Nothing to Fear (3 page)

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.

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.

Mr. Weissman went right on eating, taking no notice of us.

"Papa," said Mrs. Weissman, "we have guests."

Mr. Weissman glanced up briefly, then his eyes disappeared again under his bushy white eyebrows.

"A guest, I invite," he snarled.

"Papa," Mrs. Weissman pleaded, "they come to make amends."

The old man snorted. "I have no time for hoodlums," he grumbled. "Go away and let me eat my supper in peace."

I glanced at Pa. He wasn't saying anything, but his eyes were hard and I knew it was killing him to hear a Garvey called a hoodlum.

I cleared my throat.

"Mr. Weissman," I said, my face burning, "I know what I did was wrong, but I ain't no hoodlum. Those guys said they were just gonna grab some licorice whips. It was supposed to be a prank. I didn't mean no harm."

Mr. Weissman looked up and pulled on his beard. He didn't look convinced.

"Tell me the names of the other boys, then," he said.

I stared at the floor.

Mr. Weissman snorted. "So, honor among thieves, is it?" He laughed.

"I'm no thief!"

Mr. Weissman's eyebrows crashed together. He leaned forward and pounded his fist on the table. "A thief is a thief!" he shouted. "A licorice whip today,
an apple tomorrow. What next? A pretty toy? A woman's purse?"

"I'd never take anything like that," I answered angrily.

"No? Then why do you protect those who do?"

I looked down at the floor again.

"As they say, thicker than thieves..." Mr. Weissman smirked.

"I'm no thief!"

"So you say, so you say." Mr. Weissman waved my words away, then he pointed a finger at me and his face turned red with fury. "No matter," he shouted. "I know who did it, and one day I'll catch the little momzers!"

"Papa!" said Mrs. Weissman sharply. "Watch your tongue. The
child!
"

Mr. Weissman snorted and looked back down at his plate and mumbled something under his breath. I wasn't too thrilled about Mrs. Weissman calling me a child, but I guessed it was better than the names Mr. Weissman was mumbling.

"Come, sit," Mrs. Weissman said. "Papa's bark is worse than his bite."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Pa, "but..."

"Sit, sit," insisted the old woman. "We'll have some tea, then we'll talk."

Pa nodded his thanks and sat down. He motioned for me to do the same, and I slid into the chair on the other side of the table. We sat in silence while Mr. Weissman went on with his supper—some watery-looking soup, a crumbly loaf of bread, and a bowl of fruit that looked well past its prime.

Mrs. Weissman brought over two glasses filled with steaming tea and put them down in front of Pa and me.

"Here," she said, pushing the bowl of fruit at me. "Eat."

I eyed one of the oranges eagerly. Mr. Weissman suddenly threw his hands in the air and started talking to the ceiling.

"Such a woman you give me," he shouted. "She invited thieves to my table, and now she wants to
feed
them?"

Pa shot me a sharp glance and I pushed the bowl away. "Tea'll be fine, thanks," I told Mrs. Weissman.

She gave her husband an angry look, but she sat down and said nothing more.

"Mr. Weissman," said Pa, "I'd like to be payin' for the window...." Pa's voice faltered, and Mr. Weissman looked up and regarded him through narrowed eyes.

"I ... I've got no money with me," Pa went on, "but I could have it to you by Saturday."

Mr. Weissman arched an eyebrow, then he sat back again and pulled at his wiry white beard. He looked Pa and me up and down slowly.

"You've a wife, Mr. Garvey?" he asked.

"Aye. You know her, I think. She comes into the store—Molly Garvey's her name."

"Ah, yes," said Mr. Weissman. "And a baby girl, too. Am I right?"

"Aye."

"And are they well fed, Mr. Garvey?"

Pa's face flushed red. "What're ya drivin' at, man?" he said sharply.

Mr. Weissman leaned forward, both hands on the table. "Just this, Garvey. Keep your money, and keep your boy outa my store. Things like this have happened before. They'll happen again. I'll manage."

Pa's hands clenched tight around his glass. "No," he said evenly, "we Garveys pay our debts."

It just about killed me to see Weissman humiliating Pa like that.

"It's my debt, Pa," I said. "And I'll pay it."

Pa looked at me, and I could see I'd redeemed myself some in his eyes, but he looked doubtful.

"And how're ya plannin' to do that, Danny?" he asked.

I thought for a minute. It didn't make any sense to offer my shoeshine money. We needed that to get by. I said the only other thing I could think of.

"I'll work it off, Pa."

Mr. Weissman burst out laughing.

"Work it off!" he said. "Where? In my store? You hear that, Golda? The fox wants to work in the hen-house."

I could see Pa was getting hot under the collar. "Mr. Weissman," he said, "Danny's a good boy. He's done his share of mischief, but that's behind 'im now."
He paused and looked at me sharply, and I nodded as sincerely
as
I could.