Crossing the Line, page 2
And while she’s waiting for that blessing, it’s my job to be the man of the family. Timmy’s da finds out tomorrow about that Stock Yard job, so tomorrow I aim to march right up and ask if he’ll take me on to be his errand boy. I’m strong, for the size of me, and I ain’t afraid of cows. And I will make right sure my hands are clean when Mr. Beatty takes a look at me.
Chapter Two
I’M BONE-TIRED AND THAT’S THE truth. But I sit up right quick when Sister Salmonetti raps me on the head.
“Billy McDermott, stand up. What are the inalienable rights granted by the Bill of Rights?”
My brain jogs in place for a few seconds while I scramble around in my head. “The right to bear arms. The right to assemble. The right to …”
I fumble for the rest. Somebody giggles.
Sister Salmonetti taps my desk. “Fifty times. After school.”
I want to grab her black habit and yank it off. Instead, the horrid guilt for my rash thoughts plunges me down into my seat, red-faced and sorry. Ma says I get ugly when I’m tired.
And I’m tired because of the work after school. Not the easy work of opening and closing stockyard gates and running orders. Timmy’s da didn’t get the job at The Union Stock Yard. And after, Timmy said he went on a drinking bender for two weeks. It got so bad, Mrs. Beatty packed Timmy and the baby off to her mother’s. But when Mr. Beatty dried out, they moved back and Timmy came by to tell me his da got a job unloading barges on the South Branch of the Chicago River, with Timmy helping out after school. He might have a job for me, he said. The next week at Mass, Timmy’s da jabbed the muscles in my arm and told me to show up at the docks on Monday.
And that’s how come for three days me and Timmy been running the loads up to the flatbeds. Try as I might, I can’t pry my eyelids open long enough to get through my schoolwork. Ma’s been out these last two nights working the supper shift so she don’t know I’m dragging my tail in when Mary’s dishing up the potato stew. And she’s none the wiser.
At the end of the school day, Sister Salmonetti sits, watching me work like the devil finishing sentences: I WILL LEARN MY LESSONS. I WILL LEARN MY LESSONS. I’m nearing the end of the last chalkboard, the chalk just a nub between my fingers, when she stands up and walks toward me. She slaps an envelope down on the chalk ledge. Give this to your mother,” she says. Then she turns and leaves, her black robe swishing out behind her.
I stuff the letter in my shirt pocket and run out the door, fast, like trouble is biting at my heels. I will learn my lessons, I tell myself. I will. And make my ma proud.
Mary is waiting for me, on account of I couldn’t tell her to go on ahead. Timmy’s prolly at the river already, but it’s raining, so I don’t know for sure.
“Keep out of the puddles, Billy,” says Big Bossy.
“Shut up.” I step hard and the splash hits her coat.
“You big goop, you!” She starts to run and I follow, the envelope poking me in the chest, reminding me what a disappointment I am.
Ma opens the envelope when she gets home, her bottom lip getting fat and wiggly. She swipes at her eyes with her sweater sleeve.
“I’m sorry, Ma. I shoulda done better.”
Ma looks at me long and sad. “Ah, Billy. It’s not you. Sister says we’re too far behind in the tuition payments, God help us. I expect they’ll be dropping you and Mary.”
Mary lets out a shriek. “But I’m top of the class. And my friends! It’s not my fault Billy gets in trouble. That’s why they don’t want us.”
“Is not, wisenheimer. I get good marks.” Next time I’ll make sure Mary falls in the puddle, right on her big you-know-what. Then a jolt of an idea hits me. “Can’t Mary stay in school? I can drop out and get a job.”
“Jaysus, Mary, and the wee donkey, Billy. You’re eleven. What job will you get?”
Mary pipes up, “I watch over the Dolans’ wee ones most Saturdays and I don’t make peanuts.”
I think hard. There’s free schools, ain’t there? The answer comes to me and I snap my fingers. “What about public? I can go to public. It’ll save money.”
Ma puts her hand around my chin. “So like your da, thinkin’ of others first. Maybe they will consider keeping Mary, if you can go to public for a year or two. But mind you, just until we get back on our feet. And your da …” But her voice catches.
Mary rushes to hug her and Ma pulls both of us in. “I’m real sorry, Billy. Lord have mercy.”
I pretend it’s a blow, sacrificing for my family. But really, I feel lucky. No more Sister Salmonetti’s ruler rapping my knuckles, reminding me that the Dear Lord is mighty disappointed in my behavior and my studies. And no more walking in Mary’s footsteps. Maybe little Anna will make a better go of it, or maybe Mary’s footsteps won’t be so deep with expectations by the time Anna’s ready for school. And maybe I can be the top of the class in public school, where the work ain’t so hard. I hear tell there’s a rough lot there, but I ain’t scared. My da didn’t raise no coward.
When the rain stops I wander on over to Timmy’s house. Mrs. Beatty answers the door with a rag over her nose and cheek. “Such a cold I’ve got,” she says, when she sees me staring. “Let me call for Timmy.” She leaves the door open, but don’t invite me in.
And she don’t sound like she’s got a cold when she hollers for Timmy. I see there’s a chair upended, and the baby’s crying. I hear a door slam and a shadow passes by the back window, heading down the alley, and it sure looks like Mr. Beatty. I stay standing out on the porch and after quite a while Timmy slides out the door and shuts it. His eyes are rubbed red and his nose is dripping. He wipes it on his sleeve, then sits down slow, like an old man.
“No work today?” I say, sitting down next to him. Not knowing what else to say.
“Nah. Too rainy. Ma sent me to Schaller’s Pump to find Da, ’cause she needed milk for the baby.”
And it don’t take adding two plus two to know how that turned out, what with the rag on his ma’s cheek and Timmy sitting so carefully.
“I just come by to tell you I’m quitting Nativity. Going to James Ward next week.”
“What for?”
“It’s the money. But I ain’t sad about it. I heard tell there’s not so much homework.”
“That’s where they send the delinquents—remember Frankie? But you don’t got to worry. I’ll let Mickey know. He’ll keep an eye out for you.” Timmy slaps my leg. “Hey, you should go out with a bang at Nativity. Let’s make a plan.”
So until it’s time for me to get home for supper that’s what we do. Timmy tells me a couple of stories from the ones his da tells him about William Horace de Vere Cole, the biggest Irish prankster working in London’s Parliament.
“One time Mr. Horace de Vere Cole brought loads of horse manure in his suitcase on his honeymoon boat trip to San Marco Island. When nobody was looking he dropped the manure all over the plaza and everybody went crazy looking for the horse since no horses live on San Marco,” Timmy says. “Ain’t that something?”
“But on his honeymoon? Whaddya think his wife had to say about that?”
“She probably thought it was a dirty trick,” he says, and we almost fall off the steps laughing.
“Another time Horace got the seating chart to the theater and figured out which seats would spell out a not-nice word. Then he bought tickets for those seats and gave them away just to bald men.” Timmy takes off my cap and rubs my hair. “You know how shiny bald heads are. Well, when the bald men sat down everybody in the balcony could see the bald heads shining under the lights, and the bad word was spelled right out.”
“What word?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Whaddya think?” We puzzle about that for a bit, whispering all the bad words we know.
But in the end, we decide those pranks ain’t practical for us, on account of we don’t know very many bald men, and bringing horse turds to school might be too tricky. But I know Timmy’s got something up his sleeve.
And sure enough, while I’m cleaning out my desk at the end of the next day I hear a commotion. Our friends Kevin and Connor are pointing to the rubbish bin where I been throwing my balled-up, unfinished assignments.
“Snake,” Florence screams and jumps out of her seat. Every girl and a few boys streak toward the front of the class, and Sister Salmonetti jumps up on her chair as quick as lightning. In the hubbub Timmy puts some white powder in the middle of our reader and sneaks around behind Miss Salmonetti’s desk, slams the book shut hard and the white powder clouds up into the air. Everyone up in the front starts sneezing so hard and so many times that they look like they’re catching the grippe.
Before anybody can figure out what’s happened, Timmy slips the black snake—the snake that weren’t nothing but a piece of garden hose—into his shirt and stacks up his homework, looking as innocent as a baby. It’s me that can’t stop laughing, and when Sister Salmonetti rings the bell she gives me such an evil eye, I’m worried about my soul.
On our way to the docks we pretend to sneeze and scream, then double over laughing, and do it all over again.
“Where’d you get that sneezing powder?”
“Mickey pinched it for me from his da’s friend. Cachoo, it’s called. I’ve a mind to put a little bit in my da’s newspaper, the bloody no-good sap. Whaddya think?” Timmy’s still sore about the beating his da give him, and I know he’s been hanging around Schaller’s waiting for his da. But still, his tough talk surprises me. He shows me what’s left of the powder, folded up tight in a little packet.
“I wouldn’t, if I was you.”
“Yeah? Well, Mickey saw what happened to me at Schaller’s, and he says he won’t stand for it if my da ever lays a hand on me again.”
I nod. That Mickey is all right. And I’m glad he’s looking out for Timmy since I won’t be with him at Nativity anymore. “I’ll still see you every day at the docks,” I tell him as we come up to Archer Avenue.
So here I am, Monday morning, standing outside the doors of James Ward School, a massive, three-story school made of red-brown brick, except for the limestone eyebrows on the windows and the stripes around its belly. I heard tell the toilets are in the basement, which is a bonus, since some other public schools still have privies out in the schoolyard.
On Saturday, the day after I told Timmy I was going to James Ward, a couple of the Hamburg boys stopped me on the sidewalk. They told me not to worry. Mickey wanted me to know they’d be watching out for me. Imagine that. It made me feel important. But in bed that night, I got to thinking. Who’s doing the watching? What are they watching out for? And then it felt like they might be spying on me, trying to see if I was brave enough to be a Hamburg. Brave enough to be trusted.
I’m standing here, wondering about it, with a swarm of kids rushing by me as if the devil himself is on their heels. At Nativity, the sisters opened the carved doors every morning and we solemnly paraded in. Here, I’m swept along into the hall. I’m heading to Room 204 and I figure it will be upstairs. Right away, I notice all the walls are brick with no stained glass. And suddenly I miss the order and the holiness of Nativity.
I stand in the door of Room 204, not sure what to do, until the teacher motions me to her desk. Her dark hair is piled up on her head and her green eyes sparkle at me, and I feel loads less nervous. I see she holds my report card in her hand.
“Welcome, William. I’m Miss Benson. What brings you here from Nativity? You’ve decent marks I see.” She’s not old. Not like the sisters.
When I don’t answer she shrugs and shakes her head. She prolly thinks I’m like Frankie who got kicked out of Nativity for calling Sister Catherine a you-know-what when she rapped his knuckles.
“Put your supplies here.” She motions to a seat and says, to a boy in the seat behind mine, “Foster, see to it that William gets his books from the shelf.”
I follow Foster to the bookshelf. Rays of dusty light shine from the three windows over the bookshelf and I figure that way is east. And if that’s east, then the two windows on the other wall must be facing south. South toward Wentworth and the black neighborhoods.
James Ward sits on the edge of my Irish neighborhood, but I never really thought about going to school with kids from other neighborhoods. At Nativity everyone was all white and all Irish, except Frankie, who’s part Italian. And going to public school, too, now.
It’s not hard to see Foster is a black boy. I never talked to anyone black before, except at Anderson’s Fish Shop. Oh, and one of the Pullman porters at Central Station.
“How’s business?” the porter always asks me when I’m there shining shoes.
“It’d be better if you sit down,” I say every time. And every time he laughs.
I don’t believe I ever had cause to talk to a black boy before in my life. But I aim to start now. “I’m Billy,” I say.
But Foster doesn’t say anything to me, just piles up books in my arms, keeping his eyes on my feet. His hands are the color of my baseball glove and his fingernails are ragged and chewed.
“You live around here?” I try again.
“My auntie do.” Foster’s voice is low and slow. “You?” When he lifts his eyes to my face I see they are the darkest dark brown I ever saw.
“I got kicked out of Nativity of Our Lord.”
He steps away from me. “I don’t want no trouble.” And his eyes get big in his round face.
“Not for being bad. For not having money.”
“Well, that ain’t no crime. Ain’t nobody got money.” And he laughs and points at his shoes with holes all through them. They’re the same as my shoes, scuffed with no hope left, and we both wear shabby wool jackets over our overalls. A pin holds the bottom of his closed on account of a missing button.
I look around the room, to see the way things are. The girls outnumber the boys. I see three more black boys besides Foster, four boys that look a little like Frankie, and about five that look like me. I walk past a girl with blond pigtails and accidentally bump her elbow.
“Beg pardon,” I say.
“Eat ees an order,” she says, with the same sort of accent as Mr. Weinstein’s.
Foster whispers, “That’s Anika. She can’t talk English.”
I guess it’s a regular kaleidoscope in public school. And Foster’s right; nobody here has very much. Everybody looks a bit tattered, not tucked and polished like at Nativity.
After only an hour or so I already can tell who’s the class clown and who’s the most popular girl, and when the morning is about done I know I’m behind in math and ahead in English.
Miss Benson runs a tight ship. Not as tight as Sister Salmonetti, but still, by noon, I’m happy for lunch and I head home lickety-split and charge through the door.
“Ma? Ma?” I call as I wander through the front room and into the kitchen. I’m a little disappointed no one’s home for lunch. I wolf down the cheese sandwich Ma set out on the table for me, feeling a mite sorry for myself. Having to come home for lunch sure cuts into my recess options. At Nativity we got hot lunch, served up by the nuns. I pat the pocket that I always keep my ringer and my cat eyes in. I got nobody to talk to and nothin’ to do and more than half my lunch hour left.
I take a zigzag path back to school, cutting through alleys and angling up toward James Ward. That’s when I see Foster and his friends. They’re playing stickball in an empty lot a couple of blocks from school. Foster whacks at a wad of rags with a plank of wood and takes off running for first base. I watch for a couple of minutes, missing the lads from Nativity, wondering how they’re getting on without me. Wondering who’s winning Ante Over, and who lost their ringer in marbles today. Then I trudge back to James Ward.
I’m hardly prepared when Miss Benson dismisses us at the end of the day, so accustomed to the extra hour of school at Nativity, but I ain’t heartbroken. No sirree. I jolt out of my seat, light as a feather with hardly any books to carry home for homework, and head toward my house to grab my jacket before heading to the docks, on account of the day’s turned cloudy and gray. Most everybody heads for the neighborhoods to the west as they leave the school building.
From the side of my eye I see Foster and his friends on the corner opposite mine, about to cross the street and go the same way as me. I’m puzzled ’cause I thought they’d live the other way, where all the black folks live. I stop walking to let them catch up, but a big, bristly-haired boy keeps pushing Foster and his friends back every time they try to cross. Foster takes something from his lunch satchel and puts it in the boy’s hands. Then he and his friends run. When they’re just about even with me, his friends turn around and head back the way they come, but Foster keeps walking.
“Hey,” I yell over to him and he stops walking and faces me.
“Hey, yourself,” he yells back.
“What happened to your friends?”
“They was just helping me cross the street.”
“What did that boy want?”
“His sandwich.”
“Why you got his sandwich?”
He shrugs and tilts his head to the side like I should be able to figure it out.
“Do you got his sandwich every day?” I ask.
“Only on the days when I want to walk down this here street,” he says. And he turns away from me. I watch him half run, half walk until he gets to the corner and turns down Twenty-Ninth Street. I keep walking, a little drizzle spitting on me, until I get to Thirty-First, still trying to puzzle out what I saw. Why didn’t the boy want Foster to walk this way? What if Foster didn’t give him a sandwich? Does Foster have two sandwiches, or did he save his lunch to give away?
After I leave my house, I wait for Timmy near Nativity. I’m busting to tell him all about James Ward. Who knows? Maybe his da might let him switch schools when he finds out it’s not so bad, and it costs nothing. I bend down to tie my ever-loving frizzled shoelace for the hundredth time and a second later I feel two hands over my eyes.
“Guess who?” Timmy’s voice says.
