Nothing to Fear

by Jackie French Koller

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author's Note

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Footnotes

  Copyright © 1991 by Jackie French Koller

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and

  retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work

  should be submitted online at www.harcourt.com/contact or mailed

  to the following address: Permissions Department,

  Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,

  6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

  www.HarcourtBooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Koller, Jackie French.

  Nothing to fear/by Jackie French Koller.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When his father moves away to find work and

  his mother becomes ill, Danny struggles to help his family

  during the Great Depression.

  ISBN 978-0-15-257582-3 (pb)

  [1. Family life—Fiction. 2. Depressions—1929—Fiction.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.K833No 1991

  [Fic]—dc20 90-39344

  Text set in Old Style

  Designed by Lydia D'moch

  Printed in the United States of America

  V U T S R Q P

  To Mom,

  with love

  Author's Note

  On Thursday, October 24, 1929, the New York Stock Exchange crashed. There was no broken glass, no splintered wood, no crumbling concrete—for it was not the building that came tumbling down, but the numbers on the ticker tape inside, numbers that held the key to the economic stability of the United States. The rubble that was left in the wake of that crash was a rubble of human lives and spirits, for by 1932 almost forty percent of white Americans and fifty-six percent of black Americans were without jobs or any source of regular income.*

  The children who grew up during the decade that followed, the decade known as the Great Depression, would be forever scarred by the poverty, despair, and humiliation that pervaded our society during those hard times.

  My mother was one of those children. Abandoned by her father at the height of the depression, she was raised along with her brother and seven sisters by my grandmother, a valiant little Irishwoman who often supported her family on little more than the sheer strength of her love.

  During my growing-up years, stories of those hard times were told and retold at family gatherings, but they were never told with bitterness. They were told, instead, with all the warmth and laughter of a family made closer and stronger by adversity. It is the indomitable spirit of that family that inspired this book, and if anyone should notice that the Rileys, who pop in and out of its pages with regularity, bear a striking resemblance to the Hayeses who lived at 1444 Park Avenue in New York City in the year 1932, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised.

  —Jackie French Roller

  ONE

  Tuesday, October 18, 1932

  I'm not gonna pretend like I'm no angel or anything. I mean, I've been in trouble before. But nothing bad. Just small-time stuff, like stealing apples from the carts down around 105th or sneaking into the Bijou over on Lexington without paying my dime. Like I said, small-time stuff. Of course there was that time that Maggie Riley and I dressed a rag doll up in her baby sister's clothes and threw it off the roof. Whew! I can still feel the shellackin' I got for that one. But we were just kids then and we didn't mean any harm. I mean, we never would've done it if we knew her ma was sitting on the fire escape. I felt really bad afterwards. Maggie said she'd never seen her ma faint before, and with nine kids I guess she must've had a scare or two in her time.

  But still, that wasn't anything like the mess I got into over at Weissman's market today. I was looking at the penny jar in Weissman's display window when along came the Sullivan twins. They stopped and started arguing with each other about how many pennies there were. I was kind of laughing to myself because I had scientifically figured out how many there were, and I knew I was going to win the contest. I told them they weren't even close, but they wouldn't believe me.

  Then Harry, he's the older one—by two minutes I think—came up with the idea to swipe a few licorice whips. He dared me to go in and keep old man Weissman busy in the back room while he and Frank ran in, grabbed a handful, and ran out again. Well, I was kind of hungry myself, and I figured Weissman would never miss a few licorice whips, so I took Harry up on it. I should've known better though. No sooner did I get Weissman into the back room than we heard this big crash. By the time we got out front there was a brick through the display window, and the penny jar was gone. And there was nobody in sight except for Mrs. Ruiz who was standing over by the Campbell's Soup display, shrieking like she'd been shot. I guess I should've just stood there calm and collected and not let on like I knew anything. But when I heard that screaming and saw all that broken glass, I got so scared I just lit out of there like a cat with a bulldog on its tail.

  Just my luck, a crowd had already gathered outside, and making his way through the middle of it was Sergeant Finnegan. He seemed to just reach out and grab me from about ten feet away. I guess that's what they mean by the long arm of the law. Anyhow, he's got a pretty good grip for an old guy. I mean, he's got to be at least thirty. He hauled me up short and lifted me by the back of my jacket and I just sort of dangled there like a stupid scarecrow. Then he narrowed his eyes at me and said, "Now where do you think you're goin' in such a hurry, Danny boy?"

  That's when I knew I was in for it. Boy was I scared. I felt like I was gonna upchuck any minute. I kept looking for a way out, but I couldn't see any. Sergeant Finnegan had a real good grip on my collar, and even if I did manage to get away, where would I go? Down to the train yard with the hoboes? I had to go home sooner or later, so I figured I might just as well face the music. Besides, it didn't seem like Sergeant Finnegan was gonna give me any choice.

  "I oughta haul you right down to the station and scare some sense into you," he said. "If I wasn't such good friends with your pa I'd do just that; but knowin' Daniel Garvey like I do, I think I'll take you on home and let him deal with you."

  I felt like saying, "Thanks for nothing
," but I figured I'd better just keep my big mouth shut.

  You see, you have to know my pa. He's Irish. I mean, right off the boat. And he's got this thing about right and wrong. To hear him tell it, he must've been some goody two shoes when he was a kid. When I was your age I did this. When I was your age I did that. Anyhow, he makes this big deal about our name. I guess Garvey's as good a name as any, but to hear him talk you'd think it was dipped in fourteen-karat gold or something.

  "Your name is Daniel Tomas Garvey," he always tells me. "It's my name, it was my daddy's name, and it was his daddy's name before him. It's a good name. And that's the one thing no one can ever take away from you."

  Sometimes I feel like if he tells me that one more time I'm gonna throw up. Don't get me wrong—it's not that Pa is a bad guy. Most times I'd take him over any other pa I know. It's just that when he thinks our name's been sullied, watch out.

  Truth is, I don't much like sullying, either. I don't do it on purpose. Something just comes over me sometimes, and the next thing you know, I've sullied again. It's getting to be a problem.

  "Let's go, Danny," said Sergeant Finnegan, giving me a shove.

  "Hey," I told him. "I live down on Park."

  "I know where you live," Sergeant Finnegan reminded me, "but I've got my beat to finish, so we'll be takin' a little stroll." He gave me a sarcastic smile. "It's a lovely evenin' for a stroll, don't ya think?"

  I frowned and didn't answer, and Sergeant Finnegan's smile disappeared.

  "Get on with you then," he said, giving me another shove. We walked three blocks north on Madison, then turned east on 110th. It was getting dusky and the streetlights were just starting to come on. All up and down the street men were hanging out on the stoops, just talking and smoking like they do every evening.

  The gutter was full of kids playing potsy and jump rope and kick-the-can. The trolley went by and the kids parted in front of it, then closed right in behind again. A bunch of guys on skates grabbed onto the back of the trolley and got pulled along for a while, laughing and screaming, until the conductor shooed 'em off. Overhead, I could hear mothers leaning out of windows and calling their kids and husbands in for supper. I would've given anything to trade places with one of those kids, just going home for an ordinary supper tonight.

  Sergeant Finnegan didn't seem to be in any hurry. He stopped to buy an apple from a street vendor.

  "How's it going, Joe?" I heard him ask the vendor.

  "Been better ... been worse...," the man said. His voice sounded so flat and hopeless that I turned to have a good look at him. He had straggly hair and a couple of days' growth of beard. A worn overcoat hung from his shoulders, and he stared at the ground when he talked and shuffled from one foot to the other. Something about him reminded me of Mr. Smey, the vice principal from over at PS 72, where I used to go to grammar school. Then he looked up a moment and I realized that he was Mr. Smey. Wow! I knew they were laying off teachers left and right, but I had no idea they were letting vice principals go, too. I knew he hadn't recognized me, and I knew he'd rather I didn't recognize him, so I turned away. It was sad, though, to see him with that sign around his neck: Unemployed—Buy an Apple—5 cents.

  Sergeant Finnegan stuck his apple in his pocket and we started moving along again. When we finally reached the corner the elevated train rumbled by on its way uptown, and I looked up at it. It runs right up the middle of Park Avenue just about even with our third-story apartment windows, so I've been watching it come and go all my life. I lifted my hand out of habit and waved at the caboose.

  Sergeant Finnegan chuckled. "Bet you wish you were on that train about now. Huh, Danny boy?" he said.

  I shrugged, not about to let on that he'd just read my mind.

  We headed south, back toward my block, and I turned my face to the street, hoping none of the neighbors would recognize me. I stared at a pair of horses who clomped alongside me pulling a heavy cart. Just before my block they turned into the 107th Street tunnel, headed for the stables on the other side of the tracks. I glanced back up Park, afraid Pa might be out on our stoop. Turns out I couldn't see anyway, though, 'cause a big crowd was standing in front of 1446, the building next to ours. A chill ran up my back. Somebody was getting evicted again. That was the third eviction on our block this month. Seems like they're averaging one a week now. Little by little all our friends and neighbors are getting thrown out.

  When we got closer I could see that this time it was Luther White's family. Luther is in the eighth grade with me over at Patrick Henry Junior High. We always give him a hard time because his pa is black and his ma is white, and to top it off, his name is White. "Poor Luther," we always kid, "he don't know if he's black or white."

  He never gets mad or anything. He just calls us micks and spies and stuff like that and maybe takes a swat at us. That's the good thing about Luther. He can take a joke.

  Luther's pa has been out of work longer than most. He used to be a doorman down at one of those swanky midtown hotels, and right after the stock market crash, as soon as jobs started getting scarce, they took his job and gave it to a white guy. It's happened to a lot of black folks I know.

  Seems like the whole city went crazy after that crash. There were people killing themselves—jumping out of windows and off rooftops, throwing themselves into the river. I asked Pa why anyone would kill themselves over something like that. He said money does strange things to people. I guess he's right. Look what that stupid jar of pennies did to me today.

  Sergeant Finnegan yanked me to a stop when he saw what was going on out in the street. He let go of my collar and said, "You wait right here, Danny, and behave yourself." Then he gave me a look that put any thoughts of making a break for it right out of my head. He walked on over to Luther's father, tipped his hat, and said, "Afternoon, Luther." Luther's pa is named Luther, too.

  "Aftanooon Off'suh Finnegan," said Luther's pa.

  He's from down south and he talks like that, kinda drawn out, soft, and slow. I love to hear him talk. Lots of black folks talk like that around here. They moved up from the South when I was little, some even before that. There were plenty of jobs then and the city was full of laughin' and music. I remember on warm summer nights Pa used to walk with me and Ma up to 125th and Lenox to watch the rich folks going into the Cotton Club, and listen to the jazzy sounds coming out. Ma won't let us go up to that part of Harlem at night anymore. She says it's an angry, desperate place now.

  "What's the problem here, Luther?" Sergeant Finnegan was asking Luther's pa.

  "Just what it 'pears off'suh," Luther's pa told him. "They's puttin' us out."

  The sergeant and Mr. White went on talking for a bit. Meanwhile folks were kinda looking over the furniture and stuff on the sidewalk. Luther's ma sat in the middle of it on an old kitchen chair. Luther's baby sister, Rhetta, was on her lap, and Luther's other two sisters hung onto either side of her skirt. She held her chin high and stared straight ahead, ignoring the vultures that were picking through her worldly goods. She looked like she could've been having tea with the queen of England. It made me proud just to look at her.

  "All right there, move along, move along!" shouted Sergeant Finnegan. He banged his club on the end of the iron bed and the vultures stepped back and hovered, waiting for a chance to close in again.

  "Go on down to St. Cecilia's," Sergeant Finnegan told Luther's pa. "They'll put you up for a day or two, until you can figure what to do."

  Luther's pa nodded sadly to Sergeant Finnegan, and the two men shook hands. Then Sergeant Finnegan went over and gave his apple to little Rhetta. I guess maybe he ain't such a bad guy ... for a cop.

  "Come on, Danny," he said, grabbing my collar again. "Let's get on with it."

  Luther was just coming down the steps of his front stoop as we went by. He had a ratty old leather satchel in his hand. We looked at each other for a second, then we both looked away. I don't know which of us was more ashamed.

  TWO

  Pa wasn't down o
n the stoop, thank goodness, but a bunch of little Rileys were, watching the goings-on next door. At least they didn't have to worry about getting evicted. Their mother is the janitor and they get their rent free. They stared at Sergeant Finnegan with big eyes as we went by. Little Dotty grabbed her doll out of its shoe box and hugged it tight as if she was afraid he might arrest it or something. I said "Boo!" to her and she jumped about three feet.

  Sergeant Finnegan yanked my collar.

  "That make you feel like a big man, does it?" he asked. "Scaring little girls?"

  "No sir," I mumbled, feeling even dumber than I did already.

  "Get on with you then ... and mind your manners."

  Inside, the front hall smelled of Lysol. Mrs. Riley is forever swishing Lysol all over everything. I don't really mind, though. I been in a lot of buildings that smell like stuff I wouldn't care to mention. Our building may not be fancy, but it's always clean. Those Riley kids work like a little army, shining woodwork, washing windows, scrubbing floors. The only one in their family who don't lift a finger is their old man, and Marion, of course, but she's got an excuse. She's only a year and a half old.

  I took a quick look at the mailboxes on the wall. The mail was still in 3B. That meant Pa wasn't home yet most likely. My heart gave a little leap. Maybe Sergeant Finnegan wouldn't be able to wait.

  Sergeant Finnegan went to push the bell next to our box.

  "You don't have to do that," I told him. "The lock's busted." I pushed the inside door open and we started up the steps. There was a big commotion overhead, and Maggie Riley and her sister Kitty came clattering down the steps swinging the coal bucket between them. They stopped short when they saw us and flattened themselves against the wall as we went by. Maggie rolled her eyes at me, then I heard her and Kitty whispering and giggling behind us as they started back down the steps. Girls!

  Ma was singing. We could hear her clear down to the first landing. She sings real pretty. I read in a book once about this bird that could sing so beautiful that it made some Chinese emperor cry. It was called a nightingale. I think Ma must sing like a nightingale. Pa says her singing puts him in mind of the green hills of home, meaning Ireland. He says that when our ship comes in we're gonna buy Ma a piano.