The Pomegranate – Part I

I sat down yesterday to write about my recent trip back home to Alabama and suddenly found myself in Chicago in the late 40’s. I’m still there today, still remembering those long walks through those long hallways and the people who came into my world and expanded it…and me. It must be time to tell these stories, or at least some of them. Maybe someone who used to be part of my life there is calling to me.

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“P, run down to Dago’s and get some milk for supper. Just milk now, don’t buy anything else…and count the change.”

I pushed myself up off the floor, leaving my little brother to finish the block house by himself. I reached for the dollar bill on the kitchen table as Mother continued “Put on your sweater, it’s cold outside and I don’t want you coming down with a cold”. Grabbing my red sweater off the couch, I swung open the door as Mother concluded her instructions, “Now hurry up and get back here, supper’s almost ready…and don’t forget to count the change”.

I slid out the door into the gentle light of the hallway and as I hurried toward the stairway I almost stepped on the neighbor’s guinea pig taking his nightly stroll. There were no pets allowed at the Reeburgh but Finky didn’t know that or if he did he didn’t care. You could catch him most any night around suppertime sashaying down the hall just like he owned the place. He was afraid of stairs so he never left our floor and his owners only left him out there for a short while each evening just to get some exercise. I suppose they figured it to be a safe time because Mr. Keys, the Super, would be at home having his own supper. Anyway, we all knew Finky and he never messed up the floor or anything so we pretty much accepted him as part of the family and allowed him his space. I stopped just long enough to say hello and scratch his head and then bounded for the stairs.

I could run those steps with my eyes closed. There were twenty steps, but I only counted the times my right foot landed and that was ten – then two giant steps to the left to begin the next flight. If I got down all three flights without seeing anyone else well, that was good luck. If I could run all the flights without seeing anyone and hold my breath the whole time that was even better and meant Daddy would take me and my brother to the park real soon. I smiled and took a deep breath as my feet hit the bottom landing and I pulled my sweater tightly around me as I pushed through the first of two sets of double doors leading out onto Cicero Avenue.

The noise and the cold collided with me at the same time as I entered the dusky street. The familiar muted sounds inside the building were replaced by honking horns and tires screeching. The boy at the newsstand shouted the headlines, waving a paper in the air with one hand while pulling his jacket tighter around him with the other and the El left streaks of light from its windows as it roared over its airborne tracks across the street. Exhaust fumes filled the air and I caught the smell of stale smoke from an old man walking past. The few people left on the street were hurrying home, heads bent down against the wind.

The market was a storefront in the Reeburg where I lived and I ducked my head and held my sweater tightly as I ran the 30 feet or so to the door. The bell clanged loudly as I entered and an old woman in a black coat covered with a gray shawl turned slowly to look over her shoulder at me, her hand not moving from the orange it was grasping at the top of the pile. She looked tired. Her eyes were cloudy and sad and there was a wisp of white hair on her forehead which had escaped from the bandana tightly tied underneath her chin. I smiled at her as she slowly turned back to the oranges.