Chapter 5

By Christmas of 1916, Sam Williams, as he was known at work, had made the printing plant ready for the new equipment, even painting the big press's outline on the cement floor, and he had started training several employees on the operation of the new press and its ancillary equipment using pictures and manuals he had brought back from Cleveland.

As one of the youngest men in the company, Sammy took pride in how well he got along with older, better-paid and more skilled men and in how his brother-in-law had put faith and trust in him. He never really thought about whether the men he worked with knew the boss was married to his sister. In fact, most of them did.

Bill Birch had laughed when Sammy told him about being lent fifty cents in the telegraph office and slapped the young man on the back when he said he had paid the man back with a silver dollar. He even gave Sammy one of his cigars.

Millie Miller had admired the new plaid cap her boyfriend acquired in Cleveland, and he had regaled her with stories, most of them only slightly exaggerated, of being robbed and of learning how to operate an offset press as they shared the hard candies he brought her. Their goodbye kiss had been sweet but sticky.

Just before Christmas all three of Caroline's older children and their families visited for a day or two, and the farmhouse was filled with the happy sound of childish yelling and raucous laughter. They returned to their own homes for the holiday and only Lucinda's young child was present for the Christmas dinner to represent the next generation. Robert had invited his new lady-love, a young woman with a thin nose and high-piled hair he had met at the State Department, but Sammy could not persuade Millie to leave her family for the meal.

Seth, now sixty-five and beginning to show his age in his uneven gait and arthritic hands, said the blessing and thanked the Lord for his wife of forty years and for his healthy family. After the meal, a remarkable spread that strained the table all were sure, and the mincemeat and pumpkin pies that followed, they exchanged gifts and oohed and aahed at each other's presents.

"Now," Seth said, puffing his new pipe after the infant had been put to bed, "tell me Robert, what is going on in Europe these days, what do you hear inside the wondrous government our professorial president has created?"

Robert chuckled, "You know I've only been at State six months, father, so I'm hardly privy to any important information. Mr. Lansing does not confide in me just yet. Perhaps Suzanne can enlighten us." He turned to the fashionably dressed young woman sitting next to him, his golden broach now decorating her velvet lapel.

"Well," she said, licking her lips, "there are things I cannot talk about. I work in the foreign language department you understand, translating messages and cables, French mostly. But I'm afraid this war is far from over and that the Germans may soon start attacking any ship bound for England."

"A negotiated settlement is dead?" asked Seth with a grunt and a loud sigh.

"I fear so. Both sides seemed determined to settle the issue by bloodshed. And so many young men have died already, thousands and thousands." The thin woman looked around the room. "I think this is not the time for us to talk about war."

"The British government," Robert said with some authority, "is very shaky, and we don't know about this new man's intentions. Lloyd George, that's his name." Robert snapped his fingers. "Yes, that's it."

"And poor President Wilson seems caught in the middle," said Caroline Williams, fingering her dangling filigree necklace, her husband's present to her, a surprise since she usually told him what to get her.

"Let's change the subject," said Bill Birch. "Let me tell you how proud we are of Sam's work down at the plant. He's done a top-notch job, yes sir, top-notch."

"Maybe it's time to give the boy a raise," said Sammy to general laughter. He was only half joking and felt the sally might help.

"Well, I never thought he'd be a printer," Caroline said. "He didn't learn to write his letters until he was five and even then he still made some backwards. One day he told me he was unhappy with his name because he couldn't always remember which way an S went."

After the laughter, Mr. Birch resumed the floor. "Our business has nearly doubled this year and with our new government and labor union contracts and the modern press that will be here soon, we expect an even better year in 1917." He hooked his thumbs in his vest and puffed out his chest in the manner of Teddy Roosevelt. "Bully, ' he crowed.

"If there's no war," Seth said, blowing blue smoke at the ceiling.

"We have declared our neutrality, father," said Robert.

"War or no war, we're growing," said Bill Birch. "Might even do better if we go to war. Hate to say it, but it's true."

Millie invited Sammy to a New Year's Eve party at her house, and the young man bought himself a new suit at Kann's department store along with a pinstriped Arrow shirt and three collars of differing patterns. He polished his new, low-cut shoes until he could see his face in them and shaved twice before waiting out on the Pike for a man from Chevy Chase who was courting Millie's older sister and who had a brass-radiatored Model T Ford roadster.

When his ride arrived, puttering along, as all Fords were wont to do, Sammy climbed aboard and pulled his overcoat collar tightly to his neck and his new scarf up over his head since his wool cap lacked earflaps. The car's canvas top flapped in the breeze and the open sides let the wind whip through, but, Sammy had concluded, it was a lot better than riding a horse up the road to the party.

The Millers' big farmhouse was decorated from stem to stern and the fruit punch and eggnog flowed freely. They had rolled up the rug in the parlor and the player piano was seldom quiet. Ragtime seemed the music of choice. A tide of people of a wide range of ages surged back and forth through the rooms, and Sammy had few chances to capture Millie's attention much less steal a kiss under the dangling mistletoe. He had danced with her once, apologizing for his awkwardness, and she had put her cheek to his and hugged him.

It was well past midnight when the man with the Model T grabbed Sammy's elbow and said they had better get going. "Looks like it might snow," he said. His breath reeked of gin. Although Montgomery County, Maryland, was legally dry and had been since 1880, a good deal of liquor had been poured from flasks and hidden bottles at the party, and Sammy was positive the punch had a real kick to it. He had sampled plenty just to make sure.

While the car's owner retarded the spark, Sammy pulled on the choke wire and the yanked up the crank. The Ford sputtered, coughed and was silent, bouncing on its springs. He cranked again and got some more metallic chugging.

"Damn thing's cold," said the man behind the wheel. "Might have to jack up a back wheel."

"One more try," Sammy said loudly. He spat on his hand, gave the choke another pull and spun the crank with all he had, going all the way around twice and ignoring the risk of a kickback that might have broken his arm.