each other, sharing legs, Henry's right and Tom's left, taking turns, one foot after another
to get home.
"That's how far and deep I went back with that son-of-a-bitch Tom Hellweg."
So far and deep that, twenty years after Tom Hellweg's family moved to New Hampshire and the last time Henry saw him, when
the former appeared on the latter's doorstep one morning and asked for a job, Henry never even paused. "For Christ's sake,
Tom, put your hat back on. We're going to be late for work."
A full-time position in the painting shop was assigned to Tom Hellweg before the day was out, and by the time the quitting
bell rang, a group of men on their days off had already moved his wife and three children into an apartment house.
The matter of his friend's felony record—eight months upstate for running a bait-and-switch telephone scam hustling Quebecois
migrants into wiring emergency money to their gravely sick meres back home in the province—a felony being a strict prohibitive in the strongest union in Maine, was no prohibitive at all to
Henry McGlaughlin. Henry believed in second chances, and Tom Hellweg was a man who had once propped him up, and borne his
weight as if it were his own.
That the Tom he knew had matured into a gaunt, raccoon-eyed malingerer capable of bilking people so poor they made their shoes
out of potatoes was something Henry refused to consider. Neither did he permit himself to disapprove of his old friend for,
besides being the slowest worker in his shop, ritualistically painting the word CUNT into every plate and board that came before his brush, and then filling in from there. The only thing that mattered was that
the work got done, and after all, someone had to be the slowest. Henry also chose to overlook Tom's drinking, and his habit
of sitting apart from other men at lunchtime; and although it was a struggle, he even kept it to himself when someone told
him that the Hellweg children collected handfuls of cigarette butts out of street gutters and brought them home for their
father. Some men drank; some men liked to eat alone; and some men had their own ideas about raising their children.
And Tom was his friend, goddamn it. That was something you never forgot. That was the essence of decency.
"That was what the union was about," said Papa.
Gil cleared his throat.
My grandfather cut him off before he could start. "Not a word, you. Just keep driving."
A few months passed, however, and a situation arose regarding his old friend that Henry could not ignore. Henry received a
report that Tom, on two occasions, both well after midnight, had blithely asked other workers to give him a lift from a local
bar to the pipefitting shop on the Ironworks campus, because he wanted to see "how they had things set up." Tom said he was
thinking of putting together a workshop himself, at home, you see, and he just wondered how they had things arranged.
These reports matched up with another set of reports, from the morning foreman of the pipefitting shop, who found tools scattered
around along with signs that someone had been welding after hours.
"What's that sound like to you, Gerry?" Henry asked his wife. He didn't look up from the table.
"Cross-training," said Geraldine McGlaughlin, and went to retrieve the bottle from the cabinet. She poured two straight.
This came at a time when Local 219, like every other union in the country, found itself in a battle to find some kind of higher
ground in the wake of the Taft-Hartley debacle. After fifty years of struggle and progress, the Taft-Hartley Act had served
notice to the entire movement that the cripple was buried in Hyde Park and the men who inherited the family monopolies were
back in charge—and they had the veto-proof Congress to prove it. In the name of free trade, TaftHartley's deregulations had
kicked the Communists out of the movement, limited the unions' power to strike, and above all else, pinched off the increasing
influence of organized labor over middle
to get home.
"That's how far and deep I went back with that son-of-a-bitch Tom Hellweg."
So far and deep that, twenty years after Tom Hellweg's family moved to New Hampshire and the last time Henry saw him, when
the former appeared on the latter's doorstep one morning and asked for a job, Henry never even paused. "For Christ's sake,
Tom, put your hat back on. We're going to be late for work."
A full-time position in the painting shop was assigned to Tom Hellweg before the day was out, and by the time the quitting
bell rang, a group of men on their days off had already moved his wife and three children into an apartment house.
The matter of his friend's felony record—eight months upstate for running a bait-and-switch telephone scam hustling Quebecois
migrants into wiring emergency money to their gravely sick meres back home in the province—a felony being a strict prohibitive in the strongest union in Maine, was no prohibitive at all to
Henry McGlaughlin. Henry believed in second chances, and Tom Hellweg was a man who had once propped him up, and borne his
weight as if it were his own.
That the Tom he knew had matured into a gaunt, raccoon-eyed malingerer capable of bilking people so poor they made their shoes
out of potatoes was something Henry refused to consider. Neither did he permit himself to disapprove of his old friend for,
besides being the slowest worker in his shop, ritualistically painting the word CUNT into every plate and board that came before his brush, and then filling in from there. The only thing that mattered was that
the work got done, and after all, someone had to be the slowest. Henry also chose to overlook Tom's drinking, and his habit
of sitting apart from other men at lunchtime; and although it was a struggle, he even kept it to himself when someone told
him that the Hellweg children collected handfuls of cigarette butts out of street gutters and brought them home for their
father. Some men drank; some men liked to eat alone; and some men had their own ideas about raising their children.
And Tom was his friend, goddamn it. That was something you never forgot. That was the essence of decency.
"That was what the union was about," said Papa.
Gil cleared his throat.
My grandfather cut him off before he could start. "Not a word, you. Just keep driving."
A few months passed, however, and a situation arose regarding his old friend that Henry could not ignore. Henry received a
report that Tom, on two occasions, both well after midnight, had blithely asked other workers to give him a lift from a local
bar to the pipefitting shop on the Ironworks campus, because he wanted to see "how they had things set up." Tom said he was
thinking of putting together a workshop himself, at home, you see, and he just wondered how they had things arranged.
These reports matched up with another set of reports, from the morning foreman of the pipefitting shop, who found tools scattered
around along with signs that someone had been welding after hours.
"What's that sound like to you, Gerry?" Henry asked his wife. He didn't look up from the table.
"Cross-training," said Geraldine McGlaughlin, and went to retrieve the bottle from the cabinet. She poured two straight.
This came at a time when Local 219, like every other union in the country, found itself in a battle to find some kind of higher
ground in the wake of the Taft-Hartley debacle. After fifty years of struggle and progress, the Taft-Hartley Act had served
notice to the entire movement that the cripple was buried in Hyde Park and the men who inherited the family monopolies were
back in charge—and they had the veto-proof Congress to prove it. In the name of free trade, TaftHartley's deregulations had
kicked the Communists out of the movement, limited the unions' power to strike, and above all else, pinched off the increasing
influence of organized labor over middle
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