Nothing to Fear (22 page)

We rode down the elevator in silence, walked through the dark, cool corridors, and stepped out into bright, blinding sunshine. I realized, bitterly, that spring had come at last. It was the kind of morning on which Mama would rush through the house, throwing the windows open and singing, "When Irish eyes are smiling, sure it's like a morn in spring...."

Would Mama ever sing again?

"Go home," Doc had said. Where was home? The apartment? The apartment was just four walls and a floor. An empty box. It needed Pa's laughter to make
it home. It needed Ma's singing to make it home. Who could I turn to now?

"Do you believe in God, Hank?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Insurance."

"Insurance?"

"Yep."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Hank pushed back his hair.

"Welp," he said, "the way I figure it, you can either believe in God or not. If you believe in God and it turns out there is a God, you're all set. And if you believe in God, and it turns out there's not a God, you haven't lost much.
But,
if you don't believe in God, and it turns out there
is
a God, welp, I wouldn't wanna be in your shoes, buddy." He looked at me and grinned.

I frowned in return. "I'm not kidding around, Hank."

Hank's smile disappeared and he ran his hand through his hair again. "Yeah," he said. "I know. It's just that it ain't easy for a guy like me to explain. But there's more to folks than bone and blood, I know that much. And there's more to this world than meets the eye."

"
How
do you know, Hank? Don't you ever have doubts?"

"Oh shore. Shore I do." His face grew grave. "Times like these I have plenty of doubts. Wouldn't be human if I didn't. But I always come back to
believin'. Somebody out there cares about homely old Hank. I just feel it, in here." Hank put his big, callused hand over his heart.

"I wish I could feel it," I told him.

"You will, son. You will." Hank slid his arm around my shoulders. This time I let it stay.

I lay awake far into the night. I guess I was afraid to go to sleep. It seemed like by staying awake and keeping Ma in my mind I could keep her alive somehow. If I fell asleep she might slip away.

I turned Doc's words over and over. "Days, weeks, months..." I've been waiting so long for Pa, every minute thinking maybe today, maybe tomorrow; sitting on the front stoop staring at the corner, thinking, maybe the next man, maybe the next.... How can I wait for Ma now, too?

Suddenly I couldn't. I couldn't lie there and wait one more minute. Every muscle, every nerve in my body screamed, "Do something!" But what? What could I do?

Then I knew. I would go find Pa. Now. Tonight. I would bring him back, and he would make Ma live. I knew he would.

I got up and dressed silently, fighting back waves of fear. What if Ma needed me whie I was gone? What if—I couldn't let myself think about that. I had to go. I had to find Pa. I got out the things I'd hidden to take along when I went: Pa's watch and some old photographs. I wrapped them in a bundle with some extra clothes.

I bent over Maureen's crib, touched my fingers to my lips, then brushed her cheek. "You'll be okay," I whispered. "Hank will take good care of you 'til I get back. I'm going to find Pa."

She stirred softly and I tucked her blanket close around her. I looked toward Mama's room. I would have liked to kiss Patrick good-bye, too, but Hank was sleeping in there to keep an eye on him, and I couldn't take the chance. I blew a kiss toward the door instead, then tiptoed through the front room and silently let myself out. I stood there a moment in the semidarkness of the hall, staring up at the cold, white moon outside the window. I looked back at the door. How could I leave them all—Ma, Maureen, Patrick—one more helpless than the other?

Then I thought of Maggie. Strong, capable Maggie. Maggie wouldn't let anything go wrong while I was away. I tiptoed over and knocked lightly on her door. There was no answer. I knocked again, and this time I heard a soft scuffling.

"Who is it?" came a sleepy voice.

"Shush," I whispered, "it's Danny. Open up."

The latch slid over and the knob turned, then Maggie stepped out into the hall in her nightgown.

"What is it?" she asked, her eyes scrunched up in concern. "Is it your ma?"

I shook my head quickly and motioned her farther out into the hall. She pulled the door silently shut behind her and walked with me over to the window. She glanced down at the sack in my hand and her expression hardened.

"You're running away?" she said.

"I'm not running away," I whispered. "I'm going to find Pa."

Maggie stared at me for a long moment, then slowly shook her head. "You're running away," she repeated, "just like my pa, just like yours."

"My pa didn't run away," I told her angrily. "And neither did yours. Your ma threw him out. I saw her."

Maggie turned and stared out the window. "My pa ran away years ago," she said. "He ran away into a whiskey bottle."

I stood there a moment, collecting my thoughts.

"Maybe so," I said, "but
my
pa didn't run away."

Maggie looked at me again. "Maybe not," she said. "Maybe he left for a reason, but you've got no reason. Why are you going?"

"I've got to find him."

"You'll never find him. He could be anywhere."

"I don't care. I've got to try."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

I turned away and stared out the window at the
train tracks across the street. I felt confused and angry. Why did Maggie have to mix me up this way? I wished I were out there in the night, and I wished the train would come along and take me away—away from Maggie's questions, away from Mama's hospital bed, away from Patrick's helplessness, away from Maureen's cries of "Mama." I felt suddenly weak, and I leaned forward until my face pressed against the cool glass. I closed my eyes and listened in my head to the rhythm of the train wheels I'd heard all my life.
Away,
they said,
away, away, away, away....

There was a soft touch on my arm.

"It's not out there," Maggie whispered.

"What?"

"What you're looking for."

"I told you I'm looking for Pa."

"Are you?"

"Yes! Will you leave me alone?" I closed my eyes and angry tears squeezed out beneath my lids.
No,
said a voice inside me, a quiet voice, growing louder.
No, you're not looking for Pa. Not anymore. Maggie's right. That's just an excuse. You
are
running away.

The anger melted into sorrow and I put my bundle down on the windowsill and stared up at the ceiling.

"So what am I looking for?" I asked.

"The strength," said Maggie, "to face tomorrow."

The truth of her words brought fresh tears to my eyes.

"And where do I find it?"

"Right here," said Maggie, "at home."

"What home?"

"This home." Maggie reached out and pulled me into the warm circle of her arms. "Our home."

I awoke with a start, angry at myself for having fallen asleep after all, and praying that Ma was okay. It was so early that the babies were still sleeping, but the sound of pots and pans rattling in the kitchen told me that Hank was up. My bundle still sat at the foot of the bed. I unpacked it quickly so Hank wouldn't see. I carried the watch and pictures back to Mama's room. I wouldn't be needing them anymore.

When I went to put Pa's watch back in Ma's dresser, Ma's bundle of unsent letters slid sideways and I saw something familiar behind them. Pa's wallet.
Pa's wallet!
What was that doing here? Surely he must have taken it with him. I lifted it out and opened it. An oversized envelope was folded up and sandwiched inside. It was smudged, like it had been rained
on, but I could still read it. It was addressed to Ma, and there was a letter inside.

A strange sense of dread came over me as I held it in my hand, and I trembled at the thought of reading it. Maybe I shouldn't, I told myself. It was, after all, addressed to Ma. But I was only stalling. Having found it, I could do nothing else but read it. At last I found the courage to slide it from its envelope and unfold it.

 

Dear Mrs. Garvey,

It pains me greatly to have to write this letter, but I'm afraid there is no help for it. I have grievous news.

Our husbands, it seems, was riding a freight together back in December. They was coming into a station and had to jump train so the railroad bulls wouldn't catch them. Your husband slipped. He was killed instantly. I'm sorry. Harold, my husband, says he didn't suffer if that's any comfort.

What happened next I can hardly bring myself to write. Harold stole your husband's wallet. Please don't hate him Mrs. Garvey. Harold is a good, Christian man. It was hunger and desperation that drove him to it. He's been carrying the wallet ever since, sick at heart over what he done. When he got home yesterday he asked me to send it to you right away and beg your forgiveness. He would have wrote you hisself, but he don't know how. Howard says your husband was a fine man and loved his family powerful. He was on his way home for Christmas when it happened. God bless you.

Sincerely,
Hannah Bartlett

PS: The wallet was empty.

 

I read back over the one line that meant so much. "He was on his way home for Christmas when it happened."
He was on his way home.

I closed my eyes and let the tears fall. It hurt, but not as bad as I'd expected. Maybe I was just numb, or maybe I had already done my grieving a thousand times—every time a knock on the door had turned out to be someone else, every time the footsteps in the hall had gone on by, every time I'd run up behind a big, dark-haired man on the street only to find a stranger's face looking back. Maybe you can only lose someone so many times.

I turned the envelope over and looked at the post date, April second. Mama had known, then, for two or three weeks. No wonder she'd been acting so strange. If only she'd told me. I could've helped her. I could've shared the burden.

I walked out into the kitchen and put the wallet down on the table. Hank was bent over the stove.

"My pa is dead," I said.

Hank froze in the middle of pouring milk into Patrick's bottle. He lowered the pan and looked at me. His eyes were filled with sorrow.

"I know," he said gently.

It took a moment for the full meaning of his words to sink in. Then, when it did, a surge of white-hot anger rushed through my veins.

"You knew? What do you mean you
knew?
She told
you,
and she didn't tell
me
!"

Hank still held Patrick's bottle in his hand. I ran over and grabbed it away.

"What's going on here?" I shouted. "What was happening between you two? You're probably
glad
Pa's dead."

Hank grabbed my shoulders.

"Now, you listen here," he told me. "It weren't nothin' like that and you know it. I was just here the day the letter came is all. Your ma asked me to look into the insurance. She was gonna tell you. She just wanted to wait 'til after the baby came. She said you had enough on your mind."

I pulled away from him.

"I don't believe you," I shouted. It felt good to have someone to scream at. "You're lying! I've heard what the neighbors are saying. I've been a fool not to know you and Ma were carrying on. I
hate
you, Hank Powers. You're nothin' but a ... a gigolo!"

Hank stared at me, his eyes narrowed, his breath coming fast and angry. Gradually his chest stopped heaving and he shook his head.

"If you weren't hurtin' so bad," he said, "I'd whoop you good for what you just said about your ma. Now if you'll just calm down and get your head on straight, you'll recognize that your ma ain't been in a condi
tion to 'carry on' with anybody of late. And as for me being a gigolo. Welp..." He started to smile. "It'd be nice work if I could get it, but I ask you honestly now, is this the face of a gigolo?"

I looked into his big, homely face, and all the anger drained out of me. I smiled in spite of myself.

"I'm sorry, Hank," I said, the tears starting in again. "It's just that..."

"I know what it is, son. I know what it is."

In the beginning I had plenty of company at the hospital. Maggie came, and Mickey, Mrs. Riley, Mrs. Mahoney, and lots of the neighbors. Even old Mr. Weissman came a few times. As the weeks went by, though, people got busy with their lives again. Now it's just me, and occasionally Hank or Maggie, but mostly just me.

Hank has mentioned a couple of times that we should have a funeral Mass for Pa. But I can't. Not yet. Not without Ma.

I sit with her every day after school and hold her hand. I tell her stories and jokes. I read her favorite books out loud and sing her favorite songs. I tell her all about Maureen and Patrick. And she lies there, never moving, never smiling, never opening her eyes. She's gotten thinner and paler. Her mouth is just a
narrow blue line and her eyes are sunken gray hollows above her cheeks.

Doc Davis came in and found me with her this afternoon. I was reading from
Black Beauty.
He smiled when he saw me. I don't think I've ever seen him smile before. He pulled up Mama's eyelids and looked into her eyes with a little light. Then he felt her pulse and listened to her heart.

"How is she, Doc?" I asked.

"Weaker."

"How much longer can she go on?"

Doc sighed and spoke to me more gently than I've ever heard him speak.

"Son," he said, "I don't know what's kept her alive this long."

I looked down at my book. Doc came over and put a hand on my shoulder.

"Why don't you go out and get some fresh air," he said. "A boy your age should be playing stickball on a nice day like this."