Nothing to Fear (20 page)

"See, here I am with some money and no place to stay, and here you are with plenty of room and ... And I could pay four, maybe five dollars a week. I wouldn't bother you none. There's bathing facilities down at the stables, and I could take my meals out, and ... Welp, the truth is, ma'am, it's an awfully big city, and I don't know another soul in the whole danged place. I mean, I know I could bunk down in the stables, but it smells awful bad down there, and the flies..."

Mama's eyes seemed to be growing larger and larger as Hank's speech went on and on. Now her mouth fell open and she held up her hand for Hank to stop. To my amazement, she nodded.

"Four dollars a week will be just fine, Mr. Powers," she said.

My mouth fell open so hard my teeth almost came loose.

"Ma!"

"Hush, Danny."

"I will not hush. You can't do this. What will the neighbors say?"

Mama chuckled. "Oh, I expect they'll say plenty."

"Ma! Have you lost your senses?"

Mama's smile faded. She looked at me steady and determined. "Daniel," she said, "I have been prayin' every waking moment of every day for a miracle that would let us stay in this apartment. The way I'm thinkin', Mr. Powers is our angel of delivery."

Hank threw his head back and laughed.

Mama shot him a sharp look.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said. "I didn't mean to laugh. It's just that ... I been called a lot of things in my life, but that is a first, ma'am. That shore is a first."

Mama smiled. "The Lord works in strange ways, Mr. Powers," she said.

"Oh, I don't deny that, ma'am," said Hank. He slapped his knee and reached a hand out to Mama. "Then we got a deal?"

Mama leaned forward and put her hand out, too. "That we do, Mr. Powers."

Hank squeezed her small hand in his big one.

"I shore do wish you'd call me Hank," he said.

Mama smiled and gently pulled her hand away again. "'Mr. Powers' suits me just fine," she told him.

Mama hasn't been herself in weeks. Sometimes she's so quiet and sulky she hardly seems to know I'm around. Other times she's snappin' at every move I make. Nothing seems to please her. Like the day beer and wine became legal again. I was reading to her from the newspaper all about how these six big Clydesdales pulled a wagon right up to the Empire State Building and handed former Governor Al Smith a case of beer, and right in the middle of the story Ma burst into tears. I thought she'd be happy. It's the first step toward ending Prohibition.

I try to get her to listen to President Roosevelt whenever he comes on the radio. He gives these talks he calls "fireside chats," and they really make
me
feel better. He talks about how we're all Americans, and how we've been through tough times before, and how
we can lick this depression if we just pull together. Sometimes he cheers Ma up a little, but not for long.

It seems to me a lot of good things are happening. The banks are doing better and there's this new thing called the Civilian Conservation Corps that's going to put a lot of people back to work. They get room and board and a dollar a day! I might even join up when I get a little older. Last month the Bonus army marched on Washington again. This time the people were fed, housed and doctored, and invited to the White House to talk with the president. Mrs. Roosevelt even went out and visited their camp. She really seems to care about people. I was just telling Ma today how much everybody seems to like Mrs. Roosevelt. They say she's quite a lady. Ma just grumbled, "I guess I'd be quite a lady, too, if I was in her shoes."

It's not like Ma to talk that way.

I told Hank about it when he got home from work, but he only laughed.

"Women get like that near the end of their time," he said. "Just stay out of her way. She'll be herself again, once the baby's come."

"But, Hank," I told him, "that's more than a month away. How am I gonna stay out of her way that long?"

Hank laughed again. "Tell you what," he said. "I'll go pick up some groceries and we'll fix her a nice supper and tell her a tall tale or two, cheer her up some. If you don't mind my company, that is."

"That'd be great, Hank," I said. Mostly Hank
keeps to himself, but every now and then a sack of groceries appears on our doorstep and Mama asks him to stay to supper, and he ends up spinning tall tales for us all evening. Mama seems to really enjoy his company. She says he's a regular midwestern
seanachie.

Hank came back with a big sack of vegetables and some ground meat, and we set about making a stew.

"Tell me about where you're from, Hank," I asked him as we peeled potatoes together.

"What about it?"

"Is the depression as bad there as it is here?"

"Worse."

"Worse? How could it be worse?"

"Welp, for one thing it started a lot sooner," Hank said. "Started right after the war. See, times were good for farmers during the war. The army and the Allies needed lots of food. Crops were bringing good prices, so farmers planted more and more. Then suddenly the war ended. Not that I was sorry to see it end. War's a messy business and the sooner you're quit of it, the better. But that year farm prices dropped by half. Being a thick-headed lot, us farmers figured if we were only getting half as much money for our crops, we'd plant twice as many and break even."

"That makes sense," I told him.

"Except for one thing," said Hank. "The more we planted, the more we had to sell, and since there weren't no more need for it, prices went down even worse. Things has got so bad that these days corn is
selling for three dollars and thirty-three cents a ton. You know what a ton is?"

I shrugged. "Sort of."

"Two thousand pounds," said Hank. "Do you know what it takes to grow and harvest two thousand pounds of corn?"

I was about to say no, but Hank didn't wait for an answer.

"A wagonload of oats won't buy a four-dollar pair of shoes," he went on. "A man can't live on that kind of money. Folks are getting desperate. Heard tell of a farmer that had three thousand sheep to get to market. It was gonna cost him a dollar ten a head to ship 'em, and they were only gonna bring a dollar a head at the market. He couldn't afford to ship 'em, and he couldn't afford to feed 'em anymore, so he slit their throats and dumped 'em in a ditch."

"Yuck," I said, my stomach turning at the thought. "That's awful."

Hank nodded. "That ain't the worst of it, though," he said. He stopped peeling and stood staring at the cupboard, like he was seeing something reflected in the glass. "The worst of it has been the drought. It started in '30, and it ain't let up yet; the sun's just blazin' up there, cruel and white, day after day after day. First off the corn shriveled on the stalks. At night you could hear it rattlin' like dry paper in the wind. Next the ponds and the streams dried up, then the cows stopped giving milk. Lisbeth, my wife..."

Hank hesitated a moment and licked his lips, as if even the thought of the drought had dried them
out. I'd never heard him mention his wife's name before, and when he spoke again there was a note of sadness in his voice.

"Lisbeth got skinny as a crow. We didn't have no young-uns. It was always a sorrow to us, 'til then. To see the neighbor kids runnin' around, nothin' but skin and bone, their eyes sunk in, their bellies big with hunger, made us thankful we only had ourselves."

Hank picked up a carrot and started peeling again. "Then came the dust," he went on. "The soil got so dry it turned into powder, and the wind blew hot and angry, day after day. Got so dark we had to light lamps in the middle of the day, and we forgot there used to be stars at night. Dust was everywhere. We soaked towels to try and keep it from creepin' under the doors and windowsills, but it got in anyway. We ate it, we breathed it, we wore it, day and night."

Hank peeled faster. "The fields all disappeared. Weren't nothin' left but acres and acres of black, shiftin' sand, drifts deep enough to bury a cow or a child that got caught out unawares.

"Before long Lisbeth's cough started. Lots of folks have it back home. They cough up dust and then more dust, thick and black, and then they start coughin' up blood. Ain't no money for doctorin', so it just gets worse and worse.

"Last October the bank came and took our farm away. We watched them auction it off, Lisbeth and I, and then Lisbeth sank down in the dust and coughed herself to death."

Hank stopped and stood silent, his face like stone, the glimmer of a tear in the corner of his eye. I turned away, swallowing down the lump in my throat, forcing back the tears that threatened to spill from my eyes, too.

"Welp," said Hank, clearing his throat and busying himself with the vegetables again. "Not doin' much of a job at cheerin' folks up, am I?"

I looked at him and we both gave a half-hearted laugh.

"That's better," he said.

We finished cooking and brought Mama out to the kitchen. Then, after we'd eaten and tucked Maureen in, Hank and Ma started swapping tales, Okie and Irish. Hank got Mama laughing so hard that her eyes shone and pink came back to her cheeks. Sitting around the table like that, laughing and talking, I forgot for a moment that Pa wasn't there and that we weren't a whole family anymore.

Then, when I remembered again, I got so mad at myself that I snapped at Mama. "I hate to spoil your fun," I told her. "But it's almost nine o'clock. Don't you think
he
oughta go?"

The laughter drained from Mama's eyes and she blushed a deep pink. "Daniel," she said, "that's very rude. Please apologize to Mr. Powers."

"No, ma'am," said Hank. "The boy's right. It's time I was goin'."

He said goodnight and went out the kitchen door. Hank never goes through the bedrooms. We heard the front door open and close, then Mama turned to me.

"That wasn't very nice, Daniel," she said. "What's got into you?"

"What's got into
you?
" I said. "Actin' so lousy all the time, never laughing, never singing anymore? The only time you seem happy is when
he's
around. And how come you don't write to Pa anymore?"

Ma's eyes filled with sorrow. She put her head down in her hands and sighed. Suddenly I felt like such a dumbbell. I'd asked Hank over to cheer her up, and now I'd gone and made her sad again. What was wrong with me anyway?

"I'm sorry," I said. "It was my idea for Hank to come. I don't know why I got mad like that."

Mama looked up. "I know what you're feelin', Danny," she said quietly. "I'm feeling it, too. But there's no sin in enjoying Hank's company. We're all just lonely souls, giving each other a bit of comfort."

I nodded. "I know, Ma," I said. "Come on. I'll help you to bed."

I slid my arm under her shoulders and helped her to her feet. She leaned against me, then looked up and smiled.

"My, yer gettin' big and strong," she said. "Wasn't it just last fall I could kiss the top of yer head?"

I smiled and nodded. It's true. I don't know how many inches I've grown over the winter, but I am taller than Mama now.

"Won't Pa be surprised when he gets home?" I said.

Mama looked at me. It seemed for a moment that
she was about to say something, but then she looked away.

"Aye," she said softly.

I helped her into bed and tucked the covers around her the way she'd done for me so many times. Her stomach is so big and round, and the rest of her so pale and thin, that it seems like the baby is some kind of little monster, eating her up from the inside. I wish it would hurry up and get born. I don't care if it lives or dies. I guess that's a sin, but I don't care. I just want it to leave Mama alone.

I finally managed to pry Mickey away from Kitty long enough to get a stickball game together after school. It was cold and damp out, but it still felt great to be with the guys again, just like old times.

Mama was propped up in her rocker when I got home. She seemed to be having a hard time breathing.

"You all right, Ma?" I asked her.

"Aye," she said, "just tired. Do me a favor and take Maureen out for a breath of air before supper. Poor child has forgotten there's a world beyond that door."

I did as Mama said and took Maureen down to the park for a while. It was growing colder as the evening came on. It's been a raw April, more like March. I keep hoping the warm weather will come, both for Pa's sake, wherever he is, and to help cheer
Mama up. Folks are saying, though, that we'll likely go straight from winter to summer with no spring at all this year.

I pushed Maureen on the swing for a time. Then I put her down and she chased pigeons and I chased her until we were both chilled through and exhausted.

Mama was in bed when we got back, her face gray, her breath coming heavy.

"Mama? What's wrong?"

She bit her lip and looked at me with frightened eyes. "Oh, Daniel," she said. "I fear it's begun."

My heart banged against my chest.

"What's begun?" I asked hoarsely.

"The baby. The baby is coming and it's too soon, near a month too soon." She closed her eyes and tears squeezed out from under her lashes.

I took a deep breath and willed my heart to stop pounding.

"It'll be all right, Mama," I told her. "I'll get the doctor. It'll be all right."

I yelled for Hank, but he wasn't home yet, so I ran over and got Mrs. Riley and the girls. Then I took off after Doc. He wasn't in, but his wife said she expected him any minute and would I care to wait? I felt like saying I wouldn't care to wait at all, but I guessed that wouldn't help matters much. I sat down and flipped through the pages of some magazine, even though I was too nervous to see what I was looking at.

The room was cluttered with books and doilies,
and it smelled of furniture polish. There was a big brown clock on the wall that ticked real loud. I watched the hands move. With every minute that passed it seemed I could feel the blood racing faster through my veins. Five minutes, ten, fifteen. My head felt like it was going to burst. I got up and started pacing. Five more minutes passed. I started to sweat. Where on earth could he be? At least Mrs. Davis walked back into the room.