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Residence in Lawrence..................................................
Postal address of parents................................................
Nationality...............................................................
We, the undersigned, parents or custodians of the child above described, hereby agree that it be allowed to go on vacation to people in...................................................................in care of the "Lawrence Strikers' Children's Committee," and we agree to allow the child to stay with the friends of the strikers in that city as long as the strike will last, except that unforeseen circumstances may make the return of the child necessary before that designated time.
............................................... Father.
............................................... Mother.
...............................................Custodian.
Approved by the Children's Committee.
"Cor! How the hell could your ma even read it, much less fill it out?"
"I read the hard parts. And please, watch your language." Then her voice softened. "Can your papa read English?"
"Better'n me," he mumbled. "Couldn't your ma do it for me? Say I'm your brother or something? I mean, I'm going to be just like your brother, taking care of you on the train and all." He tried to smile in what he imagined to be a brotherly fashion.
"She won't lie for you, if that's what you mean."
"Oh, hell. I guess I gotta ask the old man, huh?"
"Look. The main thing is his signature on this line here." She pointed.
"Well, I could fake that."
"Some kids already tried. It didn't work. Just get his real signature, all right? The rest I'll help you with. We won't fake his name. It wouldn't be right."
He still had money in his pockets from the priest's handout. He stopped by the Syrian shop, which stayed open most of the night, and got more whiskey. He needed to grease the old man up before asking for anything as weighty as his signature.
The shack was pitch dark inside. "Pa?" he whispered. "You here? It's me, Jake. I brung you a treat."
No answer. He must be out. Jake felt his way to the table. His hand found the oil lamp, but even patting the whole tabletop, he couldn't locate matches. There weren't any. He hadn't bought any for ages. He shuffled across the dirt floor to the bed. He'd just have to wait until his pa came home. He eased himself down, but when he started to push himself over to the wall, he hit something. It was Pa, lying there peaceful as the grave, not even snoring. His first thought was relief—no beating tonight. Maybe none tomorrow. And when he explained to Pa that he'd be going to New York—to work!—why, the old man would just jump to sign the card.
He slid under the thin quilt. Hell's bells, it was cold in the shack. You'd think Pa would have warmed the bed a bit by now, but then Jake had gotten soft, sleeping in churches and all. He'd clean forgot how cold the shack could be, almost as bad as a trash pile. He didn't think he could sleep, freezing as it was and excited as he was, waiting for day to come. He had to have the card signed early and get to the hall. They'd be gathering to go to the train station by nine, they'd said. So he had to be there before then. But he did fall asleep, waking with a start when light came through the dirty window and the cracks around the door.
"Pa ... Pa," he whispered. He didn't want to wake him up too fast; it might anger him to be woken up abruptly from his sleep. Jake leaned up on his elbow and looked at his pa—stubble-bearded, his face grimy as ever—so still and peaceful. Jake had never seen him so quiet.
Something jarred inside Jake's chest. So still—too still—he was. "Pa?" Jake lay his hand on his father's arm. Then, trying hard not to panic, he cupped his hand over the man's mouth and nose. There was no hint of movement, no breath. He jumped out of the bed. "Pa!" he yelled. "Wake up! Wake up, damn you!" There was no response.
By the wall, at his father's right hand, the whiskey bottle he'd bought two days earlier lay empty. Empty as the husk on the bed. He'd slept all night with a dead body. He hadn't even had the sense to know that his pa was lying there stiff and dead beside him. Cor, what a fool he was.
I killed him. Didn't I wish him dead more than once? Didn't I buy the poison that done it? Jake could hardly breathe. He had to get out of there.
The Train
The boy hadn't turned up at the hall the next morning. Rosa didn't know whether to be worried or relieved. He'd acted as though he really wanted to go. He must have found out she wasn't headed for New York City after all—at the last minute, Mamma had scratched out "New York City" on the card that she had filled out a week ago and had Rosa write "Barre, Vermont" in its place.
"Like a nice little village, yes? No big city for my little girl, eh? Nice people in little places, I think."
But how would the boy know that Mamma had changed her mind? He had been nowhere in sight. Even if he had seen her card, how would he know what was on it? He couldn't read—she was sure he couldn't. That thing about his eyes being too bad to see in the dim light—Ha! He was just ignorant. Even native-borns could be ignorant. His pa must have refused to sign. That was all she could imagine. Unless he didn't even have a father. Why would a boy who had a father be sleeping in trash piles or on someone else's kitchen floor—or getting charity
from Father O'Reilly? That was it. He was an orphan. She felt sad for him, but only for a minute. Most of her pity was for herself, leaving home, leaving Mamma and Anna and Ricci. She even minded leaving the Jarusalises—a little. She wouldn't miss the smell of the little boys or the sound of Granny's snoring. But they were now part of her home, and the thought of leaving was almost more than she could bear.
If Rosa hadn't acted so cowardly, Mamma wouldn't be sending her away. Mamma wasn't sending little Ricci, and he was much thinner and punier than Rosa. Mamma should be sending Ricci. Rosa had told her so, but Mamma only said, "I can't send him away. He's just a baby, he don' understand, like you." Like me? Rosa wanted to say. You think I understand why you don't want me here anymore? But she couldn't say it out loud. Mamma wouldn't understand that as frightened as Rosa was by the strike, the thought of leaving home was much scarier. At least, during the strike she saw Mamma and Anna and knew at the end of each day that they were still safe. How was she to know that they were all right if she was far off north in an unknown place, living among strangers who didn't even know Mamma? Who might or might not tell her if anything had happened to ... No, she couldn't think like that. She couldn't let her mind play with the possibility. Sometimes what you imagine will happen, does, as though you made it happen.
