Tommy and Jimmy pick up their pace. Growing boys are always hungry, and the insistent demands of their growling stomachs keep them moving past the distractions. Eventually, they turn the corner onto the residential street where they live. The uniformity and calmness is a stark contrast to the hubbub behind.
The boys walk through a neighborhood built to accommodate Philadelphia’s rapidly expanding growth. The houses are thrown together overnight, speed over craftsmanship. Narrow, brick rowhouses line the sidewalk, each dwelling identical except for the color surrounding the window sashes. Between every two units, a short flight of stairs rises to a shared, wooden veranda where housewives shake mats and young children often play.
Along the sidewalk, a parade of newly planted trees with thin bare branches wait for spring. They’ve been planted with the long-term vision of becoming stately shade trees. Their roots are taking hold as an unconscious symbol of a more established future for the people living inside houses where the smell of plaster and wallpaper paste still linger.
As they trudge along, Tommy looks sideways at Jimmy. “Did you see Oskar today?”
“No, you?”
“Nope.” Tommy kicks a stone along the sidewalk.
“Maybe we should go to his house after school,” says Jimmy. “I bet you he didn’t study for this morning’s test, so he’s pretending to be sick.”
“That’s probably it,” says Tommy, nodding. “Got home too late to study.”
“He better not tell his Ma where we wuz at.”
“That was pretty wild last night.”
Jimmy grins at Tommy. “I’ll say. Did you see how fast they pulled out of the warehouse? I thought those barrels of beer were going to roll right off the trucks. And the cops were no match for the tommy guns.” Jimmy pretends to fire the machine gun. “Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat!”
Tommy copies him. “Rat-a-tat-tat.” The boys dart around, chasing each other with their imaginary guns. “Do you think that cop is going to rat us out to our folks?” Tommy asks.
“Nah, how’d he even know who we are? We never told him our names,” Jimmy says, and grabs hold of Tommy’s arm. “Just make sure you don’t tell. We’ll all be in real big trouble if anybody finds out.”
Tommy nods at him solemnly. He’s no rat.
Jimmy spits in his hand and shoves it at Tommy. “Swear you won’t tell.”
Tommy grabs it tight. “You neither.”
A sacred ritual cemented with wet spit.
Tommy grins. “Holy cow, I didn’t think I could run so fast.”
“Ha, you weren’t so fast.” Jimmy gives his friend a shove.
“Faster than you. You run like your sister,” says Tommy and takes off. Jimmy gives chase, easily beating him to the corner. He waits for Tommy and they continue, heads close, recreating stories from last night’s adventure.
*****
Further along the street, inside one of those brick rowhouses, Tommy’s mother, Peggy, goes through the mail that has just landed with an ominous thud in the front hall.
She winces in shame that the postman would have seen the familiar “Past Due” notice stamped in red ink on the front of the grocery store envelope. Unless circumstances change soon, there will be another envelope next week, and the week after. She didn’t think the tightening in her chest could get worse, but she was proved wrong with the next envelope. A letter from her mother.
Her mother’s regular letters always have the same theme: Come home. Your living in Philadelphia is an embarrassment to your family. The neighbors wonder why you’re not with us now that you and your son are alone.
While her mother rarely phrases it quite so plainly, Peggy can read between the lines and knows the judgemental message will still be there. It just isn’t done in polite circles, a young woman living alone, even if she is a widow. And the boy—he needs a strong man to look up to; a man like your father.
Her mother’s rigid, hidebound approach to the world is from an earlier time when women were merely adornments of their husbands, dependent for security and a place in society. And that place was well-defined, with no exceptions. Society would gleefully tear you apart if you stepped away from the narrow path prescribed a lady, which is exactly what Peggy had done when she’d run off with Jack.
In her mother’s day, women abided by rigid expectations. Peggy wishes her mother were more modern, but recognizes the futility of her wish.
Mother’s attitudes are as rigid as her posture. What does she know about my circumstances and what my life is like? There are a lot more women on their own raising kids than that old relic will ever admit. At least two war widows on this street, and they’re managing. And what about the women whose men are in jail? Heck, there’re probably as many families without a man at home as not.
She squares her shoulders, rehashing old arguments. Mother is off her nut if she thinks I want my son anywhere near Father. If it wasn’t for him, Jack would still be alive. Hell can freeze over before I share a roof with that man.
Peggy stomps toward the kitchen, clutching the envelopes tightly.
Although she’s still a young woman, time and fate have scoured away much of Peggy’s youthfulness. The shock of losing Jack, the crushing burden of never having enough money, the strain of raising Tommy on her own, and the relentless anxiety about the future have dulled sparkling eyes and carved deep worry lines into her forehead. Bouncing ringlets have been squeezed into a practical knot at the nape of her neck, and traitorous threads of gray are starting to appear. She’ll go gray early, like many of the women in her family. Today, Jack would be hard-pressed to find the carefree scamp of a girl he had married seven years ago.
Peggy pulls her threadbare cardigan tighter. The last four years following Jack’s death have been difficult. They’d had only three years together before he died. She’d been a coy sweetheart, a young bride, a young mother, and then suddenly a young widow, but grief and hard times have taken their toll.
What she wouldn’t do to see Jack’s smile. He was always in good spirits; nothing ever got him down. But if she’s being honest, he’s not in her thoughts as much as he should be. There are many days when worry and exhaustion drive everything but the harsh day-to-day reality from her mind. Thank goodness for Tommy, who’s the spitting image of Jack.
And thank goodness she has the house. She and Jack had jumped at the first house they could afford, especially with the baby on the way. They hadn’t thought about the false economy of what a cheap purchase price might actually cost them. The ongoing maintenance and repairs on their cut-rate house—albeit a large house—were ruining her now. And they certainly hadn’t thought that it would be just her left holding the bills. Thank goodness she owns it free and clear; one more bill would be the end of her.
Peggy throws the envelopes onto the kitchen table. She won’t complain too loudly, though. As bad as it is, it could be worse. There are a lot of widows who have to live crowded together in much smaller places. The four bedrooms upstairs give her some options. As does the small room Jack and the neighbors had tacked onto the back of the porch off the kitchen. They had originally planned to use it for newly landed immigrants passing through; now the rent from it will put food on the table. The idea of a bit of rent money coming in and Peggy can almost see daylight.
Kitchens are often described as the heart of the home, and Peggy’s is no different. There are no modern conveniences; she relies on the wooden icebox and a wood-fired stove. Her dishes are neatly tucked away in a glass-fronted cabinet that stands next to a wall-hung porcelain sink. On the other side of the sink is the kitchen’s work-horse, the wooden Hoosier cabinet with its flour-bin sifter, and various drawers and nooks and crannies for storing kitchen staples.
The letter from her mother lies on the top of the pile of offending mail. I need a cup of strong coffee before I can tackle it. Glancing at the clock, she realizes that Tommy will soon be home from school, looking for his lunch. The thought reminds her again of the near-empty icebox
and the outstanding bill from Howard, the grocer. What am I going to do? What happens if he stops letting me buy my groceries on account? Who knew young boys could eat so much?
She’ll water down the soup, again, after she’s read her mother’s letter. There’s just enough in the pot for one last cup of coffee. That will have to do.
Peggy settles into one of the three mismatched wooden chairs at the kitchen table. She sips a little of the steaming coffee, then picks up the letter. She knows exactly how it will begin: a name her mother intentionally uses to erase life with Jack, and to ignore the present. Jack always called her Peggy.
Dearest Margaret,
Your father is extremely disappointed in you.
We were shocked when we saw the advertisement you had placed in The Inquirer. In my day, a respectable woman was only mentioned in the newspaper three times: at birth, when she married, and in her funeral notice. She certainly didn’t take out an advertisement, looking for boarders.
You have no idea the comments I had to endure from Mrs. Galbraith at the Garden Club. I really must insist that you stop this nonsense immediately and return home. A daughter’s duty is to her parents. It’s our responsibility to see to your security. Think of your reputation, Margaret.
Your father and I have tickets to the theater for Thursday. We will call around prior to the performance to discuss the matter further.
Until then,
Your loving mother.
There it is again, grating along her already raw nerves. Margaret. Mother does it just to annoy me. Disappointed in you. When isn’t she? Think of your reputation. Peggy snorts. Reputations don’t put groceries on the table, reputations don’t feed hungry, growing boys, which are much more pressing concerns than the opinion of Mrs. Galbraith, thank you very much.
Peggy’s toe starts to tap as the hand holding the letter curls into a fist. Loving mother? Controlling, yes; rigid, yes; but loving? Ha! She’s always been more concerned with the opinions of that stupid Garden Club than how I feel.
The letter is tossed away as the front door bangs open. Tommy charges down the hall. “Ma, I’m home,” he shouts. He bounds into the kitchen. “What’s for lunch?” Tommy sheds his outer coat. Underneath, he has on a shirt and tie, argyle vest, and a jacket that’s a bit too small. Knickers and knitted socks complete the outfit. Tommy often complains that winter is one long, prickly woollen itch.
Peggy grimaces. “Tommy, a boy with good manners says ‘Mother’. You are not one of those foreign boys from down the street. And there is no yelling inside this house, young man. You know better. Now, go hang your coat and wash up. I’ll get your soup and bread.”
Tommy tosses his coat onto the hook by the back door and heads over to the sink. He turns the tap, but all that happens is an ominous gurgle. He looks at his mother, alarmed.
“Not again. That’s the second time this month,” Peggy mutters under her breath. Where am I going to find the money for another plumber? “It’s all right Tommy, just wipe your hands on the dish towel. Come sit, I’ll get your soup.”
Hunched over his bowl, Tommy devours his soup and bread, chattering on about his day. Peggy continues to twist the handle on the sink faucet, busy reconciling the diminishing household budget for the month against this latest crisis. Maybe I can pick up a few more shirts to mend from the Bright and Clean Laundry. It’ll be spring soon, and warmer…
“And I wish I could run as fast as Jimmy. Oh yeah, and Oskar wasn’t at school today.”
… so I can maybe cut back on the coal order?
“Mother, did you hear me? Oskar wasn’t at school today.”
“Oh, is he sick?” she asks, listening with only half an ear.
“We had a test today and he missed it.”
Peggy’s head snaps up. “And how did you do on the test? You know you’re going to need top grades, young man, if you’re going to get into Boys’ Central High School in a few years.”
Tommy kicks at the table leg. “I don’t wanna go to that stupid school. Nobody else has to go.”
Peggy gives Tommy a stern look. Then she catches a glimpse of the clock and hurries to grab his coat. “Tommy, the time. Off with you now. And bring home that test tonight so we can look it over after dinner.” She hands him his coat and pecks his head.
“And don’t slam the…” The front door slams. She carries his empty soup bowl to the sink, turns the tap, and the pipes rattle. Still no water.
Chapter 3
W hat am I going to do now? The house isn’t that old, but it’s falling apart. The cupboards are bare. The plumbing barely works. Tommy’s clothes are all too small. I’m so tired of trying to make ends meet. It’s not supposed to be this hard.
Peggy sits, elbows on the table, and rests her chin in her hands. This is definitely not the life she bargained for when she ran off and married the dashing Jack Barnes. That girl had rushed starry-eyed down a road of romance and adventure and into his rebel arms. He was so handsome: tall, strong, a wicked grin, bright blue eyes. It was thrilling to work side by side with him. To be caught up not only in Jack, but in the work he was doing: fighting for workers' rights, passing out handbills, late nights at this very table writing letters to politicians, signing up new members at the rallies. Passionate times.
During the Great War, America had needed men like Jack to build the mighty warships. Thousands of men had been hired at Hog Island Shipyards, working ‘round the clock to make sure America and its military had the ships they needed to win the war. And when that glorious day finally happened, there was no further need for battleships. Thousands of welders like Jack were laid off overnight. Other trades too, and on down the line of suppliers and others dependent on the shipyards. All turned out on the street.
Jack and the rest of them had been so proud of the work they did to fight the Huns, and then to be discarded so abruptly. But Jack and those in the labor movement would make sure that they didn’t go quietly, that they would get the respect they deserved. After he and his pals had been let go, Jack had joined the fight for their rights, Peggy at his side. That had caused a bit of a stir; she was the daughter of Hog Island's chief accountant, the second in command—the man who controlled the purse strings at the shipyard. Peggy’s parents were adamant she should have been home in their parlor pouring tea, not waving placards and shouting demands for fair treatment.
And that’s not all she and Jack had been up to. Passionate times, indeed. A baby.
That rebel spark still flickers, not completely stamped out by reality. Now I shake my fists for other reasons. A single mother has other foes to battle. No longer the carefree girl; these days, she’s a widow, a single mother of a hungry son, estranged from her family, isolated in a neighborhood of foreigners—people she chooses not to mix with. They’re just not her kind of people.
The pressure from her mother rests alongside the opportunity to walk away from hard times by considering Howard’s marriage proposal. The lesser of two evils? As the owner of his own grocery store, he would be a good provider. He’s also kind. Tommy likes him. But he’s twenty years older than her, and a walking example of the effects of a generous diet.
People married for love, not security. People like Jack and Peggy married out of pure passion. No, she couldn’t marry someone like Howard after being wed to someone like Jack.
Peggy knows she is out of options. Death benefits from the union had run out the year after Jack was killed, and the small amount of money she is able to make taking in piecework for the laundry isn’t enough to fill the icebox, let alone repair the plumbing. Jack’s parents aren’t able to help much anymore, being in tight financial circumstances themselves. She’s sold everything she could bear to part with, and there is absolutely no way she’ll humble herself and crawl back to live under her father’s roof again. Penniless she might be, but she still owns this house.
Peggy is good at maintaining the façade of coping, during the day, in front of Tommy. But the dark hours during the night, tossing
and turning in her bed, are a different matter. Daytime is all about the mountain of chores that need to be done. Nighttime brings anxiety; tomorrow lurks at night. What new hardships and calamities will the future bring?
The house is always full of worry. In her darkest moments, Peggy worries that she is letting Jack down and failing as a mother. She’s concerned that she’s not giving Tommy a secure childhood. She frets about having no money. Peggy imagines a row of gremlins perching on the end of her bed, each squawking a different tune. Is he getting enough to eat? Will you be able to afford to send him to Boys’ Central? What if he wants to learn to play the piano? Sure, he’s never wanted to play the piano, but what if he did? Those three-in-the-morning gremlins are large, ugly, and persistent.
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