From the Improvement Era, June 1945 –

Don’t Be Afraid, Kid!

By Rosa Lee Lloyd

A trembling sigh came from the bottom of Ricky’s eleven-year-old heart as he watched mom in the big chair before the radio listening to the war news. Nothing was the same since his brother, Tug, had gone to war. “Mom’s birthday will be here in a few days,” he thought wistfully, “and I’ve got to find a way to buy her a cup and saucer like Tug used to do. I’ve got to take over for Tug.”

He leaned against the chair, his hand lingering on her shoulder.

“Good night, Mom,” he said.

She looked at him, her brown eyes tender and almost smiling like they used to do when Tug was home. His heart lifted as he pressed his lips hungrily to her cheek then the announcer’s voice cut through the room— “This is Chester Dayton, bringing you news from our amphibious forces with the Pacific fleet—”

Mom turned quickly to the radio, twisted the dial to make the voice
louder.

“Run up to bed, dear,” she said, unaware that she hadn’t returned his goodnight kiss.

But Ricky decided not to go to bed. Instead he stopped before the hall mirror, slicked his pocket comb through his curly dark hair, then tiptoed out the front door and ran down the icy sidewalk to Mr. Garrett’s corner store a block away.

The kindly, stooped old man was very amused. “Hmm, so Ed Brooks’ boy wants a job so he can earn a birthday present for his mother? Well, I don’t have any English Spode like Tug bought for her. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll order one specially for you. S’pose you know your brother’s first job was right behind that penny counter?”

Ricky beamed. “Gee, Mr. Garrett, I want to work right here where Tug did.”

He patted Ricky’s shoulder with a friendly old hand. “All right, my boy, you start tomorrow. We’ll say twenty-five cents an hour from four till seven. How’s that?”

“That’s swell, Mr. Garrett. Now, I can buy the best cup and saucer you can order, Mr. Garrett.”

Ricky was so happy when he started for home that he was walking on the clouds. He felt that he could reach up and pull a star out of the sky for mom.

He was halfway home when a familiar voice called sharply from the shadows by a parked car.

“Hi, Rick!”

Skeeter Hampton! Ricky’s heart dropped to his toes as Skeeter jerked him into the shadow with two older boys.

“What’s the hurry, Runt?” He pulled Ricky’s leather cap over his eyes. Ricky struggled free and raised his chest, proudly.

“Everything’s keen,” he said. “I just got a job at Mr. Garrett’s store.”

Skeeter’ s laugh cut through the cold night. “A job! Ain’t that keen! I know what that old droop pays — twenty-five cents an hour and him with a sack of dough hidden away. Not for me, Rick, I’m too smart. Listen, you can be smart, too. This is Don Henley and Al Browel from Eighth Street—”

Ricky forced a smile and raised his hand. ‘Hi,” he said weakly.

“They know things, Rick.” Skeeter went on, smoothly. “They’ve been places. You’ve never been off Poplar Avenue. Look, Rick — you don’t have to work. All you gotta do is learn a few tricks like this — ”

Ricky watched Skeeter with terrified fascination while he opened the car door with a long wire pick.

Then a strong, heavy hand came out of the darkness and grasped Ricky’s shoulder. Patrolman Jamson’s voice chilled through him. “What are you kids up to?”

Skeeter swung around. “Not a thing, Mr. Jamson,” he said without a quiver. “Ricky was just telling us about his new job at Mr. Garrett’s store. Swell thing — to have a job like that.”

Ricky’s heart beat up into his throat. Mr. Jamson still held his shoulder and looked at him closely, turning his flashlight in his face.

“Aren’t you Ed Brooks’ youngster?” he asked. Ricky nodded. “Well, I’ll have to speak to your folks about you chasing the streets at night. Now head for home.”

Ricky fled through the night. A wild fear fled with him. Ever since he could remember, Skeeter, who lived with his dad in a boardinghouse, had mocked him for being a “goodie-goodie boy.” He was a year older and two inches taller and had always bullied Ricky. Once he had told Tug about Skeeter, and Tug had said, “Don’t be afraid, kid, sometimes a fellow has to fight. As long as you know you’re on the right side, you’ve got him half licked before you start.”

Mom was still huddled by the radio when Ricky crept into the hallway. He longed to go to her and tell her what had happened and how afraid he was of Skeeter. He took a step toward her, then hesitated and turned back to the stairway. He couldn’t worry mom when she had to worry about Tug and the war.

His steps dragged as he went to his room and shut the door. He shivered when he crawled into bed. It was so cold and dark and lonesome as he put his arms around the pillow. He remembered what Tug had said in his last letter; that a fellow had to pray a lot these days —

Skeeter had told him that guys who said their prayers were sissies, but Tug didn’t think so. Tug said the bravest men said their prayers.

So Ricky knelt by his bed and prayed. He asked God to show him how to make their home the happy place it used to be before Tug went away, so daddy would hurry home from work every night, and mom would be jolly and gay again. “And please, dear God,” he said, “show me how to make my mother glad on her birthday.”

Ricky had been working for Mr. Garrett three days when he noticed Skeeter outside the window with his nose pressed flat against the pane. He was making signs which meant he would meet Ricky when he was through work. The old fear of Skeeter almost smothered him. He wouldn’t meet him now or any other time. He was through with Skeeter Hampton. He looked like a giant plastered there against the window, and Ricky could feel his heart falling like a hammer. He wouldn’t stand a chance in a fight with Skeeter.

At seven o’clock Mr. Garrett called Ricky into the back room. His face crinkled all over as he pointed to the table. Ricky followed his eyes and a warm glow of pride and satisfaction swept through him. There on a sheet of white tissue paper was the rosebud cup and saucer — the most beautiful in the world.

“Better take it home tonight, Ricky. Tomorrow is her birthday. Here’s a little box — just the right size. Yes, sir, we’re mighty lucky to get an English Spode this year with the war on.”

Ricky put on his leather cap and coat and tucked the box under his arm. “Gee, thanks, Mr. Garrett — thanks a lot,” he said gratefully, then he was out the back door and headed for the short cut when Skeeter caught up with him.

“What’s the idea?” he snapped. “Trying to fudge out on me.”

“I’m in a hurry, Skeeter.” Ricky dodged and almost stumbled in the heavy snow as Skeeter blocked the path.

“Listen, Ricky.” His voice was low and coaxing. “We’re doing things tonight. You can horn in, too — ”

Ricky bolted past Skeeter who grabbed his box with one hand and knocked his leather cap off with the other. Ricky didn’t stop until he reached the lighted street. Then a little gasp tore through him. Skeeter had his box with the cup and saucer in it! The one thing he counted on to make mom smile again!

Anger blinded him as he sped back through the alley. But Skeeter was gone and the box with him!

All through the night he tossed and tumbled in his sleep. He dreamed of Tug. He could hear him say again, “If you have to fight, don’t be afraid, Ricky.”

He awoke in the morning with the doorbell ringing in his ears; then he could hear voices in the hallway. Ricky dressed quickly and ran to the stairway and peered down. There was Patrolman Jamson and another officer. Then he saw mom and his breath caught in his throat.

“I heard the bell,” she said. “I thought maybe a letter — ”

Ricky’s throat tightened. Mom was so thin and pale.

Patrolman Jamson said, “Mrs. Brooks, I hate to disturb you, but there’s been a robbery at Garrett’s store. Mr. Garrett was hit on the back of the head — I found Ricky’s cap beside him — ”

Ricky’s heart beat like a wild thing. Skeeter had done it! Ricky couldn’t take his eyes from mom’s shocked face. She brushed her hands across her eyes and shook her head as if she didn’t understand.

“Ricky — a robbery?” she questioned. Then her head jerked up like a young colt’s stung for the first time with a whip.

Mom was really listening now! Mom seemed alive again! Ricky’s heart was singing in spite of the awful things that were being said about him.

Mom walked over and stood in front of Patrolman Jamson.

“Do you mean to say my little boy beat an old man and robbed him?”

“Now, look here, Mrs. Brooks, I’m not saying he’s guilty. He’s been seen on the street at night with Eighth Street boys. I saw him just a couple of nights ago myself. Last night when I made my rounds, I found the door to Garrett’s store wide open. Garrett was on the floor in the back room, unconscious. The place had been ransacked. Ricky’s cap with his name in it was right by the old man’s hand like he had jerked it off the kid’s head in the struggle.”

Ricky stood glued to the floor. He opened his mouth to call out, but no words came.

Mom’s voice was like a bell now, just like it used to be, and her eyes were like sparkling firecrackers.

She said, quickly, “Mr. Jamson, it’s my fault if Ricky has chased the streets lately. But I know he hasn’t done anything bad. I know it — he couldn’t do it. He’s not that kind of boy — ”

She was crying now, great shaking sobs that let her pent-up grief break through.

Mr. Jamson lowered his voice and said, kindly, “Mrs. Brooks, I know how parents feel. I’ve got two kids of my own, grown up now and overseas, but we always think of ’em as babies. I’ve been coming in here to talk to you and Ed about your boy — wish I had now. There’s too many youngsters running around loose because parents are too busy these days.”

Ricky sped down the stairs, and put his strong little arms around her. “Don’t cry, Mom,” he begged, “please, don’t cry.” She held him close, and his head just reached her heart. He could hear it pounding and he wanted to stay close like this forever.

“I heard what he said but I didn’t do it, Mom.” He lifted his brown eyes to hers. “You know I wouldn’t, I can tell about my cap, too, I know who robbed Mr. Garrett. I’ll go and find him and make him tell you himself. He says I’m a sissy ’cause I didn’t want to fight — but now,” his voice choked, then he went on bravely, “now I’ve got to fight. I could say who did it but that wouldn’t make him tell it — that’s my job!”

Ricky’s eyes were pleading as he looked at Patrolman Jamson. No one spoke for a long, breathless moment.

Patrolman Jamson pursed his lips. “My boy,” he said, I’ll give you a couple of hours to bring this boy to me.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ricky said, and his young eyes were clear and steady. Yes, with mom loving him again he would try to lick the whole world if it were full of Skeeter Hamptons!

Mom hugged Ricky closer. She said, “No, Ricky, no! I won’t let you fight. I’ll phone daddy — he’ll straighten things out.”

Ricky’s heart sank. Was she going to be like she’d been when Tug went in the marines? Mom had to see things straight. This was his fight. Tug had told him that when the time comes no one could fight it for him. Mom just had to understand how a fellow felt about things like this.

“Mom,” he said, tenderly. “I’ve got to do it. Tug said so.”

He tore from her clinging arms, grabbed his coat, and dashed out. He did not stop when he heard her call, “Ricky, come back, come back!” because he knew this had to be done.

Ricky hesitated at the corner of Eighth Street. This was Skeeter’s kingdom; his gang lived on this street and they held secret meetings in the Castle, the old garage, behind Skeeter’s boardinghouse. Ricky guessed that mom’s cup and saucer and the lock from Mr. Garrett’s store were in there. He remembered the big bell hanging on the door of the Castle; when the door was opened, even a little crack, the bell rang out so loud Skeeter could hear it way up in his bedroom.

He looked back toward Poplar Street; maybe mom was right, maybe Skeeter was too big and too tough for him. Then he looked down Eighth Street again. Tug had told him there were times when a fellow had to fight or be ashamed of himself the rest of his life.

His heart pounded in his throat as he kicked open the door of the Castle and the big bell rang out across the frosty air.

A minute passed — then two minutes — then Skeeter bounded out the back door of the house. His hair was ruffled up, his eyes were half shut with sleep, but when he saw Ricky they popped wide open.

“What you sneakin’ ’round here for, Runt?” he gritted. “D’ya think you’re a commando ‘er something.”

“I’m not sneakin’,” Ricky said talking low so his voice wouldn’t shake. “You’ve got to tell Mr. Jamson you beat Mr. Garrett — I want mom’s present back, too — ”

“Is that so! Who’s gonna make me?” said Skeeter lunging toward him. Ricky bent his head and ploughed in, desperately. Skeeter pounded his face with both fists, and Ricky could feel the hot blood running from his nose.

Skeeter made a quick turn and Ricky flopped backward, losing his grasp on Skeeter’s arms. Skeeter’s fist smashed his face — again — again.

Ricky’s head spun, his nose was bleeding, his eyes were closing, but he hung on desperately. He had to win — he had to win for mom and Tug. Then suddenly he remembered the marine Judo Tug had taught him when he was home on furlough, and with a forward lunge he cracked Skeeter’s throat with the hard side of his hand. When Skeeter lay gasping for breath, Ricky quickly turned him over, grabbing his arm at the same time, and with his knees planted firmly in Skeeter’s back, he forced his arm higher and higher. Skeeter groaned, but Ricky hung on mercilessly. It was beat Skeeter or Skeeter would beat him.

“Tell me where that cup and saucer is,” yelled Ricky. “Quick — or I’ll break your arm. Tell me.”

“No! I won’t,” Skeeter yelled.

Ricky twisted Skeeter’s arm higher. “Tell me,” he gritted. “I’m not foolin’. And tell the gang here you robbed Mr. Garrett. Tell ’em.”

Skeeter groaned again and pain twisted his face.

“Let go,” he blubbered. “I’ll tell.”

“Oh, no,” said Ricky, putting on the pressure, “you tell first — ”

“I did it,” Skeeter gasped, “The cup — is — in the Castle, behind the trunk.”

Ricky was satisfied now. He knew he’d never be afraid of Skeeter again.

* * *

It was mom’s birthday dinner. Ricky lay on the lounge in the living room and watched mom and dad set the table before the fireplace. They always ate in here on birthdays.

He had to watch everything with one eye because the other was swollen shut where Skeeter had pounded him. His shins were skinned and bruised. His body was so sore and stiff he could hardly move, but the eye that was open beamed with joy that surged through him.

Now he watched mom closely as she lifted her brown velvet eyes to daddy.

“We didn’t hear from Tug,” she said. He watched her hands as she lighted the birthday candles; they trembled, and Ricky swallowed hard. She was thinking of Tug again. She went on slowly, “If we could hear — just one little word — ”

Daddy hurried over to mom and pressed her head close against his shoulder. Then he talked to her in his low, strong voice, and Ricky knew that mom was listening because daddy only talked like that when he meant it from his heart.

“I know it’s hard for you, darling,” he went on. “It’s hard for all of us. We’ve got to help each other here at home — that’s what Tug expects us to do.”

He tipped mom’s face up so he could look into her eyes. “How about it, Mary — let’s try a little harder. Let’s be as brave as Tug and Ricky.”

Ricky held his breath, waiting for mom’s answer, and when she said, “I’ll try, dear,” he knew she meant it.

The table was all ready, and daddy held the high-backed hostess chair for mom. Tug always said mom was a little queen when she sat in that chair. She is a queen, thought Ricky, watching her dark eyes glow in the soft candlelight as she looked around the table.

Daddy called, “Come on, Ricky Boy.”

He took his package from the mantle and limped toward the table. He stood right by mom and watched her untie the little blue ribbon around the box. A pulse throbbed in his throat when she lifted the cup and saucer from the white tissue paper. Her hands caressed them, tenderly.

“English Spode!” she said in a breathless whisper. “Oh, Ricky — Ricky.” Her hands touched his hair, and then her warm sweet face was pressed to his. Mom smelled so good — like roses.

“A cup and saucer! And to think you earned it, Ricky!” Mom held him and looked at him as if she hadn’t seen him for a long time. Her eyes were shining into his. “Ricky, you’re just like Tug — both of you are heroes! Daddy, look what this child has done — it makes me ashamed I’ve been so lazy. But I’ll get busy on that white sweater, Ricky, this very night!”

Ricky’s heart was singing. God had answered his prayers — mom loved him again and daddy, too — and he had helped him in his fight with Skeeter. He must be sure to tell Tug in his next letter that it helped to say his prayers.

His head was high when he took his place at the table. He could hear dad’s cheery laugh and he knew he had kept his promise to Tug — home was safe now.