Nothing to Fear (13 page)

"All set?" asked Mickey.

The rest of us nodded.

"Okay," said Mickey, "follow me."

The hallway inside was dark and fancy, with polished marble floors and fine woodwork. I tapped Mickey on the shoulder.

"I don't know, Mick," I whispered. "Maybe it's too fancy."

Mickey waved my words away. "Don't be silly," he said. "It's just an apartment building. Believe me. Guys like him don't make that much money, no matter what kind of highfalutin names they call themselves."

"Okay," I said. Mickey started up the stairs and the rest of us followed. The wake was all the way up on the fourth floor. The apartments were set up like ours, with the kitchen door toward the back of the building and the living-room door toward the front. There was no toilet in the hall, though, so I guess each apartment had its own.

There were a few people standing out in the hall.
They were well dressed and looked down their noses at us as we filed by and went in through the front-room door. The casket was there, set up in front of the window and surrounded by more flowers than I'd ever seen in one place before. The air was heavy and sweet, and the room was full of red-eyed women dressed in black who sniffled and whispered to each other through rumpled handkerchiefs. All around, on the walls and tables and even standing on the floor, were stuffed birds and animals that stared at us with beady glass eyes.

The four of us worked our way over to the casket, where we went down on our knees and crossed ourselves. Mickey bent his head and whispered in my ear.

"What do you think all them dead animals are for?" he asked. "You think he's trying to take them with him like those Egyptian guys used to?"

"Quit foolin' around," I told him, trying not to laugh. "You're supposed to be saying a prayer." I crossed myself again.

"Dear Lord," I prayed, "please take this guy to heaven if he was good, and if he wasn't, please try not to be too tough on him. It's probably hard for you to understand, being God and all, but for us people it's not easy to be good
all
the time. Thank you, Lord. Amen."

One by one we got to our feet and stood staring down into the casket. Mr. Milke reminded me of one of his stuffed animals, except that his skin looked like it was carved out of pale pink wax. He had thinnish
black hair combed low on his forehead, not a strand out of place, and a handlebar moustache that curled up so stiffly it looked like it would break off if you touched it. His face was all powdered up, and circles of rouge stained his cheeks. Black pencil outlined his lids and brows, and purplish lipstick colored his mouth.

"Doesn't he look natural?" I said.

The others nodded and murmured in agreement.

I sighed and clasped my hands together and made my way over to the chief lady in black, who was seated on a chair on the other side of the casket.

"I'm very sorry, ma'am," I said.

The lady stopped dabbing at her eyes and looked up at me, then beyond me at the other three.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"We were friends with Mr. Milke down at the museum," I said.

She continued to stare at me, obviously unconvinced, when Maggie started sniffling. She was rubbing her eyes with her hand, the one she'd squeezed the onion with. Tears started streaming down her cheeks.

"He was such a good man," she blubbered, "always so kind to us kids."

That did the widow in. She started blubbering, too. "Oh yes," she said. "He did love children. We never had any of our own, you know."

"I know," I said gently. "He spoke of it often. It was a sorrow to him."

The woman sighed and nodded. "Yes, yes, to me,
too. Well, thank you so much for coming. Do be sure and go into the kitchen and have something to eat before you go. Herbert would never forgive me if you didn't."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am," we all murmured.

We walked solemnly over to the door, breathed a sigh of relief that the formalities were over, and beat it around back to the kitchen.

The kitchen was thick with smoke and crowded with men who were puffing on cigarettes and sipping bootleg whiskey, telling off-color jokes and trying not to laugh too loudly. They paid no attention to us as we swarmed around the table.

It was a great wake all right. They had baked ham and roast turkey, all kinds of cheeses, and big, hard rolls. There were pies and tarts and cookies and cakes and fruit. Our eyes were bugging out as we loaded up our plates and stuffed extras into our pockets and coats. Mickey was trying to shove a banana up his sleeve when the widow suddenly appeared at his shoulder.

"Are you getting enough to eat, children?" she asked.

We all nodded somberly.

She looked at Mickey. "It still puzzles me," she said, "how you came to know Mr. Milke at the museum. In his line of work he didn't get out front much."

Mickey shot me a puzzled glance, then looked back at the widow. "We ... uh ... met him out back," he said.

"Out back?"

"Y-yeah," Mickey stuttered. "He ... uh, used to take us for rides when he was off duty."

"Rides?"

"Yeah. You know, in his cab."

"Cab? Young man, there must be some mistake."

"No," said Mickey, turning red. "No mistake. He used to give us rides in his taxi cab..."

 

I was laughing so hard telling Mama the story that I was spitting beans all over the table.

"Daniel," said Mama, laughing too. "Please don't be talkin' with yer mouth full."

"Okay, okay," I said, putting my fork down. "So anyway, I told him a taxidermist is a guy who stuffs dead animals for museums." I started to laugh again. "So he says, 'How was I supposed to know? I thought it was some highfalutin name for a taxi driver.'"

I slid down in my chair, laughing 'til my sides ached and tears ran down my cheeks. Mama laughed, too, long and hard. Then suddenly she grew quiet and pale.

"Mama? You all right?"

"Aye, aye. I just need a sip of water, I think." She got up and walked unsteadily to the sink, where she put both hands on the rim and leaned heavily forward.

"Mama?"

She clutched her stomach with one hand, put the other over her mouth, and fled out into the hall.

Maureen began to cry and I picked her up out of her chair. She put her arms around my neck and we sat there, clinging to one another and listening to Mama retch.

Thanksgiving Eve, and still no word from Pa. I felt angry and deserted as I swept up at the store. Surely he could have reached us somehow, if he really wanted to.

Mr. Weissman came over. He took hold of my hand, turned it palm up, and dropped something into it. "Happy Thanksgiving," he said.

I looked down. It was Pa's watch. "What's this for?" I asked.

"Your debt is paid," said Mr. Weissman. "Today is your last day at the store."

I stared at the watch. "But ... it's only Thanksgiving, not Christmas," I argued. "Pa promised you..."

Mr. Weissman held up his hand for silence. He arched a bushy white brow. "Did you break the window?" he asked.

I shook my head slowly. "No."

Mr. Weissman gave a short nod, then a hint of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "Happy Thanksgiving," he repeated.

I smiled. He was telling me he believed me.

"Thanks, Mr. Weissman," I said.

He nodded again and gave my shoulder a quick pat.

I held the watch up by the chain and looked at it.

"I'll bet this is really worth a lot of money, huh?" I said.

Mr. Weissman shrugged. "About two dollars."

"Two dollars!" I stared at him, openmouthed. He nodded and walked away. "Wait a minute," I said. "Oh, I get it. You're kidding me, right?"

Mr. Weissman turned and looked back at me. He wasn't laughing. "Your grandfather in Ireland ... he said, "he was a wealthy man?"

"Well, no, but..."

"Two dollars," Mr. Weissman repeated, then walked away again.

I looked more closely at the watch. Mr. Weissman was right. Around the edges the shiny gold was wearing off and you could just start to see a dull gray metal showing through. I walked over to the counter where Mr. Weissman was finishing the day's tallies in the black book.

"I don't get it, Mr. Weissman," I said. "If you knew the watch wasn't valuable, why'd you make the deal?"

Mr. Weissman's bushy eyebrows lifted and he peered at me over the rims of his reading glasses.

"Valuable?" he said. "Who said it wasn't valuable?"

"But you said..."

"I said it was probably worth about two dollars. What has that to do with value?
This
... this is value."

Mr. Weissman grabbed the watch from my hand, opened it up, and pointed to the inscription. I looked again at the words Pa had shown me many times:

 

JUNE
16, 1917
GOD BLESS YOU MY SON
D. T. G.

 

Daniel Tomas Garvey—my grandfather. My eyes misted up for a minute and I looked down and blinked them clear so Mr. Weissman wouldn't see.

"No money can buy that kind of value," said Mr. Weissman, closing the watch and handing it back to me. "Now go, and tell your mother happy Thanksgiving."

"Mr. Weissman," I said, when my voice steadied, "I was just thinking...."

Mr. Weissman peered over his rims and waited for me to go on.

"Well, I mean, I was wondering if maybe you could still use some help here. You wouldn't have to pay me much. Whatever you think I'm worth would be ... fine...."

Mr. Weissman had closed the big black book and stood staring down at it. He sucked in a large breath that expanded his chest, then he let it out slowly and shook his head.

"It's not that I don't need the help, Danny," he said, looking up at last.

I met his eyes, then looked away. They were so sad.

"And it's not that you're not a good worker...." He rubbed his hand over the black book, picked it up as if it were very heavy, and slid it under the counter. "It's just that..."

"I know, Mr. Weissman. Thanks anyhow."

Mr. Weissman nodded. I reached out my hand to him and he took it and clasped it warmly in his.

"Your papa was right," he said. "You're a good boy, Danny."

I smiled. "Wish he could hear you say that," I said.

"I'll tell him, soon as he gets back."

"Thanks, Mr. Weissman."

I turned and headed for the door, then stopped suddenly and turned back.

"Hey, Mr. Weissman. What d'ya say I check back with you about that job next summer, when the depression's over?"

Mr. Weissman laughed and shook his head.

"You do that, Danny," he said.

The whole building smelled like pies and cakes and good things to eat when I got home. Kitchen doors were open and people bustled back and forth, borrowing this and that, and sharing sips of holiday cheer. Over all I could hear Mama singing. My heart leapt at the sound. Her song was full of joy, and that could mean but one thing—Pa!

I bounded up the stairs and burst into the kitchen. Ma turned from the stove, her face all lit up with smiles, and reached her arms out to me. I rushed into them.

"Is Pa home?" I asked.

"No," she said, laughing, "but look what came today."

She pulled an envelope from her apron pocket and I snatched it before she could say another word. Some money fluttered from the envelope as I pulled the
letter free, but I didn't even stop to pick it up. I unfolded the paper and feasted my eyes on Pa's messy handwriting. Misspellings and all, it looked beautiful to me. I wanted to hug the paper, but I guessed Ma would think I was pretty silly, so I sat down at the table and read:

 

My dearest Molly,

I'm sorry not to have wrote before this, but stamps and paper are hard to come by. I found a few days work fixing up a burnt down barn but nothing stedy yet. I'll not be home for Thanksgiving darlin, but if you take this money and have a fine feast I will share it with you in my heart. There's word of some millwork farther up the coast, so I'll be moving on tonite.

Molly my love I'll do all in my power to be home with you on Christmas, and I will count the days till then. Give my love to Danny and Maureen. Till Christmas I am

Your devoted,
Daniel

 

I swallowed my disappointment over Pa's not being able to make it for Thanksgiving, and clung to his promise of being home for Christmas. I grabbed the envelope arid looked at the postmark: New London, Connecticut.

"Ma, where's New London, Connecticut?"

Mama pulled our worn old copy of the map of the United States from her pocket. She'd already looked it up.

"I'm not positive," she said, "but Mrs. Mahoney is thinkin' it's right about here."

She pointed to a spot about two thirds of the way up the coast of Connecticut. It was only about a half an inch from New York.

"That's not so far," I said.

Mama smiled and shook her head.

"And he'll be home for Christmas."

Mama smiled and nodded.

"Can't you talk?" I asked her.

"No," said Mama. "I'm so glad to hear from him, I'm too happy for talkin'."

She took Pa's letter and hugged it to her chest. I laughed.

"I wanted to do that, too," I said, "but I thought you'd laugh."

"And what's wrong with laughin'?" said Mama. She handed me the letter and I hugged it tight, then we laughed and hugged each other. Maureen toddled over and tugged at my knee. We scooped her up and hugged her, too.

My head was still filled with happiness when I went to bed. I lay awake, dreaming of all the good things ahead. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. In the morning us kids will dress like ragamuffins like we do every Thanksgiving, and go door to door begging pennies. Usually I get to keep whatever I collect and
buy candy, but this year I'm planning to give it all to Ma, and just save out a little to buy Pa a Christmas present.

After we're done collecting tomorrow, we'll go over to Lexington Avenue and watch the Macy's parade like we always do. Then we'll come home to a big dinner at the Rileys'. The only way it could be better would be if Pa were here. But he'll be home for Christmas.... He'll be home for Christmas.... He'll be home for Christmas....