Daylight opened up over the prairies within an hour, and we watched the play of colors as they appeared before us from growing crops, from freshly plowed soil, from woods and streams and blue skies. There wasn’t a trace of the ice or cold or howling blizzards we had known in that country during the winter, but now and then we saw a tired-looking figure plodding along that may have been a boy my age hunting the next town to ask for work or a handout. At one spot a group of men waved a coffeepot at us as they stood beside a fire they had built near the tracks. Sometimes when we stopped at a station we saw placards reading, “As Right as Roosevelt.” One of them had been defaced by lines that seemed to slash the words angrily; on another someone had written, “Yes, God bless him.”
We passed a freight occasionally as our passenger train sped down the track. Often there were men standing at the open doors of boxcars, men sitting on top of cars, their legs dangling over the edge. They might have been the same hopeless looking men who traveled west with us the night we left Chicago—the hobo who helped Joey into the car, or the one who gave us a can of beans when we got off somewhere in Nebraska.
Once when we stopped at a station we saw a white-coated boy carrying sandwiches and milk and coffee toward the train. “Would you like something to eat?” I asked, and Joey said, “Yes, I’m starving.”
The words were no sooner out than he looked at me aghast. “What a dumb thing to say,” he muttered.
It wasn’t dumb, but it was strange; he had never once said that when he was, in truth, starving.
We ate slowly and comfortably. The coach was not full, and so we removed our shoes and stretched our stockinged feet to the seat opposite us. Joey scooted down a little in his seat so that he could make his toes extend as far forward as mine. “You’ve grown, Joey,” I said to him. “In spite of all the things that would stunt most kids, you’ve been determined to grow.”
He smiled with the satisfaction he’d always shown at any praise of mine. The conductor came along and pretended to snip Joey’s nose with the ticket punch he carried. “You boys been on a vacation?” he asked.
We looked at one another. “Well, in a way,” I said. The conductor really wasn’t much interested; he nodded and walked on.
A woman stopped him a few seats forward, and we heard his answer to her question. “We should be getting into Chicago in just about two hours, ma’am,” he said. I felt a shudder inside me at his words.
I wondered if our folks would seem like strangers, if we’d have to get acquainted again, if home would seem a lonely place where we’d be homesick for Lonnie and Gramma and Janey. Mom would be happy to see us, I could be sure of that. And I could talk to her. I could tell her about playing at the carnival and at the restaurant in Omaha. I could tell her about Janey, and sometime I might just possibly tell her about Emily. And as for Kitty, she’d be interested in everything—I could depend on Kitty. I wondered if I should go to see Howie’s mother, wondered if she’d really care if she heard about what had happened to Howie. I thought I would go and see Miss Crowne, would show her the letter of recommendation Mr. Ericsson had given me. Maybe she’d know of a part-time job.
Finally I had to face what I dreaded. There would be Dad. What would he be like, I wondered. What would we say to one another? I thought about the memory I’d had of him, the memory of him rocking me in front of the fire. I decided I’d tell him about that. Maybe it would help us if he knew that when things were blackest, I had remembered a time when we were close to one another.
I felt worried and restless. “I don’t know, Joey; I don’t know just how we’re going to get along in Chicago. We’ve had a taste of good luck, but times are still bad.”
Joey wasn’t worried. “After all we’ve been through, I guess we can handle Chicago,” he said indifferently as he leaned his head against the back of his seat.
I couldn’t allow the young cock-of-the-walk to see too much of my fear. “I guess so,” I said, and managed to smile a little.
Soon the shabby old neighborhoods that bordered the railroad tracks began to appear, tired looking and decrepit even in the summer sunlight. Buildings huddled together closely, and the smokestacks of factories stood like laborers’ bare arms lifted to the sky; smoke curled from some of them, but others looked cold and dead. The train began to move more slowly, and people all around us bustled about to collect their baggage from the racks above the seats. “We won’t reach the station for a half hour or so,” the conductor told someone, but people didn’t care. They wanted to be ready. They were anxious to climb from that railroad coach and know that the long ride was ended.
Joey and I sat quietly. Even my complacent young brother was a little scared now; I could see it in the sudden paleness of his face. Lonnie’s kitchen seemed very far away; the happiness and security we’d felt there was very precious. We were coming home, our own and not a borrowed home. We should have been eager and excited, but we weren’t. We were scared.
Our train entered the great smoke-stained station at last, slowly, majestically, as incoming trains so often seemed to move. The sunlight could reach the inside of the station only in narrow panels of light here and there, light that contrasted with the gloom of the long vista which we were entering.
“Chicago!” the conductor shouted to us as the train came to a stop. He warned us not to forget our parcels.
Joey looked up at me. “I guess they’ll meet us, won’t they?” he asked in a small voice.
“I think they will,” I answered. I felt sick.
Slowly we made our way out of the coach. Down the length of the train people were pouring from a dozen coaches, limping under the weight of their baggage toward the station at the end of the platform. People were standing at the doors of the station watching for those they had come to meet. Almost immediately I saw Mom standing there with Kitty at her side. A second later I saw Dad, only a few feet from us, scanning the crowd that was getting off the coach, just ahead of ours.
The old impulse to criticize him, to be angry with him, flashed through my mind. “Sure, Mom and Kitty must wait in the background; the lord and master must be first.” Then, shamed as I looked at him, I thought, “For Heaven’s sake, give the poor guy a chance; you’re not perfect yourself, you know.”
He hadn’t spotted us, and we had a chance to see what the winter had done to him as we walked slowly toward him. He had been so big, so strong, and he was now thin and stooped with great hollows in his cheeks. There in his face were the lines of his suffering. I couldn’t have been callous enough at that moment to feel angry or critical of him as he stood there, his face pleading that Joey and I would be the next to appear at the door of that coach.
We walked up to him, and I touched his arm. “Hello, Dad. Sure is good to see you again,” I said.
He gave a start of surprise, and then his face lighted up in recognition. With his left arm he drew Joey to him; with his right hand he clasped my hand firmly.
“Hello, Son,” he said. “I’m so glad—so glad—” He ducked his head a little, turning his face away from me as I had turned away from Joey the night Lonnie brought him home. Tears were not in Dad’s pattern either.
Góralu! Czy Ci Nie Zal?
1 See page 186.
Irene Hunt, No Promises in the Wind
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