Nothing to Fear Read Free Page A

looking for work down there. Just read in the paper today about a mob of whites that pulled some poor colored railroad worker off a train and shot him dead, just to get his job. And that ain't the first one I've heard of, either."
    Mama's face went pale with horror. She shook her head.
    "I feel so guilty," she said, "not offerin' to take them in. But what would I feed them ... and ... Lord only knows..."
    She glanced up at me quick and didn't say anything more. I knew what she was thinking—Lord only knows how much longer we'll be able to pay the rent. With Pa out of work and the savings all gone, how much longer could we survive on Ma's ironing money and the little bit I bring in shining shoes?
    The kettle started to whistle and Ma got up to fix tea. Downstairs I heard the heavy thud of the front door banging shut and my belly started to ache again. I hugged Maureen tighter and waited.

THREE
    They were Pa's footsteps all right. I could just see him dragging his heavy feet up the stairs, his overcoat sagging from his shoulders, his eyes dark and broody like the sea before a storm.
    Pa don't look like the rest of us, with his black, wavy hair and eyes to match. Me and Maureen take after Ma. I sure wish I did look like Pa, though. Not that Ma isn't pretty or anything, it's just that red hair and freckles look better on a lady, I think. Like Maureen. She's cute as the dickens, but me ... well, I just can't see that women are ever gonna look at me the way I've seen 'em look at Pa. "Handsome as the devil!" That's what they always say.
    Usually Pa's footsteps grow quicker and lighter when they reach our landing. Just outside our door he stops and straightens up and plasters on a big smile. I watched him do it one day when I was sitting on
the fourth-floor landing and he didn't know I was there. Then he opens the door and walks in just like everything is hunky-dory. Then Ma and I plaster on big smiles and pretend everything's hunky-dory, too, even though it isn't.
    It isn't like when Pa was working. He's a carpenter, and up until March of last year he was building the Empire State Building. He used to fly up the stairs two at a time then, whistling an Irish jig. He'd burst in all full of news and scoop Mama up and make her giggle. Then he'd run on and on at supper.
    "Another story today," he'd say. "Would ya believe, a story a day? Three thousand men on one job! Ah, 'tis a glory ta see."
    Then after dinner he'd light his pipe and sit back with his newspaper. When he first came to this country, he went to school nights to learn to read, and ever since then he's considered it his bounden duty to keep up with the news.
    "Your daddy was a poor farm boy back in Ireland," he used to tell me, holding his pipe bowl in his hand and pointing the stem at me. "Couldna' even read! Now he's buildin' the tallest buildin' in the whole world. Ah, America—'tis truly the land of opportunity."
    Pa doesn't say much about the land of opportunity anymore. He doesn't say much at all. He just gets up every morning, shaves and washes like always, then goes out and walks from one end of the city to the other, looking for work. Sometimes he goes down to the New York City Free Employment Bu
reau and stands in line, fighting with five thousand other guys for the handful of jobs that come in every day. Once in a while he even takes my shoeshine box and goes out on the streets. He doesn't want me to know that, but I saw him one day, down on his knees, shining some guy's shoes—my daddy, my strong, proud daddy that can read the newspaper and build the tallest building in the world, down on his knees in the gutter. I never let on to him that I saw.
    The footsteps didn't get light and quick this time, and there was no plastered-on smile when Pa pushed the door open. I stood staring at him, my hands all sweaty, my heart flopping around like a fish out of water.
    "Hi, Pa," I said, my voice coming out in a squeak. I held Maureen out in front of me like a