A Thousand and One Afternoons in Chicago Part 18

It was late afternoon. Greeks, Jews, Russians, Italians, Czechs, were busy in the street. They sat outside their stores in old chairs, hovered protectingly over the outdoor knick-knack counters, walked lazily in search of iced drinks or stood with their noses close together arguing.

The store windows glittered with crude colors and careless peasants'

clothes. It was at such times as this, hurrying home from a doctor's office or a grocery store, that Mrs. Sardotopolis enjoyed herself. Her little eyes would take in the gleaming arrays of tin pans, calico remnants, picture books, hair combs and things like that with which the merchants of Halsted Street fill their windows.

But this time Mrs. Sardotopolis had seven blocks to go to her home and there was no time for looking at things. Despite the heat she had carefully wrapped the baby in her arms in a shawl.

When Mrs. Sardotopolis got home there would be eight other children to take care of. But that was a simple matter. None of them was sick. When the eight children weren't sick they tumbled, shrieked and squealed in the dark hallway or in the street. Anywhere. Mrs. Sardotopolis only listened with half an ear. As long as they made noise they were healthy. So from day to day she listened not for their noise but to hear if any of them grew quiet.

Joe had grown quiet. Joe was the baby, a year and a half, and quite a citizen. After several days Mrs. Sardotopolis couldn't stand Joe's quiet any more. His skin, too, made her feel sad. His skin was hot and dry. So she had hurried off to the doctor.

There was hardly time in her day for such an errand. Now she must get home quickly. Mr. Sardotopolis and his three brothers would be home before it got dark. In the kitchen in the big pot she had left three chickens cooking.

A gypsy leaned out of a doorway. She was dressed in many red, blue and yellow petticoats and waists. Beads hung from her neck and her withered arms were alive with copper bracelets.

"Tell your fortune, missus," she called.

Mrs. Sardotopolis hurried by with no more than a look. Some day she would let the gypsy tell her fortune. It cost only twenty-five cents. But now there was no time. Too much to do. Her arms--heavy, tireless arms that knew how to work for fifteen hours each day--clung to the bundle Joe made in his shawl.

But the doctor was a fool. What harm could ice cream do? When anybody was sick ice cream could make them well. So Mrs. Sardotopolis lifted Joe up and turned her eyes toward an ice cream stand. She stopped. If Joe said, "Wanna," she would buy him some. But Joe didn't seem to know what she was offering, although usually he was quite a citizen. So she said aloud, "Wanna ice cream, Joe?"

To this Joe made no answer except to let his head fall back. Mrs.

Sardotopolis grew frightened and walked fast.

As she came near her home Mrs. Sardotopolis was leaning over the bundle in her arms, crying, "Joe! Joe! Do you hear, Joe?"

The streets swarmed with the early evening crowds of men and women going home. In the cars the people stood packed as if they were sardines.

A few feet from her door beside the candy and notion store Mrs.

Sardotopolis stopped. Her heavy face had grown white. She raised the bundle closer to her eyes and looked at it.

"Joe!" she repeated. "What's a matter, Joe?"

The bundle was silent. So Mrs. Sardotopolis pinched it. Then she stared at the closed eyes. Then she seized the bundle and crushed it desperately in her heavy arms, against her heavy bosom.

"Joe!" she repeated. "What's a matter, Joe?"

The glazier sitting in front of his gla.s.sware store stood up and blinked.

"Whatsamatter?" he asked.

Mrs. Sardotopolis didn't answer, but stood in front of her house, holding the bundle in her arms and repeating its name. A small crowd gathered. She addressed herself to several women of her race.

"I knew, before it come," she said. "He didn't want no ice cream."

Mrs. Sardotopolis walked upstairs and laid the bundle down on the table.

It lay without moving and Mrs. Sardotopolis stood over it without moving.

Then she sat down in a chair beside it and began to cry.

When Mr. Sardotopolis and his three brothers came home from driving the wagon they found her still crying.

"Joe is dead," she said.

The other children were all properly noisy. Mr. Sardotopolis said, "I will call my sisters and mother." He went over, looked at the child that lay dead on the table and stroked its head.

The sisters and mothers arrived. They took charge of the big pot with the three chickens in it, of the eight squalling little ones and of the silent bundle on the table. There were four sisters. As it grew dark Mrs.

Sardotopolis found that she was sitting alone in a corner of the room. She felt tired. There was no use hugging the baby any more. Joe was dead. In a few days he would be buried. Tears. Yes, particularly since in a few months he would have had a smaller brother. Now Mrs. Sardotopolis was frightened. Joe was the first to die.

She walked out of the house, down the dark hallway into the street. "It will do her good," said her mother-in-law, who watched her.

In the street there was nothing to do. There were no errands to make. She could just walk. People were just walking. Young people arm in arm. It was a summer night in Halsted Street. Mrs. Sardotopolis walked until her eyes grew clearer. She took a deep breath and looked about her nervously. There was a gypsy leaning out of the doorway. Mrs. Sardotopolis stared at her.

"Tell your fortune, missus," called the gypsy.

Mrs. Sardotopolis nodded and entered the hallway. Her head felt dizzy. But there was nothing to do until tomorrow, when they buried Joe. With a curious thrill under her heavy bosom, Mrs. Sardotopolis held out her work-coa.r.s.ened palm to the gypsy.

THE GREAT TRAVELER

Alexander Ginkel has been around the world. A week ago he came to Chicago and, after looking around for a few days, located in one of the less expensive hotels and started to work as a porter in a well-known department store downtown.

A friend said, "There's a man living in my hotel who should make a good story. He's been around the world. Worked in England, Bulgaria, Russia, Siberia, China and everywhere. Was cook on a tramp steamer in the south seas. A remarkable fellow, really."

In this way I came to call on Ginkel. I found him after work in his room.

He was a short man, over 30, and looked uninteresting. I told him that we should be able to get some sort of story out of his travels and experiences. He nodded.

"Yes," he said, "I've been all around the world."

Then he became silent and looked at me hopefully.

I explained, "People like to read about travelers. They sit at home themselves and wonder what it would be like to travel. You probably had a lot of experiences that would give people a vicarious thrill. I understand you were a cook on a tramp steamer in the south seas."

"Oh, yes," said Ginkel, "I've been all over. I've been around the world."

We lighted pipes and Ginkel removed a book from a drawer in the dresser.

He opened it and I saw it was a book of photographs--mostly pictures taken with a small camera.

"Here are some things you could use," he said. "You wanna look at them."

We went through the pictures together.