Worthy Witness

John, my oldest brother, was the only one of nine children born in New York City at Jamaica Plains Hospital in the mid 1930’s.  Mom,  younger, by 10 years than Dad, had fallen madly in love with the handsome, slim Northern Italian with a black, brim-turned-down fedora.  Her father, an itinerant farmer, who moved his family from home to home, didn’t like Italians and said my Mom should never call or see them again. When  John came home from the hospital, he slept in an open bureau drawer lined with soft blankets; there was no money for a crib.

During that Depression time, there were few jobs in the country, but Dad had connections in New York, and he drove new cars to Miami and Las Vegas, coming back on the train.  Often, Dad would be longer than expected and Mom learned to ration the peanut butter and bread so Dad would have something to eat when he returned.   One day he came back with a high fever; his body trembling with shivers.  Mom said he was delirious and feared it was pneumonia.  The snow that early spring morning had  turned to slush when Mom wrapped John in all of his blankets and took the money she was saving for boots out of the glass jar with the brass top.  She kissed her handsome man’s fevered brow and said she would be back with medicine.

On foot, buffeted by a March wind, she navigated  the wet sidewalks and flooded streets, and held John tight to her thin coat as they stood at a corner waiting for the light.  She could see the sign for the pharmacy on the next block.

A Packard, the kind Dad drove to his clients, took the corner too fast, and Mom and John were drenched.  With a screech of brakes, the car stopped just beyond, and a well-dressed matronly woman came to their aid.  Apologizing and taking Mom’s arm, she led them to the polished black car, and her man helped them in.

The penthouse apartment on Park Avenue was filled with thick oriental rugs, precious porcelain imports and a blazing fire in the livingroom where she was led.  The woman offered to take John while Mom dried off with thick cotton towels.  She ordered tea and breakfast and noticed the young mother’s wet shoes.  Restoring John to Mom, she went into another room and came back with a thick wool coat and high black boots that buttoned to the side.  “We’re just about the same size,” she said, “try these on.  I just bought some new ones.”  Mom was reluctant; proud, didn’t take handouts, but she was also practical and knew about answered prayer.  She tried; they fit.

The woman had her chauffeur drive Mom to the drugstore, where she found medicine.  She also found a $50 bill in the pocket of her new coat.  When she and John returned to the little apartment, and he was tucked into his bureau drawer, fast asleep, she woke her young husband, gave him a dollop of the medicine, and took off her coat and new boots to lie beside him.