Nothing to Fear

by Jackie French Koller

  When we came down, the Rileys were marching across the hall like a little line of ducks, all carrying chairs and dishes and glasses and such. Maggie and Kitty brought up the rear, struggling with their extra table. I put the beadwork down and gave them a hand. We pushed their table and ours together and soon the meal was set—steaming bowls of chicken soup, thick with vegetables; loaves of good, chewy bread; butter; and fresh milk—a real feast.

  I've always loved Sunday afternoons. Sunday is the one day of the week that we have all we can eat. Even if there's nothing but oatmeal for the rest of the week, Ma always manages to put together a big meal for Sunday dinner, followed later in the evening by a supper of sweet buns and hot chocolate. It's a day for resting and visiting, too. One or more of the neighbor families always drop by, and the women sit in the front room knitting or doing piecework, talking and sipping "tea," while the men sit in the kitchen playing cards and drinking homemade beer. The smaller kids roll and tumble in the bedrooms, and us older ones drift from front to back, keeping peace, sneaking sips, and listening in on all the gossip and laughter. It's really keen, and even though we're poor, I can't imagine that rich people are any happier than we are on Sunday afternoons.

  Today there were no men playing cards, so we all stayed in the kitchen where it was warm.

  "No sense lighting the kerosene heater in the front room," Mama said.

  It felt strangely quiet at first, in spite of the crowd, and we all seemed to be talking extra loud and laughing extra hard to fill up the room. By the end of dinner, though, everyone had relaxed and things seemed almost normal. The dishes were cleared away, Maureen and Marion put down for their naps, and the smaller kids sent across the hall to play where their noise wouldn't wake the babies.

  Ma made hot chocolate for Maggie, Kitty, and me and poured more tea for herself and the ladies. Then we all set to work on the pocketbooks. I was glad Mickey wasn't around. He won't make pocketbooks anymore. He says it's sissy work. If you ask me, two cents is two cents. And anyway, what else are you gonna do on a rainy Sunday afternoon? Besides, it's a good excuse to sit there and listen to the grown-ups talk. They can say some pretty funny things when they get to laughing and passing that teapot around.

  Today the talk was full of politics, with the election just a couple of weeks away.

  "They say it's going to be a rout," said Mrs. Mahoney.

  "Aye, and well it should," said Mama, her cheeks flushing with anger. "That man has no right in the White House. It's out on the streets he belongs, in one of his own Hoovervilles, and then see how he feels about the depression!"

  Hoovervilles are what they call the little shantytowns that have sprung up all over the country since the depression began; makeshift towns thrown together by homeless, out-of-work folks. I haven't seen any, 'cause Ma won't let me go near, but there's sup posed to be one in Central Park and another over between Riverside Drive and the river. Folks are living in shacks made out of just about anything they can find, I guess.

  "Him that was supposed to be such a great humanitarian," said Mrs. Mahoney with a huff, "feeding all the hungry in Europe after the war. How can he turn his back on his own people now?"

  "Daniel says Hoover's for government staying out of business," Mama said, "for lettin' the economy straighten out by itself. But I say, how long can we wait?"

  "How long, indeed?" said Mrs. Mahoney. "Does he want to see every man, woman, and child out on the streets?"

  Mrs. Riley, who had been very quiet, shook her head. "It's time for new ideas," she said. "Roosevelt is for the ordinary man, for helping the farmers and putting folks back to work. We need a down-to-earth man like him in the White House."

  "Aye," Mama agreed. "Hoover's got his head in the clouds."

  There was a sudden ruckus across the hall, and a pile of little Rileys came bursting into the room, shouting and swatting each other and waking up Marion and Maureen.

  "All right, all right," said Mrs. Riley when the three women had gotten things calmed down some. "Now tell me what's the matter."

  "Johnny won't be the daddy," yelled seven-year-old Alice. "He wants to be the mommy."

  Johnny stood with a doll under his arm and his bottom lip stuck out.

  "I always have to be the daddy," he said. "I don't want to be the daddy anymore. The daddy always gets drunk and goes to jail."

  Mrs. Riley put her hand to her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away. Mama and Mrs. Mahoney glanced awkwardly at one another.

  I looked at Johnny, standing there clutching the doll. Poor kid. Bad enough he had all them sisters to put up with. Now he didn't even have a pa to set him straight.

  "C'mon, Johnny," I said, putting my pocketbook aside. "I want to show you something." I took his hand and led him into my room.

  "Look, goofy," I said, hoisting him up onto my bed. "You're not cut out to be a mommy, take it from me." I pulled the doll out from under his arm. "Haven't you got any boy toys?"

  "Sure," he said, bristling up. "I got a fire engine."

  "Well, that's good," I said. "That's real good. But you know what? I got something better than that. I got a Jack Armstrong whistle ring."

  His eyes opened wide. "No foolin'?"

  I went over to my bureau and pulled my cigar box full of treasures out of the top drawer. I slipped the ring onto my finger and blew. A shrill whistle sounded. I had sent away for it a few years ago for a couple of Wheaties boxtops. Jack Armstrong was my hero back then. I put the ring into Johnny's hand.

  "You want it?" I asked.

  "No foolin'?" he repeated.

  "No foolin'."

  "Wowwee! Sure." He sprang from the bed and was about to charge out of the room.

  "Hold on ... hold on there just a minute," I said, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him back. "There's a few conditions, you know."

  He turned his big blue eyes slowly up to mine, fearful, I guess, that I wasn't really gonna give it to him.

  I smiled. "If you're gonna wear a ring like that," I said, "you gotta live up to it. You gotta promise to be an all-American boy, like Jack—brave and honest and strong."

  "I promise," he said, eyes shining.

  "And no more sissy talk."

  "You bet."

  "Okay," I said, handing him back the doll. "Now go give this to your sister."

  "You bet," he shouted again. "Hey Ma, look what Danny gave me!"

  I looked up to see Maggie standing in the doorway as he charged by. She smiled.

  "Thanks," she said. It was the first word either of us had spoken to each other since last night.

  I shrugged. "Just didn't want him growing up to be no sissy, that's all," I said. I didn't tell her what I'd really been thinking. Maybe little Johnny wasn't half wrong. Why should he want to be a man when all the men he saw were useless? The way things were going, men would probably be extinct, like dinosaurs, by the time we grew up.

  Maggie came over and bent to look into my treasure box. She picked out a small rubber stamp.

  "A Tom Mix branding iron," she said, laughing and holding it up. "I wanted one of these so bad, but Ma wouldn't let us buy the Ralston unless we promised to eat it all." She made a face.

  "Yeah," I told her. "Ma made me eat it, too—two whole boxes!" I stuck my tongue out and shivered at the memory.

  We both laughed.

  Maggie bent and put the stamp back into the box, then straightened up slowly and looked around the room. "Remember how we used to play Wild Bill Hickok in here with our rubber-band guns?"

  "Sure I do, you low-down sidewinder you."

  Maggie laughed again, then her smile faded. She ran her hand along the iron bed rail. "Seems like a long time ago," she said.

  I looked at her and knew what she was thinking.

  "I'm sorry," I said, "about your pa."

  She turned toward me, but her eyes seemed to look beyond me, at something sad and faraway. "Yeah," she said softly.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Tuesday, November 8,193
2

  Over two weeks have gone by with no further word from Pa.

  "He could send a postcard at least," I told Mama at breakfast. "It'd only cost a penny."

  "A penny's a penny," said Mama. "If you haven't got one, ya can no more buy a postcard than a T-bone steak."

  I looked down at my oatmeal. I didn't like to think of Pa wandering around without a penny in his pocket.

  "C'mon now," said Mama gently. "Eat yer breakfast. Sure an' we'll be hearin' any day now."

  "Aren't you gonna eat?" I asked. Mama was feeding Maureen from a bowl of oatmeal, but there was nothing in front of her place but a cup of tea.

  "I haven't much of an appetite this mornin'."

  "Nor yesterday? Nor the day before?" I looked at her closely. She seemed paler than usual, and there were dark circles under her eyes. "Are you feelin' all right, Ma?"

  She laughed nervously. "Of course I am."

  A vague fear crept into my belly, but it was too scary to think about. Not now. Not with Pa gone. "Are you sure?"

  "Sure an' I'm sure. Just got me a little touch of the flu is all. Mrs. Mahoney had it last week, if you recall."

  I breathed a little sigh of relief. "Oh yeah. Well, why don't you go back to bed then? With school closed today I can watch Maureen."

  Mama huffed. "I've no intention of spending election day in bed. I'm doin' just fine, thank you, but as soon as you finish your breakfast you can watch Maureen while I go cast my vote."

  "Votin' for Hoover, are you?" I asked, just to get her goat.

  "Aye," she said, "when pigs fly."

  I laughed. Ma doesn't usually care much for politics, but she's really riled up about this election. She's been favoring Roosevelt right along, but I think it was that Bonus March business this past summer that really turned her against Hoover.

  "To think," she always says, "our own president setting the army against the poor veterans that fought for this country in the war. Unarmed men killed, and that dear innocent little baby!"

  It seems a bunch of veterans of the World War had got together and walked with their families to Washington, D.C., to ask if the president would let them have the bonuses the army owed them a little early—to help them get through the depression. Instead of meeting with them, Hoover sent General MacArthur with his troops and tanks and everything to turn them away. Trouble broke out and several marchers were shot and killed. The troops carried bayonets and threw tear gas grenades. A little boy was stabbed through the leg, and a baby, who'd been born on the march, died from the gas.

  Mama's been saying rosaries for that baby ever since. Bernard Myers was his name. I asked her once if rosaries would work on a Jewish baby.

  "Daniel," she said, "are you forgettin' that our Lord was a Jewish baby?"

  When Mama got back from the polls her cheeks were pink again. "Everyone is votin' for Roosevelt," she said, hugging me happily. "Oh, Danny, I know he's gonna win."

  "And then things will get better, and Pa will come home."

  "Aye." Her eyes sparkled. "Pa will come home."

  A knock came on the door. "Ready?" yelled Mickey's voice.

  I grabbed my broomstick. "Yeah," I called back. Then I turned to Ma. "That is, if you don't need me anymore."

  "No, run along," said Mama. "You won't have too many more chances to play stickball before the cold and the snow set in."

  "You sure you're feelin' okay then?"

  "Fit as a fiddle. Off with you now."

  I grabbed up my ball and joined Mickey in the hall. When we got downstairs he pulled me aside.

  "Can you keep a secret?" he whispered.

  "Sure. What?"

  "C'mon. I gotta show you something."

  He led me across the gutter to the wall on the other side. There were benches all along where bums usually slept at night and mothers sat during the day, watching their little kids play. It was a little late in the morning for bums, and a little early for mothers, so most of the benches were empty. Mickey pulled me over to one of them and, after again swearing me to secrecy, pointed to something on the wall behind it. I looked closely. It was a heart chipped into the stone, and it had the initials "M. C. & K. R." in it.

  "Holy cow," I said. "Who do you think did that?"

  "I did," said Mickey.

  "You did? Why on earth would you do that? What if somebody sees it? What if she sees it?"

  "I want her to see it. I asked her if I could do it."

  "You asked her? What'd she say?"

  "She said yes, dummy."

  "She said 'yes, dummy'?"

  "No. She said yes. You're the dummy."

  I shook my head. "I don't get it, Mickey. Six months ago you would've flattened anybody that wrote your initials in a heart with a girl's. Now you go and do it yourself—in stone yet! What's gotten into you?"

  Mickey grinned and shrugged. "Love, I guess," he said.

  "Aw c'mon," I told him. "I'm gonna throw up."

  Mickey gave me a deadpan look. "Grow up, will you, Dan," he said.

  I stared at him. "Are you serious?"

  "Yup."

  What else was there to say? I just stood there staring at him with my mouth hanging open until he burst out laughing.

  "C'mon," he said, "the guys are waiting, and if you don't shut that mouth you're gonna start attracting flies."

  We walked down the middle of the gutter toward 106th, swinging our broomstick bats and bouncing our balls. I looked over at Mickey. He just kept smiling that goofy smile.

  "Love, huh?" I said.

  "Yup."

  Silence again.

  "How do you know?"

  "I just know."

  "How do you know?"

  Mickey stopped walking and gave me a smug grin. "Don't worry," he said. "When it happens, you'll know."

  "Well I ain't losin' any sleep over it."

  Mickey shook his head and walked away. He was acting so screwy. I couldn't tell if he was feeding me a line or what.

  "Mick?"

  "Yeah?"

  "What's it like?"

  Mickey put his head back and stared up at the sky. "It's copacetic, Dan," he said dreamily. "It's the swellest thing that ever happened to me. I just can't stop thinking about her, and when she lets me hold her hand, it's like ... well ... it's like Christmas and the Fourth of July and my birthday, all rolled up together."

  "Jeez..."

  "And Dan?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You breathe one word of this to the guys and I'll break every bone in your body."

  OWOOOGA! OWOOGA!

  Mickey and I each jumped about three feet. We don't get too many cars up in our part of the city, and the loud blast of the horn right behind us scared us half to death. We both scrambled for the sidewalk, and stood breathing heavy as a gleaming yellow Pierce Arrow went by.

  "Wow," said Mickey. "Would you look at that?"

  "I'm looking, I'm looking," I told him, my eyes nearly bugging out of my head. It was the most gorgeous car I had ever seen, long and sleek and dripping with chrome. The guy behind the wheel was some fancy dude with a white hat and suit and spiffy black shirt.

  "Bootlegger," said Mickey.

  "Gotta be," I agreed. "Who else has that kind of money?"

  Mickey shook his head and whistled. "Maybe we oughta get into bootlegging, Dan," he said.

  I laughed. "Oh sure," I told him. "That'd be just our luck—go into bootlegging just when Roosevelt gets elected, ends Prohibition, and puts all the bootleggers out of business."

  Mickey laughed, too. He slid an arm around my shoulder. "You're right, Bugsy," he said in a fake gangster twang. "I guess we better find ourselves another racket."

  TWENTY-TWO

  Wednesday, November 9, 1932

  The radio woke me up this morning. Mama had turned it way up. "Happy days are here again!" it blared.

  "Roosevelt won!" Mama shouted as I staggered out to the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "It was a landslide!"

  When I went down on the
street with my shoeshine kit, everyone was in high spirits. In less than an hour, I made almost fifty cents. Folks seem to suddenly have a good feeling about themselves again.

  In school we talked about Mr. Roosevelt's "New Deal" and what it could mean for the country. For the first time, the U.S. government is going to fund relief programs, instead of leaving it up to the states and cities. New public works and conservation programs will be started to put people back to work. There will be national unemployment insurance, and farmers will be subsidized so that they can reduce their production and prices will stabilize.

  I don't really understand what it all means, but Mr. Brewster, our social studies teacher, said it means help for the hungry and homeless, and most of all, jobs for the jobless. He warned us that it will all take time, of course—as if we didn't know. I figure that since Mr. Roosevelt isn't even gonna be inaugurated until March fourth, it will take at least until the summer before he gets the depression straightened out. That's okay though. As long as we know the end is in sight, I'm sure we can make it through the winter.

  Mr. Weissman was in such a good mood when I got to the store that he gave me the afternoon off. I couldn't believe my good fortune as I headed for Mickey's building. The afternoon off! This really was turning out to be a great day. I met Mr. Moriarty, the undertaker, coming down Mickey's front stoop.

  "Somebody die, Mr. Moriarty?" I asked.

  "No, Danny. Just making my rounds."

  Mr. Moriarty comes around several times a year and shakes everybody's hands so they will remember him "in their time of need."

  "Any good wakes going on, Mr. Moriarty?"

  Mr. Moriarty paused and lifted his black stovepipe hat and scratched under it with one finger.

  "Well," he said, "there's Mr. Milke down on One-Hundred-First."

  "Who's he?" I asked.

  "Oh," said Mr. Moriarty, like he was about to tell me something very impressive. "Why, he was a taxidermist down at the Museum of Natural History."