Cave Under the City by Harry; Mazer

He came flying across, and I went over backward with him on top of me. He started to cry. It was a dumb thing to do, but I’m just not patient enough.
    â€œCome on,” I said, “stop bawling. You did it.”
    Bubber sat up and looked around.
    â€œYou want to do it again?”
    He shook his head. “N. O.”
    In the house, we took our shoes off and sat on the floor so we wouldn’t scrape the chairs. We ate a can of beans in the dark, with just the light from the stove. I was worried about the people downstairs and Mrs. Chrissman next door. I wanted to go down to check the mail, but I was afraid she’d see me. I could go out the window again and over the roof. “I’m coming, too,” Bubber said. He didn’t want to stay in the house alone.
    Two more times over the roof with him? “Forget it.” I turned the radio on low and we got on our parents’ bed.

15
    The next day it was raining and we didn’t go out. I didn’t even go down to check the mail. When my father got my letter he’d call. I kept listening for the phone in the hall downstairs, but it didn’t ring all day.
    The next morning was Friday and it was still raining, and for no reason I felt good. Maybe because it was Friday. My father was going to finish work today and be here tomorrow. Maybe even tonight. Once he got my letter he’d jump on the first train and come straight home.
    For breakfast, I made the last of the oatmeal, then we went downstairs to wait for the mail. I was a little jumpy going by Mrs. Chrissman’s door. I could hear Murray and his mother yelling at each other.
    â€œWear your rubbers,” Mrs. Chrissman said.
    â€œIt’s not raining, Mom.”
    The mailbox was empty, but it was still early. I saw the mailman going into section Z. Bubber and I waited in the hall. When Murray came bouncing down the stairs, we ducked under the stairs. Then Mrs. Engel, our downstairs neighbor, stood right in front of where we were hiding and looked into her mailbox. She opened her umbrella and went out.
    When the mailman came, we were in another part of the hall. I heard him opening the boxes. One key he carried on a long chain opened all the boxes. I heard the mail drop into the slots, then the doors were banged shut.
    I told Bubber to wait while I checked our mailbox.
    â€œWhat are you doing, boy?” Mr. Brooks, the janitor, was standing by the stairs, smoking a cigarette. Narrow face the color of prune juice. Mr. Brooks was nobody to fool with. He was skinny, but all muscle, strong from all the barrels of ashes and garbage he lifted. He was strict, didn’t allow any chalking on his buildings or ball playing in the courts. Once he’d chased Bubber right into the house for playing ball in the hall.
    â€œYou expecting a letter?” he said.
    â€œYes, sir,” I said.
    â€œOpen the box, then. You got the key. Maybe Uncle Sammy is sending you a lot of money.” He smiled, flashed gold.
    I opened it. There was a letter.
    â€œWhere’s your father? I haven’t seen him for a while.”
    â€œWorking.”
    â€œThat’s good. Where’s your mother? Haven’t seen her lately.”
    â€œShe’s sick.”
    â€œOh, that’s it. I seen you come home with the groceries. You taking care of your mother? That’s a good boy. You won’t have your mother forever.”
    I ran upstairs. The letter was from the hospital. I was afraid to open it till I was inside our apartment. It was from my mother, but it was somebody else’s handwriting.
    â€œMy dear children, did you hear from Daddy? Is he home? Why hasn’t he come to see me yet? I wrote him the first day I was here.
    â€œI can’t even write this letter, I’m so tired and weak. A kind lady is helping me. My precious children, don’t worry. I’m going to be all right. If Daddy’s not home today, I’m sure he’ll be there tomorrow.