Nothing to Fear
Authors: Jackie French Koller
 
Copyright © 1991 by Jackie French Koller
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Koller, Jackie French.
Nothing to fear/by Jackie French Koller.
p. cm.
Summary: When his father moves away to find work and
his mother becomes ill, Danny struggles to help his family
during the Great Depression.
ISBN 978-0-15-257582-3 (pb)
[1. Family lifeâFiction. 2. Depressionsâ1929âFiction.]
I. Title.
PZ7.K833No 1991
[Fic]âdc20 90-39344
Text set in Old Style
Designed by Lydia D'moch
Printed in the United States of America
V U T S R Q P
Author's NoteTo Mom,
with love
On Thursday, October 24, 1929, the New York Stock Exchange crashed. There was no broken glass, no splintered wood, no crumbling concreteâfor it was not the building that came tumbling down, but the numbers on the ticker tape inside, numbers that held the key to the economic stability of the United States. The rubble that was left in the wake of that crash was a rubble of human lives and spirits, for by 1932 almost forty percent of white Americans and fifty-six percent of black Americans were without jobs or any source of regular income.
*
The children who grew up during the decade that followed, the decade known as the Great Depression, would be forever scarred by the poverty, despair, and humiliation that pervaded our society during those hard times.
My mother was one of those children. Abandoned by her father at the height of the depression, she was raised along with her brother and seven sisters by my grandmother, a valiant little Irishwoman who often supported her family on little more than the sheer strength of her love.
During my growing-up years, stories of those hard times were told and retold at family gatherings, but they were never told with bitterness. They were told, instead, with all the warmth and laughter of a family made closer and stronger by adversity. It is the indomitable spirit of that family that inspired this book, and if anyone should notice that the Rileys, who pop in and out of its pages with regularity, bear a striking resemblance to the Hayeses who lived at 1444 Park Avenue in New York City in the year 1932, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised.
âJackie French Roller
Tuesday, October 18, 1932
I'm not gonna pretend like I'm no angel or anything. I mean, I've been in trouble before. But nothing bad. Just small-time stuff, like stealing apples from the carts down around 105th or sneaking into the Bijou over on Lexington without paying my dime. Like I said, small-time stuff. Of course there was that time that Maggie Riley and I dressed a rag doll up in her baby sister's clothes and threw it off the roof. Whew! I can still feel the shellackin' I got for that one. But we were just kids then and we didn't mean any harm. I mean, we never would've done it if we knew her ma was sitting on the fire escape. I felt really bad afterwards. Maggie said she'd never seen her ma faint before, and with nine kids I guess she must've had a scare or two in her time.
But still, that wasn't anything like the mess I got into over at Weissman's market today. I was looking
at the penny jar in Weissman's display window when along came the Sullivan twins. They stopped and started arguing with each other about how many pennies there were. I was kind of laughing to myself because I had scientifically figured out how many there were, and I knew I was going to win the contest. I told them they weren't even close, but they wouldn't believe me.
Then Harry, he's the older oneâby two minutes I thinkâcame up with the idea to swipe a few licorice whips. He dared me to go in and keep old man Weissman busy in the back room while he and Frank ran in, grabbed a handful, and ran out again. Well, I was kind of hungry myself, and I figured Weissman would never miss a few licorice whips, so I took Harry up on it. I should've known better though. No sooner did I get Weissman into the back room than we heard this big crash. By the time we got out front there was a brick through the display window, and the penny jar was gone. And there was nobody in sight except for Mrs. Ruiz who was standing over by the Campbell's Soup display, shrieking like she'd been shot. I guess I should've just stood there calm and collected and not let on like I knew anything. But when I heard that screaming and saw all that broken glass, I got so scared I just lit out of there like a cat with a bulldog on its tail.
Just my luck, a crowd had already gathered outside, and making his way through the middle of it was Sergeant Finnegan. He seemed to just reach out
and grab me from about ten feet away. I guess that's what they mean by the long arm of the law. Anyhow, he's got a pretty good grip for an old guy. I mean, he's got to be at least thirty. He hauled me up short and lifted me by the back of my jacket and I just sort of dangled there like a stupid scarecrow. Then he narrowed his eyes at me and said, "Now where do you think you're goin' in such a hurry, Danny boy?"
That's when I knew I was in for it. Boy was I scared. I felt like I was gonna upchuck any minute. I kept looking for a way out, but I couldn't see any. Sergeant Finnegan had a real good grip on my collar, and even if I did manage to get away, where would I go? Down to the train yard with the hoboes? I had to go home sooner or later, so I figured I might just as well face the music. Besides, it didn't seem like Sergeant Finnegan was gonna give me any choice.
"I oughta haul you right down to the station and scare some sense into you," he said. "If I wasn't such good friends with your pa I'd do just that; but knowin' Daniel Garvey like I do, I think I'll take you on home and let him deal with you."
I felt like saying, "Thanks for nothing," but I figured I'd better just keep my big mouth shut.
You see, you have to know my pa. He's Irish. I mean, right off the boat. And he's got this thing about right and wrong. To hear him tell it, he must've been some goody two shoes when he was a kid.
When I was your age I did this. When I was your age I did that.
Anyhow, he makes this big deal about our name.
I guess Garvey's as good a name as any, but to hear him talk you'd think it was dipped in fourteen-karat gold or something.
"Your name is Daniel Tomas Garvey," he always tells me. "It's my name, it was my daddy's name, and it was his daddy's name before him. It's a good name. And that's the one thing no one can ever take away from you."
Sometimes I feel like if he tells me that one more time I'm gonna throw up. Don't get me wrongâit's not that Pa is a bad guy. Most times I'd take him over any other pa I know. It's just that when he thinks our name's been sullied, watch out.
Truth is, I don't much like sullying, either. I don't do it on purpose. Something just comes over me sometimes, and the next thing you know, I've sullied again. It's getting to be a problem.
"Let's go, Danny," said Sergeant Finnegan, giving me a shove.
"Hey," I told him. "I live down on Park."
"I know where you live," Sergeant Finnegan reminded me, "but I've got my beat to finish, so we'll be takin' a little stroll." He gave me a sarcastic smile. "It's a lovely evenin' for a stroll, don't ya think?"
I frowned and didn't answer, and Sergeant Finnegan's smile disappeared.
"Get on with you then," he said, giving me another shove. We walked three blocks north on Madison, then turned east on 110th. It was getting dusky and the streetlights were just starting to come on. All up and down the street men were hanging out on the
stoops, just talking and smoking like they do every evening.
The gutter was full of kids playing potsy and jump rope and kick-the-can. The trolley went by and the kids parted in front of it, then closed right in behind again. A bunch of guys on skates grabbed onto the back of the trolley and got pulled along for a while, laughing and screaming, until the conductor shooed 'em off. Overhead, I could hear mothers leaning out of windows and calling their kids and husbands in for supper. I would've given anything to trade places with one of those kids, just going home for an ordinary supper tonight.
Sergeant Finnegan didn't seem to be in any hurry. He stopped to buy an apple from a street vendor.
"How's it going, Joe?" I heard him ask the vendor.
"Been better ... been worse...," the man said. His voice sounded so flat and hopeless that I turned to have a good look at him. He had straggly hair and a couple of days' growth of beard. A worn overcoat hung from his shoulders, and he stared at the ground when he talked and shuffled from one foot to the other. Something about him reminded me of Mr. Smey, the vice principal from over at PS 72, where I used to go to grammar school. Then he looked up a moment and I realized that he
was
Mr. Smey. Wow! I knew they were laying off teachers left and right, but I had no idea they were letting vice principals go, too. I knew he hadn't recognized me, and I knew he'd rather I didn't recognize him, so I turned
away. It was sad, though, to see him with that sign around his neck: UnemployedâBuy an Appleâ5 cents.
Sergeant Finnegan stuck his apple in his pocket and we started moving along again. When we finally reached the corner the elevated train rumbled by on its way uptown, and I looked up at it. It runs right up the middle of Park Avenue just about even with our third-story apartment windows, so I've been watching it come and go all my life. I lifted my hand out of habit and waved at the caboose.
Sergeant Finnegan chuckled. "Bet you wish you were on that train about now. Huh, Danny boy?" he said.
I shrugged, not about to let on that he'd just read my mind.
We headed south, back toward my block, and I turned my face to the street, hoping none of the neighbors would recognize me. I stared at a pair of horses who clomped alongside me pulling a heavy cart. Just before my block they turned into the 107th Street tunnel, headed for the stables on the other side of the tracks. I glanced back up Park, afraid Pa might be out on our stoop. Turns out I couldn't see anyway, though, 'cause a big crowd was standing in front of 1446, the building next to ours. A chill ran up my back. Somebody was getting evicted again. That was the third eviction on our block this month. Seems like they're averaging one a week now. Little by little all our friends and neighbors are getting thrown out.
When we got closer I could see that this time it
was Luther White's family. Luther is in the eighth grade with me over at Patrick Henry Junior High. We always give him a hard time because his pa is black and his ma is white, and to top it off, his name is White. "Poor Luther," we always kid, "he don't know if he's black or white."
He never gets mad or anything. He just calls us micks and spies and stuff like that and maybe takes a swat at us. That's the good thing about Luther. He can take a joke.
Luther's pa has been out of work longer than most. He used to be a doorman down at one of those swanky midtown hotels, and right after the stock market crash, as soon as jobs started getting scarce, they took his job and gave it to a white guy. It's happened to a lot of black folks I know.
