Nothing to Fear Read online

  Ma sings while she does the ironing. She says it makes the hours fly—and she spends a lot of hours ironing. She takes in the washing for a fancy ladies' hotel down on Eighty-Ninth Street. She used to be the cleaning lady there before my baby sister, Maureen, was born. That's how she got the laundry job.

  Pa's always teasing her about it. He says, "Molly, sure an' they'll be writin' on yer tombstone, Here Lies Molly Garvey and her Iron. We Couldna' Pry It from her Hand."

  Pa talks like that on account of he's right off the boat, like I said. So is Mama. I was born here—in New York—but I used to talk like them, too, until I went to school and learned good English like I talk now.

  When we got to our door, Sergeant Finnegan pulled his hat off and held it in his two hands kind of respectful-like. Then he yanked my cap off and made me hold it, too, like we were going to church or something. Mama has that effect on people.

  There was some kind of ruckus going on in the Rileys' apartment across the hall. Sounded like old man Riley was spifflicated again. Somewhere upstairs somebody was cooking cabbage. I could tell because the cabbage stink was floating down and fighting with the Lysol stink for control of the hall.

  Sergeant Finnegan didn't pay any attention to the ruckus or the stinks. He just went ahead and knocked on our door.

  The singing stopped and Ma called out, "Aye, who is it?"

  Sergeant Finnegan cleared his throat. "It's me, Miz Garvey," he called back, "Mike Finnegan. I brung Danny home."

  There was a scuffling inside, then the door flew open and Ma stood there staring at me wild-eyed, like she expected to see me covered with blood or something. When she saw that I was all in one piece, she let out a big sigh and gave me a look like I had wounded her mortal soul.

  "Oh, Danny," she said. "What've ya been up to now?"

  I just stood there twisting my cap and staring at my shoes until Sergeant Finnegan escorted me in the door.

  "Daniel home yet, Miz Garvey?" he asked.

  "No," said Mama, "but I'll be expectin' him any minute. Won't ya sit down, Michael?"

  Sergeant Finnegan pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down, one leg bent under the rungs, the other sticking straight out like it was made of wood. Obviously he meant to stay and talk to Pa, which didn't thrill me too much. I looked around the room. All the statues and crucifixes and pictures of Jesus and Mary seemed to be staring right at me, their eyes full of sorrow, like I'd broken their hearts. I felt really hot all of a sudden. I tossed my cap onto the icebox, then pulled off my jacket and threw it over a hook by the door.

  Mama's ironing board was set up over by the stove with a half-ironed tablecloth hanging off it. Behind that, in the tub, another load of wash was soaking in bluing, and outside the window, just beyond the fire escape, a bunch of sheets were flapping in the wind. Folks say nothing's sure in life but death and taxes, but Pa says in our house you can count on one more thing—laundry.

  Maureen sat on a blanket in the middle of the floor taking the coffeepot apart. She was so interested in what she was doing, she hadn't even seen us come in. Her breath came out in little puffs, and a line of drool dripped from her bottom lip.

  "Hey, Mo," I whispered.

  She looked up and smiled a big grin when she saw me.

  "Da!" she said, clapping her little hands together. That's what she calls me—Da, just like she's trying to say Dan, but she can't quite get the n out.

  She decided to get up off the blanket. She just learned how to do it, so it takes her a while. She sort of leans forward on her hands, then gets her legs under her and pushes her little bottom up. Then she straightens up quick and sort of balances there a minute with a surprised look on her face. Sometimes she tumbles back down at that point and has to start all over again, but this time she made it.

  "Da," she said, "Da...," toddling over and putting her hands up to me.

  To tell the truth I was real glad to have something to do. I picked her up and gave her a hug. She's a bonny little thing, and I love her a lot. I didn't think I was ever gonna have any brothers and sisters because Mama doesn't do too good at having babies. She lost a few between me and Maureen, but by the time Maureen came along we had money enough for a hospital. Mama was pretty sick for a while, but everything turned out okay.

  I buried my nose in Maureen's neck. It smelled like the cotton candy they sell down at Coney Island. She giggled and stuck her finger in my mouth.

  Mama was flitting around the kitchen like a canary with a cat peeking in its cage. She picked the blanket and the coffeepot up off the floor. She lugged the laundry and the ironing board back into the spare room. She pushed the irons to the back of the stove and put the kettle on, and she kept apologizing for the mess, which there wasn't any of. I know she was dying to know what I'd done, but I guess she was afraid to ask.

  Sergeant Finnegan kept pulling on his collar like it was too tight as he tried to make small talk. Then he brought up the Whites.

  Mama stopped flitting and dropped heavily into the chair across from him. She pulled a handkerchief from her housedress pocket and twisted it in her hands.

  "Oh, Michael," she said, "what's to become of them?"

  Sergeant Finnegan shrugged and shook his head. "Have they got family?" he asked.

  "Not on Anna's side," Mama said. "Her folks have had nothin' to do with her since she married Luther. I s'pose they could head back down south where Luther's from..."

  Sergeant Finnegan snorted. "Not if they're smart," he said. "Luther'll get himself lynched looking for work down there. Just read in the paper today about a mob of whites that pulled some poor colored railroad worker off a train and shot him dead, just to get his job. And that ain't the first one I've heard of, either."

  Mama's face went pale with horror. She shook her head.

  "I feel so guilty," she said, "not offerin' to take them in. But what would I feed them ... and ... Lord only knows..."

  She glanced up at me quick and didn't say anything more. I knew what she was thinking—Lord only knows how much longer we'll be able to pay the rent. With Pa out of work and the savings all gone, how much longer could we survive on Ma's ironing money and the little bit I bring in shining shoes?

  The kettle started to whistle and Ma got up to fix tea. Downstairs I heard the heavy thud of the front door banging shut and my belly started to ache again. I hugged Maureen tighter and waited.

  THREE

  They were Pa's footsteps all right. I could just see him dragging his heavy feet up the stairs, his overcoat sagging from his shoulders, his eyes dark and broody like the sea before a storm.

  Pa don't look like the rest of us, with his black, wavy hair and eyes to match. Me and Maureen take after Ma. I sure wish I did look like Pa, though. Not that Ma isn't pretty or anything, it's just that red hair and freckles look better on a lady, I think. Like Maureen. She's cute as the dickens, but me ... well, I just can't see that women are ever gonna look at me the way I've seen 'em look at Pa. "Handsome as the devil!" That's what they always say.

  Usually Pa's footsteps grow quicker and lighter when they reach our landing. Just outside our door he stops and straightens up and plasters on a big smile. I watched him do it one day when I was sitting on the fourth-floor landing and he didn't know I was there. Then he opens the door and walks in just like everything is hunky-dory. Then Ma and I plaster on big smiles and pretend everything's hunky-dory, too, even though it isn't.

  It isn't like when Pa was working. He's a carpenter, and up until March of last year he was building the Empire State Building. He used to fly up the stairs two at a time then, whistling an Irish jig. He'd burst in all full of news and scoop Mama up and make her giggle. Then he'd run on and on at supper.

  "Another story today," he'd say. "Would ya believe, a story a day? Three thousand men on one job! Ah, 'tis a glory ta see."

  Then after dinner he'd light his pipe and sit back with his newspaper. When he first came to this country, he went to school nights to learn to read, and ever since th
en he's considered it his bounden duty to keep up with the news.

  "Your daddy was a poor farm boy back in Ireland," he used to tell me, holding his pipe bowl in his hand and pointing the stem at me. "Couldna' even read! Now he's buildin' the tallest buildin' in the whole world. Ah, America—'tis truly the land of opportunity."

  Pa doesn't say much about the land of opportunity anymore. He doesn't say much at all. He just gets up every morning, shaves and washes like always, then goes out and walks from one end of the city to the other, looking for work. Sometimes he goes down to the New York City Free Employment Bu reau and stands in line, fighting with five thousand other guys for the handful of jobs that come in every day. Once in a while he even takes my shoeshine box and goes out on the streets. He doesn't want me to know that, but I saw him one day, down on his knees, shining some guy's shoes—my daddy, my strong, proud daddy that can read the newspaper and build the tallest building in the world, down on his knees in the gutter. I never let on to him that I saw.

  The footsteps didn't get light and quick this time, and there was no plastered-on smile when Pa pushed the door open. I stood staring at him, my hands all sweaty, my heart flopping around like a fish out of water.

  "Hi, Pa," I said, my voice coming out in a squeak. I held Maureen out in front of me like a shield. She reached for him with both hands, and he smiled a little in spite of himself and scooped her out of my arms. He shot me a glance, though, that let me know he'd gotten the word from the men down on the street.

  He walked over and gave Mama a quick kiss. Then he put Maureen in her lap and turned to Sergeant Finnegan.

  "Evenin', Michael," he said, extending his hand stiffly. "I take it yer not here on a social call?"

  "No, Daniel, I'm afraid not."

  Well, Sergeant Finnegan launched into the whole story then, and Pa just stood there taking it all in. I could tell he was gettin' sore though, because of his nostrils. When Ma gets mad her face turns so red that her freckles all run together and her green eyes flash like lightning. But when Pa gets mad his eyes turn hard and cold as ice, and his nostrils flare out like a wild stallion's.

  Ma kept giving me mournful glances, and when Sergeant Finnegan got to the part about the broken window and the stolen money she said, "Oh, dear God," and crossed herself like she was trying to ward off the devil.

  Pa turned and looked at me and my insides froze solid.

  "Daniel."

  "Yes sir."

  "Come here."

  My shoes turned into lead and it took all my strength to drag them across the floor.

  "Were you in on this, Daniel? I want the truth."

  I sure wanted to say no, but it was no use. When Pa looks into my eyes like that I swear he can see right into my brain.

  "They said they were just gonna grab some licorice whips," I blurted. "I didn't know they were gonna break the window ... honest."

  Pa's eyes narrowed. "And just who'll they be?" he asked.

  I stared down at the linoleum. If there's one thing I ain't, it's a stool pigeon.

  Pa grabbed my chin and made me look at him again.

  "Who, Danny?"

  I kept staring at him. My mouth dried out and I got this lump in my throat that wouldn't go down, but I still didn't say anything.

  Pa put his nose right on top of mine and yelled into my mouth. "Do you know what a window like that'll be costin'?"

  He yelled it so loud I probably would've fallen over if it weren't for my lead shoes.

  "Do ya?"

  "No sir."

  "More'n we've got, and more'n poor Weissman has got, either."

  "Poor Weissman?" I said, suddenly finding my voice. "Aw, c'mon, Pa, everybody knows the old guy is loaded."

  That really did it. I don't know which Pa hates worse, talking back or being disrespectful to elders—but it didn't matter, 'cause I'd just managed to do them both in one sentence. His eyes bugged out, and for a minute I thought he was gonna wallop me right then and there.

  Instead he just stood there breathing hard, with his eyes burning into mine for what seemed like about ten thousand years. Then he sucked in a deep breath, pushed me aside, and turned back to Sergeant Finnegan.

  "Thank you for yer trouble, Michael," he said, nodding stiffly. "I'll see to it things are put right."

  "I know you will, Daniel," said Sergeant Finnegan. Then he picked up his hat, nodded to Mama, and left.

  We listened to his footsteps going down the stairs, the silence growing heavier and heavier in the room. Finally, with the thud of the front door, Pa turned back to me.

  "Get yer coat," he said. "We're goin' out."

  "Where'll you be taking him?" Ma asked anxiously.

  "To see Weissman," Pa told her. "You'd best have yer supper and feed Maureen. There's no knowin' how long we'll be, and speakin' fer m'self, I've no appetite anyway."

  Mama bit her lip and nodded sadly. Pa snatched my cap off the icebox and shoved it at me, then he walked out the door. I looked at Ma and her eyes started to get all shiny and wet, so I pulled the cap down low over my eyes, grabbed my jacket, and beat it out the door after Pa.

  FOUR

  Pa didn't say a word all the way over to Weissman's market. I walked a little behind him, hurrying to keep up. I wanted so bad to talk to him, but his big back was like a wall, shutting me out.

  When we got there Mr. Weissman was gone and the sign on the door said CLOSED. There were some old boards nailed up on the inside of the window and another cop was standing on the sidewalk watching to see that nobody tried to break in. The hole in the glass looked open and ugly, like a giant wound. I almost expected to see blood on the sidewalk.

  Pa walked over and talked quietly to the cop. The cop stared at me over his shoulder, and my face grew hot as a branding iron. I wondered if Pa was gonna have him haul me down to the station after all. The cop mumbled a few words back to Pa then pointed south down Madison Avenue. Pa thanked him and took off again without a word to me.

  "Pa?" I called after him, but he didn't answer. I stared at the cop, not sure what I was supposed to do. The cop made no move to arrest me or anything, so I shoved my hands in my pockets and hightailed it after Pa.

  We walked all the way down to 102d, then Pa stopped outside of an apartment house that looked a lot like ours. Of course, most of the brownstones in our part of the city look pretty much alike. Some have fire escapes in the front, some have 'em in the back. That's about the only difference I can see. I wondered why we were stopping at this one.

  "Pa?" I said again.

  He still didn't answer. He walked up the steps, pulled the door open, and went inside. The door slammed behind him and there I was again, by myself. I looked up and down the street. It was pretty quiet, except for the usual bums hanging about in the alleyways. A couple of fellas were standing on the corner under the streetlight, smoking cigarettes. They started to laugh and I got this crazy idea that they knew who I was and what I'd done and they were laughing at me. So I beat it up the stairs and into the building.

  The front hall was empty, and I stood there for a minute, wondering what to do. It was just like our front hall, with dark wood paneling and a black-and-white tiled floor. There was no light in it, but the light from the inside hall shone dimly through the pebbled-glass door. I figured Pa must've gone inside, so I pushed on the door. The lock was broken, like ours. I wasn't surprised. It's hard to keep locks on buildings anymore with all the vagrants so desperate for places to sleep.

  I stepped inside and looked quickly around. I hate hallways at night. The little bare bulbs on each floor are just enough to cast deep shadows into every nook and corner, making great hiding places for who-knows-who and who-knows-what. I could hear footsteps overhead, so I shot up the stairs, hoping they were Pa's. I caught up with him on the fourth floor. The building was exactly like ours, with one apartment to the left of the landing and one to the right, and the toilet straight ahead. Seeing the toilet made me realize that I had to go, but it was pitch-dark in there.
Not that ours is any different. Folks always swipe the light bulbs out of the toilets 'cause they're easy to reach. Your own toilet is scary enough, though, let alone some stranger's. I decided I could wait.

  Pa was knocking on 4B. He motioned for me to come over, then he yanked my cap off and handed it to me just like Sergeant Finnegan had done that afternoon. It was starting to make me mad. I mean, I'm no dummy. I can take my own hat off.

  There was some scraping and shuffling inside the apartment, then the latch slid over and the door opened a crack. A tiny, white-haired woman peered out.

  "Yes?" she said, her voice quivering a little.

  "Mrs. Weissman?" asked Pa.

  "Yes."

  Mrs. Weissman? I couldn't believe my ears. Why would the Weissmans be living in a cold-water flat with all their dough?

  "Could we come in a moment, ma'am?" Pa was asking.

  The woman's eyebrows knit together. "We've got no food to spare," she said. "You'd best be on your way." She started to close the door again, but Pa put his foot in the way.

  "Please, ma'am," he begged. "I'm not lookin' fer no handouts. The name's Garvey, Daniel Garvey, and this be m'son, Danny. We come to make amends, about the window."

  Mrs. Weissman's eyes widened and she stared at Pa a moment, then beyond him, at me. She searched my face gravely, like a judge deciding a verdict, then she nodded and pulled the door open.

  "Come in," she said quietly.

  She hobbled ahead of us in worn slippers over to a table where Mr. Weissman sat eating. He had on an old sweater with the elbows patched and one of those funny little hats that look like a ball cut in half. He didn't look like a rich man. His apartment didn't look like a rich man's, either. Except for the lack of holy pictures and crucifixes, it could have been ours. There was an old coal stove, a wooden icebox, and not much else. The curtains were thin and faded, and the linoleum was worn through in spots. Even the oilcloth on the table was old and frayed. I wondered what the Weissmans did with all their money.