THE HEAVEN THAT NEARLY HAPPENED
JANUARY came in furiously, peppering with sleet, bombarding with hail,
storming with snow-laden winds. Day after day the sun refused to show
himself, and the kitchen was so dark that, whenever work had to be done,
the lamp was lighted.
In such weather Johnnie was cut off from the outside world; was almost
like another Crusoe. Having no shoes and no overcoat, he would not
venture out for a walk with his dog. Fuel was so costly that he could
not even open the window to take his taste of the outdoors. His feet
were wrapped up in bits of blanket, and his thin arms were covered by
footless, old stockings of Cis's, which he drew on of a morning, keeping
them up by pinning them to the stubby sleeves of the big shirt.
Many a day Big Tom stayed at home, dozing away the time on his bed. Such
days were trying ones for Johnnie. Seated at the kitchen table, his
large hands blue with the cold, hour upon hour he twisted cotton petals
on wire stems to make violets--virtually acres of them, which he
fashioned in skillful imitation, though he had never seen a violet grow.
Violet-making tired him, and often he had a stabbing pain between his
shoulder blades.
But when Barber was away, the gloomiest hours passed happily enough. He
would finish his housework early, if none too well, scatter the oilcloth
with petals and stems, as if this task were going forward, then pull the
table drawer part way out, lay his open book in it, and read. It was
_The Last of the Mohicans_ which claimed all of his interest during the
first month of that year. And what the weather was outside mattered not
a jot to him. He was threading the woods of spring with Cora and Alice,
Uncas and Heyward.
It was later on, during February, when _The Legends of King Arthur_ were
uppermost in Johnnie's mind, that the flat had a mysterious caller, this
a bald-headed, stocky man wearing a hard black hat, a gray woolly storm
coat, and overshoes. "You Johnnie Smith?" he asked when the door was
opened to his knock.
"Yes, sir."
The man came in, sat without waiting to be asked, and looked around him
with a severe eye. Johnnie was delighted at this unusual interruption.
But Grandpa was scared, and got behind Johnnie. "Is that the General?"
he wanted to know, whispering. "Is that the General?"
"Is your father home?" asked the strange man finally.
"My father's dead," replied Johnnie.
"Ah. Then Mr. Barber's your uncle, eh?"
"He ain't no relation," declared Johnnie, proudly.
The clock alarm announced the hour of five. Johnnie fed the fire and put
the supper over. Still the man stayed. Once he got up and walked about,
stared into the blackness of Big Tom's bedroom, and held the lamp so
that he might have a look at Cis's closet. He grumbled to himself when
he put the lamp down.
All this made Johnnie uneasy. He could think of only one reason for such
strange and suspicious conduct. The books! Could _this_ by any chance be
Mr. J. J. Hunter?
When Barber came in, it was plain to Johnnie that the longshoreman knew
instantly why the man had come. At least he showed no surprise at seeing
him there. Also, he was indifferent--even amused. After nodding to the
visitor, and flashing at him that dangerous white spot, he sat and
pushed at first one cheek and then the other with his tongue.
"My name's Maloney," began the man, using a severe tone. "I'm here about
this boy."
Johnnie started. The man's visit concerned himself! He felt sure now
that it was about the book. He wondered if there would be a search.
Barber thrust out his lip. "You're a long time gittin' here," he
returned impudently. And laughed.
At that the man seemed less sure of himself. "Don't know how I've missed
him," he declared, as if troubled.
"Seein' he's been right here in this flat for five years," said the
other, sneeringly.
Maloney rose, and Johnnie saw that he was angry. "You know the law!" he
asserted. "This boy ought to be in school!"
School! Johnnie caught his breath. Mr. Maloney was here to help him! Had
not Cis declared over and over that some day Big Tom would be arrested
for keeping Johnnie home from public school? Mrs. Kukor had agreed. And
now this was going to happen! And, oh, school would be Heaven!
"Sure," assented Big Tom, smoothly. "But who's goin' t' send him? 'Cause
I don't have t' do _anything_ for him."
"You'll have to appear before a magistrate," declared the other. "For
I'm going to enter a complaint."
Barber began to swell. With a curse, he rose and faced Maloney. "Look
here!" he said roughly. "This kid is nothin' t' me. I fetched him here
when his aunt died. I didn't have t'. But if I hadn't, he'd 've starved,
and slept in the streets, or been a cost t' the city. Well, he's been a
cost t' me--git that, Mister Maloney? T' _me_! A poor man! I've fed him,
and give him a place t' sleep--instead of takin' in roomers, like the
rest of the guys do in this buildin'."
Again the man looked about him. "Roomers?" he repeated. "Why, there's no
ventilation here, and you get no sun. This flat is unfit to live in!"
"You tell that t' the landlord!" cried Big Tom, his chest heaving. "He
makes me pay good rent for it, even if it _ain't_ fit t' live in!"
Maloney shook his head.
"Oh, yes, I know all about your city rules," went on the longshoreman.
"But the Dagoes in this tenement pack their flats full. I don't. Jus'
the boy sleeps in this kitchen. And if it wasn't for me, where'd he be
right now? Out in the snow?"
Maloney shrugged, sat down, and leaned back, thinking. And in the pause
Johnnie thought of several matters. For one thing, now he had a new way
of considering his being in the flat. Sure enough, if Barber had not fed
and housed him where would he have been? With Uncle Albert? But Uncle
Albert had never come down to see him; had not--as Big Tom had often
taken the pains to point out--even written Johnnie a postcard. Now the
boy suddenly found himself grateful to Barber.
Mr. Maloney's manner had lost much of its assurance. "But the boy must
be taught something," he declared. "He's ignorant!"
Ignorant! Johnnie rose, scarcely able to keep back a protest.
Barber whirled round upon him. "Ignorant!" he cried. "Y' hear that,
Johnnie? This gent thinks you don't know nothin'!--That's where you're
off, Maloney!--Johnnie, suppose you read for him. Ha? Just show him how
ignorant y' are!"
Johnnie made an involuntary start toward the drawer of the table,
remembered, and stopped. "What--what'll I read?" he asked.
The man looked around. "Exactly!" he exclaimed. "What'll he read? What
have you got in this flat _for_ him to read? Where's your books? or
papers? or magazines? You haven't a scrap of printed matter, as far as I
can see."
"Give us that paper out of your overcoat," suggested Big Tom, ignoring
what the other had said. "Let the kid read from it."
As Johnnie took the paper, he was almost as put out at the man as was
Barber. "I've read ever since I was a baby," he declared. "Aunt Sophie,
she used to give me lessons." Then he read, easily, smoothly, pausing at
commas, stopping at periods, pronouncing even the biggest words
correctly.
"All right," interrupted Maloney, after a few paragraphs. "That'll do.
You read first rate--first rate."
"And I know dec'mals," boasted Johnnie; "and fractions. And I can spell
ev'ry word that was in Cis's spellin' book." Yes, and he knew much more
that he dared not confess in the hearing of Barber. He longed to
discourse about his five books, and all the wonderful people in them,
and to say something about the "thinks" he could do.
"There y' are!" exclaimed the longshoreman, triumphant. "There y' are!
D' y' call that ignorant? for a ten-year-old boy?"
Maloney looked across at Johnnie and smiled. "He's a _mighty_ smart
lad!" he admitted warmly.
"Knows twice as much as most boys of his age," went on Barber. (He had
come to this conclusion, however, in the past five minutes.) "And all he
knows is good. He behaves himself pretty fair, too, and I don't have
much trouble with him t' speak of. So he's welcome t' stay on far's
_he's_ concerned. But"--his voice hardened, his nose darted sidewise
menacingly--"if _you_ stick your finger in this pie, and drag me up in
front of a Court, I'm goin' t' tell y' what'll come of it, and I mean
just what I say: I'll set the kid outside that door,"--indicating the
one leading to the hall, "and the city can board and bed him. Jus' put
_that_ in your pipe and smoke it!"
Evidently Mr. Maloney did not smoke, for though Johnnie watched the
visitor closely, the latter drew out no pipe. "Wouldn't know where I
could send him," he confessed, but as if to himself rather than to Big
Tom; "not just now, anyhow. But"--suddenly brightening--"what about
night school?"
"Have him chasin' out o' _nights_?" cried Barber, scandalized. "Comin'
in all hours off the _street_? I guess _not_! So if you and your Court
want this kid t' go t' night school, out he gits from _here_. And that's
my last word." He sat down.
Mr. Maloney got up, a worried expression on his face. "I'll have to let
the matter stand as it is for a while," he admitted quietly. "This year
the city's got more public charges than it knows what to do with--so
many men out of work, and so much sickness these last months. And as you
say, the boy isn't ignorant."
When he went, he left the paper behind; and that evening Johnnie read it
from the first page to the last, advertisements and all. Big Tom saw him
poring over it, but said nothing (the boy's reading on the sly had
proved a good thing for the longshoreman). Johnnie, realizing that he
was seen, but that his foster father did not roar an objection, or jerk
the paper from his hands, or blow out the light, was grateful, and felt
suddenly less independent.
But what he did not realize was that, by reading as well as he had, he
had hurt his own chances of being sent to public school.