In a way, sitting in the Socialist Party offices in New York's Fourteenth Ward took Flora Blackford back to the days when she'd been Flora Hamburger. Waiting for the latest batch of election returns made her remember how nervous she'd been when her name first appeared on the ballot ten years before.
In another way, though, coming back reminded her how much things had changed. She didn't get back from Philadelphia all that often, even though the two cities were only a couple of hours apart by train. She didn't hear Yiddish spoken all that often any more, either; she had to stop and think and listen to understand. What had been her first language was now on the way to becoming foreign to her.
A telephone rang. Herman Bruck picked it up. He'd been sweet on Flora while she still lived in New York City, and maybe his smile had a wistful quality to it when he looked at her now. On the other hand, maybe it didn't. He had a four-year-old of his own, and a two-year-old, and a six-month-old besides. That was bound to be more than enough to keep anybody busy.
He scribbled something on a pad on his battered old desk. 'Latest returns in our district-Hamburger, uh, Blackford, 9,791; Cantorowicz, 6,114.' Cheers filled the office. The Democrat, Abraham Cantorowicz, wasn't quite a token candidate, but he hadn't had any great chance of winning, either. The Congressional district whose borders roughly corresponded to those of the Fourteenth Ward had been solidly Socialist since before the turn of the century.
On Flora's lap, Joshua Blackford began to fuss. He was sleepy. At not quite one, he was up well past his bedtime, and in a strange place besides. She was surprised he hadn't started making a racket before this.
The telephone rang again. Again, Herman Bruck picked it up. Then he laid his palm against the mouthpiece and said, 'Flora, it's for you. It's Cantorowicz.'
More cheers-everyone knew what that had to mean. Flora passed her son to her husband. 'Here-mind him for a few minutes, please,' she said.
Hosea Blackford took the toddler. 'This is what the vice president is for,' he said with a laugh. 'He takes over so somebody else can go do something important.'
That got two waves of laughter-one from those who followed it in English and another after it got translated into Yiddish. Flora made her way to the telephone. 'This is Congresswoman Blackford,' she said.
'And you'll have two more years of being a Congresswoman,' Abraham Cantorowicz told her. 'I don't see how I can catch you, and what's the point in waiting to make this call after the handwriting goes up on the walls? Another election, another Democrat calling to concede. Congratulations.'
'Thank you very much. That's gracious of you,' Flora said. 'You ran a strong campaign.' He'd run as well as a Democrat in this district could.
'Someone had to be the sacrificial lamb-we weren't about to let you run unopposed,' Cantorowicz answered. 'We will keep fighting for this district, and we'll win one of these days.'
'Not soon, I don't think,' Flora answered.
'Maybe sooner than you think,' her defeated opponent answered. 'Will you run for reelection when your husband runs for president?'
Flora sent Hosea Blackford a look half startled, half thoughtful. She knew perfectly well he was thinking of running in 1928. Upton Sinclair almost certainly wouldn't seek a third term. The only president who'd ever run a third time was Theodore Roosevelt. He'd won the Great War, made himself twice a national hero-and lost anyhow. The United States weren't ready for one man ruling on and on.
'You aren't saying anything,' Cantorowicz remarked.
'No, I'm not,' Flora told him. 'We still have a couple of years to worry about that.'
'Maybe you should run anyway,' the Democratic candidate said. 'If he loses and you win, you'd still be able to support your family.'
'I don't think we'd have to worry there,' Flora answered coolly. She wasn't kidding. Hosea Blackford was a talented lawyer with years of government connections. He would have no trouble making his way even if-God forbid! — he lost the election. Flora wasn't sure she liked that in the abstract; whom a man knew shouldn't have mattered so much as what he knew. But that didn't change reality one bit.
When I first went into Congress, I would have tried to change reality. I did try to change reality, and I even had some luck, she thought. She took pride in being called the conscience of the House. But ten years there had taught her some things were unlikely to change in her lifetime, or her son's, or his son's, either, if he had a son.
Cantorowicz said, 'Well, I hope you have to worry about it. But you don't want to listen to that right now. You want to celebrate, and you've earned the right. Good night.'
'Good night,' Flora told him. The line went dead. Silence had fallen in the Socialist Party office. Everyone was looking at her. She put the phone back on the hook and nodded. 'He's conceded,' she said.
Cheers and whoops shattered the silence. People came up and shook Flora's hand and thumped her on the back, as if she were a man. The racket woke up Joshua, who'd fallen asleep in Hosea's lap. The little boy started to cry. Hosea comforted him. Before long, he fell asleep again, his thumb in his mouth.
Someone knocked on the door. Eventually, one of the men in the office heard the noise and opened it. There stood Sheldon Fleischmann, who ran the butcher's shop downstairs. He looked a lot like his father, Max. The elder Fleischmann had quietly fallen over behind his counter one day, and never got up again. Like his father, Sheldon was a Democrat. Flora doubted he'd voted for her. Even so, he was carrying a tray of cold cuts, as Max had done more than once on election nights.
'You don't need to do that,' Flora scolded him. 'You're not even a Socialist.'
'I try to be a good neighbor, though,' Fleischmann answered. 'That's more important than politics.'
'If everyone thought that way, we'd hardly need politics,' Hosea Blackford said.
His flat Great Plains accent stood out among the sharp, often Yiddish-flavored, New York voices in the office. Sheldon Fleischmann's gaze swung to him in momentary surprise. Then the butcher realized who he had to be. 'You're right, Mr. Vice President,' he said, giving Blackford a respectful nod. 'But too many people don't.'
'No, they don't,' Blackford agreed. 'I did say if.'
'Yes, you did,' Fleischmann allowed. ' Mazeltov, Congresswoman.' He chuckled. 'I've been saying that so long, it starts to sound natural.'
'And why shouldn't it?' Challenge rang from Flora's voice.
Had the butcher said something about women having no place in Congress, Flora would have exploded. She was ready to do it even now. But his answer was mild: 'Only because there are a lot of men in Congress, ma'am, and just a couple of women. You do say what you're used to.'
Flora couldn't very well argue there, however much she might have wanted to. She nodded. 'All right,' she said. 'I suppose I'll let you get away with that.'
By the relief on Sheldon Fleischmann's face, he felt as if he had got away with it. ' Mazeltov again,' he said, and went downstairs once more.
In the office, Herman Bruck was talking with Maria Tresca. Maria was one of the few Italians in the overwhelmingly Jewish Fourteenth Ward. She'd also been a thoroughgoing radical even before her sister was killed in the Remembrance Day riots of 1915. For as long as Flora could remember, Maria had stood foursquare for the proletariat and against the power of big capitalists. Now, though, she listened attentively as Bruck said, 'Amalgamated Mills is a very solid firm. They make fine-quality goods, and I think their stock is going to go straight through the roof. I got fifteen shares when it was at thirty-two last month, and it's already gone up five and a half points.'
When it came to cloth, he knew what he was talking about. He was a master tailor from a family of tailors, and always dressed as if he made five times as much as he really did. Flora wasn't much surprised when Maria Tresca gave back a serious nod. But she was surprised when strongly Socialist Maria offered a stock tip of her own: 'I just bought five shares of Central Powers Steel in Toledo. They landed that new contract for the Great Lakes fleet, and they may split two for one soon.'
'Central Powers Steel, eh?' Herman Bruck's round face grew alert. 'I'll have to look into that.'
'You're both buying shares in the stock market?' Flora knew she sounded amazed. She managed to keep from calling it speculating, though that was what it was.
Bruck looked faintly embarrassed, but he said, 'I've made a lot of money the last year and a half-that's how long I've been in. And you only need to put up ten percent of the money when you buy on margin, so it's a lot
