Early one summer morning Mama announced, “You must go to the Welfare office.”
I stopped eating cornflakes and looked away from the cockroach climbing over the peeling paint high up on the green kitchen wall. I peered across the metal kitchen table at Mama. She was wearing her usual sleeveless, ripped black dress that she wore all summer. Beads of sweat dripped down her forehead and her face was bright red.
I was scared to go, but Mama insisted. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You know how to talk to people.”
People spoke to me like I was a grownup because I was as tall as Mama, and they thought I was much older. Although I liked the freedom of walking to school and the library by myself, and wanted to be grown-up, I also wished I was petite and cute and treated like my friends, as a nine year old.
Mama never talked much to me. Now she went on about how she and my older brother had been running high fevers for several days and that Welfare must send a doctor. The doctor had come to see me each time I’d had a high fever and when I had pneumonia he called for an ambulance to take me to the hospital.
Mama said, “Finish your cornflakes. You must go before it gets too hot outside.”
“The Welfare office is far away.” I’d never walked out of my Bronx neighborhood all alone before, or crossed Southern Boulevard or Tremont Street by myself. I’d never even gone into an office or store by myself.
“You know where it is. You’ve been there with me.” I’d been there a couple of times while Mama begged for money to buy shoes for me and my brother. She’d made me show the Welfare lady the big holes in the soles of the tight black oxfords that crushed my little toe.
“What do I say to them?”
“You don’t need to say anything. Just give them this note,” and she held up a folded piece of paper that she had ripped out of a used school notebook. “They will send a doctor.”
Mama handed me a dime for the trolley just in case it got too hot outside. “Better that you don’t spend it. Keep it in your pocket and don’t let anyone steal it from you.” She always worried about thieves and murderers, because almost all her family had been killed in the Holocaust.
Thrilled to carry so much money, I put the dime in my dungaree pocket. I felt grown up carrying so much money for trolley rides. Mama saved every penny that she could and never took the trolley unless we were both weighted down with heavy shopping bags.
Outside the sun blazed down on Daly Avenue with its five story walk-up apartment buildings. It was empty, not even dogs racing around. On 180th Street, a few cars honked and a trolley clanged by. I walked through my neighborhood, past the public library, fruit stands, the dairy and the egg store, starting to sweat, but I didn’t want to spend a nickel on the trolley.
I’d crossed 180th street many times by myself on my way to PS67, but not Southern Boulevard and Crotona Parkway with their heavy traffic. The two thoroughfares were separated by an island in the middle. I walked under the cooling shade trees that lined the parkway strip. The long rows of vacant benches I passed would fill up in the afternoon and evening with older people speaking different languages. I wished Mama would go outside and sit and talk to other people. She preferred to sit at the kitchen table and read the New York Times, found in trash cans or on the street, and thick library books. She only left the apartment to buy food. I wished she were like other mothers who sat outside chatting and watched their children play.
Trolleys clanged by on Tremont Avenue, past the Five and Dime. I loved looking into the store windows, especially Tom McCann. It had the biggest glass windows filled with shoes, men’s on one side and women’s on the other. I saw pretty red sandals like my friends wore and wished I could have them instead of my ugly charity shoes.
In a refrigerated glass case, behind a still closed window, two rows of Charlotte Russes stood in their frilly white cardboard holders, beautiful white roses each with a ruby in the center. My mouth watered as I stood there and stared at each circular cut of sponge cake, topped with whipped cream and a maraschino cherry. I’d had a rare three cents ice cream cone, but never a ten cent Charlotte Russe. My friends told me how delicious they were. Maybe someday. Whenever I asked for Mama to buy me something she said that when I grew up I would work and make enough money to buy everything I wanted. But I wanted red sandals and a Charlotte Russe now.
The Bronx County building on Arthur Avenue towered over the other buildings. Mama had led me past there many times on our way to the stalls on Bathgate Avenue. Mama bargained down the price of apples, carrots and oranges. She spoke to vendors in Polish, Russian, German or Yiddish. She told them that she was a poor widow with two children and begged for a lower price.
The door to the vast government building was open. I entered the gleaming marble lobby with elevators, and a high ceiling, and felt tiny. I remembered to turn left into the Welfare office. It was empty. Walking up to the lady at the big desk, I said, “I have a note from my mother.”
Glaring through thick eyeglasses, the woman said, “The office is not open yet.”
I stood there to wait, but the woman said, “Sit down,” pointing to chairs under the giant window. While I sat like I was told, people lined up at the desk. There were all kinds of people, men and women, mostly light skinned, but some Mama had called “Spanish.” All were neatly dressed. The men wore white shirts, some with ties. Only one man wore a blue polo shirt. The women all wore dresses or skirts. I was the only child in the room and the only female wearing pants. I loved my dungarees. Girls had only recently started wearing them, and I’d felt really lucky when they turned up in a bag of charity clothes and fit me.
I thought that I was first and would be called up just the way Mama was when we’d last been here. But the lady took the first person in line, so I went up to the desk and asked, “Can I give you my mother’s note now?”
She said, “You need to wait in line.”
I went to the end of the long line and stared at the big clock on the wall. The second hand barely moved at all. I wished I could have a Charlotte Russe. I could tell Mama that I’d spent the dime on the trolley. It would be so cool, creamy and sweet. But I didn’t want to lie.
The line moved slowly. A breeze tickled my neck. I turned around to see what was blowing. A man stood too close behind me. At 5 feet 4 inches, I was taller than him, and as tall as Mama.
After I faced forward, his hand slid down my hip. I was sure he was trying to pick my pocket so I stepped forward a bit and to the side. But the man moved closer. Stepping back, I dug my heel into his foot and put my hand in my pocket to protect my precious dime. He pressed against me. I felt like Little Red Riding Hood, needing to get away from this wolf. I went to the end of the line.
The line was out the door now. People fanned themselves with newspapers. I stood for hours, watching the clock, longing for Hershey chocolate, strawberry ice cream, lemon cookies, sponge cake, red licorice, jelly candies and Charlotte Russes most of all. I’d never stood for such a long time. Although very tired, I stayed because Mama and my brother needed a doctor.
Finally, I was next. The lady’s icy eyes stared vacantly as she said, “We are closed for lunch now. I am closing the door and you need to step outside.”
I held the note out and said, “My mother is sick and needs a doctor. She sent you this note.”
Icy eyes said, “Come back at one.” I was starving and decided to go home to have lunch.
On Tremont Avenue, I walked under the awnings that shielded store windows from the summer heat. Sweat dripped down my forehead and neck, and my feet hurt a lot in my old, tight shoes. Mama had said to take the trolley if it was too hot. Trolleys passed by. Why waste my money on the trolley when I could get a cold, white Charlotte Russe.
Down the block, I stopped and stared into the glass case filled with a dozen Charlotte Russes. I could almost taste the cake and whipped cream and the red cherry on top. The man behind the counter asked what I wanted. I remembered Mama and Barry sick at home.
I didn’t spend the dime. Maybe Mama would let me keep it.
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Beulah Amsterdam is a retired clinical psychologist and grandmother, and lives in Davis, California. Her work has been published in Tule Review, Americas Review, Chiron Review, and Gravel Magazine.
Photo: Leah Koenig
