Chapter 1
June 1951: Catherine
Tom and I stop our game of hopscotch when we hear Dad yelling, our feet making footprints in the dark soil between the sidewalk and the building where grass should have been. My eyes widen as I watch him come out of our weathered apartment carrying a huge wooden sign. His face scares me. I stand in awe with a pain beginning deep down in my belly.
Mom yells from inside, “Don’t do it, George. We can figure out something.”
The banging of the hammer keeps our attention for a moment. Dad finishes and stands back to admire his work. The words make no sense to me, but Mom comes out with tears streaming down her cheeks. Tom and I rush to hug her, but she pushes us aside. “Go play your game.”
My shoulders sag. Tom grabs my hand, and we walk back toward the sidewalk. I stand staring at the sign.
“Finish your turn,” Tom yells to break my trance.
“Why are our parents always yelling? I want our family to be happy again.” Tom shrugs. Hopping along the squares of chalk lines on the sidewalk, tears form in my eyes. My foot slips when I land, and I fall to the side.
“You stepped on the line,” calls Tom, laughing.
My legs feel like rubber beneath me. I pull my knees tight to my chest to keep my heart from beating too wildly. People walking by stop to read the sign and point. Dad stalks back toward the apartment door and enters, but Mom seems unable to move.
I look to Tom, but he’s oblivious. All he says is, “Let’s keep playing. My turn.”
Dad comes back out and takes Mom by the arm, yanking her toward the inside of the
apartment. She yells at him to take the sign down, but he screams back, “We’ve got too many kids. We can’t feed them. We need the money. This is the only way.”
Jane, my oldest sister, and the other older kids come out to see what all the ruckus is. Jane reads the sign aloud, and her face contorts, trying to hold back tears.
I pull on her arm. “What does it mean?”
“It means it’s time to leave this crappy place.” She motions to William, next in line in our large family. “Come on let’s go.” They both turn to walk toward the corner grocery leaving us smaller kids to deal with the scene.
Time stands still while this memory burns into my brain. I watch, wanting it all to stop, as Dad storms off down the street. “Dad, don’t go,” I yell, but it’s no use. He’s already too far away to hear me or doesn’t care to hear.
The door slams shut as Mom goes back into the tenement. She comes out with a hammer and works on trying to get the nails pulled from the sign. I try to help but a sliver from the dry wood punctures my finger, and I sit down on the step holding my hand, not wanting to let on that I’m hurt. The emptiness in my chest moves all the way down to my feet, keeping me glued to the spot.
A dark sedan pulls up in front of our building. Its shiny finish contrasts with the drab sidewalk, dirt filled lawn and dark wood siding.
A guy with a news pin on his hat steps out of the car. “Hey, lady, can I get a photo?
Mom turns and hurries toward the apartment door. “You kids, get back in here.”
The twins and little Jacob hurry to follow, but I stand up, my body remaining a statue, watching the guy approach. Tom grabs my hand but I’m still unable to move.
The photographer doesn’t wait for permission. He gets closer and moves his camera into position. I look down as he snaps the picture, but Tom smiles right into the camera.
Mom shouts at him, “Don’t you dare print that.”
Her loud voice wakes something inside of me, and I can finally move. I pull Tom toward the building, and we move into the apartment. We plaster our faces up against the grimy window as the man with the camera hops back into his car. The driver steps on the gas to leave our filthy neighborhood.
*
When I catch a glimpse of the photo in the newspaper Mrs. Hopkins, our neighbor, drops onto the table, my eyes feel bound open with glue. Checking the date, June 5, 1951, at the top of the paper, finally allows me to blink. This bizarre photo of Tom and me standing in front of the sign Dad had crudely painted to say, “For Sale, Two Kids,” becomes real.
Mom bursts into tears when she reads the headline. I place my arm around the back of her neck, rubbing gently as I ask myself, what will happen if everyone reads this story? My stomach turns like an eggbeater and tears form behind my lids. My siblings gather around Mom and me, their sad faces mirroring mine.
Everything in our small apartment seems to vanish as we all focus on the photo. My vision blurs even more making the scene in the paper run together into a black and white blob. Mom reads the accompanying news story aloud, her voice quavering, stopping often to wipe away a tear. Her neck stiffens more under my touch as she reads. Mrs. Hopkins grabs her newspaper and slips toward the door of the dingy apartment, keeping her eyes averted from our dad.
“Let me see that. They have no right.” Dad takes the paper from our neighbor’s hands, looks at the photo and throws it onto the floor for Mrs. Hopkins to retrieve.
Our parents scream at each other, their words fly like stinging wasps making welts on my inner spirit. The yelling loses its force somewhat as I run to hide under the bed and cover my ears. The sounds will echo inside my head long after this day. Mary Jane and Johnny, the twins, a year older than me, join me. When Tom snuggles close, I pull him into a bear hug. Soon even my oldest siblings, Jane and William, crawl under from the other side, along with little Jacob who always follows William around.
With no walls in the apartment, two mismatched beds stand side by side, not far from the kitchen area, so the underside of the bed provides little relief from our parents’ voices. Silence follows the storm, and Dad plops down at the small kitchen table, head resting in his hands.
Mom whispers, “What are we going to do?” Her soft whimpering fills the space like a lost kitten crying.
Jane says what we’re all thinking, her voice raspy, “What if someone actually comes and wants to buy two of us?”
Ever since Dad lost his job when things get tough, he does his usual. He leaves the tiny apartment, slamming the door behind him. This time Mom follows him and yells back behind her. “You’re in charge, Jane.” The space becomes larger and safer again.
I feel secure enough to come out from under the bed, and the other kids do the same. Jane gathers us together for a group hug. “We’ve got to stick together.”
“I’m hungry,” says little Jacob, but there’s only a few dry bread slices left on the table from yesterday’s dinner. And when Jane tells me to get out the oatmeal, I find it’s infested with weevils.
I whine, “Yuk, we can’t eat this. What are we going to do for food?”
Attempting to make our predicament into a game, Jane has us hold hands as we clomp down the stairs, directing us to pair up and scrounge the neighborhood garbage for some food. We’ve done it before, so we’re not surprised at her directions.
I take Tom’s hand and yell to the rest, “We’re going to go behind the restaurant down the street.” We find some chicken bones with some meat on them and a couple rolls. Tom pulls up his nose at the smell.
“You’ve got to eat it. It’s all we have.” I take a bite and form a weak smile. “See, it’s fine.” Tom follows my lead, as usual, and bites into the chicken.
Returning to our apartment, the others say they’ve found enough food to fill their bellies somewhat, too. Later, we all crawl into the same bed and Jane reads to us until the light extinguishes in the tiny apartment.
Because Tom is seventeen months younger than me, and often sick, I feel responsible for him. Tom snuggles in next to me. Soon he’s snoring softly, but I can’t sleep. I pray, “Please God, don’t let them sell us, but if they do sell Tom, please let me go with him.”
It’s late when I hear our parents fumbling with the key to unlock the door outside the apartment. Jane gets up and lets them in. They stumble through the small space and flop onto their bed. Jane tiptoes back to her area on the bed, full of small bodies.
The chilly air wakes me the next morning. Mom and Dad lay on their bed in the same clothes they wore when they left yesterday. I’m not brave enough to get up without the others, so I scoot closer to my siblings and pretend to sleep.
After a while, a banging on the apartment door wakes us all. Mom plods across the bare wood floor to answer it, her hair sticking out like brush bristles and her hose rolled down to her ankles.
I peek out from my spot on the bed. The guy at the door holds a tattered hat, and his worn suit pulls at the buttons around his middle. He barges in as soon as Mom opens the door.
Dad wakes and sits on the side of the bed. His gravelly voice sounds like a scratchy record. “Who are you?”
The man answers, staring at us in the other bed. “I’m here about the photo in the newspaper. I want to talk to you about making a deal.”
I crawl out from under the covers and walk over and hug Mom, never wanting to let go. Tom follows and stands close to me. Mom begins to shake. Looking up, I expect tears, but her face contorts with anger. “George, don’t you dare.”
Dad grabs a sack and tosses Tom’s few clothes into it. He nods my way. “Get your stuff.”
I cling to Mom with more determination, but then Tom’s face appears from behind her dress. I can’t let him go alone. Maybe it’ll only be for the summer, and we can come back for school in the fall. With tears clouding my vision, I add my clothes to the sack.
The man says, “Don’t worry, ma’am, they’ll be well cared for. We live on a farm; they’ll love all the animals there.” He moves toward us trying to add a smile to his stern face. “Come on, you two, we need to get going.”
Dad yanks me away from Mom and gives my hand to the man. It feels sticky with sweat. I try to pull away, but his grip is firm. “No, I don’t want to go.”
Dad carries Tom and the sack of belongings and hurries out the door. The man follows, I flop on the floor and keep yelling. He picks me up like a sack of potatoes and traipses down the steps to the outside door, pushing it open with his foot. Both Dad and the guy take turns placing us in the back seat of his car. My throat feels like the bristles of a brush have rubbed it raw, and my screams become silent gasps.
Dad leans into the car and says, “Now, you both be good for Mr. VanVleet and his wife.”
That’s the last Tom and I see of our family.
JANEEN SWART, AUTHOR 