Nothing to Fear

by Jackie French Koller

  Sadie took the tablecloth and nodded.

  "All right, child, all right," she said. "Calm yourself. Remember what you told me just now, 'bout fear. I'll see what I can do."

  Sadie disappeared through the door again, and I dropped to my knees and crossed myself. "Please, God," I whispered, "make her give me another chance."

  It was quiet awhile, then I heard Sadie's voice rising in anger. "But I just told you 'bout his mama. He's tryin' so hard. Look at this cloth here. Why it's just as pretty as you please."

  "It has a scorch on it."

  "Just a little, bitty scorch. You can hardly see it. Think of his mama, Miss Emily. She done give you a lot of good years."

  "For which she was adequately paid. I owe her nothing. Times like they are, these people ought to know better than to keep breeding like a bunch of sows. It's just plain ignorant."

  A few seconds later Sadie burst through the door and yanked me to my feet. "Get up off your knees, child. It's blasphemy in this house." She whisked off her apron and hung it on a hook by the door, then she grabbed her coat off another hook and started to put it on.

  "You and me is walkin' out of here," she said, breathing hard and fast, "and ain't neither one of us ever comin' back."

  I was scared, and I was mad, but I still had enough of my wits about me to know I couldn't let Sadie do what she was about to do. I grabbed ahold of her coat sleeve and pulled her back.

  "No, Sadie," I told her, "you can't do this."

  "Just you watch me," she said, pulling her arm free.

  I grabbed on again. "Sadie, listen. What about your boy Jim? What about your other kids? Jobs are hard to come by, real hard. You know that. You told me yourself that your husband's out of work. You can't do this. Think of your family."

  Sadie didn't pull away this time. She stood still and her shoulders sagged, and all the fight seemed to seep out of her, like air out of a balloon. She pulled her coat off slowly and hung it up, then she grabbed me and hugged me against her great chest.

  "You remember one thing, child," she said quietly. "This is just a short path we walkin'. The long road, the good road, lies ahead. And when we get there, you can count on one thing. Folks like Miss Emily that has spent this life lookin' down is sure 'nough gonna spend all eternity lookin' up."

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Friday, March 31, 1933

  Mama said we shouldn't let on to the neighbors about losing the laundry business. She said they'd only try to pitch in and help, and none of them have anything to spare. She said we'd manage somehow.

  I went door to door and shop to shop, looking for any kind of work I could find and turning up nothing, day after day. Every spare minute I had I spent down on the street with my shoeshine box, but there seemed to be more shoeshine boys than ever, and less business to go around. At mealtimes I began to know how Pa must've felt. Here I was, eating a portion that could have gone to Ma or Maureen. Me, fit and able-bodied, taking food from the sick and the small.

  I hit on the idea of telling Ma I'd found a job at a restaurant that would give me my noonday dinner in exchange for washing dishes. She said it seemed slave wages to her, but I insisted that I wanted to do it and she gave me permission. So I just stopped coming home from school at noontime, and at supper I pretended like I was still full from stuffing myself at the restaurant and pushed most of my portion off on Ma and Maureen.

  That worked fine for about two weeks, but today as I was climbing the stairs after school, everything suddenly swirled around and went black. Next thing I knew I was lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs with a sore head and an aching back and a gang of Rileys bending over me.

  "What're you all staring at?" I growled.

  "You," said Maggie.

  "Why?"

  "Because you just passed out and rolled down the stairs, knocking half of us over on the way, and we thought it was a little odd."

  I scowled at her and started to sit up, but suddenly everybody disappeared in a painful swirl of colored lights, and I slumped back down again.

  "Danny?"

  It was Maggie's voice coming through the swirl.

  "Danny, should we get help?"

  "No," I groaned. "Just leave me alone."

  I heard Maggie send her brother and sisters on up the stairs, then I felt her arm sliding under my head.

  "Come on," she said, "sit up slowly ... and don't try to do it all yourself. Let me help."

  I didn't have a lot of energy and it was easier to give in than to argue, so I let her help me to a sitting position. My head swam again and I felt myself starting to sway.

  "Put your head down between your knees a minute," Maggie directed.

  I closed my eyes and did as she said. The whirling slowed down until at last I opened my eyes and the hallway stayed in one place.

  Maggie sat beside me, her eyes studying mine.

  "You're starving," she said.

  "Don't be stupid," I told her, "I'm just..."

  "I'm not stupid and you know it. I can see there haven't been any linens on the line in weeks. Your Ma and Maureen seem to be doing okay, but you're starving. Why?"

  I should've known better than to try and fool Maggie. Maggie is as street smart as they come. I figured I might as well let her in on my dishwashing scheme. She listened and nodded, and I even think she was a little bit impressed.

  "Nice try," she said, "except for one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "You keep on getting weaker like this and you won't even be able to handle your shoeshine business. Then where will you be?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know," I said, "but I know I can't eat at home. There just isn't enough to go around."

  Maggie nodded. "You don't have to."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Can you stand yet?"

  "I think so."

  Maggie helped me to my feet and I stood still for a moment, letting my head settle.

  "Can you walk?"

  "Yeah, I'm okay."

  "Let's go then."

  "Where to?"

  "Supper."

  "Supper?"

  "Just follow me."

  Maggie led the way down the street and around to the back door of the bakery. She knocked and a burly man in an apron opened the door. His hairy arms were white with flour. The wonderful smell of fresh, hot bread drifted out and started my mouth watering.

  "Hello there, Maggie," the man said pleasantly enough. "How you doin'?"

  "Fine thanks, Mr. Lizauskas. Any crusts today?"

  "As a matter of fact, there's a couple of nice, thick ones I been saving just for you." He brought out a small sack and handed it to her.

  "Thanks, Mr. Lizauskas."

  "You're welcome, Maggie."

  The door closed and Maggie opened the bag and looked in. "Mmm," she said, "pumpernickel."

  I stared at her. "Maggie," I said, "this is begging."

  A look of pretended shock appeared on her face. "No! Really?"

  "Come on, Maggie. This isn't right."

  Maggie shook her head and frowned. "Okay mister," she said. "You sit there on your high horse if you want to, but I'm warning you, you're gonna get awfully hungry up there." She crumpled the bag shut and walked away.

  The idea of that fresh bread getting away was too much to bear in my present condition.

  "Maggie, wait." I hurried to catch up. "Look, you're right. I'm sorry. Beggars can't be choosers, I guess. Huh?"

  She ignored me until we got to Sarge's hot dog stand on the corner. She pulled out the two crusts of pumpernickel and plastered them both with mustard. I waited for Sarge to swat her, but he didn't seem to mind.

  "Thanks, Sarge," she said when she was done, giving Sarge a salute.

  "Welcome, Miss Maggie," said Sarge, saluting in return.

  She turned and held one of the crusts out to me.

  "Just hold it," she said. "Don't eat it yet."

  I looked at it and swallowed down the flood of water that filled my mouth, not dari
ng to argue again. Next stop was the deli, where we got an end of cheese and one of salami. Maggie took the cheese and gave the salami to me.

  "Salami gives me bad breath," she said. "Now eat. Whatever else we get, we take home."

  We sat down in an alley and rested while we ate. Charity or not, that food sure tasted good.

  "Are they always this nice?" I asked her, meaning the shopkeepers.

  She laughed. "Nah, some of them would just as soon spit on you as look at you, but we stay away from them. For the most part, though, folks are pretty willing to share whatever extra they got."

  "That's really nice," I said.

  "Yeah." Maggie nodded. "How you feeling? Any better?"

  "Lots, thanks."

  "Good. Let's get going."

  Next stop was a vegetable cart where we got a couple of tomatoes that had fallen on the ground and split and some potatoes with bad spots. At a fruit stand we picked up some brown bananas, and another vegetable man gave us some onions that were starting to sprout. The pork store had some bones to spare, and the meat market some chicken necks. We ended up behind St. Cecilia's Convent, where a small crowd of kids waited to divvy up whatever the nuns had left over after dinner. To my surprise, Kitty was there. She seemed embarrassed to see me. So did most of the other kids.

  "It's all right," Maggie told them all. "This is Danny. I'll vouch for him."

  Her word seemed enough to put them at ease.

  "We each take a different route," Maggie told me. "We get more that way. Then we meet here and share whatever we get. I'll show you some of the other routes, then you'll be on your own."

  "On my own?"

  "Yes. I told you, you get more that way."

  It finally dawned on me what she was talking about. "You mean, you ... you expect me to beg?" I stammered.

  Maggie recoiled as if I'd slapped her. Fury burned in her eyes. She had given me a bag of food, now she snatched it away without a word and stormed out of the alley.

  Kitty came up beside me, her face deep-red with shame. "Don't you tell Mickey about this," she whispered hoarsely, then turned and fled after her sister.

  I looked at the small group of kids that still waited behind the church. Some of them glared at me. Others wouldn't look up. They didn't welcome strangers, I realized. They came together secretly, out of need, and each new person in the group meant that much less to go around. They had been willing to take me in on Maggie's say-so, and now I'd made a fool of her. Worse, I'd belittled her. I'd belittled them all.

  I backed away from their accusing stares and hurried out into the street. Maggie and Kitty were up by the tunnel already. I ran to catch up.

  "Maggie, wait," I yelled.

  She put her head down and walked faster. I caught up with her in the tunnel and grabbed her arm. She pulled away, and she and Kitty started to run. I caught her again, and Kitty kept going and disappeared around the end of the tunnel.

  Maggie tried to pull away. "Let me go," she shouted, pounding at me with her free hand.

  Suddenly my head began to swim again. All the running had been too much. I felt myself falling backwards, then my head hit the tunnel wall and I slid to the ground. The last sounds I heard were Maggie's running footsteps echoing in the distance.

  "Danny? Danny, are you all right?"

  I opened my eyes and Maggie's face swam dizzily in front of me.

  "I thought you ran away," I mumbled.

  "I did," she said. "And if I was smart I'd have kept on going."

  "But you didn't."

  "No. Don't ask me why. Are you okay or not?"

  I reached back and felt the lump on my head. It wasn't bleeding. "Yeah, I guess so."

  "Good. Good-bye."

  Maggie started to stomp off again.

  "Maggie, wait." I jumped to my feet, then staggered back against the wall again. I put my aching head down in my hands, then I felt an arm around my shoulders, steadying me.

  "You are the biggest pain in the neck that ever lived," I heard Maggie grumble. "Come on. I'll help you home."

  I leaned against her and we started to make our way slowly out of the tunnel. When we got to our stoop I sat down to rest on the top step.

  "I guess you can make it from here," Maggie said, and turned away.

  I grabbed her hand. "Maggie, wait."

  She frowned, but she didn't pull away this time.

  "I'm really sorry about what I said back there. It came out sounding like I think I'm better than you, and I don't, honest. You're better than I'll ever be. I'm just not used to this stuff, Maggie. Pa always had so much pride...."

  Maggie snorted. "Do you know what pride is?" she snapped. "Pride is a word rich people invented to ease their consciences about poor people. 'Oh, we can't help them. It would hurt their pride.' I can't afford to be proud, Danny. I'm not rich enough."

  "I don't believe that," I told her.

  She looked away.

  "Anyway, thanks," I said.

  "For what?"

  "For showing me the ropes. I'll get used to it."

  "No, you won't," Maggie said quietly. "You'll do it because you have to, but you'll never get used to it."

  THIRTY-SIX

  Ma was sitting at the kitchen table when I got home, wearing the better of her two maternity dresses. She looked paler than usual.

  "What are you doing out of bed?" I demanded.

  She looked at me. Her face was so weary.

  "I been out," she said.

  "Out where?"

  "The City Relief Bureau."

  The words hit me like a hard punch in the stomach.

  "Relief?" I gasped. "We're on welfare?"

  Mama looked away and said nothing.

  "Why?" I asked her.

  She looked back at me. "I'm not blind, Danny. You're wastin' away. There's no restaurant, is there?"

  It was my turn to say nothing.

  Mama sighed and shook her head. "I shoulda known," she said.

  She looked so heartbroken and defeated that I went over and dropped to my knees beside her. "It's all right, Mama," I said, squeezing her arm. "We won't be on welfare long. It's just to get us through. Look." I picked up the bag Maggie had given me. "I been begging, too."

  "Oh, Daniel, you haven't!"

  "Yes, I have. See for yourself."

  She opened the bag and looked inside.

  "Mother o' God, what's become of us," she whispered. She looked at me like she didn't know whether to laugh or cry, then I smiled and we both burst out laughing.

  "Aren't we awful?" said Mama.

  "Terrible," I agreed, and we laughed some more. Suddenly Mama's laughter gave way to tears and she covered her face with her hands.

  "Mama?"

  "I'm sorry," she whispered, "it's just ... the thought of you, out begging ... and, oh, Daniel, that place. The way people looked at me, the questions they asked.... And all for this."

  She opened her purse and dumped it out on the table. Six dollars fell out, and some change.

  "That's it?" I asked.

  She nodded. "Six dollars and sixty cents a week. That'll hardly feed us, Daniel, let alone pay the rent. We're still not gonna make it."

  I got up and put my arm around her shoulders. "Sure we will," I told her. "Somehow we will."

  She sat there shaking her head for a long time, then suddenly she straightened and her eyes flew open.

  "Why, of course," she said. "Why didn't I think of it before? We'll sell the front-room furniture."

  "The front-room furniture!" I stared at her. The front-room furniture was Mama's pride and joy. She and Pa had scrimped and saved for years to buy it. I can still remember the day it was delivered, the way Mama spread out her skirt and plopped herself right in the middle of the sofa.

  "How do I look?" she'd said, as excited as a little kid. "How do I look?"

  "Just like the queen herself, darlin'," Pa had told her. "Just like the queen herself...."

  "No, Ma," I said, "don't sell the furniture."
>
  "My mind is made up," Mama insisted. "You'll be puttin' a sign down in the hall tomorrow."

  "But Ma, you don't understand. The way things are you'll be lucky to get a tenth what it's worth. You might as well give it away."

  "A tenth is better than nothing," said Mama, and she snapped her mouth shut in a way that said "conversation closed."

  Just then the door buzzer sounded.

  "Go see who that is, will you, Daniel?" said Mama. "And then go over and get Maureen from the Rileys'."

  "Okay, Ma." I went into the front room, my heart sinking at the sight of the furniture, and stuck my head out the window. Mr. Twiddle was smiling up at me.

  "Collecting!" he sang out cheerfully.

  I fought back a terrible urge to spit in his face. "Just a minute," I grumbled.

  I went back to Mama in the kitchen. "It's Twiddle," I said, wrinkling up my nose.

  Mama rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.

  "Don't pay him, Mama," I insisted. "Just think what that quarter would buy."

  Mama stared at the two quarters that lay on the kitchen table, then slowly she shook her head. She picked one up and put it in my hand.

  "No," she said tiredly. "We've got to pay him. Pa said whatever happened not to ... let the ... insurance ... lapse."

  She spoke these last words slowly, as if something were dawning on her. When her eyes looked up at mine, I saw an awful fear there.

  "Mama, what is it?"

  Her face had gone white as a sheet, and her breath was coming in gasps.

  "Mama, are you all right?"

  "Yes ... yes." She clutched her chest and looked away.

  "Are you sure, Mama? Is it the baby? Are you sick?"

  "No, no, nothing like that. Just ... Go pay Mr. Twiddle, Danny. I'll be okay."

  When I got back Mama was breathing normally again, but she still seemed unusually pale.

  "Help me to bed, will ya, Danny?" she said. "I'm feelin' a bit weak."

  "Should I call the doctor?" I asked when I'd gotten her safely into bed.

  "No," she whispered wearily, "just leave me alone a bit. Okay, love?" She pulled the sheet up over her face and turned away.

  I went out to the kitchen and threw the chicken necks in a pot, hating Mr. Twiddle for upsetting Mama so.