Fever Season (2 page)

“Be careful,” his father warned as David made the long step up to the first stair that led into the streetcar. Once they were all safely inside, Mr. Saifert dropped the required pennies into the collection box. They hadn't been quick enough to get a seat, but a man sitting near the front offered his to David's mother.

“Thank you,” she said as she sat down. She tapped her lap, and David hopped onto it. His mother smiled, which made her eyes twinkle. They were hazel, but always looked a little bluer in the winter and green in the summer. The skin on her face was pale and dry in the cold winter weather, but in summer sunlight her cheeks still got freckles. David knew that when she was a girl her hair had been orange, but it was light brown now. It was still thick and curly, and she needed many long hairpins to hold it up and keep it neat.

Mr. Saifert stood nearby, clutching a leather strap fastened to a bar above the seats. He swayed and lurched from side to side as the streetcar churned along the tracks. David watched his father shift weight carefully to maintain balance. He also glanced out the windows, waiting to see the taller buildings that signalled downtown, and then listened as the driver called out the street names before each stop.

“De Montigny … Saint Catherine … Dorchester …”

The family transferred at Dorchester and caught another streetcar for Saint Urbain Street, which marked the end of their ride.

David's parents both worked at the same hat factory in the garment district in downtown Montreal. His father was one of four men who operated the heavy presses that cut shapes out of large sheets of fabric like cloth and felt. His mother worked upstairs in a room with dozens of other seamstresses, each sewing the cut shapes together like a fabric jigsaw puzzle. David spent the working day sitting beneath his mother's sewing table.

The sewing room resembled a double-sized classroom, except that instead of desks there were rows of tables with sewing machines. Unlike a classroom, though, the room was full of noise as the sewing machines whirred and clattered. The needles moved up and down by means of treadles, wide pedals underneath the tables that each woman pumped with a foot. That way both hands were free so that one could guide the fabric past the needle and the other could steer it out.

The only windows in the sewing room were too high for anyone to see anything. They were only there to give additional light, and not to provide a distraction from work by giving the seamstresses anything to look at. Besides, the women were too busy, anyway.

“We get paid by the number of hats we make,” David's mother had told him. “So the women want to get as much done as possible. You're not to disturb anyone.”

That had been easier when he was a baby. Then he had spent most of the day sleeping in his bassinet. Even now that he was six years old, he would often fall asleep on the floor for at least part of the day, but he also needed other diversions.

“Have you got your things?” his mother now asked.

David held up his satchel. In it were a picture book, a pad of paper, and some pencils. Lately, though, even that wasn't enough to fill his time, so his mother had begun teaching him to sew using scraps of fabric. Now his bag also contained his own needle and a spool of thread. Certainly, the needle was sharp, but that just taught him to be careful. Even so, it was impossible to be careful all the time.

David sat on the floor to sew, and sometimes he dropped his needle. Usually, it landed flat and rolled to the narrow gap between two of the uneven floorboards. He could pick it up by pinching it with two fingers. But one day the needle landed upright, held by its fatter eye between the boards. David turned to see where the needle had gone, reaching out a hand to support himself. Suddenly, he felt a fiery pain like a bee sting. He had put his hand right on the needle, and when he lifted his hand, the needle was still stuck in his palm, with the thread hanging down. The shock made tears well in his eyes.

“It doesn't hurt too much,” he whimpered, trying to make himself brave, which was hard because his palm really hurt. Worse than that, somebody would have to pull the needle out.

He held his palm up for his mother to see, but her eyes were on her work. He would have to solve this himself. The needle wasn't in far, so he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and yanked it out. A few drops of blood followed, which he wiped on his piece of sewing fabric. The bleeding ceased after a few minutes. His mother didn't even know anything had happened.

After that there were a few more times when David pricked himself with the needle, but he never again cried at the hat factory.

Even though David wasn't supposed to bother other people at work, he would show his sewing to Mrs. Halberstadt. She sat at the table next to his mother. Mrs. Halberstadt had never known a boy who could sew as well as David did, and she liked to teach him different types of stitches. Mrs. Halberstadt would always smile when she saw how quickly he learned them, but some of the other women weren't as kind.

“That boy will make a good wife someday,” one of them said. Sewing was considered a woman's job, and many of the other ladies laughed. It was a running joke with them, and each time somebody said it, the others laughed all over again. It embarrassed David.

Later that night, back at home, David's mother had time to fix the sleeves on his winter coat, just as she had promised. “Do you want to help me?” she asked.

“No,” David said. “I don't want to sew anymore. I don't like it when the women laugh at me.”

“Nobody means any harm by it,” his mother said. “They're just having a little fun. Goodness knows, there's not much fun to be had at that job.”

“Well, it's not fun to hurt my feelings.”

“No, David, it isn't. But don't let it bother you. Think of it this way: They're probably jealous. Just imagine what a help it would be to them if they had husbands or sons who could sew like you do.”

“Well, sewing is women's work, and I'm not going to do it anymore.”

“That's up to you.” Then his mother shrugged, as if to say, “We'll see what happens.”

C
HAPTER
2

That spring David's father was given a promotion at work. No longer would he be one of the four men running the big machines. Now he was a factory foreman in charge of the whole department. It meant longer hours and more responsibility, but it also meant more money. David's father would now make $15 a week. That would work out to a little over $60 per month, or about $750 for the year. It was enough money so that David's mother wouldn't have to work anymore. She could stay home now like rich people's wives and mothers.

David, of course, could stay at home, too, though soon enough he'd be starting school. “What will you do then?” he asked one morning while helping his mother shop. “Won't you be lonely at home with Daddy at work and me at school?”

“Don't you be worried about that,” said his mother. Her excited tone brought out the Irish accent of her youth. “There'll be plenty for me to do once the baby arrives.”

David was confused. “What baby?” Then it dawned on him.

“That's right,” said his mother, beaming. She actually stopped on the sidewalk and hugged him — even though other people were watching. “You're going to be a big brother. Isn't that exciting news!”

Exciting news? David didn't think so. He'd had his mother's attention all to himself since they stopped going to the hat factory, but a baby would change everything.

“It's true we're all going to have to adjust once the baby's born, but just because some things change doesn't mean everything's going to be different. You'll still be my special boy.”

David smiled. His mother always said the right thing, unlike his father, who never seemed to have any time for him. David's mother held out her hand, and he took it happily as they strolled down Papineau Avenue. David's favourite store was Mr. Unger's bakery. He could always smell it long before they got there. On days like today, when the loaves were in the oven, the whole neighbourhood was filled with the wonderful aroma of fresh-baked bread. And Mr. Unger, the baker, knew all his regular customers by name.

“Hello, Mrs. Saifert. Come in, come in. We have some wonderful things today. Bread, bagels, buns. Right out of the oven.”

“Just a loaf of bread, please,” David's mother said.

Mr. Unger wrapped a soft, fresh loaf in brown paper and handed it to her. “Three cents please … Oh, and who's this?” The baker smiled at David. “This can't be your little boy. Look how he's grown!”

David felt his cheeks flush. He was a little embarrassed, but pleased, as well. He knew he was small for his age, but it was nice to have someone make a fuss over him.

“He'll be starting school soon,” his mother said proudly.

“I can't believe it. Is this true?”

David nodded shyly.

“Not too old for a treat, I hope?”

David's eyes widened as the baker took a small bun out of a great big oven. The crust was golden brown and perfect, but the bun was so hot that when Mr. Unger gave it to him, David could barely hold it. He had to juggle it from hand to hand, blowing on it, as well as his fingers, until the bun was cool enough to eat. Even when it was, a small wisp of steam escaped when David broke it in half.

“What do you say?” his mother asked.

“Thank you,” David said.

Mr. Unger smiled as the boy and his mother left the shop.

After the bakery, David and his mother stopped at the greengrocer to purchase fruit and vegetables. Then they visited the butcher shop for some meat. One thing that David and his mother never had to shop for was milk. It was delivered to the door in glass bottles every day. Deliveries were made early in the morning, and in the winter the milk often froze on the stoop before someone got up to bring it in. In the summer, however, a family had to keep its milk cool in the icebox.

An icebox was like a cupboard for fresh food. It was made of wood but had an upper compartment lined with tin. The upper compartment was filled with ice which, of course, would begin to melt. When it did, ice water dripped down a pipe into the lower “cupboard” compartment. The cold coming off the pipe was what kept the food refrigerated. As the water trickled down the pipe, it dribbled out the bottom and into a pan. If you weren't careful about emptying the pan, a big puddle would end up on the floor.

Like milk, ice was delivered to people's houses in a horse-drawn wagon, but unlike milk, it had to be delivered during the day because the iceman couldn't leave a huge frozen block on someone's porch. When the whole family went to work, the Saiferts had arranged with their landlord to take care of the delivery. But now, as far as David was concerned, the iceman's visits were one of the best parts of being at home.

The iceman came by twice a week. He usually reached the Chabot Street portion of his route in the early afternoon. David watched from the stoop as the iceman employed huge metal tongs to select the appropriate-sized block. Even from his third-storey vantage, David could tell how heavy the blocks of ice were by the slow, deliberate way the iceman moved them. Once he had a block in place, the iceman used a leather strap to lift it onto his broad shoulders. Then, holding on to the ice by the strap, he had to haul it up two flights of stairs to the Saiferts' flat. As he got near the top, David could see the lines of concentration on the iceman's furrowed brow and the muscles bulging in his arms as he struggled to support the load.

When the iceman reached the top of the stairs, David opened the front door. The iceman could only grunt a thank-you as he lugged the block into the kitchen and placed it in the upper compartment of the icebox. Wielding the pick that he carried, the iceman chipped away any uneven bits so that the ice fitted properly. Then he collected his money and left. The trip down the stairs was certainly easier than the climb up.

One day David made up a game in which he was the iceman. He used an old shoebox as his block of ice and filled it with books to give it weight. Then he took a fireplace tool to use as his tongs, but what could he use as a strap?

“Can I borrow a belt?” he asked his father.

“What for? Mine are all much too big for you.”