Nothing to Fear

by Jackie French Koller

  Mr. Weissman went right on eating, taking no notice of us.

  "Papa," said Mrs. Weissman, "we have guests."

  Mr. Weissman glanced up briefly, then his eyes disappeared again under his bushy white eyebrows.

  "A guest, I invite," he snarled.

  "Papa," Mrs. Weissman pleaded, "they come to make amends."

  The old man snorted. "I have no time for hoodlums," he grumbled. "Go away and let me eat my supper in peace."

  I glanced at Pa. He wasn't saying anything, but his eyes were hard and I knew it was killing him to hear a Garvey called a hoodlum.

  I cleared my throat.

  "Mr. Weissman," I said, my face burning, "I know what I did was wrong, but I ain't no hoodlum. Those guys said they were just gonna grab some licorice whips. It was supposed to be a prank. I didn't mean no harm."

  Mr. Weissman looked up and pulled on his beard. He didn't look convinced.

  "Tell me the names of the other boys, then," he said.

  I stared at the floor.

  Mr. Weissman snorted. "So, honor among thieves, is it?" He laughed.

  "I'm no thief!"

  Mr. Weissman's eyebrows crashed together. He leaned forward and pounded his fist on the table. "A thief is a thief!" he shouted. "A licorice whip today, an apple tomorrow. What next? A pretty toy? A woman's purse?"

  "I'd never take anything like that," I answered angrily.

  "No? Then why do you protect those who do?"

  I looked down at the floor again.

  "As they say, thicker than thieves..." Mr. Weissman smirked.

  "I'm no thief!"

  "So you say, so you say." Mr. Weissman waved my words away, then he pointed a finger at me and his face turned red with fury. "No matter," he shouted. "I know who did it, and one day I'll catch the little momzers!"

  "Papa!" said Mrs. Weissman sharply. "Watch your tongue. The child!"

  Mr. Weissman snorted and looked back down at his plate and mumbled something under his breath. I wasn't too thrilled about Mrs. Weissman calling me a child, but I guessed it was better than the names Mr. Weissman was mumbling.

  "Come, sit," Mrs. Weissman said. "Papa's bark is worse than his bite."

  "Thank you, ma'am," said Pa, "but..."

  "Sit, sit," insisted the old woman. "We'll have some tea, then we'll talk."

  Pa nodded his thanks and sat down. He motioned for me to do the same, and I slid into the chair on the other side of the table. We sat in silence while Mr. Weissman went on with his supper—some watery-looking soup, a crumbly loaf of bread, and a bowl of fruit that looked well past its prime.

  Mrs. Weissman brought over two glasses filled with steaming tea and put them down in front of Pa and me.

  "Here," she said, pushing the bowl of fruit at me. "Eat."

  I eyed one of the oranges eagerly. Mr. Weissman suddenly threw his hands in the air and started talking to the ceiling.

  "Such a woman you give me," he shouted. "She invited thieves to my table, and now she wants to feed them?"

  Pa shot me a sharp glance and I pushed the bowl away. "Tea'll be fine, thanks," I told Mrs. Weissman.

  She gave her husband an angry look, but she sat down and said nothing more.

  "Mr. Weissman," said Pa, "I'd like to be payin' for the window...." Pa's voice faltered, and Mr. Weissman looked up and regarded him through narrowed eyes.

  "I ... I've got no money with me," Pa went on, "but I could have it to you by Saturday."

  Mr. Weissman arched an eyebrow, then he sat back again and pulled at his wiry white beard. He looked Pa and me up and down slowly.

  "You've a wife, Mr. Garvey?" he asked.

  "Aye. You know her, I think. She comes into the store—Molly Garvey's her name."

  "Ah, yes," said Mr. Weissman. "And a baby girl, too. Am I right?"

  "Aye."

  "And are they well fed, Mr. Garvey?"

  Pa's face flushed red. "What're ya drivin' at, man?" he said sharply.

  Mr. Weissman leaned forward, both hands on the table. "Just this, Garvey. Keep your money, and keep your boy outa my store. Things like this have happened before. They'll happen again. I'll manage."

  Pa's hands clenched tight around his glass. "No," he said evenly, "we Garveys pay our debts."

  It just about killed me to see Weissman humiliating Pa like that.

  "It's my debt, Pa," I said. "And I'll pay it."

  Pa looked at me, and I could see I'd redeemed myself some in his eyes, but he looked doubtful.

  "And how're ya plannin' to do that, Danny?" he asked.

  I thought for a minute. It didn't make any sense to offer my shoeshine money. We needed that to get by. I said the only other thing I could think of.

  "I'll work it off, Pa."

  Mr. Weissman burst out laughing.

  "Work it off!" he said. "Where? In my store? You hear that, Golda? The fox wants to work in the hen-house."

  I could see Pa was getting hot under the collar. "Mr. Weissman," he said, "Danny's a good boy. He's done his share of mischief, but that's behind 'im now." He paused and looked at me sharply, and I nodded as sincerely as I could.

  Pa reached into his pocket and pulled something out and put it on the table. It was Grandfather Garvey's gold watch—his most prized possession.

  "You hold this watch," he told Mr. Weissman. "If Danny don't keep to his word, it's yours."

  Mr. Weissman picked up the watch. He opened it and read the inscription inside, then he turned it over and examined it carefully. He nodded his appreciation, then dropped the watch into his shirt pocket and patted it. He reached out a hand to Pa. "You have a deal, Mr. Garvey," he said.

  Pa took his hand and shook it firmly, then Mr. Weissman turned to his wife and smiled. "Golda," he said, "where are your manners? Offer our guests some fruit."

  FIVE

  Pa promised Mr. Weissman that I would work every day after school until Christmas to pay off the window and the penny jar. Turns out there was twelve dollars and twenty-three cents in that jar. Boy, does that make me mad. The guess I'd entered in the contest was twelve dollars and thirty-five cents. I probably would've won! I can't wait to get my hands on those Sullivan boys.

  When Pa found out that Mr. Weissman kept a spare window-glass in the back room, he insisted on going right down and fixing it. I wanted to go along and help, but Pa wouldn't let me because I hadn't done my homework yet. Pa thinks homework is some kind of a sacred duty, so he sent me on home alone.

  I don't like the city at night anymore. There are bums and derelicts everywhere. I know they're mostly just down-and-outers—men like Pa, who've lost their jobs—only looking for a place to sleep. But tonight they all seemed to have that sick gleam in their eyes, like that man a couple of years ago who pulled me into an alley and tried to drag me down a cellar. I'd bitten his hand and gotten away, but I was too scared and too ashamed to tell anyone. A couple of days later they found a kid murdered in that cellar. They never caught that guy, either.

  I shivered and put one hand into my pocket, closing it around the handle of the old ice pick I've carried ever since.

  "Hey, kid."

  The voice startled me. I felt a hand on my shoulder and I whirled around with all my strength, knocking the man off balance. He staggered back against the wall of the building behind us and slid to the ground. I pulled the ice pick from my pocket.

  "Please," he whispered hoarsely. His eyes filled with terror as he put his hands up to shield his face. I could see now that he was nothing but a skeleton, pale and sickly.

  "Please," he repeated again, "I only wanted a light." He held up an old half-smoked cigarette he must have found in the gutter.

  I stuck the ice pick back in my pocket and put out a hand to help him up. "Sorry," I said, feeling like a real jerk.

  "No harm done," he mumbled, then added hopefully, "Got a light?"

  I fumbled in my pockets. I had a bunch of match covers for playing cards with, but no whole books. "Sorry," I said.

 
"Could you spare a dime, then?"

  I shook my head. "Sorry," I said again. The man nodded matter-of-factly and shuffled off.

  When I got home I couldn't quite get up the nerve to go in and face Ma, so I went out the back door into the yard. It's not much of a yard really, just a little patch of fenced-in dirt, but nobody ever goes out there at night, and it's a good place for when you got some thinkin' to do.

  Somebody had left their ash bucket out, so I turned it upside down and sat on it, leaning back against the fence. I looked up at the little patch of sky way above the buildings. The moon was out, though I couldn't see it. Just about full, too, judging from the brightness. Clotheslines crisscrossed over my head like the web of a drunken spider, slicing the sky into little wedges.

  A shooting star streaked across one of the wedges and was gone so quickly that I wasn't even sure I'd really seen it. I made a wish, just in case. I wished that when I grew up there really would be spaceships, like in that Jules Verne book, From the Earth to the Moon, and that one day I'd get to ride in one and see the stars up close. It amazes me to think that the stars and the sky go on forever. I can't picture anything that has no end. Seems to me there's got to be an edge somewhere.

  I looked over at the square of yellow that was our kitchen window. A shadow moved across it—Mama. My heart ached at the thought of the pain I'd caused her. I swore to myself that I'd never hurt her again. I've sworn that before, but this time I meant it—I really, really meant it.

  I looked at the other squares of yellow that climbed like ladders up the sides of the buildings. I thought about the people inside, those who are still there. Then I thought about all those who were gone and the others who have come to take their places.

  On summer nights when the windows are open, you can listen in on people's lives—babies crying, kids laughing, radios blaring, mothers yelling, couples fighting. Funny thing is, the sounds are always the same. Even though different people come and go, the sounds stay the same. I like that. It makes me feel a part of something big, something never ending, like the stars.

  There were no sounds tonight. Only the whistle of the wind coming through the alleys. There's something lonely about October with the summer sounds all gone and the cold winter ahead. I looked over at the empty, black windows of the Whites' apartment, windows that were warm and yellow just yesterday, and I shivered.

  The cold was starting to seep through my jacket, and the rim of the old bucket was cutting into my rear. I guessed I couldn't put it off any longer. It was time to go in.

  SIX

  Once I was inside, the darkness at the back of the hall closed around me and gave me the heebie-jeebies. I hurried up the stairs, pausing at each landing to stare into dark corners for shapes and shadows I really didn't want to see.

  At our landing my body reminded me that I still had to go to the toilet. I stared at the dark doorway and waited a few minutes, hoping one or two of the Riley kids would come out. They're lucky. With nine of them they can always find someone else who has to go, then they take turns keeping watch for each other. I couldn't very well drag Maureen out here, and now that I'm thirteen I'm not about to let Ma and Pa know that I'm still scared to go.

  The longer I waited, the worse I had to go, so I sucked in my breath, rushed in, and peed just as fast as I could, keeping my eyes glued all the time on the little vent that leads to the air shaft. I've heard all kinds of stories about people climbing down through the air shafts and murdering people in the toilet. In the daytime those stories seem silly—how could anyone climb down that skinny little air shaft? But at night, anything seems possible. I zipped my pants up, paused a minute in the doorway to make sure no one was waiting to grab me, then made a beeline for our apartment.

  Maureen was already asleep when I came in, and Mama was ironing again. Only this time she wasn't singing. She didn't even have the radio on. She looked up at me with a pained expression on her face. I sure wished I could wipe it away.

  "Where's Pa?" she asked quietly.

  "Fixing the window."

  She nodded, then went back to her ironing.

  I went over and stood awkwardly beside her. She looked up at me again and I could feel tears starting in my eyes, even though I'm too big to cry.

  "I didn't mean it to happen, Ma," I blurted. "Honest I didn't."

  The pain in Ma's eyes was washed away by forgiveness. She smiled and shook her head and reached her arms out to me. I flew into them like a little kid.

  "Oh, Danny," she whispered into my hair, "what're we ta do with you?"

  "Nothing, Mama," I told her. "You won't have to do nothing. I'm never gonna get in trouble again. I promise. You'll see."

  She hugged me and kissed the top of my head.

  "I hope so, Danny," she said. "Come now. Sit down. I've kept yer supper warm."

  She dished me up some vegetable soup and a piece of bread.

  "Any butter?" I asked.

  "No," she said quietly, "no butter tonight."

  "That's okay. I didn't really feel like it anyway," I lied. "Did you eat yet?"

  "No, I'm waitin' fer Pa."

  I ate the vegetables out, then sopped up the broth with my bread. It was good. I sure would've liked some more. It just seems like I'm hungry all the time lately, like my stomach is a big, empty cave, and I can't ever fill it up. It even aches sometimes. I know better than to ask Mama for seconds, though. If I ask, she'll pretend she isn't hungry and give me her portion.

  Pa still wasn't back when I finished my homework. I was kind of glad. I was feeling really tired, and I didn't want to talk about what I'd done any more tonight.

  I went back out into the hall. This time there was a whole line of little Rileys waiting to use the toilet. Fortunately Maggie and Kitty weren't there, because I didn't feel like talking to them, either. The little ones stared at me like they were bursting with curiosity, but I just gave 'em all a mean look and they knew enough to keep their traps shut. Little kids are so easy to scare.

  I kissed Ma and told her I was going to bed. She nodded and said not to wake Maureen. Our apartment is a railroad flat with all the rooms in a row, opening one into the other like railroad cars, so I have to go through Ma and Pa's room to get to mine. Maureen was sleeping soundly in her crib at the foot of their bed. I kissed my hand and reached through the bars to touch her cheek. She stirred and made little sucking noises with her mouth, like she was drinking her bottle. She was awful cute, lying on her tummy with her little bottom poking up in the air. I pulled her blanket close around her, although it was fairly warm in Ma's room, being so close to the kitchen.

  My room comes next, because it's the next warmest. After that comes the spare room and then the front room. If all Ma's babies had been okay, I'd be in the spare room now, or maybe even the front room like Maggie and Kitty Riley. They have to pile every coat in their house on their beds to stay warm at night. Maggie says sometimes she wakes up exhausted, just from the weight.

  There's another door in the front room, going out into the hall. When I was little I used to love to chase the Riley girls in a big circle from the kitchen through the bedrooms and the front room, out the front-room door, back in the kitchen door, and round and round again. Sometimes we'd open up the Rileys' doors, and run through their rooms, too. Our mothers never seemed to mind, but when our fathers were home we always got sent outside after once or twice around.

  I put on my pajamas, then crept into the front room and peeked out the window. Still no sign of Pa. I heard Riley's front-room door open across the hall, and Maggie and Kitty's voices right outside. I beat it back to bed so they wouldn't know I was there and come barging in. Those Rileys are the worst for barging in any time of the day and night. Their mother has spare keys to all the apartments, so even with the doors locked you're not safe.

  I climbed into bed. Saturday, confession day, is a whole three days away, and I hate to go that long with so many sins on my soul in case I get killed or something in between. I decided to try an
idea Luther White told me about. He's a Baptist, and he said Baptists confess their sins right straight to God without a priest in the middle. He said it worked okay as far as he knew, and I couldn't see where it would hurt, so I gave it a try.

  "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," I whispered. "These are my sins..."

  I was only about halfway through the list when I heard Pa come in, so I hurried with the rest and strained to hear what he and Ma were saying. At first all I heard was the clink of their spoons and the slurping of soup, but after a while I saw the lights go out and heard the springs squeak as they climbed into bed. They started to talk then, but their voices were so low and secretive I couldn't hear what they were saying. There was something in the tone that worried me, and I crept out of bed and knelt by the doorway, listening through the curtains we use for a door.

  "When?" I heard Ma ask.

  "Tomorrow," said Pa.

  Ma sucked her breath in sharply. "So soon?" she whispered.

  "The sooner the better," said Pa. "I'm nothin' but a burden to ya here."

  "Don't say that, Daniel," Mama protested. "You know it isn't true."

  "You know what I'm saying, Molly," Pa went on. "There's no jobs to be had in the city, and there won't be. Not for a long time."

  "But the election." Mama protested. "Surely Roosevelt will win. Then things'll be changin'."

  "Aye, I hope so," said Pa. "But it'll take time, and we've no time left. The whole city is sick—people hungry, homeless, children stealing...

  Mama didn't answer.

  "I'll come for you as soon as I've found work," Pa went on. "It'll be grand, Molly. We'll make a new start—find a nice, green place for the children to grow up in."

  "But this is our home," said Mama, her voice unsure. "Our friends are here. We don't know anything else, Daniel."

  Pa laughed. "Are you forgettin' where ya came from, then? Clear across the ocean. Where's the courage ya had then, lass?"

  "That was before the children. Children make a woman more ... cautious."

  "It's because of the children that we've got to go, Molly. Can't ya see that? Danny don't know wrong from right anymore, and how can I blame him? His belly's always empty, and I can't do nothin' to fill it. He sees the bootleggers and the hustlers living high off of everyone else's misery, while his poor honest father sits by helpless and watches his own children starve!"