Nothing to Fear

by Jackie French Koller

  Your devoted,

  Daniel

  I swallowed my disappointment over Pa's not being able to make it for Thanksgiving, and clung to his promise of being home for Christmas. I grabbed the envelope arid looked at the postmark: New London, Connecticut.

  "Ma, where's New London, Connecticut?"

  Mama pulled our worn old copy of the map of the United States from her pocket. She'd already looked it up.

  "I'm not positive," she said, "but Mrs. Mahoney is thinkin' it's right about here."

  She pointed to a spot about two thirds of the way up the coast of Connecticut. It was only about a half an inch from New York.

  "That's not so far," I said.

  Mama smiled and shook her head.

  "And he'll be home for Christmas."

  Mama smiled and nodded.

  "Can't you talk?" I asked her.

  "No," said Mama. "I'm so glad to hear from him, I'm too happy for talkin'."

  She took Pa's letter and hugged it to her chest. I laughed.

  "I wanted to do that, too," I said, "but I thought you'd laugh."

  "And what's wrong with laughin'?" said Mama. She handed me the letter and I hugged it tight, then we laughed and hugged each other. Maureen toddled over and tugged at my knee. We scooped her up and hugged her, too.

  My head was still filled with happiness when I went to bed. I lay awake, dreaming of all the good things ahead. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. In the morning us kids will dress like ragamuffins like we do every Thanksgiving, and go door to door begging pennies. Usually I get to keep whatever I collect and buy candy, but this year I'm planning to give it all to Ma, and just save out a little to buy Pa a Christmas present.

  After we're done collecting tomorrow, we'll go over to Lexington Avenue and watch the Macy's parade like we always do. Then we'll come home to a big dinner at the Rileys'. The only way it could be better would be if Pa were here. But he'll be home for Christmas.... He'll be home for Christmas.... He'll be home for Christmas....

  TWENTY-SIX

  The sound woke me from a deep sleep, but I knew instantly what it was, and I sat up, shaking. Mama appeared in the doorway, pulling on her robe.

  "They're coming this way," I whispered.

  "Aye," said Mama.

  "Can we go see?"

  "All right then, but wrap up in your blanket."

  We went into the front room, crouched down, and approached the window cautiously. We pulled the curtain aside and peeked out. They came careening up from downtown—three big black limousines. The car in front swerved from curb to curb, trying to get away from the two behind, but they were closing fast. Machine-gun fire lit up the night, and as they passed our building we ducked and listened to the ping, ping, ping of the bullets bouncing off the bricks.

  When the noise died away we looked out again and watched them disappear into the darkness uptown. A shrill scream shattered the newly restored quiet, and a police car sped by, then another, and another. Just as it grew quiet again, the elevated train rumbled by, its few late-night passengers, their noses pressed to the window, still straining to see the commotion in the street below.

  Mama put an arm around me and I could feel that she was trembling, too. I lifted my blanket and pulled it around us both.

  "Bloody bootleggers," Mama whispered. "If they want to kill each other, why can't they go far out in the country, where innocent folks aren't likely to get in their way?"

  I stared at her, shocked to hear such a word from her mouth.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't speak so, but I'm just so tired of these hoodlums and their gangland wars, fighting over who has the right to peddle their bootleg whiskey and where."

  "It'll be over soon," I said, "if Roosevelt ends Prohibition like he promised."

  "Aye, let's hope so," said Mama. "It's been a long time since the streets were safe for decent people."

  She looked at me and smiled a little. "We're a fine pair, aren't we," she said. "One of us shakin' worse than the other. It's not like it never happened before."

  "No," I said, "but Pa was always here."

  Mama sighed and nodded. She stared out the window into the night. "I know," she said. "When I was a child on the farm, there was never food enough to last the winter. My daddy would go over the water to England and work to get us through. Things were never quite right when he was gone. Scary things were scarier; lonely times were lonelier. We were like a wagon with one wheel missing, and no matter what the rest of us did, we couldna' get that wagon to ride smooth."

  I looked at Mama and my heart filled with love for her. She isn't like other grown-ups. She remembers how it feels to be a kid. Times like this she can look back inside herself and feel just what I'm feeling and understand. It's a comfort to know that. I wanted to tell her how I felt. I love you, Mama. It used to be so easy to say when I was little. But now that I'm older, it always seems to stick in my throat.

  "Come now," Mama said, getting stiffly to her feet. "The excitement is over. They've probably shot each other to pieces by now. I'm just hoping there weren't any innocents in the way."

  I got up and pulled the blanket tight around me.

  "Can us kids go up and look for blood on the sidewalk in the morning?" I asked.

  Mama grimaced and gave me a playful swat on the rear.

  "Go on with you!"

  "Aw c'mon, Ma."

  "Never you mind. Such thoughts! Into bed with you now."

  Ma tucked me in, then stood for a moment smiling down at me. I saw her slide her hand gently across her stomach the way she always did when she was expecting. Knowing now that Pa was coming home, I found the courage to ask her.

  "Ma, are you expecting again?"

  Even in the semidarkness I could see the deep flush that spread across her face.

  "Danny ... such a question!"

  "Mama, I'm not a kid anymore. I know what it's all about."

  She smiled a little. "Do ya now?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "Then maybe you should be tellin' me."

  "C'mon, Ma."

  She laughed. "All right then. I am, Mr. Know-it-all. You'll be havin' a new brother or sister come the end of May."

  "But Mama, the doctor said you weren't to have any more."

  "And who told you that?"

  "I overheard."

  "You're overhearin' a lot lately, aren't you?"

  "Mama, please answer me."

  "Answer you what?"

  "Did you know when Pa left?"

  "I ... wasn't sure."

  "But you suspected."

  "Aye."

  "Then why didn't you tell him? He never would've left if he'da known."

  Mama frowned. "What would you have me tell him, Danny? That there's to be another mouth to add to those he can't feed already?"

  "But he would have stayed, Ma."

  "Aye." Mama slumped down onto the bed beside me and rubbed her eyes tiredly with her hands. She looked at me. "I wanted to tell him," she said. "I almost did, but I couldn't. If I'da made him stay, he would've died."

  "Died?"

  "Aye. Haven't you seen them on the stoops and the street corners—men forced to stand idle while their families go hungry? Men with strong backs and clever minds, asking only for work, getting handouts instead. After a while they get that empty look in their eyes that means they've no hope left, no pride. I've seen them a million times, back home and now here—dead men walking around. I couldn't stand to see yer pa like that."

  I knew she was right, but I didn't care. I'm tired of acting grown-up and trying to be a man. I just want Pa to come home and stay home and take care of things like he always did, so I can be a kid again.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Saturday, December 24, 1932

  There's no place in the world like New York at Christmastime. Mama laughs when I say that and says, how would I know? But I do know. Where else can you smell fresh-cut Christmas trees and hot-roasted chestnuts on the same street corner? Where else can you take t
he subway downtown for a nickel and spend the whole day looking in shop windows at electric trains and wind-up cars and model boats and planes—treasures you can never hope to own, but it doesn't matter, because it's glory enough just to look at them? And where else would everyone on the street smile and wish you "Merry Christmas!" even in the middle of the depression, when hardly anyone has very much to be merry about?

  Today is Christmas Eve! We haven't heard from Pa yet, but I'm not worried. There's still time, and besides, it would be just like Pa to pop up and sur prise us without writing ahead. I suspect he'll show up any minute now.

  My idea about saving the money I'd collected on Thanksgiving didn't pan out. I didn't collect any. Not a single cent. Folks just didn't have any money to spare, I guess. "Sorry," everyone said, "maybe next year." So I saved a little out of my shoeshine money each week, and now I have sixty cents. Not a fortune, but it'll have to do. I've had my eye on a pound box of Fanny Farmer chocolates down at Mr. Weissman's. Pa has a real sweet tooth. It costs a whole dollar, though, and even if I could come up with another forty cents, which I can't, that would still leave nothing over for Ma and Maureen. I decided instead to go on over to the five-and-dime after I've dropped off the linens, and see what I can find.

  Sadie was smiling wider than ever when she let me in the back door of Miss Emily's.

  "Merry Christmas, merry Christmas!" she cried, looking for all the world like a jolly, chocolate Mrs. Claus.

  "Merry Christmas, Sadie," I told her.

  She pushed a heaping tray of Christmas cookies at me.

  "No thanks, Sadie," I said, backing away.

  "Oh g'wan," said Sadie. "It's Christmas!" Then she winked and added under her breath, "Even herself has a heart at Christmas."

  I took a cookie and nodded my thanks.

  "I'll tell her you're here," said Sadie, bustling out of the kitchen. A few minutes later she pushed the swinging door open and motioned for me to come in.

  I made a face.

  "C'mon," she whispered, winking to let me know it was okay.

  We walked through the fancy dining room and out into the front room. It was big and dark with a huge, high ceiling and heavy green velvet drapes that hung all the way to the floor, blocking out any hint of sunshine. Miss Emily sat at a small writing desk in the corner, her back to us. Sadie gave me a push in her direction. I pulled off my cap and walked over to the desk. Miss Emily went on writing as if I wasn't there. I looked back at Sadie, but she was gone. I stood like that a few minutes more, shifting from one foot to the other and twisting my cap in my hands.

  "You needn't fidget so," said Miss Emily, taking me by surprise and making me jump. I planted my feet flat on the floor and willed my hands to stay still by my sides. A few more minutes went by in which I had every itch and twitch imaginable, but somehow I managed to stay still.

  At last Miss Emily finished her writing, placed her pen to one side, and picked up a small purse. Without a word she opened it, counted out ten dollar bills, and snapped it shut. Then, like an afterthought, she opened it again and took out one more dollar.

  "Merry Christmas," she said, pushing the bills at me across the desk without ever looking up. She took up her pen again and went back to her writing.

  I picked up the ten and left the one on the desk. "Mama don't let me take charity," I said.

  At that Miss Emily tilted her head up and scowled at me.

  "Don't be absurd, young man," she said, picking up the last dollar and shoving it into my hand. "A Christmas tip is not charity. Now, go."

  Sadie had reappeared in the doorway and was gesturing madly for me to come.

  "Th-thank you, ma'am," I stammered to Miss Emily. "Merry Christmas to you, too."

  "Don't you be lookin' no gift horse in the mouth," Sadie told me when she got me back out into the kitchen. "Your mama worked hard all year and she deserves that tip."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Don't you 'ma'am' me. You run along home now and y'all have a Merry Christmas, you hear?"

  "You, too, Sadie."

  Once I got back out on the street and over the shock, it suddenly occurred to me that thanks to Miss Emily I now had enough money to buy Pa that box of chocolates. I had a little bit of a fight with my conscience over the fact that it really was Mama's tip and I had no right to spend it. But the more I kept picturing Pa opening that box of candy on Christmas morning, the quieter my conscience got, until the next thing I knew, I was walking into Mr. Weissman's store.

  I picked out a pound of Fanny Farmer and plunked it down on the counter with the dollar bill on top. Mr. Weissman looked up at me and arched his eyebrows in surprise.

  "It's a Christmas present," I told him proudly. "Pa is coming home."

  "Ah." Mr. Weissman smiled. "A special occasion indeed." He took the dollar, rang the cash register, and handed me two quarters back.

  "What's this for?" I asked.

  "A sale," said Mr. Weissman. "I'm running a sale."

  "No kidding?" I started to grin over my good fortune, when suddenly I realized what Mr. Weissman was doing. "Oh no," I said, pushing the quarters back across the counter. "I'm payin' for this fair and square."

  "What? What do you mean?" Mr. Weissman started to bluster, but I just scooped up the candy and dashed out the door. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Weissman!" I shouted over my shoulder.

  After that I stopped into the five-and-dime and picked out a tube of Flame-Glo lipstick for Ma. It's a real pretty purply color, and I was sure she'd love it. For Maureen I decided on a big string of wooden beads. That left a nickel over, so I bought some red wrapping paper with Santa faces all over it. Walking home with my secrets tucked under my arm, I thought that if Christmas didn't hurry up and come I was sure to explode.

  Mama looked disappointed when I handed her the ten dollars and mumbled something under her breath about an old skinflint. I realized with a pang of guilt that she'd been expecting that tip, probably even planning on it. I thought for a second of telling her what I'd done, but I so much wanted to surprise everyone.

  "I fear it's goin' to be a bit of a lean Christmas this year, Danny," Ma said.

  "I don't care," I told her, and I don't. As long as Pa comes home, I don't need any other presents. Ma still looked disappointed, but I eased my conscience by telling myself that she only would've spent the money on me anyway, and I'd much rather have it spent on Pa.

  "Well, we'll be havin' a tree at least," said Ma, separating one of the bills from the others.

  "Now?" I asked. "Can we go now?" Getting the tree, to me, is almost as exciting as Christmas morning itself.

  Mama smiled and nodded.

  I dragged Mama and Maureen halfway across New York, from corner to corner to corner. The tree had to be just right for Pa's welcome home, and I couldn't be sure until I'd seen them all. Satisfied at last that I'd seen every tree within walking distance, I decided on one of the first ones we'd looked at, right on our own street corner. Ma pretended to be annoyed, but I knew she really wasn't. When it comes to Christmas she's a bigger kid than I am.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  There was still no sign of Pa when we got home. I could tell by Ma's face that she was growing nervous.

  "Don't worry," I told her, "he'll be here."

  She nodded, but she didn't look convinced.

  "Maybe he called," I said. "I'll run down to the candy store and see." The candy store has the only phone in the neighborhood.

  "Mrs. DeLuca would've sent word," Mama said.

  "Maybe she tried to while we were out."

  "All right," Mama said, "run and see then, if it'll make you feel any better."

  Mrs. DeLuca had about twenty customers in the store and she seemed flustered and out of sorts.

  "Phone calls?" she snapped. "Of course there's been phone calls. Fool thing's been ringin' off the hook all day. I've half a mind to yank it out."

  As if to prove what she'd said, the phone started ringing. Mrs. DeLuca just shook her head and went on helping he
r customer.

  "I'll get it for you," I told her. I went around behind the counter, my heart leaping with every ring of the phone. I put the receiver to my ear and stretched up to reach the mouthpiece.

  "Hello!" I shouted over the noise of the crowd.

  "Hello ... hello," came the operator's tinny voice. "I have a long distance call for—"

  There was a burst of static and I couldn't hear what she'd said.

  "For who?" I shouted.

  "Mrs. Clark," said the operator. "Is there a Mrs. Clark there?"

  "Oh," I said, my heart sinking. "Just a minute, I'll see." I turned to the crowd. "Is there a Mrs. Clark here?" I shouted.

  "Oh yes, yes!"

  A little gray-haired woman in a polka-dotted housedress detached herself from the opposite wall and hurried over. "It's my daughter," she told me, her eyes shining as she took the receiver, "all the way from California. I've been waiting all day for her call."

  "That's nice," I managed to tell her.

  I looked over at Mrs. DeLuca. I guess I must've looked as disappointed as I felt, because her grumpy scowl softened. She excused herself to her customer and came over to me.

  "Look, Danny," she said, "if your papa calls I'll get word to you, okay? Even if he calls tonight or tomorrow I'll run downstairs here and answer. Now cheer up, all right? It's Christmas."

  "Okay, thanks, Mrs. DeLuca."

  "Here," she said, taking a candy cane out of a jar, "a present."

  "Thanks, Mrs. DeLuca, but I'm not too hungry."

  "Hang it on your tree then, and tell your mama I said Merry Christmas."

  "Thank you. Merry Christmas to you, too, Mrs. DeLuca."

  When I got back to our building, the whole Riley gang was filing out the front door. They looked like a bunch of ragamuffins, one shabbier than the other.

  "What're you all dressed up for?" I asked. "It's Christmas, not Thanksgiving."

  Maggie gave me a wink. "The Ladies' Aid Society is giving away Christmas baskets over at the park," she said. "The worse you look, the sorrier they feel, and the more they give you."