Nothing to Fear

by Jackie French Koller

  "Well, you oughta get the whole load then."

  Maggie stuck out her tongue. "Wouldn't hurt you none to come along," she said. "Your ma could do with a little extra, same as mine."

  "That's charity," I told her. "We don't take charity."

  Maggie's face flushed red when I said that, and her eyes gave off angry little sparks. "Oh? Is that so, Mr. High-and-Mighty? And I suppose that you'll be just too high and mighty to eat it once we've brung it home, too, won't you?"

  That made me squirm some. After all, we were going to the Rileys' for Christmas dinner. I was still trying to come up with an answer when Maggie turned and stomped away.

  "Men!" she shouted over her shoulder. "You're all the same—useless!"

  The other Rileys followed after her. Little Johnny looked at me questioningly as he went by. His Jack Armstrong ring was on his finger.

  "Oh, all right, I'm coming," I shouted. I shoved my hands into my pockets and scuffed along after them. Maggie ignored me 'til we got to the park, then she turned on me again.

  "What are you following us for?"

  I shrugged and kicked at the grass. "I ... uh ... figure you're right," I mumbled. "My ma could do with a little extra, same as yours."

  "Well, I'll be," said Maggie. "Is that an apology?"

  I shrugged again. "I guess so, if you wanna take it that way."

  The fire went out of Maggie's eyes. She never was one to hold a grudge. "Look, Danny," she said. "There isn't any shame in it. Our mothers work hard. So do we. It's not our fault the way things are."

  I swallowed down the lump that was forming in my throat and tore at a tuft of brown grass with the toe of my shoe. "I s'pose," I said. "What do we have to do?"

  "Just follow me. It's not so bad."

  I followed the Rileys over to a large platform. A table had been set up on the platform, and four rich looking ladies in fur coats and fancy hats sat behind it. To their left were stacked hundreds of food baskets tied with bright red ribbons. A crowd of people lined up below, to the right of the platform. A few at a time they went up onto the platform, paused a moment in front of the furry ladies, got their baskets, and went down the other side. As our turn got closer, I could see that the ladies were questioning each of the people and scribbling down notes on pieces of paper.

  "What are they asking?" I whispered to Maggie.

  "They ask you a few questions, that's all, to see if you really deserve a basket."

  "What?"

  "Shh! Just answer them. It's no big deal."

  It was Maggie's turn, and she and Kitty herded all the little Rileys up onto the stage. They sure looked a sight. I could see the rich ladies stealing pitying glances at one another.

  "Where are your parents?" one of the ladies demanded.

  Maggie took a step forward. "Our mother is working," she said. "She's a janitor."

  "And your father?"

  "He's ... in jail."

  "For what reason?" another lady asked.

  Maggie looked down at the platform floor and mumbled something.

  "Louder, please," the woman said.

  "Beating us," Maggie replied, her face bright red.

  The women looked at each other and shook their heads.

  "Very well then," the first one said. "Move along. Give two baskets to these children," she called over to one of the helpers.

  "Thank you all," I heard Maggie say, "and merry Christmas."

  I hated it. I hated the whole thing. I wanted to turn and run, but I couldn't. I was already halfway up the platform steps, and the crowd behind was pushing me along.

  "Next," one of the women called.

  I stepped forward. Four pairs of eyes looked me up and down.

  "And where are your parents, young man?" the first lady asked.

  "My pa went to look for work," I said.

  "Where?"

  "I ... don't know."

  The woman nodded as if to say she'd expected as much.

  "And your mother?"

  "She's home."

  "Does she work?"

  "She takes in ironing."

  "Have you any brothers and sisters?"

  "A baby sister, and..."

  "And what?"

  "And another on the way."

  One of the other women looked up sharply. "How long has your father been gone?" she asked.

  I stared at her. "Not that long," I said.

  She narrowed her eyes and looked back at her paper.

  "All right," said the first woman. "Take your basket and move along."

  The woman who handed me the basket had kind eyes. "Merry Christmas," she said, smiling. My face burned as I took it from her.

  "We ain't really poor," I told her. "My pa's coming home again, and everything's gonna be fine."

  "I'm glad," she said.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Christmas Day, 1932

  As soon as I opened my eyes, I slid from my bed and crept over to the doorway. I pulled the curtain aside, praying that during the night, while I'd slept, another lump had appeared in Mama's bed. There was only one. She rolled over and looked at me.

  "Merry Christmas," she said.

  "Merry Christmas," I answered quietly.

  Mama sat up in bed.

  "Come here, Danny," she said, patting the mattress beside her. She reached for her apron, hanging on the bedpost, and took a ragged piece of paper from the pocket. I recognized it as Pa's letter. She opened it and put it into my hand.

  "There," she said. "Read that line."

  I read: "Molly, my love, I'll do all in my power to be home with you on Christmas, and—"

  "That'll be enough," Mama interrupted. "Do you see what it says there, Danny? In my power. Some things are not within our power. Pa may not be able to get home, and I don't want it to ruin your Christmas. He'll come when he can."

  "No," I said, trying to keep the tears from my eyes. "He would've written. He would've called. He wouldn't just not show up—not on Christmas. He'll be here. I know he will."

  A tear escaped from my eye and Ma reached out for me, but I twisted away from her.

  "All right, all right," she said. "We'll wait and see then, just try not to be too disappointed if..."

  Maureen woke up then and yelled to get out of her crib, and I was glad. I didn't want to hear Mama's words. They didn't fit into my plans.

  We got cleaned up and dressed, and before long the whole Riley clan came charging over. They couldn't afford a tree of their own, so we'd left a note for Santa to leave their gifts under ours this year.

  Mama and Mrs. Riley went into the front room first, and Maggie, Kitty, and I tried to keep the little ones from bursting with excitement while we waited for the candles to be lit.

  "Did he come? Did he come?" they kept shouting.

  At last Mama pulled the curtain aside.

  "See for yourselves," she said.

  Like a great wave, we surged through the door. The little ones threw themselves on the packages right away, but us older ones hung back a bit, just taking it all in. Outside the window, the morning was gloomy and damp, making the brightly burning candles seem all the cheerier. Mama had lit the kerosene stove for the occasion, so the room was warm and pleasant, too. The tree, we agreed, was the best ever. With its popcorn chains and cotton balls, cranberry ropes and handmade ornaments, it was far more elegant than the gaudy ones downtown.

  Mama and Mrs. Riley waded among the little ones, oohing and ahing, and trying to maintain some sense of order. I looked at Mama. It has been a while since she's been sick in the mornings. She's thin, but her cheeks are pink, and aside from the way the buttons of her sweater pull tight across her middle, she looks perfectly normal.

  I let myself forget for a moment that Ma's pregnant, that Pa's not home, and I melted into the joy of Christmas.

  When the little ones had opened all their gifts and were playing with an assortment of tops, marbles, balls, jacks, and shoe-box doll carriages, I handed out my gifts. Mama loved her lipstick an
d said she would save it for special occasions. Maureen shook her beads up and down and put them in her mouth, so I guess she liked them, too.

  "Who's that one for?" asked Maggie, pointing to Pa's unopened gift.

  "Pa."

  "Oh." She sounded disappointed.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing." She produced a small, rectangular package from behind her back. "Here," she said, "this is for you."

  My ears started to burn. "For me?"

  "Yeah. Don't worry if you didn't get me anything. I don't care."

  "No ... no," I lied. "I got you something. See, it's right here." I groped around under the Christmas tree, pretending I was looking for something. "Gee, I must've dropped it when I was carrying everything in. I'll be right back."

  I rushed through the spare room and into my bedroom and stood there chewing on my thumbnail. What on earth could I give her? I pulled my dresser drawer open and rummaged through, then I spied my treasure box. That gave me an idea. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. I found a scrap of paper in the wastebasket, wrapped my gift, and dashed back out into the front room.

  "See," I said, handing it to her. "It's so small I didn't even realize I'd dropped it."

  Maggie stared skeptically at the little lump in her hand.

  "Took you long enough to find it," she said.

  "Yeah. Well ... it ... uh ... rolled under the dresser!"

  "Oh."

  "So, open it."

  "You open yours first."

  "All right, let's open them together," I said. I tore my paper off. "Black Beauty! No kidding? Where'd you get it?" It was a worn copy, and the binding was taped, but I was thrilled to own it.

  Maggie shrugged. "Just around," she said. "I knew it was your favorite." She finished peeling the wrapper off of hers. She smiled. "Your Tom Mix branding iron."

  "Yeah. I knew you always wanted one."

  She laughed and nodded. She lifted the rubber stamp from its inkpad and looked at it. Then she gave me a funny sidelong glance, and the next thing I knew, I was branded, right in the middle of my forehead.

  Everybody burst out laughing. "Look," Johnny shouted. "Danny belongs to Maggie now."

  THIRTY

  I thought Pa might meet us at church and surprise us. I stared back at the doors all during Mass, but he never came in. Then I hoped he'd be waiting for us by the time we got back home. But he wasn't.

  My heart must have stopped a hundred times during the day—every time the front door banged downstairs, every time footsteps thudded through the hall. Finally, while we were at dinner, some heavy footsteps thumped up the stairs and stopped outside of Rileys' door. There was a knock.

  I looked at Mama, my heart jumping nearly out of my chest. She tried not to act excited, but her cheeks flushed bright red and it seemed that she, too, could hardly catch her breath.

  "Come in," called Maggie's mother. "It's open."

  I watched the doorknob turn and the door swing open so slowly, almost like in a dream, and there, at last, stood ... Mr. Riley.

  I swallowed hard and shoved a big forkful of turkey into my mouth, trying to hide my disappointment. Maggie's mother stiffened in her chair.

  "What do you want, John?" she asked tensely.

  Mr. Riley stepped unsteadily into the room. A bag of oranges swung from his hand. "I brought the children a Chrizmuz prezent," he said, his words thick and slurred. He lifted the oranges higher.

  "When did they let you out?" Maggie's mother asked.

  "Las' week." Mr. Riley took another step into the room.

  "Maggie," said Mrs. Riley, "please take the oranges from your father."

  Maggie pushed her chair back from the table, then went around and took the sack her father held out. He turned his attention to her.

  "Hello, baby," he said, reaching out to touch her cheek. The gesture seemed to throw him off balance and he lurched forward suddenly and grabbed Maggie around the shoulders to keep from falling.

  Maggie waited for him to steady himself, then she twisted away and went over to put the oranges in the sink. She stood for a moment with her back to all of us, then suddenly she covered her face with her hands and fled back into the bedrooms. A strained silence settled over the table.

  Mrs. Riley cleared her throat. "Thank you for the oranges, John," she said. "Good-bye/'

  Maggie's father made no move to leave. He took another step into the room. "I thought maybe..."

  "Good-bye, John," Mrs. Riley repeated.

  Maggie's father looked around the table. "Kitty," he said, "why don't you talk to yer ma?"

  Mrs. Riley abruptly stood up. "Don't do this, John," she said, her voice trembling. "Don't ruin their Christmas."

  Mr. Riley stared at her for a long moment, breathing loudly and swaying ever so slightly on his feet. At last he lowered his head, turned away, and shuffled silently out the door.

  Mrs. Riley slumped down onto her chair and put her face into her hands. Kitty got up and went over to comfort her. I looked at Mama.

  "I'll go see about Maggie," I said.

  She nodded.

  I walked through to Rileys' front room. It was rainy and dark, and Maggie's figure stood silhouetted against the window. She had pulled the thin curtain aside, but she let it fall as I came up behind her. In the gray light I could see tears shining on her cheek. Dimly, through the curtain, I saw Mr. Riley weave his way up the street and disappear into the 107th Street tunnel. Maggie's gaze followed him.

  I swallowed hard, searching for something to say. "You want to talk about it?" I asked at last.

  Maggie shook her head. "There's nothing to say."

  I shoved my hands into my pockets and stood there, looking around awkwardly. Maggie didn't move. "You ... uh, want me to leave?" I asked.

  "No." Maggie turned and looked at me. Her eyes were wet and shining. "He used to hold me," she said, so softly I could hardly hear. "Ma was always busy with babies, but Pa used to hold me." Her bottom lip quivered and fresh tears slid down her cheeks.

  Before I even realized what I was doing, I reached out and pulled her into my arms. She laid her head on my shoulder and sobbed. She must have been hurting bad to cry like that. Maggie doesn't cry easy. I felt a tenderness toward her that I'd never felt before.

  After a while, her sobs died away, but she seemed content to stay with her head resting on my shoulder, and I was content to let her. It felt good to hold her, warm and close. She smelled like soap and fresh air, and her hair was soft against my cheek. I realized suddenly that we were standing shoulder to shoulder. I was as tall as she was now. When had that happened? Ma must be right. I was growing like a weed.

  When at last she pulled away, Maggie kissed me lightly on the cheek, and I felt my face get hot and red.

  "Thanks, Danny," she whispered.

  "For what?"

  "For being here."

  THIRTY-ONE

  Monday, January 2, 1933

  Christmas vacation passed with never a word from Pa, and each day the weight in my chest grew heavier. Ma and I would surprise each other repeatedly at the front-room window, and we'd make lame excuses about what we were watching for, neither of us wanting to let on how worried we are. Mama is growing pale again, and I know the weight in her chest must be taking its toll, too.

  Yesterday was New Year's Day and Ma wanted to take the tree down. But I wouldn't let her. We had worked so hard to pick it out; I couldn't bear to think that Pa wouldn't see it at all. When I left for school this morning, I made her promise that she wouldn't touch it. When I came home, it was gone.

  "But you promised!" I yelled.

  "What choice did I have?" Mama argued. "You wouldn't have left for school otherwise."

  "You still broke your promise."

  "And would you rather your father came home to find the whole buildin' burnt to the ground?"

  "I don't care," I shouted. "I don't care!"

  My eyes fell on the still wrapped box of chocolates sitting on the coffee table
. I picked it up and hurled it across the room. It smashed against the wall, splitting open and spilling chocolates all over the floor.

  "Danny!" Mama shouted. "That'll be enough. You go straight to your room and..."

  I never heard the rest. I ran out into the hall, slammed the door behind me, and bolted down the stairs and out into the street.

  It was snowing. It had been all day. The first snowstorm of the season. Normally I would have been as excited as a little kid, but now it was just something else in my way. I kicked at it angrily as I scuffed along, going nowhere, anywhere, just going.

  I found myself in Central Park. All around me kids were playing—laughing, shouting, having snowball fights, sliding down hills on hunks of cardboard. A snowball bounced off my back and I heard Mickey's voice shouting for me to join in, but I just kept going.

  The voices faded away and I kept on walking, deeper into the park than I've been in years. After a while, up ahead, a bunch of gray shapes loomed dimly through the snow. It looked like some kind of a junkyard, but why would there be a junkyard in Central Park? As I got closer I realized that it must be that Hooverville I'd heard about. I stopped a moment, remembering Mama's warnings, but then curiosity drew me on.

  I walked slowly, trying not to stare at the jungle of makeshift shacks. Some of them were made from wooden packing crates, some just from cardboard. There were a few old army tents, a broken-down milk wagon, some rusted-out cars—just about anything a person could crawl inside of. There were folks scattered around inside and out, mostly men, but a woman here and there. I didn't see any kids. A group of people were huddled around an old metal barrel in which a fire burned. They wore filthy coats and had rags wrapped around their heads and hands. Some had rags on their feet, too. A few of them looked at me curiously as I walked by. Others gave me angry glances. Most didn't look at all, or if they did they just stared with those empty, unseeing eyes that Ma talks about.

  I couldn't help wondering as I walked, was Pa standing around a barrel like that somewhere, dirty and ragged? As I reached the outer edge of the settlement I saw something that slowed my steps. Sitting inside an old piano crate was a woman who looked strangely familiar. I stood still for a moment, trying to figure out where I'd seen her before. Then I remembered—Luther White's ma! But no, it couldn't be. Luther's ma was always so neat and proper. This woman was filthy, sprawled on an old mattress, wrapped up in a dirty blanket, her hair stringy with grease. Still, the resemblance was striking.