Nothing to Fear

by Jackie French Koller

  It's not like Ma to talk that way.

  I told Hank about it when he got home from work, but he only laughed.

  "Women get like that near the end of their time," he said. "Just stay out of her way. She'll be herself again, once the baby's come."

  "But, Hank," I told him, "that's more than a month away. How am I gonna stay out of her way that long?"

  Hank laughed again. "Tell you what," he said. "I'll go pick up some groceries and we'll fix her a nice supper and tell her a tall tale or two, cheer her up some. If you don't mind my company, that is."

  "That'd be great, Hank," I said. Mostly Hank keeps to himself, but every now and then a sack of groceries appears on our doorstep and Mama asks him to stay to supper, and he ends up spinning tall tales for us all evening. Mama seems to really enjoy his company. She says he's a regular midwestern seanachie.

  Hank came back with a big sack of vegetables and some ground meat, and we set about making a stew.

  "Tell me about where you're from, Hank," I asked him as we peeled potatoes together.

  "What about it?"

  "Is the depression as bad there as it is here?"

  "Worse."

  "Worse? How could it be worse?"

  "Welp, for one thing it started a lot sooner," Hank said. "Started right after the war. See, times were good for farmers during the war. The army and the Allies needed lots of food. Crops were bringing good prices, so farmers planted more and more. Then suddenly the war ended. Not that I was sorry to see it end. War's a messy business and the sooner you're quit of it, the better. But that year farm prices dropped by half. Being a thick-headed lot, us farmers figured if we were only getting half as much money for our crops, we'd plant twice as many and break even."

  "That makes sense," I told him.

  "Except for one thing," said Hank. "The more we planted, the more we had to sell, and since there weren't no more need for it, prices went down even worse. Things has got so bad that these days corn is selling for three dollars and thirty-three cents a ton. You know what a ton is?"

  I shrugged. "Sort of."

  "Two thousand pounds," said Hank. "Do you know what it takes to grow and harvest two thousand pounds of corn?"

  I was about to say no, but Hank didn't wait for an answer.

  "A wagonload of oats won't buy a four-dollar pair of shoes," he went on. "A man can't live on that kind of money. Folks are getting desperate. Heard tell of a farmer that had three thousand sheep to get to market. It was gonna cost him a dollar ten a head to ship 'em, and they were only gonna bring a dollar a head at the market. He couldn't afford to ship 'em, and he couldn't afford to feed 'em anymore, so he slit their throats and dumped 'em in a ditch."

  "Yuck," I said, my stomach turning at the thought. "That's awful."

  Hank nodded. "That ain't the worst of it, though," he said. He stopped peeling and stood staring at the cupboard, like he was seeing something reflected in the glass. "The worst of it has been the drought. It started in '30, and it ain't let up yet; the sun's just blazin' up there, cruel and white, day after day after day. First off the corn shriveled on the stalks. At night you could hear it rattlin' like dry paper in the wind. Next the ponds and the streams dried up, then the cows stopped giving milk. Lisbeth, my wife..."

  Hank hesitated a moment and licked his lips, as if even the thought of the drought had dried them out. I'd never heard him mention his wife's name before, and when he spoke again there was a note of sadness in his voice.

  "Lisbeth got skinny as a crow. We didn't have no young-uns. It was always a sorrow to us, 'til then. To see the neighbor kids runnin' around, nothin' but skin and bone, their eyes sunk in, their bellies big with hunger, made us thankful we only had ourselves."

  Hank picked up a carrot and started peeling again. "Then came the dust," he went on. "The soil got so dry it turned into powder, and the wind blew hot and angry, day after day. Got so dark we had to light lamps in the middle of the day, and we forgot there used to be stars at night. Dust was everywhere. We soaked towels to try and keep it from creepin' under the doors and windowsills, but it got in anyway. We ate it, we breathed it, we wore it, day and night."

  Hank peeled faster. "The fields all disappeared. Weren't nothin' left but acres and acres of black, shiftin' sand, drifts deep enough to bury a cow or a child that got caught out unawares.

  "Before long Lisbeth's cough started. Lots of folks have it back home. They cough up dust and then more dust, thick and black, and then they start coughin' up blood. Ain't no money for doctorin', so it just gets worse and worse.

  "Last October the bank came and took our farm away. We watched them auction it off, Lisbeth and I, and then Lisbeth sank down in the dust and coughed herself to death."

  Hank stopped and stood silent, his face like stone, the glimmer of a tear in the corner of his eye. I turned away, swallowing down the lump in my throat, forcing back the tears that threatened to spill from my eyes, too.

  "Welp," said Hank, clearing his throat and busying himself with the vegetables again. "Not doin' much of a job at cheerin' folks up, am I?"

  I looked at him and we both gave a half-hearted laugh.

  "That's better," he said.

  We finished cooking and brought Mama out to the kitchen. Then, after we'd eaten and tucked Maureen in, Hank and Ma started swapping tales, Okie and Irish. Hank got Mama laughing so hard that her eyes shone and pink came back to her cheeks. Sitting around the table like that, laughing and talking, I forgot for a moment that Pa wasn't there and that we weren't a whole family anymore.

  Then, when I remembered again, I got so mad at myself that I snapped at Mama. "I hate to spoil your fun," I told her. "But it's almost nine o'clock. Don't you think he oughta go?"

  The laughter drained from Mama's eyes and she blushed a deep pink. "Daniel," she said, "that's very rude. Please apologize to Mr. Powers."

  "No, ma'am," said Hank. "The boy's right. It's time I was goin'."

  He said goodnight and went out the kitchen door. Hank never goes through the bedrooms. We heard the front door open and close, then Mama turned to me.

  "That wasn't very nice, Daniel," she said. "What's got into you?"

  "What's got into you?" I said. "Actin' so lousy all the time, never laughing, never singing anymore? The only time you seem happy is when he's around. And how come you don't write to Pa anymore?"

  Ma's eyes filled with sorrow. She put her head down in her hands and sighed. Suddenly I felt like such a dumbbell. I'd asked Hank over to cheer her up, and now I'd gone and made her sad again. What was wrong with me anyway?

  "I'm sorry," I said. "It was my idea for Hank to come. I don't know why I got mad like that."

  Mama looked up. "I know what you're feelin', Danny," she said quietly. "I'm feeling it, too. But there's no sin in enjoying Hank's company. We're all just lonely souls, giving each other a bit of comfort."

  I nodded. "I know, Ma," I said. "Come on. I'll help you to bed."

  I slid my arm under her shoulders and helped her to her feet. She leaned against me, then looked up and smiled.

  "My, yer gettin' big and strong," she said. "Wasn't it just last fall I could kiss the top of yer head?"

  I smiled and nodded. It's true. I don't know how many inches I've grown over the winter, but I am taller than Mama now.

  "Won't Pa be surprised when he gets home?" I said.

  Mama looked at me. It seemed for a moment that she was about to say something, but then she looked away.

  "Aye," she said softly.

  I helped her into bed and tucked the covers around her the way she'd done for me so many times. Her stomach is so big and round, and the rest of her so pale and thin, that it seems like the baby is some kind of little monster, eating her up from the inside. I wish it would hurry up and get born. I don't care if it lives or dies. I guess that's a sin, but I don't care. I just want it to leave Mama alone.

  FORTY-ONE

  Friday, April 28, 1933

  I finally managed to pry Mi
ckey away from Kitty long enough to get a stickball game together after school. It was cold and damp out, but it still felt great to be with the guys again, just like old times.

  Mama was propped up in her rocker when I got home. She seemed to be having a hard time breathing.

  "You all right, Ma?" I asked her.

  "Aye," she said, "just tired. Do me a favor and take Maureen out for a breath of air before supper. Poor child has forgotten there's a world beyond that door."

  I did as Mama said and took Maureen down to the park for a while. It was growing colder as the evening came on. It's been a raw April, more like March. I keep hoping the warm weather will come, both for Pa's sake, wherever he is, and to help cheer Mama up. Folks are saying, though, that we'll likely go straight from winter to summer with no spring at all this year.

  I pushed Maureen on the swing for a time. Then I put her down and she chased pigeons and I chased her until we were both chilled through and exhausted.

  Mama was in bed when we got back, her face gray, her breath coming heavy.

  "Mama? What's wrong?"

  She bit her lip and looked at me with frightened eyes. "Oh, Daniel," she said. "I fear it's begun."

  My heart banged against my chest.

  "What's begun?" I asked hoarsely.

  "The baby. The baby is coming and it's too soon, near a month too soon." She closed her eyes and tears squeezed out from under her lashes.

  I took a deep breath and willed my heart to stop pounding.

  "It'll be all right, Mama," I told her. "I'll get the doctor. It'll be all right."

  I yelled for Hank, but he wasn't home yet, so I ran over and got Mrs. Riley and the girls. Then I took off after Doc. He wasn't in, but his wife said she expected him any minute and would I care to wait? I felt like saying I wouldn't care to wait at all, but I guessed that wouldn't help matters much. I sat down and flipped through the pages of some magazine, even though I was too nervous to see what I was looking at.

  The room was cluttered with books and doilies, and it smelled of furniture polish. There was a big brown clock on the wall that ticked real loud. I watched the hands move. With every minute that passed it seemed I could feel the blood racing faster through my veins. Five minutes, ten, fifteen. My head felt like it was going to burst. I got up and started pacing. Five more minutes passed. I started to sweat. Where on earth could he be? At least Mrs. Davis walked back into the room.

  "Hasn't he come back yet?" she asked.

  "No," I shouted. "Look, I gotta find him. Where did he go?"

  "Well, he had a number of calls to make. Is this an emergency, young man?"

  "Yes, it's an emergency. My ma's having a baby!"

  "Oh well, then, if that's all—"

  "What do you mean, if that's all!"

  Mrs. Davis smiled and shook her head. "You men get so worked up over these things. It's the most natural thing in the world. Why I remember when Mrs. Flaherty—"

  "Mrs. Davis, please ... you don't understand. I've got to find Doc now!"

  "All right, all right. I'll tell you where he went. But I'll let you in on a little secret. Your mama will probably go right ahead and have her baby just fine, with or without Doc."

  She was writing as she spoke, and when she finished she handed me a list of addresses. I grabbed it from her hand and tore out of the room without even bothering to say thanks. Down on the street I checked the list. Chances are she copied it right out of the appointment book in order, I figured, so if I started with the last one first, that's probably where he'd be.

  It turned out that Mrs. Davis had more brains than I'd given her credit for and had already reversed the list. That still didn't help, though, because Doc apparently followed his own route which had nothing to do with order whatsoever. I ended up going to all four addresses only to find that Doc had been and gone and apparently was on his way back home again.

  Nearly frantic and sweating like crazy, I stood once again banging furiously on Doc's door. It had been over an hour now since I'd left Ma. Anything could have happened. At last the door swung open.

  "All right, all right," said Mrs. Davis. "Oh, it's you again. Doc just left. Didn't you pass him in the hall?"

  "Left! Left where?"

  "Why to see your mother, of course. Why didn't you tell me it was an emergency?"

  I stared at her, so frustrated I didn't know whether to cry or scream. I just shook my head and bolted after Doc. I caught up with him on the next block. Boy, was he hopping mad!

  "Why didn't you call me sooner?" he shouted.

  "Sooner! Where do you think I've been? Chasing you all over the dad-blamed city, that's where!"

  "Did you call the hospital?"

  "What hospital?"

  "The Fifth Avenue, of course!"

  "No, I didn't call the hospital. You didn't say anything about any hospital. You said to call you."

  "Well, can't you use your brain, boy? Your mother's a sick woman."

  "Don't you think I know that?"

  Doc didn't answer. We had reached our building and he was taking the steps two at a time. When he reached the door he burst right through and stalked into Mama's room without a word to anyone.

  Mrs. Riley stood leaning against the sink, a cup of tea in her hand. "And a good day to you, too, Doctor," she called after him. She turned and gave me a wink. "You've got a little brother," she said, just as calm as if she was saying the mail came or there's beans for supper. "And," she added, "your Mama is fine."

  My knees suddenly started trembling and I knew that if I didn't sit down I was gonna fall down. Mrs. Riley knew it, too, I guess, because she suddenly rushed over and slid a chair under me.

  "There, there," she said. "You've had quite a scare, haven't you, poor thing?"

  "Mama's all right?" I whispered.

  "Just fine."

  "A brother?"

  "A lovely little brother—a bit scrawny, but he'll fill out."

  "And it's all over, just like that?"

  "Just like that."

  Doc Davis came out into the kitchen a few minutes later, looking like he'd just been robbed.

  FORTY-TWO

  "She's still going to the hospital," Doc insisted, shaking his finger at Mrs. Riley.

  "I am not!" came Mama's voice from the bedroom.

  Mrs. Riley smiled. "Go on," she said, pushing me toward the bedroom door. "Go meet your brother. I'll talk to the good doctor."

  Mama was propped up on a couple of pillows. She looked tired, but happy. She smiled at me and reached out her arms. I hugged her tight.

  "I love you, Danny," she whispered.

  "I love you, too, Mama. Are you sure you're okay?"

  "Just fine. You've got a brother." She pointed to the Rileys' old cradle on the other side of the bed. I went around and peeked in.

  "He's little," I said.

  "Aye. So were you once."

  "That little?"

  "Well, not quite. He's a bit early, but Doc says he'll catch up. You can pick him up. He won't break."

  I bent down and picked the little fella up. He was as floppy as a rag doll.

  "His head. Watch his head," Mama warned.

  "I know," I told her, sliding my elbow under his head. "It wasn't so long ago Maureen was new."

  Mama smiled. "I guess I'm forgettin' how grown-up you are."

  I looked down at the baby. He was all puffy and pink, with a mass of curly black hair that clung in damp ringlets around his face. He was warm in my arms, and I felt sorry for the things I'd thought about him the past few weeks. I was glad he was okay. He held his hands clenched in two tight fists, like a tiny prizefighter ready to take on the world. I poked at one of the fists and five tiny fingers fanned out, then closed again over mine.

  "Got a good grip," I said.

  At the sound of my voice, he opened his eyes and stared up into my face.

  "He's lookin' at me," I said.

  "Sure he is," said Mama. "And I'm bettin' he can see you, too, no matter wh
at the old wives say."

  "Sure he can. See the way he's wrinkling up his nose? He's thinking, 'Gee, I hope I'm not related to this funny-looking guy.'"

  Mama laughed. "He's not thinkin' any such thing, now."

  I looked at the little face again, and suddenly felt a twinge of jealousy. "He's the image of Pa," I said. "It's him should be Daniel junior, not me."

  Mama's eyes filled with tears and she looked away.

  "Mama, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you sad."

  "No, it's all right." Mama brushed her tears away. "Come on over here, the both of ya."

  I carried the baby around and sat down on the side of the bed. Mama reached up and grabbed my chin.

  "Now, you listen," she said sternly. "I don't ever want to hear you talkin' like that again. You are yer daddy's firstborn son. He gave you his name, and it belongs to you. You remind me more of him every day."

  I made a face, thinking she was just giving me a line, but Mama shook her head and went on.

  "I'm not speakin' of yer features or the color of yer hair. I'm speakin' of yer heart, Danny, and yer courage. The way you're growin' to be a man. You are yer daddy's son, all right, and you've done nothing but proud by his name."

  I smiled, warmed by her words.

  "Besides," she went on, "this little bairn's got a name of 'is own—Padraic."

  "Padraic?"

  "Aye." Mama beamed. "It was my father's name."

  "I know that, Mama ... but—"

  "But what?"

  "Well, don't you think it sounds sort of ... Irish?"

  Mama's eyes flew open wide.

  "And what were you expectin' then? Jewish? Or Spanish, maybe?"

  "No, Mama, American."

  "American?"

  "Yes, Ma. We are American."

  "Aye, that we are, but..." Mama's eyes grew troubled. "Are ya wantin' so soon to forget yer Irish roots?"

  "No, Ma, of course not. I'm proud to be Irish. It's just that the kids'll give him an awful hard time with a name like Padraic."

  Mama stared at me a moment longer, then brushed the baby's cheek with her finger and smiled.