When they returned from the disastrous Maine trip, Nathan and Milly had gone their separate ways, mostly. Milly took to avoiding the Levine house on her morning walks as the leaves colored and her mood darkened. She eventually sent Lizzie to retrieve her personal belongings from his house. Nathan, for his part, had taken to wearing a yarmulke and attending synagogue. She would have preferred it if the man had moved to Boston as quickly as possible to live with his son and grandsons and the frum daughter-in-law who had been the butt of his jokes. That had been the plan.
However, Nathan never did things in a hurry. He had some expression about avoiding the evil eye that justified his caution and deliberation. As he was about to put his house and business up for sale, all the trouble with his daughter happened. He would have to delay the big move and look after her. Of course, Raissa didn’t come back to Stowell right away. The gossip was that Nathan had put her in some institution—she was that bad. Whenever Milly overheard the follow-up to the gossip, along the lines of “well, she had it coming”, she leapt to the defence of Raissa Levine.
“Let them call me a Communist and a Jew lover.”
Lizzie Slaney, who was helping Milly clean the kitchen cupboards, quipped out of earshot, “Easy for a Seabrook to say.”
Milly wanted to fly to Nathan’s side after the scandal broke, but she kept herself in check. The poor man had his hands full with Raissa and having Milly around would only cause confusion and emotional turmoil. However, she did telephone George and Rose Berriac. Rose told Milly that Levine’s factory and dress shop were being picketed by rabble rousers shouting and waving signs saying Levine was a Commie and a threat to America.
“And half the union boys agree with them,” said George.
“We must do something,” insisted Milly.
“I’ll try to knock some heads together at the next union meeting,” George told Rose who told Milly, “But we’ll need to find the big shots behind all this to make it stop.”
Rose wondered if Richard Macfarlane might be a useful person to have on their side.
“Rose, you’re a genius!” Milly exclaimed.
Rose beamed. Had Milly been there, Rose would not have given her the satisfaction of seeing her smile, but the compliment resounded through Rose’s body like the ringing of a temple bell.
Richard Macfarlane wasn’t sure there were any legal strings to be pulled, but he did make some phone calls. He hit pay dirt on the second one. Richard had stayed in touch with Jim McBride of the Stowell Star over the years. Jim was now editor of the newspaper, but he hadn’t lost his cub reporter’s nose for a “good bone” when it came to news stories. He told Richard he’d dig around to see who was paying for the fancy signs and the guys waving them at Levine’s.
According to the young reporter McBride sent out on the story, the trail of picketers led west out of Stowell to a little burg called Brunswick. Not much goes on or ever went on in Brunswick, population 9,432, though the botanically-minded might disagree. Luther Burbank conjured up the Burbank potato on his farm in Worcester County not far from Brunswick. Back in 1875 the town hall boys tried and failed to claim him as one of Brunswick’s own. But more pertinent to the meat and potatoes of the Levine story—McBride still loved his lousy jokes—was C. J. Dunlap’s, a cement-making plant in Brunswick. The Star reporter spent a couple of hours watching the picketers wave their signs outside the Levine factory. When they finished their morning shout, they piled into a couple of brand new pick-up trucks, neatly stowed their signs at the back, and proceeded to drive out of town. With his own nose for a good bone, the young reporter followed the trucks until they reached the Dunlap plant in Brunswick.
“There’s my contribution,” McBride said to Richard, “Now it’s your turn to find out what the connection is between Dunlap’s and Levine’s, and Brunswick and Stowell.”
Before hanging up, Jim made his pitch, “Anything juicy, we’ll plaster it all over the front page.”
“As long as we obtain it legally,” said the lawyer.
Lizzie, who was helping Milly clean the kitchen cupboards, quipped out of earshot, “Easy for a Seabrook to say.”
Milly wanted to fly to Nathan’s side after the scandal broke, but she kept herself in check. The poor man had his hands full with Raissa and having Milly around would only cause confusion and emotional turmoil. However, she did telephone George and Rose Berriac. Rose told Milly that Levine’s factory and dress shop were being picketed by rabble rousers shouting and waving signs saying Levine was a Commie and a threat to America.
“And half the union boys agree with them,” said George.
“We must do something,” insisted Milly.
“I’ll try to knock some heads together at the next union meeting,” George told Rose who told Milly, “But we’ll need to find the big shots behind all this to make it stop.”
Rose wondered if Richard Macfarlane might be a useful person to have on their side.
“Rose, you’re a genius!” Milly exclaimed.
Rose beamed. Had Milly been there, Rose would not have given her the satisfaction of seeing her smile, but the compliment resounded through Rose’s body like the ringing of a temple bell.
Richard Macfarlane wasn’t sure there were any legal strings to be pulled, but he did make some phone calls. He hit pay dirt on the second one. Richard had stayed in touch with Jim McBride of the Stowell Star over the years. Jim was now editor of the newspaper, but he hadn’t lost his cub reporter’s nose for a “good bone” when it came to news stories. He told Richard he’d dig around to see who was paying for the fancy signs and the guys waving them at Levine’s.
According to the young reporter McBride sent out on the story, the trail of picketers led west out of Stowell to a little burg called Brunswick. Not much goes on or ever went on in Brunswick, population 9,432, though the botanically-minded might disagree. Luther Burbank conjured up the Burbank potato on his farm in Worcester County not far from Brunswick. Back in 1875 the town hall boys tried and failed to claim him as one of Brunswick’s own. But more pertinent to the meat and potatoes of the Levine story—McBride still loved his lousy jokes—was C. J. Dunlap’s, a cement-making plant in Brunswick. The Star reporter spent a couple of hours watching the picketers wave their signs outside the Levine factory. When they finished their morning shout, they piled into a couple of brand new pick-up trucks, neatly stowed their signs at the back, and proceeded to drive out of town. With his own nose for a good bone, the young reporter followed the trucks until they reached the Dunlap plant in Brunswick.
“There’s my contribution,” McBride said to Richard, “Now it’s your turn to find out what the connection is between Dunlap’s and Levine’s, and Brunswick and Stowell.”
Before hanging up, Jim made his pitch, “Anything juicy, we’ll plaster it all over the front page.”
“As long as we obtain it legally,” said the lawyer.