William McGivern - Savage Streets

“I don’t know. I’d like to be strong.”

“Well, that’s normal enough. But if I were you I’d save some time for baseball and football.” Farrell returned to the mirror to brush his hair. “It’s a date for Saturday then, okay?”

Jimmy didn’t answer and Farrell glanced at him in the mirror. He saw that Jimmy was staring at the personal effects which he customarily heaped on his chest of drawers when he undressed for the night — cigarette case and lighter, car keys, wallet, loose change and bills. Jimmy seemed unaware of the silence in the room. He sat tensely on the edge of the bed, as if mesmerized by the silver coins gleaming under a yellow ray of sunlight.

Farrell willed himself to turn his eyes away from his son’s thin, tense features. He stared at his own reflection in the mirror. He was pale, he saw. He made his lips form a smile. “Well, we’ll have a nice stag time of it Saturday,” he said. “Okay, Jimmy? After our shopping we’ll have lunch in a Chinese restaurant. How does that sound?”

“That will be fine.”

He heard Jimmy stand, heard the soft scuff of his shoes on the carpeting, and knew he was moving slowly toward the dresser. Farrell’s mouth was suddenly dry. “Jimmy, are you watching the time?” he said, still forcing himself not to look at the boy.

“It’s all right.”

“Well, how about seeing if Angey is ready? Go downstairs and tell her to rustle it up a bit. Okay?”

Jimmy didn’t answer and Farrell, against his will, glanced quickly at his son’s reflection in the mirror. He saw Jimmy’s hand move out in a darting motion and take a dollar bill from the crumpled heap on top of the dresser. Farrell let out his breath slowly. He looked at himself, saw the long-jawed face, the grave eyes, the faint scar on his forehead from a football cleat in a college game. But it was the face of a stranger now, closed with anger, with bitter lines hardening the eyes and mouth.

“So it’s a date for Saturday, eh?” he said. “A day in town with the old man.” The first coldness came into his voice. “We’ll have fun, won’t we?”

“Sure, Dad. It’ll be fine.”

Farrell turned around. Jimmy was standing in the doorway, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “I’d better get going,” he said.

“Put it back, Jimmy,” Farrell said, and the anger in his voice made the boy start. “You hear me? Put it back.”

“I didn’t take anything. Please, Daddy.” Jimmy’s eyes were bright with fear. “I swear it.”

“Don’t lie about it. I saw you in the mirror.” Farrell was making an attempt to control his anger; he knew that would not help matters. “Put the money back on the dresser and sit down.”

Jimmy took a step toward him, his hands fluttering in helpless little gestures. “Please don’t tell Mom,” he said in a whimpering voice. “You don’t have to tell her. I won’t do it any more. I swear.”

“She knows about it already,” Farrell said. “She knew right from the start. Did you think you could get away with this sort of thing indefinitely?”

“Can’t we tell her something to... to fix it up?” Jimmy’s eyes were imploring. “Could we tell her it was a joke?”

“A joke? What do you think is funny about lying and stealing?”

Barbara’s footsteps sounded on the stairs, moving with urgency and purpose. “What’s the matter, John?” she called. “What are you shouting for?”

“Please, please, ” Jimmy cried softly; his face was transfixed with desperate shame and fear. “Don’t let her come in. Please.”

“It’s too late for that,” Farrell said.

Barbara stopped in the doorway. She looked anxiously from Jimmy to Farrell. “What’s all this about?”

A hideous little noise sounded in Jimmy’s throat. He turned and threw himself down on the bed, his body shaking with furious sobs. “You wouldn’t help me, you just wouldn’t,” he cried weakly.

Barbara sat down beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Now, now, what’s all this about?” she said.

“I saw him take a dollar from my change on the dresser,” Farrell said. “I told him to put it back, and he denied taking it.”

“Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy,” Barbara said, and drew his head close to her breast. “It isn’t so terrible. But why didn’t you ask us if you needed money?”

“I had to have it,” Jimmy said, his voice strained and muffled against her body. “I had to. I couldn’t go to school without it. I couldn’t.”

“But why not, darling?”

“They said I couldn’t. They said I had to bring it.”

Barbara glanced at Farrell, her eyes puzzled and anxious. He sat beside Jimmy and put a hand on his shoulder. “Now what’s all this, Jimmy,” he said quietly. “Who told you that you couldn’t come to school without money?”

“Some kids. They said I had to pay them.”

“And that’s what you did with the money you’ve taken. Given it to these boys?”

“I had to. They made me.”

“All right, Jimmy, let’s don’t worry about the money now,” Farrell said. “The main thing is for you to start from the beginning and tell me the whole story.”

“I told you, I told you,” Jimmy said in a voice thick with emotion.

“There’s nothing to be frightened of,” Farrell said. “Sit up and dry your eyes. I want to get to the bottom of this mess. I want to know who these boys are, how much money you’ve given them, where they live — everything.”

Barbara released him reluctantly and he sat small and hunched between them, his swollen eyes fixed with bright intensity on the carpet at his feet. “I don’t know them,” he said. “They’re just kids, that’s all.”

“How many of them are there?”

“There’s two.”

“Do they go to Rosedale Consolidated?”

“I don’t know. They’re always hanging around there.”

“But they’re not in any of your classes, eh?”

“No.”

“Well, do you know their names?”

Jimmy’s eyes shifted along the carpeting. “One of them is called Jerry. I don’t know about the other one.”

“How old are they? How big are they?”

“They’re like me, I suppose. I mean, they’re my age.”

“How much have you given them?”

“Twelve dollars. But four of it was my own money, my allowance.” He began to cry again, and Barbara took him in her arms and rocked him slowly. “It doesn’t matter, darling. You couldn’t help it. Now, now — it’s all right.”

Farrell paced the floor, rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead. “It’s not all right,” he said. “It’s damn far from it.” Angey’s high and righteous voice sounded from the foot of the stairs. “Mother! I’m not going to wait for Jimmy any longer. He’ll be late!”

“Run along, honey,” Barbara called. “He’ll catch up with you.”

“He’ll be late, you watch!” The door slammed as she left the house and Farrell went to the windows and looked down into the street. Angey was hurrying to meet the Sims children, blonde hair shining above the felt collar of her blue coat. Cute and pretty, Farrell thought, as he turned and glanced around the bedroom; everything cute and pretty, wall-to-wall carpeting, the aroma of bacon and coffee, scrubbed, handsome children and Barbara in a peach-colored housecoat; everything wonderful, everything serene and gracious.

He tried to stay calm, tried to maintain a judicial, sympathetic attitude, but it was just about too much for him. By the books he was wrong, of course; old-fashioned, a century behind the times. The progressive, enlightened parent would place the boy’s future integration far above the sordid but essentially unimportant fact that he was a liar and a thief. But Farrell was ashamed of his son; it disgusted him to look at his tear-streaked face, his swollen eyes, to hear him confess that he bad been bullied into stealing by a pair of tough, aggressive youngsters who probably had spotted him for the softest touch in the neighborhood.