Stepping on the Cracks

by Mary Downing Hahn

"Where are you taking my sister?" He thrust himself in front of Mother, trying to block her path.

  "Home," she said. "June can't stay here, and neither can you."

  "To our house?" I asked Mother, running to catch up.

  "To their house. I'm going to talk to Mrs. Smith."

  "No," Gordy said. "No, you can't."

  "I certainly can," Mother said. "Things like this have to be dealt with."

  Ignoring Gordy's protests, Mother strode through the woods. Hurrying along behind her, I could see June's skinny little legs hanging down on either side of Mother's hips. One slipper fell off her foot, and Gordy picked it up.

  "What about the tree?" I asked Mother when we reached the train tracks.

  Mother turned around and stared at me as if she'd forgotten I existed. "For heaven's sake, Margaret," she said. "This is no time to be worrying about a Christmas tree. Just leave it. We'll get it later."

  As I skidded down the slippery bank, Gordy grabbed my arm. "Do something," he whispered. "Make your mother stop sticking her nose in our business."

  "If you think I can make my mother do anything, you must be nuts," I told Gordy.

  "Well, she's going to be real sorry," Gordy said, "when she meets up with my old man."

  "What will he do?" I stared at Gordy. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mother scrambling up the bank on the other side of the tracks. Her old green coat flapped in the wind as she reached the top.

  "He'll cuss her out, for one thing," Gordy said. "Then who knows? Maybe he'll give both of you black eyes like mine."

  My stomach tightened like a clenched fist, but I ran across the tracks and climbed up the bank. Mother was halfway down the block, striding through the puddles in her big rubber boots. June was watching us over Mother's shoulder, her arms wound tightly around her neck.

  "Why did he hit June?" I asked Gordy. "What did she do?"

  "Nothing, just got in his way. Her and that cat." Gordy ran ahead and caught up with Mother.

  "Mrs. Baker," he said, "please don't go to my house."

  But Mother was already turning the corner and heading down Davis Road, straight toward the Smiths' house. The old black Ford was parked out front. From the expression on Gordy's face when he saw it, I knew his father must be home. My heart fell like a rock to the bottom of my stomach, but I wasn't about to abandon my mother. If she was going to get a black eye, so was I.

  Paying no attention to Gordy's pleas, Mother strode up the sagging steps and rang the bell. I stood behind her, starting at June's pale face. Her eyes were closed tight, but tears slipped out and rolled down her cheeks. She was clinging to Mother the way a shipwrecked sailor might cling to a life preserver.

  Gordy waited beside Mother. He was holding one of June's hands and scowling at the closed door. I wished Elizabeth were here to see him. She would've been impressed by the tough way he stood there waiting for his father.

  Mother pressed the bell twice more, but no one came. There wasn't a sound from the house. She turned to Gordy. "Do you think anyone is home?" she asked.

  Gordy shrugged. "She's there," he said. "She just don't want to see anyone."

  Mother knocked then, as hard as she could. "Mrs. Smith," she called. "It's Lillian Baker. I've got June and Gordy with me."

  I heard footsteps, and the door opened a crack. Mrs. Smith peered at us. She looked worse than the last time I'd seen her. Like Gordy, her face was bruised. "My husband's sleeping," she whispered.

  "Come outside," Mother said. "I want to talk to you."

  "Just a minute." The door closed, and Mother looked at Gordy.

  "It can't go on," she told him. "He mustn't be allowed to do this."

  Gordy just looked at Mother. His eyes were flat and dull, and I knew he was wondering what Mother thought she could do to change anything. I wondered, too, but I was sure she had a plan.

  The door opened again, and Mrs. Smith stepped outside. She'd put on a sweater, and she was holding the baby I'd seen before. Unlike Brent, he didn't smile or crow at the sight of us. He clung to his mother and regarded me solemnly with sad eyes.

  "You mustn't get the wrong idea," Mrs. Smith told Mother. "I'm clumsy, I fall a lot, and the children, well, you know how kids are, they play so rough. You can't get through this world without a few cuts and bruises, everybody knows that. But I thank you for bringing Junie home. Gordy just drags her off sometimes, he loves her so much."

  Her words tumbled out of her mouth, falling over each other. She reached for June with one arm while she balanced the baby on her hip with the other. "Come on, honey," she said, "let's get you inside. Gordy took you out without near enough clothes on."

  But June buried her face in Mother's shoulder and refused to look at Mrs. Smith. "No," she cried. "No. Daddy hurt me, he hurt me."

  Mrs. Smith's face turned red, and she tried to laugh. "Now isn't that silly, you bad girl, talking about your daddy like that. Gordy, I swear, you must be filling this child's head with craziness."

  Gordy bent his head and stared at his feet. His hands stuffed in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, he looked older than Stuart. He said nothing.

  "You come inside, Junie." Mrs. Smith seized June's arm and tugged, but the little girl refused to let go of Mother.

  "Mrs. Smith," Mother said. "You can get help. You don't have to live like this."

  Mrs. Smith glared at Mother then. "There's nothing wrong with the way I live. Just because some don't have as much money as others in this town doesn't mean we have anything to be ashamed of. Now you put my daughter down and get out of here. I don't need any do-gooders sticking their nose in my business."

  "Don't you have relatives?" Mother asked. "A mother, a sister?"

  "What's going on?" Mr. Smith strode down the hall toward us, his footsteps loud in the sudden silence. Reaching the doorway, he shoved his wife aside and stared at Mother. He hadn't shaved, and his clothes were dirty and wrinkled.

  At the sight of him, June cried harder. Gordy took her from Mother and pressed her face against his chest. Stroking her hair, speaking softly, he tried to comfort her.

  Mother took a step or two backward, and I cringed behind her. At any minute I expected Mr. Smith to punch someone, maybe Mother, maybe me, maybe Gordy or June.

  "This is Mrs. Baker, honey," Mrs. Smith said. Her voice was high and shrill enough to hurt your ears. "She just dropped by to say hello."

  As Mrs. Smith babbled on and on about our social call, Mr. Smith continued to stare at Mother. His eyes were rimmed with red, and his cheeks bristled with gray whiskers. Mother looked at him as if she'd been turned to stone.

  "Get out of here," Mr. Smith mumbled. "Go on, we don't need nothing from you."

  Mother backed away, stumbling on Mittens, who must have followed us home from the woods. Regaining her balance, she grabbed my hand and led me down the steps.

  Without looking back, she dragged me up Davis Road as if I were five years old. When we were around the corner, out of sight of the Smiths' house, Mother stopped and leaned against a tree.

  "Margaret," she whispered, "I knew something was wrong, but I never dreamed it was so bad. People right here in College Hill living like that. I shouldn't have gone there, I should've listened to Gordy. I've probably just made things worse. Oh, that poor woman, those poor children. How can they bear it?"

  Under spreading clouds, Dartmoor Avenue stretched before us, puddled with icy gray water. A melting snowman drooped in a yard. A dog trotted past, sniffing at the curb. Never had the town looked so dreary.

  "There must be something we can do," I said. Surely Mother wasn't going to give up this quickly. Just a few minutes ago she'd been striding through the woods like a crusader out to save the world, but now her body sagged and her face looked as gray as the snow.

  "Are you going to tell Mr. Crawford to arrest Mr. Smith?" I stared at Mother. Now that she knew the truth about Gordy, I was sure she'd fix his life the way she always fixed everything.

  Without speaking, Mother
took my hand again and started toward home. I looked up at her, expecting her to tell me what she meant to do. But she stared straight ahead and walked faster and faster, till I had to run to keep up with her.

  Hidden behind dense clouds, the sun was setting. Lights shone out of windows. Here and there I saw Christmas trees glowing in dark windows. Our tree was lying on the bobsled on the other side of the tracks, but it didn't seem worth mentioning now. Clinging silently to Mother's mittened hand, I let her lead me home.

  23

  That night while Daddy was listening to the news, Mother and I lingered at the dining room table. The moment we'd gotten home from Gordy's house, Mother had started dinner. She'd kept so busy, I hadn't had a chance to talk to her about the Smiths. But now, thinking she'd had plenty of time to come up with a plan, I asked her what we should do.

  Mother set down her cup and stared at the tea leaves as if she expected to find the answer there. "You can't help a person if they won't admit anything is wrong," she finally said.

  "Can't Mr. Crawford just go over there and arrest Mr. Smith?"

  Mother patted my hand. "I know it's hard to understand, Margaret," she said, "but Mrs. Smith is the only one who can ask Mr. Crawford to do that."

  "She's too scared," I said.

  "It's a very unfortunate situation," Mother said. "But honestly, Margaret, there's nothing you or I can do."

  Mother stood up and began gathering our plates and silverware. "It's time to clean up," she said.

  As far as Mother was concerned, that was that. If Mrs. Smith didn't call the police, no one would. I glanced at her several times, but even when she handed me a dripping plate to dry, Mother didn't look at me. Her profile was stern, uncompromising, her nose sharp, her mouth set in a firm line. There was to be no more discussion of our visit to the Smiths'. Gordy's life was as cracked as the old platter I was drying, and Mother had no glue to fix it with.

  ***

  The next afternoon, Mother and I went back to the train tracks. Our tree was lying on the sled where we'd left it, all alone in the melting snow. It looked as if it had been cut down for nothing.

  Silently, we dragged the tree home and put it up all by ourselves. Even with extra branches tied on to fill in the worst gaps, it was too tall and skinny to be pretty. The glass balls and icicles and colored lights helped, but every time I looked at it, I thought about Gordy and June and Mrs. Smith.

  After we came home from church on Christmas, our family exchanged gifts. Mother gave me a Sonja Henie doll. Dressed in a white skating costume trimmed with real fur, she smiled with parted lips to show her tiny teeth. As I examined her ice skates, Mother said it was hard to admit I was getting too old for dolls.

  "You don't have to play with her," she said. "She's just so pretty, I couldn't resist her."

  I laid the doll carefully back in her box. Her eyes closed, and I smiled at Mother. "She's beautiful," I said, "and I love her."

  Thinking of Barbara's Storybook Doll collection, I decided to put Sonja in a safe place on top of my bureau. Unlike my old dolls, who were losing their hair, missing their toes, fingers, and most of their clothes, she would stay just the way she was now, as perfect as the day she was made.

  While Mother and Daddy watched, I opened my other presents: a new Nancy Drew mystery, a collection of Edgar Allan Poe's stories, and a dark green sweater set. On the practical side, Mother had also given me an assortment of pajamas, underwear, and socks.

  Snuggling up against Mother, I gave her my gift, the same brand of cologne she asked for every year. As usual, she pretended to be surprised and gave me a big kiss.

  Daddy held up his present, a pair of argyle socks and a handkerchief, as if he'd never expected to receive anything like them. Then he and Mother gathered all the wrapping paper and tossed it into the fireplace. As the bright paper curled up in flames, Mother put an arm around me and hugged me.

  "If only Jimmy was here," she said. "Last summer I was so sure he'd be home for Christmas, but now, well, I just don't know what to think." Turning away from me, she looked up at Daddy.

  He shook his head and frowned. Without saying anything, he walked to the living room window and stared past Jimmy's blue star at the remains of the snow. Except for dinner, Christmas was officially over till next year.

  ***

  Around two, I went to Elizabeth's house. In a small package was my gift for her, a pack of Double Bubble Gum and a Hershey Bar. Because of the medicine we'd bought for Stuart, neither of us had enough money for big presents.

  The Crawfords always picked their tree from the Boy Scouts' lot, so it was bigger and far more beautiful than ours. At its base was a Swiss village of little cardboard houses surrounding an oval mirror meant to be a frozen lake. On its surface was a group of tiny metal ice skaters. Other figures stood in the village streets. On the outskirts was a farm, complete with livestock and tiny fir trees.

  Every Christmas Mrs. Crawford set up the village. It was always the same. Each house had its own special place, each ice skater had his own special place, each cow, horse, sheep, and pig had its own special place. Even the goose girl's flock followed her in the same order. Ducks first, then chickens, geese last of all.

  A Lionel train ran around the village, passing through tunnels and over bridges. No one but Mr. Crawford touched its controls. My father found that very amusing. He claimed Mr. Crawford secretly wanted to be God just to keep the trains running on schedule, but I wished we had a set just like it. I loved watching the engine go round and round, blowing its whistle and puffing out real smoke from tiny capsules.

  As I knelt down to look for each little figure, I thought how nice it would be if College Hill were a Christmas village. Jimmy and Joe would be home, trading jokes and laughing. So would Donald and Stuart. Even Butch and Harold would be safe in their houses, eating turkey with their families. Every missing soldier would be in his place on the streets of College Hill.

  "Want to see what I got?" Elizabeth poked me in the ribs to get my attention. She always received more presents than I did, mainly because she had lots of aunts and uncles who sent packages every year.

  "Isn't she pretty?" Elizabeth held up a beautiful bride doll. "Aunt Marge says this is how I'll look on my wedding day."

  Giggling at the thought of getting married, Elizabeth tossed the doll aside and rooted around in a pile of gifts to find the rest of her treasures—a pile of jigsaw puzzles and games, several Nancy Drews, a blue sweater set that matched her eyes, a variety of bubble bath sets, dusting powder, and three bottles of cologne. "Do you think someone's trying to tell me I have B.O.?" she asked.

  At last she handed me my present and I gave her hers. Before opening them, we looked at each other. The packages were exactly the same size and shape. Laughing, we tore off the paper and discovered we'd given each other the same thing.

  Popping a piece of the bubble gum in her mouth, Elizabeth jumped to her feet. "Let's go out for a while."

  Lacy patches of snow lay mounded in shady places under bushes and trees, but the rest was gone. The sky was blue, and it was warm enough to leave our jackets unbuttoned. What both of us had really wanted—bicycles—we hadn't gotten. Daddy said you couldn't get one this year for love or money. So Elizabeth got on Joe's bike, and, with me behind her, she pedaled up Garfield Road, toward Beech Drive.

  "We'll say 'Merry Christmas' to Stuart," Elizabeth said, steering the bike around puddles of melting slush.

  The snowman in the Fishers' yard had shrunk to a couple of mounds about the size of softballs. Leaving the bike in the driveway, we rang the doorbell and Mrs. Fisher let us in.

  "Just go on upstairs," she said. "Stuart's wide awake and feeling much better. He should be on his feet next week."

  Stuart grinned at us from bed. He and Barbara were playing a game of chess, and Brent was pushing a new wooden train around the floor, making little choo-choo sounds. The Victrola was playing "Swinging on a Star," and Stuart asked us if we'd ever carried moonbeams home in a ja
r.

  We were all laughing when Gordy suddenly appeared in the doorway. He scowled as usual at the sight of Elizabeth and me, but Stuart beckoned to him.

  "Come here, Gordo," he said. His voice was still hoarse, but he wasn't coughing as much.

  "Merry Christmas," Stuart added as Gordy settled down beside him on the bed. His eye was better, and the bruises had faded. If you weren't very observant, you probably wouldn't have noticed them.

  "Where have you been?" Stuart asked. "I haven't seen you for days."

  Gordy shrugged. "I had stuff to do."

  Stuart looked at him closely. "How're Mom and the kids?"

  "They're okay." Gordy fiddled with the wrapper from the piece of chocolate Stuart had given him. He folded it smaller and smaller, creasing it with his thumbnail.

  "It's the old man, isn't it?" Stuart took Gordy's face between his hands and lifted it gently toward him. In the soft light, he stared at the faded bruises. "That's why you didn't come. He hit you."

  Gordy pulled away and slid off the bed. In the sudden silence, Bing Crosby was singing that you can be better than you are if you just swing on a star.

  "I'm okay," Gordy said. "He did this the day we took you to the doctor. You were too sick to notice it then."

  Stuart closed his eyes and lay back against the pillow. His face was chalky white. Alarmed, Barbara bent over him but he shook his head. "Here I am, lying in the lap of luxury, and Mom and the kids have nobody to protect them. What kind of a person am I? Scared to go to war, scared to hold a gun, scared of my own father."

  "Stu," Barbara said, "don't talk like that. There's nothing you can do."

  Stuart lay back and closed his eyes. Across the room, Gordy kept his back to us. He didn't say anything either. The Victrola needle went click, click, click, but nobody moved to turn it off.

  "Choo-choo," Brent said. He crawled across the floor and pushed his train against Gordy's shoe. "Toot-toot."

  Barbara scooped him up and hugged him, but he squirmed to get down. Still holding him, Barbara said, "Hasn't anyone tried to help?"

  Gordy wheeled around and glared at me. "Stupid Magpie's mother came to our house, poking her nose in. Fat lot of good that did. You should've stuck around, you and your mother, to see what happened after you left."