A Place to Belong

“Stop - quiet - shhhh - stupid chickens shut up.” They calmed down and I peeked through the crack of the door to see if old man Hoover was coming. No sign of anyone. So I sat down again, pulled out my Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich and started to eat. The outer edges of the sandwich were soggy and the middle was completely wet. Mother had wrapped it in Dad’s used newspaper. She used newsprint when she ran out of wax paper. Blackened sandwiches were always the result. I didn’t like it, but ate it anyway.

As I ate, I asked the chickens, “What would you guys tell your Mother about missing school the way I did today?” I stared at them as if expecting an answer. “Well, let me ask you what you think about this idea: I left my lunch on the streetcar, had no money, so I came home. What do you think? Will she believe that?” Again, they just sat on their perch staring at me.

* * *

“Well, young man. What are you doing home in the middle of the day?” Mother stood in the doorway, her expression so stern it could have cut me into two pieces.

My chicken performance had been Oscar-winning compared to the one I was about to give. Staring at her knees because I couldn’t lie to her face, I stammered, “I uh…. The streetcar. I… left my lunch there. And I don’t have money, so I came home… for lunch.”

“Is that right?” she replied. “Well, tell me then, why did Mother Superior call and ask why you weren’t in school today?”

My stomach rose up into my chest and I felt real hot all of a sudden. I looked up at her, hoping to find some remnant of gentility there. Her eyes were hard, mouth clenched tight. She’d caught me lying. I was a goner.

She ordered, “Get down into the basement, take off your wet clothes, hang them up to dry and get your little butt back upstairs, fast.”

I did as she said, but tried to linger as long as I could.  Eventually her holler came resounding, “Doesn’t take that long to get those clothes off.”

I gulped and mounted the stairs with slow, deliberate steps. There was one consolation. It wasn’t Dad doing it. He used his leather belt.

I reached the top of the stairs and there she was waiting for me. She had rolled up paper in her right hand, legs spread, the apron made from feed sacks she always wore hanging down between her knees. I knew what I was supposed to do.

* * *

I remember standing on the train platform, hearing the sniffing off the engines as though they too had something to cry about. The Johns and my Dad were busy saying goodbye to my sister, their faces puffy. When I got the chance I pulled Sarah to the side and said, “You have to take me with you.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, bored at hearing me ask again. “I can’t, Paul.”

“You don’t understand. Dad’s going to get me. I know it.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Paul.”

“No, no. He will. Please, you have to take me with you.”

“It’s too late for that, Paul.”

My body quivered and twitched. She must have noticed.

“You okay?” she asked.

“No!” I yelled. The others looked over, nervous. Dad sent me a steely stare. “He’s going to kill me, Sarah.”

I looked up into her face. Her forehead crinkled up as though she thought I was nuts. But finally she saw something in my face, my eyes.

With hesitancy, she said, “If anything goes wrong, go over to the Johns’ house. They’ll help you.”

Infuriated, I turned away from her. She returned to the others. I listened as their feet shuffled with the exchange of hugs. Good luck. Have a nice trip.