Apartment Kitchen, Sacramento, California
September 16th, 1947, Tuesday
The moment Lynn slapped the table, the red clock above the kitchen window chimed the half hour. “Ray, when will you find a job? We can’t live like poor people.”
Oh boy. She never lets up about our finances. “Come on, dear.” I rotated yesterday’s newspaper and pointed to my pencil scratches around several want ads. “There hasn’t been steady work for two months. I can’t dig trenches or cut down a tree because of my bum knee.”
She snatched the empty Skippy peanut butter jar from the counter, and an oily scent flooded the room. “The boys keep asking if there’s something to eat besides sandwiches.” She banged the jar down and pointed at the bowl of last night’s stale kernels. “Or popcorn.”
“Honey, I called on five businesses yesterday. Nobody is hiring.”
“Find a job, Ray, or I’ll take the boys back to Texas. The police will love it if I talk about what happened. Everyone will think that—”
“Stop it.” My chest tightened. “I asked you not to mention what our fathers did.”
“Why not? The big story in Dallas was them stealing from clients, and the police were questioning anyone tied to the company.”
“Dear, you’ll be in a hornet’s nest if you go back.”
“Watch me. Our situation is that bad.” She pointed at Dad’s diary on the table. “He’s dead. You hate him, so why read his journal?”
“Because his advice is solid, like this: ‘You’ll never get a good job from newspaper adverts.’ But I’m forced to do it anyway.”
She fiddled with her wedding ring. “Find a job, fast. I mean it.” She tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “You could accept the janitorial job at the warehouse.”
“You didn’t want me cleaning toilets after midnight because you and the boys wouldn’t see me.”
“We have to swallow our pride, Raymond. We need money and we need it now.” Her last word exploded like a gun blast.
She was more upset than I had imagined. Lynn couldn’t accept the idea of us being poor because money wasn’t a problem in Dallas. Here in Sacramento, the past two months had distorted me into a freeloader with a family. We were paupers, possessing sixteen dollars and thirty-five cents, all jingling in my pocket. The rent was due in a week, our food would be gone by then, and the car’s tank was almost empty.
“Let’s pray the Lord will open up something,” I said, “and see what’s in today’s newspaper.”
“Yeah, go buy one. But that god of yours has nothing to do with getting a job. He’s nothing more than a fairytale in the wind.”
My Christian faith was always a point of contention between us. Would she ever understand?
“There’s no need to get upset, dear,” I said. “I’ll get the paper and see if anyone has posted a new job.” I shrugged into my denim jacket with the tattered collar, ignoring her glare that could bore a hole through a wall.
In the other room, four-year-old Dennis smiled up at me as I passed him. Little Joel, two years younger, remained focused on his favorite picture book.
Outside, the brisk air bit my ears as I trudged toward downtown. A gray 1941 Dodge whizzed past, towing a cloud of leaves and spinning them in a whirlwind. At the corner house, the tawny mutt growled from behind the picket fence.
The new soda fountain at the Rexall Drugstore was open. If we had the money, I’d get the kids an ice cream cone and Lynn a cherry Coke.
At Sixth and P Street, the scruffy, unshaven street vendor with down-at-the-heel shoes pocketed my coin and gave me the most recent edition of The Chronicle.
I rubbed my chin’s whiskers. How long before my appearance equaled his? If I didn’t find a job soon, my car would be our rusty residence under a bridge. I lifted my eyes to the sky. Lord, we need your help, and we need it now.
The headlines in the newspaper screamed about the HUAC, the House Un-American Activities Committee, subpoenaing people in the film industry. The entire nation was in an uproar, and Congress was actively searching for Communist sympathizers.
I flipped to the last two pages and browsed the want ads. My finger froze mid-page on two lines of block type.
WILSON INDUSTRIES. IMMEDIATE SALES OPENING.
CALL FOR AN INTERVIEW. PH CH3-8331.
My heart leaped at the possibility, no matter how remote. Help me, God.