my dress.
“Can I walk down the tracks?”
“Not too far.”
When I had pulled on an old pink dress whose bodice smocking was coming unsmocked, I asked Mama, “Do we have any money saved for the house?”
“We had five hundred dollars.”
“How much do we have now?”
“Your fool papa lost two hundred dollars, so we’ve got three hundred left.” She poured frosting on the cake. “I could kill him,” she said, smoothing the frosting with vicious swipes of the back of the big spoon.
“Is he coming home for supper?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” She was almost as mad as she’d been in the morning. I could feel her anger like the summer heat that rose in waves from the brick platform.
“You
be home for supper,” she said as I went out the door.
Tiptoeing past the office windows, I kept my eyes downcast. It was as though in not coming home to lunch, Papa had turned his back on me as well as on Mama. What would I say to him when I saw him? What would he say to me? I squirmed and hurried west, following the sun down the tracks.
Looking both ways first, I ran fast across Fourth Street. Businesses sprawled messily out along Fourth Street, vacant lots and weedy patches between them; businesses that didn’t fit on Main Street, due either to their nature or their size. Rayzeen’s Lumberyard. Grubb’s Junkyard and Body Shop. The Nite Time Saloon, which because of local law served only beer. And Marcella’s Permanent Wave, which Mama said was a cover-up for the bootleg, hard liquor business of Marcella’s husband, Barney Finney. Beverly Ridza from catechism class lived down there, past Grubb’s Junkyard.
On the other side of Fourth Street, I slowed to stare into the hobo jungle on the left. A couple of hundred yards distant from the depot, the hobo jungle was the exposed basement of a warehouse long ago razed or burned to the ground. It was a hole in the ground with concrete and stone walls, but no stairs. In one corner a pair of empty oil drums, one smaller than the other, served as steps. In the center of the space, someone had collected old bricks, lined them up, and laid a metal grill over them. Here the men who stopped over cooked cans of beans or soup, toasted bread, and made coffee.
If the weather was good and Mama had half a dozen magazines to throw away, she’d pack them in a grocery bag with a couple of cans of Campbell’s soup and send me with them down to the jungle. If someone was there, I’d leave them at the edge, telling the men, “From Mama.” If no one was camped, I’d climbdown the oil cans and rummage around. Interesting relics could be found: a key to a door somewhere, a half-full can of snoose, a jewel-like piece of melted glass from the ashes of the fire. Once I found a letter, never sealed, addressed, or mailed.
“What does it say?” I asked Mama.
“I don’t think we should read it,” Mama said. “Maybe he’s just gone looking for a meal. He’ll come back and find it gone.”
“No, he won’t. Nobody’s been in the jungle for two days.”
Mama sat down at the table and looked at the envelope. She was of two minds. At length she slipped the letter out and unfolded it. Written on cheap, lined paper, it was dated October 15, 1938.
Dear Bill,
I’m writing from a little burg called Harvester up here in Minnesota, Land of the Swedes and Home of the Norwegians. There are more Johnsons and Olsons than leaves on the trees. But matter of fact, there aren’t too many leaves on the trees, it being the middle of October. Nights are getting cold and sometimes, along toward morning, it almost smells like snow! Christ, I’ve got to head south. No more work here and no work there, but I can’t stick around Minnesota, especially since I lost my heavy jacket outside that goddamned Cicero last spring.
I was sure glad to hear from Eddie P. that you found something steady in Florida. Do you have Elda and the kids with you now? Splitting up the family is the
“Can I walk down the tracks?”
“Not too far.”
When I had pulled on an old pink dress whose bodice smocking was coming unsmocked, I asked Mama, “Do we have any money saved for the house?”
“We had five hundred dollars.”
“How much do we have now?”
“Your fool papa lost two hundred dollars, so we’ve got three hundred left.” She poured frosting on the cake. “I could kill him,” she said, smoothing the frosting with vicious swipes of the back of the big spoon.
“Is he coming home for supper?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” She was almost as mad as she’d been in the morning. I could feel her anger like the summer heat that rose in waves from the brick platform.
“You
be home for supper,” she said as I went out the door.
Tiptoeing past the office windows, I kept my eyes downcast. It was as though in not coming home to lunch, Papa had turned his back on me as well as on Mama. What would I say to him when I saw him? What would he say to me? I squirmed and hurried west, following the sun down the tracks.
Looking both ways first, I ran fast across Fourth Street. Businesses sprawled messily out along Fourth Street, vacant lots and weedy patches between them; businesses that didn’t fit on Main Street, due either to their nature or their size. Rayzeen’s Lumberyard. Grubb’s Junkyard and Body Shop. The Nite Time Saloon, which because of local law served only beer. And Marcella’s Permanent Wave, which Mama said was a cover-up for the bootleg, hard liquor business of Marcella’s husband, Barney Finney. Beverly Ridza from catechism class lived down there, past Grubb’s Junkyard.
On the other side of Fourth Street, I slowed to stare into the hobo jungle on the left. A couple of hundred yards distant from the depot, the hobo jungle was the exposed basement of a warehouse long ago razed or burned to the ground. It was a hole in the ground with concrete and stone walls, but no stairs. In one corner a pair of empty oil drums, one smaller than the other, served as steps. In the center of the space, someone had collected old bricks, lined them up, and laid a metal grill over them. Here the men who stopped over cooked cans of beans or soup, toasted bread, and made coffee.
If the weather was good and Mama had half a dozen magazines to throw away, she’d pack them in a grocery bag with a couple of cans of Campbell’s soup and send me with them down to the jungle. If someone was there, I’d leave them at the edge, telling the men, “From Mama.” If no one was camped, I’d climbdown the oil cans and rummage around. Interesting relics could be found: a key to a door somewhere, a half-full can of snoose, a jewel-like piece of melted glass from the ashes of the fire. Once I found a letter, never sealed, addressed, or mailed.
“What does it say?” I asked Mama.
“I don’t think we should read it,” Mama said. “Maybe he’s just gone looking for a meal. He’ll come back and find it gone.”
“No, he won’t. Nobody’s been in the jungle for two days.”
Mama sat down at the table and looked at the envelope. She was of two minds. At length she slipped the letter out and unfolded it. Written on cheap, lined paper, it was dated October 15, 1938.
Dear Bill,
I’m writing from a little burg called Harvester up here in Minnesota, Land of the Swedes and Home of the Norwegians. There are more Johnsons and Olsons than leaves on the trees. But matter of fact, there aren’t too many leaves on the trees, it being the middle of October. Nights are getting cold and sometimes, along toward morning, it almost smells like snow! Christ, I’ve got to head south. No more work here and no work there, but I can’t stick around Minnesota, especially since I lost my heavy jacket outside that goddamned Cicero last spring.
I was sure glad to hear from Eddie P. that you found something steady in Florida. Do you have Elda and the kids with you now? Splitting up the family is the
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