I looked into his big, homely face, and all the anger drained out of me. I smiled in spite of myself.
"I'm sorry, Hank," I said, the tears starting in again. "It's just that..."
"I know what it is, son. I know what it is."
FORTY-SEVEN
Saturday, June 10, 1933
In the beginning I had plenty of company at the hospital. Maggie came, and Mickey, Mrs. Riley, Mrs. Mahoney, and lots of the neighbors. Even old Mr. Weissman came a few times. As the weeks went by, though, people got busy with their lives again. Now it's just me, and occasionally Hank or Maggie, but mostly just me.
Hank has mentioned a couple of times that we should have a funeral Mass for Pa. But I can't. Not yet. Not without Ma.
I sit with her every day after school and hold her hand. I tell her stories and jokes. I read her favorite books out loud and sing her favorite songs. I tell her all about Maureen and Patrick. And she lies there, never moving, never smiling, never opening her eyes. She's gotten thinner and paler. Her mouth is just a narrow blue line and her eyes are sunken gray hollows above her cheeks.
Doc Davis came in and found me with her this afternoon. I was reading from Black Beauty. He smiled when he saw me. I don't think I've ever seen him smile before. He pulled up Mama's eyelids and looked into her eyes with a little light. Then he felt her pulse and listened to her heart.
"How is she, Doc?" I asked.
"Weaker."
"How much longer can she go on?"
Doc sighed and spoke to me more gently than I've ever heard him speak.
"Son," he said, "I don't know what's kept her alive this long."
I looked down at my book. Doc came over and put a hand on my shoulder.
"Why don't you go out and get some fresh air," he said. "A boy your age should be playing stickball on a nice day like this."
"That's okay," I said. "I'd rather be here."
"She doesn't even know you're here."
"I know."
Doc shook his head and went out. A short time later a nurse came in.
"Visiting hours are over for the afternoon, Master Garvey," she said. "You'll have to leave now."
"I'll be right out," I told her.
She went out and left me alone again.
I got up and kissed Mama's cheek, then I leaned in close to her ear.
"Mama," I whispered, "it's me, Danny. I'm here. Please know that I'm here. I'm waiting for you—me and Maureen and Patrick. We love you, Mama. We need you. Please let us be enough."
She just lay there, still as death.
Hank had dinner waiting when I got home. Beans and franks. I no sooner sat down than a knock came on the door. It was Angela, Mrs. DeLuca's little daughter from down at the candy store. She stared up at me timidly with her huge, brown eyes, and I had the feeling that if I'd said, "Boo," she would have turned and fled.
"Yes, Angela?" I asked gently.
She held up her hand and counted her message off on her fingers as she spoke.
"Mama says the hospital called." One finger down. "She says there's been a change." Second finger down. "And you better come quick." Third finger down. A fourth finger was still sticking up.
"Anything else?" I asked.
She stuck the last finger into her mouth and thought for a moment, then shook her head. My heart sank.
"Thank you," I said, the words coming out like a croak. The message was painfully clear. If it had been good news the caller would have said so. Nobody likes to give bad news over the phone. For a moment steel jaws seemed to close over my heart 'til I thought I would crumble with the pain. Then, mercifully, a numbing fog descended, and I felt nothing at all.
I turned to look at Hank. He seemed far away, like I was seeing him through the wrong end of a telescope. His face was twisted in sorrow.
"Well," I said tiredly, "at least the waiting is over."
"I'll come with you," said Hank's faraway voice.
"No. I want to go alone."
"All right," said Hank. A tear slid down his cheek. "But remember, I'm here for you, boy. You call if you need me."
I walked the two blocks to the hospital with the thick fog swirling around me. I saw nothing but Mama's face. My body must have stopped at the stoplights, crossed the streets, opened the doors, and spoken to the elevator operator, but it did all those things without any direction from me.
The nurse at the nursing station said something as I went by, but her words did not penetrate the fog. I pushed open the door to Mama's room and stood there, trying to focus. Mama's shrunken body lay facedown on the bed, naked to the waist, covered by a sheet below. Two nurses bent over her, lifting the limp arms and gently washing. They looked up sharply when I came in.
"Master Garvey!" said one. "Please wait in the hall. You've no right to be in here just now."
Suddenly there was a quiver, a flicker of movement from the bed. My heart stood still, and I watched in fear and wonder as the withered arms jerked and drew in against the still body. Then slowly, miraculously, like the sun rising up out of the darkness, Ma ma's head lifted from the pillow. She turned and looked directly at me, her eyes open and shining, a trembling smile on her lips.
"Aye, he does," she whispered. "Aye. He does."
"Mama!"
FORTY-EIGHT
June—1934
As soon as Ma was well enough, the neighbors all pitched in and we gave Pa the grandest funeral ever. It did our hearts good to see how many people came. I'm sure Pa could feel the love, all the way up to heaven.
It's funny to think that, in a way, Pa ended up providing for us after all. That insurance policy that I've cursed so many times has been enough to see us through. We're not rich, but between the insurance, my shoeshine business, and Hank, we're doing okay. Mr. Roosevelt's New Deal is working, and the depression is slowly getting better, but I know now that it's going to take a long time. Longer than I ever dreamed.
More than a year has passed since the winter of 1933, but I'll never forget it. If I grow up to be the richest man in the world, I will still remember how it feels to be hungry, to have to beg, and I'll never look down on anyone who's fallen on hard times.
Which reminds me, I ran into Sadie the other day. She said her bank did open up again and she got all her money back.
"Did you take it out and put it under your mattress?" I asked her.
"No." She laughed her wonderful warm laugh. "I was tempted to, honey. I admit that. But I figure we got to start somewhere to trust again."
I guess if a depression had heroes, the way wars do, Sadie would be one. And so would Ma and Hank and Mrs. Riley and all the other ordinary people who keep on trying and keep on trusting.
Ma and Hank got married this morning, which made it a real red-letter day for the neighborhood busybodies. There hasn't been as much winking and nodding and saying "I told you so," since the day that one of the two old bachelors on the first floor locked the other one out in the hall in a lady's nightgown.
When Ma and Hank first told me they were getting married, I was pretty sore. But I couldn't stay mad. I've seen the way Hank has stood by Mama this whole year, caring for her and supporting her. I guess it's no surprise that their friendship has grown into love. Besides, Mama says her love for Hank won't ever take the place of her love for Pa. She says she will always love Pa, just the way Hank will always love Elizabeth, but that they still have love enough left over for each other. Mama says that's the wonder of love. You never run out of it. I know what she's telling me is true, too, because I kind of feel the same way about Pa and Hank myself.
It's a funny thing about Hank. The longer you know him, the better-looking he seems to get. Mama says it's the beauty inside him shining through, and I guess maybe there's got to be some truth in that.
The wedding was small. Just us and the Rileys, Mrs. Mahoney, and, of course, Mickey. Ma and Hank asked Maggie and me to stand up for them. Maggie looked beautiful. She had on a new pink dress and a wreath of little white flowers in her
hair. I snuck a peek at her just as Ma and Hank were saying "I do," and I caught her sneaking a peak at me, too. It was like Mickey says, copacetic.
Hank is going to adopt Maureen and Patrick. I wasn't too crazy about that idea at first, but I'm getting used to it. Nobody could ever love them any more than Hank does, that's for sure. And I guess it'll be less confusing for them growing up if they have the same name as Ma and Hank. Ma and I tell them stories about Pa all the time so they'll never forget who he was, and about Ireland so they'll never forget who they are. Mama says I'm getting to be a bit of a seanachie myself.
Hank wanted to adopt me, too, but I said no. After all, I'm fifteen now, near a grown man myself. I'm just as big as Pa was and almost as strong. I even have to shave. Besides, my name is Daniel Tomas Garvey. It was my Daddy's name, and his Daddy's name before him. It's a good name, and that's the one thing no one can ever take away from me.
* Brother, Can You Spare a Dime, by Milton Meltzer. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1969.
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