Chapter 22: Seven Lathes

The sign went up on a Tuesday morning.

A painter on a ladder spent an hour on the second N.

When he climbed down, BRENNAN TOOL AND DIE was whole again over the door.

The street had filled before he finished.

The old machinists stood at the front in clean work shirts, with their names stitched over the pockets.

The women from the houses across the road had brought folding chairs.

Somebody's grandchild sat on the curb with a paper cup of lemonade.

Inside, the roof was patched and the wall rebuilt.

The lathes stood in their row with the tarps stripped off and the steel oiled bright.

My mother stood at the end of the row in her pale blue cardigan.

She had her hand on lathe number four.

"Tommy would have hated the fuss," she said.

"He would have complained for an hour," I said.

"And then he'd have wiped down every machine twice."

She smiled.

It was not her old smile, the quick one.

It was newer, and slower, and it stayed.

The old man in the cardigan came up to us with his cap in both hands.

"Mrs. Brennan, the plant in Joliet wants a first run by Friday. If we throw the switch today, we'll make it."

"Then throw it," my mother said.

"I thought you might want to."

"Me?"

"The shop's yours, Joan. It's your name on the deed."

My mother looked down the row at forty men watching her.

She took her hand off the lathe, and put it on the big red lever on the wall.

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