Friday, July 1

Alex slept on the sofa just in case the phone rang.

At a quarter to seven he gave up and got dressed before waking Julie. She would sleep until noon if she had her way, and she inevitably woke up cranky. He hoped the bags of food would include cereal. They were on the verge of running out, even though all he allowed either of them to eat was half a cup's worth.

That morning, though, Julie was too excited to eat, and her excitement proved contagious. It wasn't like Alex had really expected Mami to call, he told himself. Food was important. They raced through their morning rituals, and left the apartment by seven-thirty. They'd be at Morse well before eight. It would be boring standing on line for over an hour, but they needed to be among the first, since they had to take the food back home and then Alex had to walk Julie to Central Park, make his rounds, and get to school before lunch.

They walked down Amsterdam Avenue, figuring they'd turn east on Eighty-fourth. Julie speculated about what food they'd be given.

"Nothing'll be as good as fresh vegetables," she said. "But that's going to have to wait."+

"Anything'll be good," Alex replied. "But yeah, your vegetables will be the best."

"I wonder what Bri's growing," Julie said. "Her birthday's tomorrow. Can we call her?"

"We're not supposed to," Alex said. "No calls from home for the first month."

"If she was here, we'd get three bags," Julie said.

"But one of those bags would be for her," Alex replied. "So there wouldn't be more food for us, anyway."

"Wow!" Julie said. "Look at that line."

Alex had no choice but to look. From Eighty-fourth down to Eighty-third was a solid row of people.

"Do you think they're all here for the food?" Julie asked.

"There's a cop," Alex said. "Let's ask."

The cop was standing on the corner of Eighty-fourth and Amsterdam, bullhorn in hand. "Keep in line! Keep in line!"

Alex remembered Yankee Stadium and started to shake. He told himself this was a completely different situation, and willed himself to calm down and ask the cop where the end of the line was for the food giveaway.

"Eighty-second," the cop replied. "That's what I heard fifteen minutes ago."

"Come on, hurry," Alex said to Julie. They ran to Eighty-second, but it was clear the end of the line began south of that.

"How can there be so many people?" Julie asked as they finally located the end of the line on Eighty-first and Columbus.

"I guess everybody* from the Upper West Side is here," Alex said. It certainly seemed that way. Unlike the line at Yankee Stadium, whole families stood in single file, some with little children tethered to their mothers to keep them from wandering off. Occasionally a cop strolled by and saw to it that there was no cutting ahead.

Julie stood immediately in front of Alex. "How long do you think this'll take?" she asked. "They're expecting me at the garden."

"How should I know?" Alex replied. It had never occurred to him there'd be so many people there. But even as they stood, the line grew longer, until it curved around Eighty-first Street. It was only slightly comforting to know they were no longer the last people in the line.

Most of the people kept quiet, although some of the children cried and veiled. The sun beat down on them, and Alex guessed the temperature was close to ninety. He saw an old woman faint and heard the panic from the family she was with. Eventually a man carried her off while his wife and their children staved on line.

At nine o'clock everyone got excited, waiting for movement to begin, but nothing happened. There was no way of knowing if the distribution had begun three blocks north of them, and no one was willing to leave in order to scout ahead and report on what was happening.

Finally, at close to ten o'clock, the shuffling forward began. It took another hour before Alex and Julie reached Eighty-second Street. By then, the quiet orderly line had grown angry. Men and women screamed and cursed. The cops yelled into their bullhorns for order, which only fed the anger of the crowd.

At eleven o'clock one of the cops yelled through his bullhorn, "Everyone south of Eighty-fourth Street, go home! Everyone south of Eighty-fourth Street, go home. There's no more food! Go home! Go home!"

"What the hell do you mean there's no more food?" a man screamed, and rammed into the nearest cop. Soon hundreds of people were stampeding, swinging wildly, not caring who they hit in their hunger and their rage.

Alex grabbed Julie. "Hold on!" he veiled, terrified that she'd get carried off by the mob.

Julie clutched his arm.

"Run!" Alex screamed. The two ran in tandem, trying desperately to weave their way through the chaos. Someone or something cut his face, and he could taste blood in his mouth. He pushed and pulled alongside Julie. Then he saw a baby being trampled. Almost in spite of himself, he bent down, trying to save the child, and as soon as he did, he lost Julie.

"Julie!" Alex screamed. It was impossible to see her now. He prayed that she was where he thought she was, and threw himself into the mob.

"Grab my hand!" he yelled to her.

Julie reached out, but she was too short to reach him. Alex pushed an elderly man onto the street. He could feel the man's fingers crunch under his shoe as he grabbed Julie. Holding on to her as tightly as he could, he used her almost as a battering ram, making a path through the mob until they could run freely toward Central Park.

Julie was trembling, "It's okay," Alex said, giving her a hug. "We're safe now."

"Your face," Julie said. "It's all bloody."

"It's nothing," Alex said, running his fingers over the cut. "Are you all right?"

Julie nodded, but he could see she was badly shaken. She had the makings of a bad bruise on her right cheek, where someone must have elbowed her. Alex heard gunshots to their west. They were lucky they'd escaped when they did.

"I'll take you home," he said. "We should be okay on Central Park West."

"No," Julie said. "Take me to the garden. They're expecting me."

Alex looked at his watch. There was still time to get Julie there before they returned to school. If he didn't, she wouldn't get fed, and now there were no bags of food to fantasize about and only their limited supplies at home. "All right," he said. "But we'd better hurry."

They raced through the park, and found Julie's classmates hard at work weeding. She went to Sister Rita, who put her arms around her and held her close.

"I've got to get to Vincent de Paul," Alex said, uncertain whether he was telling the nun or Julie or if either of them cared. He went back to Central Park West, then walked south to the school, arriving there just before lunchtime.

But Father Mulrooney stopped him on the way to the cafeteria. "Where do you think you're going, Mr. Morales?" he asked.

"It's lunchtime," Alex said. "Oh, do you mean the cut? I'll take care of that when I get home. Right now I just want to eat."

"I'm sure you do," Father Mulrooney said. "But you haven't handed in your sheets for the past two days. What makes you think you're entitled to lunch?"

"Maybe I'm not entitled," Alex said. "But I'm hungry and I need to eat."

"You know the rules," Father Mulrooney said. "No work, no food. If you're that hungry, go home and eat there. Don't bother to return on Tuesday unless you have done your visiting and have the signed sheet to prove it. Now go, Mr. Morales, and spend the holiday weekend contemplating the virtues of obedience."

Alex longed to pick up the priest and throw him across the hallway. He felt the other kids staring at him, almost willing him to do so.

"Go," Father Mulrooney said.

Alex stood still for a moment. If he did anything but leave, he'd be kicked out of Vincent de Paul. Forget college, which most likely no longer existed. Forget graduating, which had lost any meaning. No Vincent de Paul meant no lunch five days a week. No lunch five days a week meant certain starvation.