crossed herself.
"He's fine, yes. He wasn't anywhere near this fight out on the ocean, thank God," Sylvia said.
"Thank God, yes," Mrs. Antonelli said. They walked into the plant and punched their time cards together. As Sylvia did whenever she talked about the war with her friend, she felt faintly guilty that George still lived while Mr. Antonelli had met a bullet or a shell somewhere up in Quebec. The black-bordered casualty lists the papers printed every day showed how easily it could have been the other way round.
She welcomed the mesmerizing monotony of the line that sent cans into her labeling machine and then out again. If she concentrated on the work, she didn't have to think about the war-although she wouldn't have been here without the war. She would have been at home with George, Jr., and Mary Jane.
Was what she had now better or worse? Having George away-and in harm's way-tipped the balance, of course. Suppose George were home-or home as often as he was when he went out on his fishing runs. What then? The children sometimes drove her mad. Even so, she missed them fiercely every moment she was away from them.
Mr. Winter came limping down the line to see how things were going. He smiled at her. She nodded back.
"Good morning, Mrs. Enos," the foreman said, smiling to show off his bad teeth. "How are you this morning? Your husband wasn't in the big battle the papers are talking about, I hope?"
"I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Winter," she answered. "My husband, too, so far as I know. He's on the Mississippi, not in the Pacific."
"That's right, you told me. I just remembered he was in the Navy, is all." Winter shook his head in chagrin, whether real or put on she couldn't tell. Then he went back to business, which relieved her: "Machine behaving all right?"
"It seems to be, yes." With someone else, Sylvia might have joked that saying it was working well would make it break down. The thought was in her mind, but she kept it there. The less she had to do with Mr. Winter outside of things that were strictly business, the better she liked it.
He nodded to her. "That's fine, then." With another nod, he headed over to the machine Isabella Antonelli ran. "Hello, 'Bella. How are you this morning?"
The paste reservoir on Sylvia's machine ran low just then. She had to bend down, pick up the bucket of thick white paste, and refill the reservoir, all without missing a beat on the three levers she had to pull for every can of mackerel feeding through to be labeled. While she was doing that, she felt like a juggler with too many balls in the air.
It also distracted her from the conversation the foreman and Isabella Antonelli were having. She couldn't have heard all of it anyhow, not over the unending clatter and rumble of the line that moved the cans ahead and the racket of the machines along the way, but she might have heard some. She wanted to hear some. She'd never noticed Mr. Winter using a shortened version of Isabella's name before. Did that mean he hadn't done it before, or that she hadn't noticed?
Like everyone else at the canning plant, Isabella Antonelli had taken off her hat when she started work. That was all the more necessary for her, what with the veil depending from the hat. Before heading toward the next machine on the line, Mr. Winter chucked her under the chin, said something Sylvia didn't catch, and made as if to kiss her on the cheek but didn't. He was laughing when he left her station.
Sylvia concentrated on her own machine with a fury whose intensity startled her and was only made worse because it was so futile. She jerked the levers so hard, she jammed the machine, which shut down the whole line till she could clear it.
Mr. Winter came over at a limping trot. "Thought you said it was going good," he said. "You shut us down, it costs the owners money. They don't like that, Mrs. Enos. They don't like that even a little bit."
"I'm sorry," she lied. "It was behaving fine till a minute ago." She used a screwdriver to lever a tin can out of the works. "Let me just check." She pulled the lever that had started the trouble. It functioned smoothly now. "You can start things up again."
"All right." He gave her a grudging nod. "You fixed it fast enough, I will say that." Cans started flowing once more.
Restraining the anger she'd taken out on the labeling machine made her stomach hurt. She was glad when the lunch whistle blew. Picking up her dinner pail, she fell into step beside Isabella Antonelli. It was hot and muggy outside the factory building, and the view was only of another canning plant across the street, but that still meant cooler weather and a prettier prospect than inside.
They sat down on a bench. Sylvia had a fish sandwich-leftovers from the night before-and Mrs. Antonelli some sort of funny-shaped noodles in tomato sauce. After they'd eaten for a while, Sylvia asked, "Is he bothering you?"
"Who?" Isabella was intent on her food. They had only half an hour before they went back to work.
"Him. Mr. Winter. The foreman. I saw him, what he did this morning. That's not right." Remembering, Sylvia got angry all over again.
To her own mortification, a certain amount of relief accompanied the anger. He's not bothering me, thank God, was the nasty little thought somewhere near the bottom of her mind. Recognizing it for what it was only made her more furious, both at the foreman and at herself.
"Mr. Winter?" Isabella's eyes grew wide for a moment. Then, to Sylvia's surprise, she laughed. "Oh, that. No, that is nothing much. I do not worry about it. He is a lonely man, Mr. Winter. And I, now I am lonely, too." She set down her fork and touched the sleeve of the black dress.
"But-" Sylvia began. She stopped, not knowing how to go on. If, God forbid, something had happened to George, she wouldn't have been able to look at a man for years. She was sure of it. She was so sure of it, she hadn't imagined anyone else could be different.