Nothing to Fear

by Jackie French Koller

  Frank grabbed his leg and whimpered. "You said you could handle it."

  "Aw, shut up," said Harry, then he looked at me. "I'll get you back for this, Garvey."

  "All right, all right, that's enough out of you two," said Mr. Whitelaw. He sent us off in opposite directions.

  "Thanks for all your help," I whispered to Mickey as I slid into the seat in front of him in English class.

  "You looked like you were holding your own," he answered.

  "Yeah, sure. I'll remember to return the favor next time you're in a jam."

  Mr. Proctor came in and told us to open to chapter eight of Tom Sawyer. Then he called on Tony Maretti to read aloud. I tried to pay attention, but my mind kept drifting away. I finished the whole book a couple of days after he gave it to us anyway. I don't know why we can't just get a new book every time we finish reading one. It's so boring to go chapter by chapter and then to have to pick it all apart and say what the book means to you. The thing is, the teachers don't really give a hoot what the book means to you. All they care about is what it means to them.

  Take Black Beauty for instance. Black Beauty is my all-time favorite book, but not because of any message about social injustice like Mr. Proctor tried to tell us. Black Beauty is my all-time favorite book because of Ned.

  Ned is the horse that pulls the ice wagon, and for years Ned and I didn't understand each other. Every time the ice wagon came, while the ice man was in making deliveries and the other kids were all jumping in and out of the wagon and grabbing chunks of ice, I would talk to Ned. I would run my hand along his poor old saggy back and wonder if it was ever straight and strong, and I would comb his tangled mane with my fingers. Sometimes, if Ma had a spare carrot or a bit of apple, I would feed it to him. And always he would look at me with his great big sad eyes. I knew he had a story to tell, but he couldn't make me understand. Then I read Black Beauty, and I understood about Ned. That's what I wrote in my composition, and I got a C minus.

  "Hey, Dan."

  It was Mickey, leaning close to my shoulder.

  "Yeah?"

  "Luther's absent."

  I looked across the aisle at the empty chair where Luther usually sat. I nodded. "His family got evicted yesterday."

  "No kidding," whispered Mickey. "I know that. I live in his building—"

  "Master Garvey?"

  "Uh ... yes sir?"

  "Would you tell us in your own words what Mark Twain meant by that passage?"

  "Uh..."

  TEN

  Staying after school to write one hundred times "I will pay attention in class" made me late for my first day at Mr. Weissman's store. He didn't say anything about it when I came in. He just took Pa's watch out, held it up, and looked at it fondly, then dropped it back into his vest pocket.

  "Sorry I'm late, Mr. Weissman. Something came up at school. It won't happen again."

  "Did you know it would happen today?"

  "No sir."

  "Then you don't know it won't happen again. You'll stay fifteen minutes overtime. Put your apron on."

  "Yes sir."

  "This is the cash register, I'm sure you know—but I'm going to teach you something new. I'm going to teach you to put money in instead of stealing it out."

  "Mr. Weissman, I told you, I'm not a thief."

  "I know, I know. An angel you are. So you say. We'll see." He patted his vest pocket.

  Mr. Weissman showed me how to work the register. It was kind of fun, actually.

  "And I know exactly how much is in there, so don't get any ideas."

  "Yes sir," I mumbled, tired of arguing.

  "Over here is the milk jug," Mr. Weissman went on. "When a customer brings his can in, you fill it to the neck line, no more, no less. The same with the flour. Put the sack on the scale and weigh out just what the customer asks for, no more, no less. And as for the penny candy..."

  "I know, I know," I told him, "just what they ask for, no more, no less."

  "Good," said Mr. Weissman. "Now this is the ledger." He pulled a heavy black book from under the counter. "Here I keep the accounts of all my regular customers. If someone wants credit, you look up the name in the book and write down how much. If the name isn't in the book—no credit!"

  Mr. Weissman shouted this at me, like I was the one asking for credit.

  "You understand?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Good. Now open that box on the floor and stack the cans in that empty spot up there on the shelf."

  "Do I get to climb the ladder?" I asked. The ladders that grocers slide back and forth and climb up and down on always looked like fun to me.

  "What do you think, you throw them up there? Of course you climb the ladder."

  "Wow! Keen!" I said.

  Mr. Weissman rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and shook his head.

  While I was up on the ladder a lady came in. She was well dressed for the neighborhood, with a big fur collar and a fancy black velvet hat, but she had a sour expression and a little pinched mouth that made her look like she'd enjoy sucking lemons. She held a paper sack out at arm's length like it was a dead rat.

  "Mr. Weissman!" she said, in a drill sergeant kind of voice. "This flour has a worm in it."

  "Good afternoon, Miss Perkins," said Mr. Weissman. "It's a pleasure to see you, too."

  I stared at the woman. Her name sounded familiar, but I couldn't place her face. She didn't react to Mr. Weissman's greeting. She just sniffed loudly and shook the sack at him. Mr. Weissman took it from her and looked inside.

  "Ah, and a fine meaty fellow he is, too. How good of you to call him to my attention." Mr. Weissman looked up at Miss Perkins. His bushy eyebrows came together and he pulled at his beard. "For such a good customer," he said, "a special deal. Keep the flour and the worm—no extra charge."

  Miss Perkins's mouth fell open and I nearly slipped off the ladder, trying not to laugh. In an instant, though, she snapped it shut again and narrowed her eyes.

  "Mr. Weissman," she warned, "don't toy with me."

  Mr. Weissman chuckled. "I can assure you, Miss Perkins," he told her, "nothing is further from my mind."

  Miss Perkins stuck her chin forward and crossed her arms over her chest. "I want a new sack of flour," she said, "and I want it now."

  Mr. Weissman shrugged. "Some people you can't please," he said, then he looked up at me. "Danny, come down here and weigh out a pound of flour for Miss Perkins."

  "Yes sir."

  I measured out the flour until it weighed exactly a pound, no more, no less. I handed the bag to the lady and suddenly I remembered where I'd heard her name before. Miss Perkins used to be Maggie's teacher over at the annex a couple of years ago. Poor Maggie! Miss Perkins snatched the bag from my hand without a word of thanks and marched out the door.

  I looked after her. "No wonder they call her the storm trooper," I said.

  Mr. Weissman looked at me and arched an eyebrow. "What's that you say?"

  "The girls over at the annex where she teaches, they call her the storm trooper."

  I thought for a minute that I saw a smile lurking around the corners of Mr. Weissman's mouth, but a second later it was gone.

  "Here," he said, handing me the sack in his hand. "Pick out the worm and put the flour back in the bin."

  "Back in the bin?"

  "Yes, back in the bin." Mr. Weissman looked up and started talking to the ceiling. "Such a fuss over a little worm," he said. "In my whole life I should get so much attention."

  Well, I'm not too fond of worms, but I did as Mr. Weissman said.

  "What do you want me to with it?" I asked when I'd fished the thing out.

  "Eat it. You could use the meat."

  I nearly gagged.

  "What's the matter? You don't like raw meat? Take it home then. Tell your mother to make a stew. I have to get something in the back. Try not to rob me blind while I'm gone."

  I was still standing there with my stomach churning and the worm in my hand when the bell on
the door dinged and Mrs. White walked in. She seemed embarrassed to see me.

  "Oh, hello, Danny," she said. "What are you doing behind the counter?"

  "I'm ... sort of helping out for a while, ma'am."

  "Isn't that nice. What a good boy to be such a help to your family in these hard times."

  "Yes ma'am," I said, feeling pretty guilty.

  "What's that you're holding there?"

  "Oh, uh, nothing," I dropped the mealworm into my apron pocket. "Can I help you with something?"

  Mrs. White blushed and looked down at the purse she held in her two hands.

  "Well, as you know we are ... moving, and we have made a little money selling off some of our things, so I have come to settle our account."

  "Yes ma'am," I said, pulling the book from under the counter. "Any idea where you'll be moving to?"

  Mrs. White blushed again. "We ... uh, haven't decided yet."

  "Oh. Well, tell Luther to drop me a postcard and let me know where you are once you're settled."

  "I'll do that, Danny, thank you."

  I opened the book to the W's and flipped through the accounts until I came to White. "Here it is," I said, running my hand down the column of figures. "That'll be—"

  The book was suddenly jerked from my hands, and I turned to find Mr. Weissman standing beside me.

  "I'll take care of this, Danny," he said. "You get back to those cans." He turned and smiled at Mrs. White. "How are you today, Mrs. White?" he asked her.

  She gave him small smile in return. "Well enough, thank you, Mr. Weissman."

  "And the children?"

  "Fine, also."

  "Good. Good. I'm sorry to hear you'll be leaving us."

  "I'm sorry, too, Mr. Weissman." She dropped her eyes. "About the bill, please."

  "Yes, of course. Let me see now." Mr. Weissman ran his finger down the page. "That'll be seven dollars and twenty-two cents."

  I stopped stacking cans and stared at him. I had just read that account. It said thirty-three dollars and eighty-seven cents.

  "Uh ... oh," stammered Mrs. White. "There must be some mistake. I'm sure it's much higher than that."

  Mr. Weissman looked at the book again. "No," he said, "no mistake."

  "But surely..."

  "Surely you don't accuse me of not knowing my business?"

  "Why, no, of course not...."

  "Good, then you have cash?"

  "Oh, yes." Mrs. White fumbled in her purse and counted out seven one-dollar bills and some change. "And ... uh, I'll be needing a few groceries as well," she added.

  Mr. Weissman got the items she asked for and put them in a sack. Mrs. White opened her purse again, but Mr. Weissman waved her hand away.

  "A farewell gift," he said, pushing the sack across the counter.

  "Oh no, I couldn't," said Mrs. White, putting her money down.

  Mr. Weissman picked up the bills and pushed them back into her hand. "I always give my customers a going-away gift," he said gruffly. "Good business. Tell your friends." He grabbed a handful of licorice whips and threw them into the bag. "For the children," he added.

  Mrs. White finally gave in and accepted the sack.

  "Bless you, Mr. Weissman," she said quietly.

  Mr. Weissman smiled. "A blessing I can always use," he said.

  As soon as the door closed behind Mrs. White, I jumped down from the ladder. "Mr. Weissman," I said, "I saw that account. I thought it said..."

  With a loud snap Mr. Weissman tore the page from the book and crumpled it into a ball.

  "I didn't ask you what you think," he said. "I asked you to stack cans. Now get back to work."

  ELEVEN

  Friday, October 21, 1932

  I decided today to give up stealing forever.

  Being awful hungry, I had sneaked a few peanuts out of the bin at the store, figuring Mr. Weissman would never miss a handful. I had put them into my apron pocket and was tossing one into my mouth every time Mr. Weissman turned his back, when I bit into one that crackled strangely. I tasted something kind of gooey and sour, and I spit it into my hand.

  "Oh no-o-o-o," I moaned.

  "What? What's the matter?" asked Mr. Weissman.

  "Miss Perkins's worm," I groaned, my stomach flipping over. "I just ate it."

  Mr. Weissman started to laugh, then he made a stern face and pointed to the ceiling. "He got you," he said.

  I looked up. All I could see was a spider, who admittedly might not be too crazy about me horning in on his bug supply, but I didn't really see how he could have "gotten me."

  "Who?" I asked.

  "Him," said Mr. Weissman, pointing to the ceiling again.

  Then I figured out that me meant the big Him.

  "He got you," said Mr. Weissman, "for stealing peanuts."

  I felt myself blushing. "You knew?" I said quietly.

  "Of course I knew. I have eyes in the back of my head. You don't see them, but they're there."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Weissman. Really I am. I'll work an extra day to pay for them."

  Mr. Weissman waved my words away. "A handful of peanuts I can afford," he said. "Only next time ask, don't steal."

  I was really mad at myself, not only because I'd gone back on my word to Pa, but because I've come to like crotchety old Mr. Weissman with his gruff ways and his heart of gold. I want him to like me, too.

  It hasn't taken me long to figure out why the Weissmans live as poor as they do. It's not for lack of business. The little bell over the door dings all day long. The trouble is, the bell in the cash register hardly ever dings at all. Everybody just keeps saying, "Put it on my bill," and the numbers in the black book get bigger and bigger, while Mr. Weissman's wallet gets thinner and thinner.

  Working in the store has been causing a problem for me, too—one I hadn't figured on. See, as soon as word got out that I was working there, all my friends started showing up, thinking I'd let them get away without paying. It was really rough, especially in the beginning, before I figured out about Mr. Weissman; because here I was working for this supposedly rich old guy, and here were all my friends, just looking for a little something to fill their bellies, and I'm stuck in the middle. If I give the stuff away and get caught I disappoint Pa, and Mr. Weissman gets to keep the watch. If I don't give the stuff away, my friends think I'm a rat fink.

  So that's how I got to be a rat fink.

  And that's not the worst of my problems. Who showed up at the store this afternoon but the Sullivan boys, which took some nerve, I thought. But then the Sullivan boys are about as long on nerve as they are short on brain.

  Mr. Weissman was busy with a customer when they came in.

  "Well, look who's here," said Harry. "What are you doing working here, Danny boy?"

  "You know very well what I'm doing here," I said under my breath so Mr. Weissman wouldn't hear.

  "Helping out, huh?" Harry went on. "Well, that's real nice. Ain't that nice, Frank?"

  "Nice," said Frank.

  I scowled. "What can I do for you?" I asked.

  "Gee, polite, too," said Harry. "You're just so polite I think you ought to get a raise. Don't you think he ought to get a raise, Frank?"

  "Shut up, Harry," I said.

  "Uh-oh, uh-oh, now is that any way to talk to a customer?"

  "You ain't no customer, Harry."

  "Now see here, you're wrong," said Harry. "I got a dime right here says I am."

  Mr. Weissman's customer had left and he was standing there watching us.

  "Well then, what can I do for you?" I asked again.

  "Our ma wants a loaf of bread and three cents' worth of sugar," said Harry.

  "Danny," Mr. Weissman interrupted, "you can handle this. I'll be in the back."

  I couldn't believe my ears. Of all times to leave me alone. He knew darn well the Sullivan boys meant trouble.

  I got the bread and weighed out the sugar. I handed the bag to Harry.

  "That'll be ten cents," I said.

  Harry
dropped the dime back into his pocket.

  "And you can kiss my butt," he said.

  I looked toward the back room.

  "Aw, you gonna call mommy?" said Harry in a whiny voice. "Look at that, Frank, he's gonna call mommy."

  "Awwww," said Frank.

  I stared at them. "Give me the money, Harry."

  "Put it on my bill," he said. "Let's go, Frank."

  "You don't have credit here, Harry," I told him, "and you know it."

  Harry just shrugged and kept on walking. I had to do something quick. I wasn't about to let Mr. Weissman think I'd let them get away without paying. I jumped the counter, cut in front of them, and blocked the door.

  "Give me the dime, Harry," I said again.

  "Gee," said Harry, "there's something in the way. I guess we better move it, Frank."

  "Guess so," said Frank.

  They both lunged forward and grabbed me, one under each arm, and hoisted me up. I kicked my legs out and twisted them around one each of theirs, and the three of us went down with a crash.

  "Hey, hey!" yelled Mr. Weissman, rushing out of the back room. "What is this, what is this?"

  "Nothing, sir," I said, getting up and brushing myself off. "Harry and Frank were just paying for their groceries, weren't you, fellas?"

  Harry glared at me. He took the dime out and slapped it into my open hand. I picked up their bag from where it had landed under the three of us.

  "Sorry about your bread," I said. "Maybe your ma can make a pudding."

  Harry grabbed the bag out of my hand, swore under his breath, and left with Frank tagging after.

  "Thank you. Come again," I shouted after them.

  Mr. Weissman smiled.

  "What'd you leave me alone for?" I asked. "You know those two are trouble."

  Mr. Weissman just shrugged and stroked his beard. Then something dawned on me.

  "You were testing me, weren't you?" I said.

  The bell dinged and a customer walked in.

  "Good afternoon, Mrs. Salinas," said Mr. Weissman, ignoring my question. "How can we help you today?"

  TWELVE

  It was dusk when I walked home from the store. Normally I keep a pretty sharp eye out, but being that tonight was Friday, my mind was full of all the swell things I was planning for tomorrow. I was trying to figure out how I could cram the most good stuff into one day. I was almost home, when suddenly I was grabbed from behind. My arms were pinned in back of me, and Harry Sullivan's face appeared in front of me just long enough for him to land a punch in my gut that knocked the wind out of me. While I was helpless like that, all doubled over, sucking and gulping for air, Harry and Frank dragged me back into an alley and pinned me up against the wall, smashing my face against the bricks.