HLS No. 47: After a Brief Illness

From James H Lewis, a story of justice deferred

Bobby McArdle was a smart kid, and an observant one. It didn’t take him long to figure out how—or why—old Matt Gorman died.

The tough part was getting anybody to listen.

Heavy Snowfall in Sheffield Seen Through a Suburban Window by Neil Theasby (CC BY-SA 2.0)

Mr. Gorman hadn’t shoveled Wednesday night’s snow, so I climbed the seven steps to his front yard, another three steps to the enclosed porch, and placed the newspaper between the front and storm doors. He had intercepted me during my first week carrying the Dubuque Journal and asked—no, instructed me to place his paper between the doors every day, regardless of the weather. My predecessor had often failed to do so, prompting endless complaints to the newspaper.

When I’d started my route the year before, neighbors told me to watch out for him, that Mr. Gorman spent his time grousing about one thing or another. Dogs peeing or pooping on his lawn incensed him, but he also whined about kids playing in the side yard of the house next door and the unmuffled Chevy convertible Danny Steiner would later wedge beneath the rear end of a slow-moving tractor trailer past the blind curve on Route 3, north of town.

Despite his reputation, Mr. Gorman had always treated me with kindness, even inviting me inside to warm up on days such as this. He taught me about music and history and discussed private things, like respect for girls. “Life is about choices,” he’d told me. “Always choose wisely, and you’ll do well”—a lesson I still follow.

When I opened the storm door this January afternoon, however, the previous day’s newspaper fell out, its banner headline, “PROSPERITY AT ALL-TIME HIGH: IKE,” lying at my feet. I had never known Mr. Gorman not to collect his daily newspaper, but reasoning that he’d kept his door closed because of the subzero temperature, I returned yesterday’s edition to its place, along with today’s paper. A small story began “Bone-Chilling Eight Below Hits Dubuque,” but I needed no reminder. The cold seeped through my four layers of clothing, a film of frozen moisture covered the edges of my mouth, and smoke from dozens of chimneys fouled the air. I completed my path north on Roosevelt Avenue, crossed through the heavy snow between the denuded cornstalks in Mr. MacDonald’s field, and finished my route by walking south on Shiras Avenue to our house.

Mother was cooking calf liver again and asked how my day had gone. I felt like telling her it had been fine until the unpleasant smell assailed me. I made a peanut butter sandwich and read the paper as I ate. A fire had destroyed a farm implement company in Platteville, causing over a hundred thousand dollars in damage, and an out-of-town firm had purchased a large block of land in the new industrial development. The Corps of Engineers had created the site by dumping fill from a dredging operation on the Mississippi into the Lake Peosta slough. Most townsfolk welcomed the move, for the site was a breeding ground for everything from mosquitoes to bootleggers, Iowa being dry. But many had opposed it, some finding it too expensive, others doubting new businesses would settle there. One woman called the slough “a bird sanctuary.” Someone had painted over the large sign the city had posted, “180 ACRES OF RECLAIMED LAND,” to read “180 ACRES OF UNCLAIMED SAND.” But now a firm had pledged to develop it, bringing, Mayor Zimmerman declared, hundreds of new jobs.

Saturday morning was collection day. I brought along my metal-covered account book, each page containing the name and address of a subscriber and thirteen rows and four columns of weekly receipts I clipped and gave to customers as they paid me. This cumbersome system became demanding in winter since I had to remove my gloves each time I issued a receipt. Today I had to be cautious, for I had once frozen my hand to the aluminum cover.

Most subscribers had their forty cents ready, but I had to make change at a few doors. At Mrs. Murphy’s house, I rang, knocked, and got no answer, even though I could hear the TV blaring inside. She always dodged me on collection day. When the paper stopped delivery after four weeks, she called the business office, claiming I’d failed to come to her door. After what must have been two minutes, I crossed the street to Mr. Gorman’s home.

Since he had no bell, I had to open the storm door and knock on the windowless entry. As I did so, both newspapers tumbled out. I picked them up, stuffed them under my left arm and knocked again, but got no response. I moved to the next house, the one with the side yard, and rang the bell. As always, Mrs. Klein gave me two quarters and told me to keep the change. She was one of a dozen people who, together, added a dollar to the ten I earned for my week’s work.

“Have you seen Mr. Gorman?” I asked.