very expensive, but he wanted to apologize for not waking her to
tell her about the Lasky fight. He hadn't wanted to celebrate until
he had paid back the money to the relief office.
But when he got home, it wasn't the time for celebrating. Mike
Wilson's wife, Sara, was sitting on the sofa with her baby girl in
her arms. Her eyes were red from crying.
"Mike's gone," said Mae seriously. "It's been three days now."
"About a week after you left the docks, Jim, the foreman
stopped picking him for work," cried Sara. "I went to stay with my
brother. There wasn't room for Mike, so he's been sleeping in
Central Park." Sara looked straight at Jim. "He said he was going
to do some work for you. We were going to meet last night, but
Mike never came."
Silently, Mae pointed at the jar that contained their money. Jim
nodded. "Listen, Sara, you and Mae go and get something for the
baby's cough."
But Sara was crying. "Something's wrong. I know it is!"
Jim moved toward the front door. "I'll go and find him."
Hours later, Jim entered Central Park. As the sun sank, he knew
that the enormous park wasn't as empty as it looked. Since the
Crash of 1929, tens of thousands of New Yorkers were living in
cars, or on the streets, or in the subway. A lot of people had started
living in Central Park. Some of them built huts or tents from
any materials they could find. Others slept wherever they could.
They ate any food they could find or catch or steal.
Jim had heard that there had been a lot of sheep in Central
Park. Most had been moved away. Now, as he searched for Mike,
Jim saw park workers guiding the last sheep into enormous
wagons. Jim watched until a policeman on a horse waved at him
to move away.
The shadows became longer as night came, and soon trash can
fires were the only lights in the park. Jim went deeper into the
park, past huts and tents. The sound of wet coughs filled the air