Joshua's Song

by Joan Hiatt Harlow

  After they secured the ladder to the roof, Joshua crept through shattered glass to the broken window. “Ouch! I’ve cut my hands,” he muttered. He wiped the blood on his sticky shirt, then stood up. “Mrs. DiPietro?” he called. No answer. “I’m going in,” he said to Charlie. “Stay out here until I see what’s happening inside.”

  “Be careful, kid,” Charlie said. “The floors are probably gone in there.”

  Joshua cleared away more broken glass, then crawled cautiously through the wide window opening, wary of cutting his shoeless feet. Inside he recognized some of the furniture, but it was all scattered and smashed. Gingerly, he stepped over the debris to where the living room had been. The outer walls were crushed, and the room was open to the stairway that descended to the molasses. Outside, Red Cross ambulances had already gathered on the side of Copps Hill. People were rushing around, carrying slime-covered victims on stretchers to the waiting vehicles.

  “Oh, no!” Joshua gasped. Mrs. DiPietro was caught between boards and plaster on the stairway. “Mrs. DiPietro?”

  The woman’s eyes fluttered open. “Dio mio.”

  “It’s me. Joshua. I’ve come to help you. Can you move at all?”

  “I thought I could go out down the stairs, but the walls caved in,” she whispered. “I cannot move.”

  “I’m going to try to get you out of here,” Joshua told her. “I’ll need to free you from this plaster and wood.”

  “It’s no use,” Angel’s mother mumbled. “Too heavy.”

  She was right. There was no way Joshua could release her from the huge partitions and beams that pinned her to the stairway. “Try to hold on,” he said. “I’ll send Charlie for help.”

  He crept back to the window, keeping himself low to the floor as the house pitched around him like a boat in a storm. “I found her, Charlie. She’s alive, but she’s trapped between walls and beams. The building is wide open on the other side, but the molasses is deep there. This is the only way we can get in and out.”

  “I’m comin’,” Charlie said, swinging one leg over the windowsill.

  “No, the house is about to collapse. You’ve got to get help. Someone should be able to help us.”

  Charlie moved back and set the ladder onto the cluttered surface of the molasses. “What about you?”

  “I’ll stay with her. She shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I’ll bring help, Josh,” Charlie promised, creeping out onto the wobbling ladder.

  The house began to tremble, then shake violently. CRASH! The floor was breaking away! Joshua had no choice but to go back to Mrs. DiPietro. She needed him. Besides, with the ladder gone there was no longer a way for him to escape.

  “Oh, my God,” Joshua gasped. The stairway had given way and was held up by only one beam! Mrs. DiPietro had fallen with the stairs, and her feet were only inches above the churning molasses.

  God, please be with us, he prayed.

  Joshua inched as near to Mrs. DiPietro as he dared, and reached down for her hand. “Hang on! Charlie is going to get help. Everything will be all right,” he said, trying to smile.

  “Dove sono i miei piccini?” Mrs. DiPietro asked in panting breaths. “Where are Angelina and Maria?”

  “They are safe up on Copps Hill.”

  Mrs. DiPietro breathed heavily. “I know I die, Joshua,” she whispered. “Can you bring someone to pray over me?”

  “No! You’re not dying. You’re going to be fine,” Joshua said, squeezing her hand. “Angel and Maria are just up the street waiting for you.” He pointed out to the blue sky, where the walls had been. “See how the sun is shining and the sky is blue?” He tried to make a little joke. “You’ve always wanted to be on the sunny side of this house.”

  Mrs. DiPietro managed a faint smile. “You’re a good boy,” she muttered.

  “I’ll go see if Charlie has found anyone to help.” Outside, a strange silence drifted across what once was the street. The noise and chaos had given way to an eerie stillness—the way sounds are muffled under a blanket of snow. Occasionally a shot rang out. Someone was probably shooting the trapped, suffering horses that could not be rescued. Other than an occasional call for help, a hush permeated the whole area. Even the lake of molasses was quieter now as the liquid began to settle. The harbor, where the molasses had rammed wharves into the sea, was still and stained an ugly yellow.

  Charlie was standing on the side of Copps Hill, gesturing frantically to a group of men. Then they all headed toward the tenement pulling a makeshift stretcher of poles and blankets.

  “They’re coming!” Joshua called to Mrs. DiPietro. “Charlie’s bringing help!”

  When he returned to Mrs. DiPietro, she reached out her hand and Joshua grasped it. “Sto morendo, prega per me,” she pleaded. “I’m dying, Joshua. I need you to pray for me.”

  What kind of prayer could he say for this woman he didn’t know? She was probably Catholic, but he didn’t know how Catholics prayed.

  “Pray for me. Ask God to find me here and be with me in the hour of my death,” Mrs. DiPietro begged.

  His father’s favorite hymn, “A Prayer to the Good Shepherd,” was a song and a prayer, too. Maybe if Joshua just asked, God would be with them. God would hear his song.

  He held tightly to Mrs. DiPietro’s hand, took a deep breath, and began to sing.

  “Oh God, my faithful Shepherd,

  hear the prayer of this lost sheep;

  Come find me on the hillside, and bring me to thy keep.

  The vale of death surrounds me,

  as the dark’ning shadows fall,

  The path is steep and rocky. Good Shepherd, hear my call.”

  His song—clear and melodious—floated over the silence.

  “Hark now, I hear his footsteps, and his gentle voice is near.

  Look, I am with you always. There is no need to fear.”

  “Dio mio, non mi lasciare.” Mrs. DiPietro’s hand clutched Joshua’s even more tightly.

  He sang louder, letting the words drown out his own fears.

  “He binds my wounds with balsam,

  and his words such comfort bring,

  That they heal my broken spirit,

  and cause my heart to sing.”

  “Canta per me,” pleaded Mrs. DiPietro. “Sing, Joshua.”

  And he let the music pour.

  “In loving arms I’m gathered. To the fold he carries me;

  Safe in the care of my Shepherd, I shall dwell eternally.”

  Mrs. DiPietro’s hand slackened in Joshua’s, and he began to cry.

  A Song in the City

  JOSHUA WAS HUDDLED OVER THE fallen staircase, clutching Mrs. DiPietro’s hand, when Charlie and two other men crawled into the shattered tenement.

  “It’s too late,” Joshua sobbed. “She’s dead.”

  Charlie bent over him. “Hey, pip-squeak,” he whispered. “Come on. We’ve got to get you out of here.”

  “I can’t leave her,” Joshua cried.

  “Aw, there’s nothin’ you can do anymore, kid. You did everything you could.” Charlie’s voice was shaking, and tears streamed down his face.

  “I couldn’t help her. I was right here and I couldn’t do a thing.”

  “You were with her, kid. That was somethin’, wasn’t it?” Charlie leaned down and unclasped Joshua’s fingers from Mrs. DiPietro’s grasp. He put his hands under Joshua’s shoulders and pulled him up.

  The two men stood nearby with the stretcher. “You’re a brave lad,” one said, patting Joshua’s back. “Now get out while you can, before this whole place collapses.”

  Charlie urged Joshua out onto the ladder and back into the stinking sea of molasses. “Come on, Josh,” he said. “I’m right behind you. Keep goin’.”

  Joshua did as he was told.

  Marc had arrived on the scene with photographers and was standing halfway up Copps Hill. When he caught sight of Joshua and Charlie, he rushed over. “Thank God you’re both okay. You sure had us worried.” He wrap
ped his jacket around Joshua’s shoulders. “We’ve got to get you home.”

  “I lost my shoes,” Josh said wearily. He looked around at the seething crowd. People encased in molasses and blood were being taken off in ambulances.

  One boy held his hand to his bleeding mouth. “My teeth are gone!” he was crying. “My arm hurts. Where’s my sister?”

  A nurse in a Red Cross uniform was standing nearby. “That poor lad was on his way home from school when the molasses struck,” Joshua heard her tell a police officer. “His sister was killed.”

  “Where’s Angel? I can’t tell her that her mama died.” Joshua began to weep again.

  “Don’t cry, kid.” Charlie’s voice was trembling. “I’ll tell her. I’ll take care of everything. She and Maria are gonna stay at my house for now.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Don’t you worry about it, Josh.” Charlie nodded to Marc, then walked off.

  Marc helped Joshua to one of the taxis that waited at the top of Copps Hill, high above molasses-filled Commercial Street. “I’m going home with you,” he said, climbing in beside Joshua.

  Joshua put his head back, closed his eyes, and tried to push away the scenes of horror that swirled in his brain.

  When they arrived home, Marc led Joshua into the house.

  His mother appeared in the hall and began to scream, “Josh! Josh! Oh, my God!”

  “He’s all right,” Marc said soothingly. “There was a terrible explosion in town—”

  “An explosion?” Mom’s voice rose. She reached out to touch her son, then pulled her hands away. “He’s covered with . . . molasses! What on earth happened?”

  “I’ll explain later. But first, get him into a warm tub,” Marc ordered.

  Later, after his bath, Mom helped Joshua into pajamas, then sat on his bed and put bandages on his cuts. When she was finished she tucked him in with a quilt. “Sleep now,” she said, kissing him.

  • • •

  The sound of creaking wagon wheels and clinking bottles broke through Joshua’s dreams. The milkman’s horse neighed softly in the alley beneath the window.

  “No!” He sat up in bed as the memories of the day before startled him awake. Mrs. DiPietro had died and he could do nothing to help her. And what about Angel and Maria—where were they? Now where would they go? What about all those people who were trapped or dying? “No!” he screamed again.

  The bedroom door opened quickly. His mother gathered him into her arms.

  Joshua dropped his head on her shoulder. The scent of his father’s pipe wafted from the flannel robe she had thrown over her nightgown. Unable to control the sudden torrent of tears, Joshua let himself be rocked like a little boy.

  “Shh,” whispered his mother as she stroked his hair. “Everything will be all right, sweetheart.” She tried to hum a lullaby, but Joshua could tell she was weeping, too.

  “I couldn’t help Mrs. DiPietro,” he wailed. “She died right there, holding on to my hand.”

  “But you did help Mrs. DiPietro, Josh. You comforted her. You sang for her. You made her passing sweet.”

  Joshua wondered vaguely how she knew what had happened.

  “And here’s some good news about your friend, Angel,” Mom went on. “Marc sold Angel’s drawing to the paper for a hundred dollars! The Traveler and Mr. Fitzgerald are sponsoring an art scholarship for her. Things are going to work out just fine for Angel and her sister.”

  Joshua pulled away from his mother. “You found out about . . . everything?”

  Mom nodded. “Marc and Aunt Caroline told me all about it last night. I feel so bad that you had such a burden on your shoulders because of me.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “You thought I’d be ashamed that you were a newsboy.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. Please don’t cry.”

  “No, I’m sorry, Josh.” She clutched Joshua into her arms again. “I’m so proud of you, Joshua. You risked your life to help that woman.”

  Joshua and his mother clung together as the morning sun slowly rose and drifted through the window.

  Then Joshua remembered his papers. “I’ve got to get to town. I have a hundred papers to sell.”

  “Not today, Joshua. Forget about the papers. Listen, Mr. Williams called yesterday and said he may have a buyer for our land in Revere. Then you won’t need to work anymore. We’ll get a smaller house in the suburbs. You can go back to school, and”—she smiled—“and Aunt Caroline said she’d come with us!”

  “That would be nice,” Joshua said. “I love Aunt Caroline.” He stood up. “But now I’ve got to go into town. There’s something I have to do.” He couldn’t explain to his mother why he had such a strong need to get back to the newspapers. He didn’t understand it himself.

  “All right, dear. If you feel you must, Josh.” She got up to leave the room, then paused. “Marc isn’t here. We had a long talk, and he went back to the newspaper. He stayed at the office all night writing about the molasses tragedy.”

  “Why did the tank explode?” Joshua asked.

  “They don’t really know yet. They think it had to do with the sudden change in the weather. Try not to think about it anymore, sweetheart. I’ll get your breakfast.” She left the room, and Joshua could hear her talking softly to Aunt Caroline.

  • • •

  Later, on the rattling El, people spoke in excited voices about the “Great Molasses Flood.” Everyone had different ideas of what had caused the tank to rupture.

  Joshua watched the buildings speed by. It was hard to believe that yesterday had happened at all. Remembering was painful—like a frightful dream. His hands smarted from where the glass had cut him, reminding him that it hadn’t been a dream at all.

  Joshua got off at Newspaper Alley. The Traveler building was bursting with reporters and newsboys. Here, too, the Great Molasses Flood was the only topic of discussion. How had it happened? Who was to blame?

  Joshua looked around for Charlie, but didn’t see him.

  As Joshua piled his papers onto a cart, he read the headlines. The word “EXTRA!” was stamped on the front page.

  “TRAGEDY IN BOSTON’S NORTH END,” read the headlines. “MOLASSES TANK EXPLODES! 2,300,000 GALLONS OF MOLASSES KILL TWENTY-ONE SOULS. FIFTY MORE SERIOUSLY INJURED. GIANT WALL OF MOLASSES CRUSHES EVERYTHING IN ITS PATH.” The byline read: by Marc Muggeridge, Editor.

  Joshua figured Marc must be happy to have made this big scoop. But surely not at the expense of so many lives? Marc had not looked happy when Joshua saw him at the site of the disaster. Reporting is his job, Joshua decided. How else would people know what others were going through? How else could they help?

  Charlie was waiting for Joshua on State Street. “You made it,” he said quietly.

  “Yep. I made it. Where are Angel and Maria? Are they okay?”

  “Angel and Maria spent the night at my house. They’re broke up about their mama, but their dad is on his way from Rhode Island to get them and take them to Providence. He’s got a new job with his brother. Somethin’ to do with designin’ jewelry. Angel says he’s a good artist.”

  “That must be where Angel gets her talent.”

  Charlie kicked a stone off the sidewalk. “She’s grateful to you for stayin’ with her ma.”

  “A lot of good I was. I couldn’t do anything to help her.”

  “You did help her.” Charlie punched Joshua lightly on the shoulder. “Now, you gotta come with me. I got somethin’ to show you.”

  “I don’t have time, Charlie. The papers will sell like crazy today.”

  “Leave your papes in the alley and follow me,” Charlie ordered.

  “Where are we going?” Joshua asked, trying to keep up with Charlie’s rapid stride.

  Charlie just waved him on with his hand and headed down Milk Street, stopping abruptly in front of the Custom House. Charlie stomped up the granite stairs as if he owned the place. Joshua followed.

  In the front lobby an open elevator waited. “Hurry up, Charlie,” said a uniformed man at
the elevator controls. “I’m not supposed to be doin’ this for you newspaper kids.”

  “I never asked a favor from ya before, but this here is somethin’ special,” Charlie said.

  “Get in, then. Quick.” The man shut the filigreed cage-like door and pulled the lever. Joshua’s ears crackled as the elevator climbed, then finally stopped.

  “Here y’are. The nineteenth floor,” said the elevator operator. “You’ll have to walk up the rest of the way.” He pointed to a stairway. “I’ll pick you up here in a half hour. Don’t ring the bell.”

  “Come on,” said Charlie.

  The boys hiked the winding stairs to the twenty-sixth floor. Then, puffing from the climb, Charlie and Joshua pushed through the heavy doors to the observation deck.

  “This here’s the tippity top of Beantown,” Charlie announced.

  The weather had turned bitter cold and the frigid wind took Joshua’s breath away. Even up here, the pungent smell of molasses mingled in the salty air.

  Joshua stepped over to the railing. “Look down there, Charlie! The automobiles and wagons—and all those people scurrying around—why, they look just like windup penny toys.”

  “This is like bein’ in one of them darned aeroplanes, ain’t it?” Charlie yelled over the wind.

  “We’re above the clocks!”

  “We’re on the top, all right. Can’t go much higher than this.” Charlie pointed to the north. “See how the harbor is full of molasses?”

  The once blue water was now eerie shades of brown and yellow. Near the gaping hole in the skyline where the molasses tank had been, Joshua could see plumes of water arching from fireboats as they sprayed salt water onto the wharves and streets. Fire engines on the land were spraying, too.

  Joshua walked around to the side of the tower that faced the west.

  As the morning sun grew brighter, lights in buildings flashed on and off, reminding Joshua of fireflies. The ice-laden Charles River wound its way to the open sea. When spring came, it would be dotted with sailboats. In the distance Joshua could see the graceful outline of the snow-covered New Hampshire foothills.

  “It’s just like you said, Dad,” Joshua whispered. “The city is beautiful from this tower.” He turned to Charlie. “How come you brought me up here?”