Across the Fruited Plain | Page 3

looked, he said,
like Grandma--a funny idea to Rose-Ellen. Patched linoleum, doorstep
hollowed by thousands of feet--Grandpa looked at everything as if it
were new and bright, and as if he loved it.
Starting home, he took Rose-Ellen's small damp hand in his big damp
one. The sun blinded them as they walked westward, and the heat
struck at them fiercely from pavement and wall, as if it were fighting
them. Rose-Ellen was strong and didn't mind. She held her head
straight to make her thick brown curls hit against her backbone. She
knew she was pretty, with her round face and dark-lashed hazel eyes;

and that nobody would think her starchy short pink dress was old,
because Grandma had mended it so nicely. Grandma had darned the
short socks that turned down to her stout slippers, too; and Grandpa had
mended the slippers till the tops would hardly hold another pair of
soles.
"Hi, Rosie!" called Julie Albi, who lived next door. "C'm'out and play
after supper?"
"Next door" was the right way to say it. This Philadelphia street was
like two block-long houses, facing each other across a strip of
pavement, each with many pairs of twin front doors, each pair with two
scrubbed stone steps down to the sidewalk, and two bay windows
bulging out upstairs, so that they seemed nearly to touch the ones
across the narrow street. Rose-Ellen and Julie shared twin doors and
steps; and inside only a thin wall separated them.
At the door Dick overtook Grandpa and Rose-Ellen. Dick was twelve.
Sometimes Rose-Ellen considered him nothing but a nuisance, and
sometimes she was proud of his tallness, his curly fair hair and bright
blue eyes. He dashed in ahead when Grandpa turned the key, but
Grandpa lingered.
Rose-Ellen said, "Hurry, Grampa, everything's getting cold." But she
understood. He was thinking that their dear old house was no longer
theirs. Something strange had happened to it, called "sold for taxes,"
and they were allowed to live in it only this summer.
Grandma blamed the shop. It had brought in the money to buy the
house in the first place and had kept it up until a few years ago. It had
put Daddy through a year in college. Now it was failing. Once, it
seemed, people bought good shoes and had them mended many times.
Then came days when many people were poor. They had to buy shoes
too cheap to be mended; so when the soles wore out, the people threw
the shoes away and bought more cheap ones. No longer were Grandpa's
shoe racks crowded. No longer was there money even for taxes. All
Grandpa took in was barely enough for food and shop rent. But what
else besides mending shoes and farming did he know how to do? And

who would hire an old man when jobs were so few?
Even young Daddy had lost his job as a photograph finisher, and had
brought his wife and three children home to live with Grandpa and
Grandma. There Baby Sally was born; and there, before the baby was a
month old, Mother had died. Soon after, the old house had been sold
for taxes.
Grandma went about her work with the strong lines of her square face
fixed in sadness. She was forever begging Grandpa to give up the shop,
but Grandpa smashed his fist down on the table and said it was like
giving up his life. . . . And day after day Daddy hunted work and was
cross because he could find none.
For Dick and Rose-Ellen the summer had not been very different from
usual. Dick blacked boots on Saturdays to earn a few dimes;
Rose-Ellen helped Grandma with the "chores." They had long hours of
play besides.
But the hot summer had been hard for nine-year-old Jimmie and the
baby. They drooped like flowers in baked ground. Since Jimmie's
infantile paralysis, three years before, he had been able to walk very
little, and school had seemed out of the question. Unable to read or to
run and play, he had a dull time.
Grandpa and Rose-Ellen went through the clean, shabby hall to the
kitchen, where Grandma was rocking in the old rocker, Sally
whimpering on her lap.
"Well, for the land's sakes," said Grandma, "did you make up your
mind to come home at last? Mind Baby, Rose-Ellen, while I dish up."
After supper, Daddy sat hopelessly studying the "Help Wanted"
column in last Sunday's paper, borrowed from the Albis. Jimmie looked
at the funnies, and Grandma and Rose-Ellen did the dishes. Julie Albi,
who had come to play, sat waiting with heels hooked over a chair-rung.
The shabby kitchen was pleasant, with rag rugs on the painted floor and

crisp, worn curtains. The table and chairs were