“The suit isn’t going anywhere,” Hobart says quietly. If she notices he’s used the present tense, I can’t tell.
“These things take time.” She bites her lips. She interrupted, and she didn’t mean to. She is trying so hard to seem loose, cool.
“Twenty years?”
“It hasn’t been twenty years.”
“Sixteen.”
“Yeah. Sometimes,” she says. “Sometimes it takes sixteen years. We’re making progress.”
“We aren’t, honey.” Tom tries to match her calm, her pretend calm.
“How would you know?” she snaps.
“Forget gaining ground, we’re losing it.”
“We aren’t.”
“We are,” says Zach. “They’re back. They’re reopening the plant. That’s how not worried about this lawsuit they are.”
“It’s a ploy, Zach. It’s all for show. Tell me you don’t see that.”
“How do you figure?” Maybe he’s genuinely willing to hear what she has to say. Or maybe letting her lay out her case is the first step to poking holes in it.
“That’s why they’re back. Because they’re worried about the suit. So they can show they aren’t worried about the suit.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Zach sounds like he’s talking to a small child or a scared dog.
“Maybe you’re right,” Tom starts.
Nora snorts. “Then what’s your excuse?”
He shrugs, helpless, but raises his eyes again to hold hers while he answers her question. “They offered us jobs, Nora.”
“In exchange?” she demands, even though she knows, even though Russell warned her.
“Not in exchange.” Hobart winces. “But yeah, as a condition of employment, we had to take our names off the lawsuit.”
“It’s blood money.”
“Maybe,” Tom says, “but it’s still money.”
She opens her mouth, but Zach starts in before she can say anything. They’ve been waiting to have this conversation with her, dreading it no doubt, but ready now and eager to have it over with finally. “They’re good jobs, Nora. Full-time, good salary, benefits.” And when she still won’t look at him, “Health insurance. Life insurance.”
“You don’t need benefits.” Her eyes are wide, too much white. “Pastor Jeff—”
“Could stand to get paid more for his services,” Zach says. “You too. I mean Mirabel’s doing a great job with the books over there”—he smiles at me, my tray piled with Frank’s receipts, not that I’ve looked at so much as a single number this evening—“but it can’t be enough.”
“We’re fine,” Nora says, a statement so absurd, on so many fronts, Zach laughs.
“You’re underpaid. And you’re overworked. If more of us had insurance, more doctors would come. More services, specialists. Maybe we’d get a hospital close enough to make a difference. If we had a choice—”
“You have a choice,” she interrupts.
“We don’t.” Zach stands then. So she can take his measure, I guess. Maybe to remind her how many legs he has left to stand on. Maybe to remind her how much he’s lost as well. “We don’t. They took that—”
“Yes, they did. So why would you—”
“Because what else can I do, Nora? Buy more buckets and more blankets and stretch the roof through yet another winter? Stay home all the time because it hurts like hell even limping with this piece-of-shit prosthesis? No offense, man.” He turns to Tom who’s keeping Zach’s leg functional with will, plumber’s tape, and a bike wrench.
“None taken.”
“Make my career at the Greenborough 7-Eleven? Cross our fingers the suit finally goes to trial and we win and the award is big enough for everyone and they don’t appeal and the judge upholds the award and we live long enough to see it paid?”
“Yes.” She’s desperate.
And he steps all the way up to the bar and reaches across and takes both her hands in both of his. “We can’t anymore, Nora. We’ve tried. We’ve tried for so long. We talked about it.” He waves around at everyone staring guiltily into their beers. “The whole town’s talking about it. The only reason anyone’s come up with to turn down these jobs is to not make you angry.” He meets her eyes again, takes in her face. “More angry.”