The Logical Surrogate

When Jerry Donovan began delivering the Chicago Herald American two months after school started, summer had already breathed its last. It was the repeated stabs of cold northern air that had emphatically closed the season. In the Sheffield neighborhood, shivering leaves still clung bravely to helpless trees, but in the end it would all come to nothing. In a week or two they would be swirling in circles behind passing autos and the Webster Avenue streetcars.

Although Jerry’s father had been discharged from the army and resumed his former job two years before, with Jerry’s mother home raising him, his older sister and younger brother, one salary didn’t go far. Once Jerry turned 12 and his sister started working in the dime store over on Lincoln, Jerry was told it was time he helped out.

When he took the paper route, Jerry didn’t think it would change his life much. But it did. For one thing, it meant he had to hurry home every day after school so subscribers would receive their paper as early as possible. In other words, Jerry had to postpone playing with his friends until after supper. And even on Saturdays and Sundays, when he looked forward to the pure bliss of sleeping late, he had to be out on his route no later than eight am. Jerry despised that obligation the most.

One of the first stops on Jerry’s route was a small grocery store in the basement of a brick three-flat over on Webster. The owner was a short stout woman who never smiled and didn’t seem to know Jerry whenever he entered the store without her daily newspaper. Her long white hair was always coiled like a snake and tied in a bun. Sometimes Jerry stopped there on his way home at lunchtime to buy a loaf of Green Mill bread. His mother was partial to it and enjoyed toasting slices in the morning and making sandwiches with it for lunch.

Jerry had to go under the el tracks and then around the corner on Sheffield to deliver the paper to the Macaulay’s. The sound of passing trains was noisy, but the heavy rumble of the North Shore interurban trains resembled thunder. The elderly couple lived in the front apartment on the second floor of a building with bright bays and a large front porch. Jerry entered the hall everyday, walked up the steep flight of stairs and placed the paper in front of their door.

Jerry knew the couple liked him because Mr. Macaulay always gave him a tip, and his wife gave him a small bag of homemade chocolate chip cookies when he came to collect on Saturdays. From the paint on Mr. Macaulay’s hands and clothes, the unfinished painting on an easel and the many others crowding the small apartment, Jerry knew Mr. Macaulay was an artist.

Around another corner on Belden, in a yellow brick apartment building beside the el tracks, Jerry delivered the paper to Mrs. Prescott. It was three long flights up to the third floor where she lived alone with her son, Frank.

Frank had been in Jerry’s class when school started in September and had sat in the desk directly behind him until just before the month ended. Then one morning Frank didn’t come. His seat was vacant for the rest of the day and then for the remainder of the week. No one in the class knew why. Jerry and his friends were puzzled. What could have happened, they wondered. Their teacher said nothing, and rumors were soon rife. The most common was that Frank had gone to live with a relative or just left home. A few said they were glad he had run away because they thought of doing the same thing.

Frank was quiet but friendly. If you spoke to him he responded; but he seldom initiated a conversation. When he did speak, he spoke softly as if lacking sufficient breath to finish a sentence. Some noticed the skin around his eyes was dark, creating caves from which he peered out. Frank was seen to scowl ominously when the teacher called on him.

Sometimes, when the boys played touch tag in the schoolyard, he was easily caught because he was invariably out of breath before anyone else. One time he fell, and it took him awhile to get up. But he never complained or sought sympathy. He also didn’t call classmates names, or talk during class. Frank was considered a bit of a goody-goody, but a likeable goody-goody.

On Monday morning the following week, the teacher began class by announcing that Frank Prescott had died over the weekend. She said he had been living with a very serious illness for a long time and that, although it was not contagious, it finally had taken his life. She asked the class to keep Frank in their thoughts and prayers.

Not many days later, Mrs. Prescott opened the door to her apartment as Jerry was delivering her newspaper. “I saw you coming down the street so I knew you were on your way here,” she said, trying hard to smile. “Weren’t you in Franklin’s class at Knickerbocker school?”

Before Jerry could answer, she went on. “I was looking at Franklin’s class picture from last year and you look just like a boy sitting in the front row. Am I right? That is you?” she said, holding the photograph up and pointing.

Jerry had to say yes. It was obvious he was the person in the photo.

She looked at him, and this time the smile she was trying to form finally did. It was warm and engaging. “Why don’t you come in and have some milk and cookies. Maybe we could visit for awhile,” she said, almost pleading.

Jerry went in, ate eight cookies, drank two glasses of milk and listened to Mrs. Prescott talk about her Franklin for almost an hour. (Jerry never knew that her son’s full name was Franklin and that he had been named after President Roosevelt). Mrs. Prescott also told Jerry how her husband had died in the war, how much she and her Franklin had missed him and how her Franklin had gotten sick and recently passed away. More than once, her voice broke when she told Jerry how lonely it was without him.

Jerry ate and drank and listened, but he didn’t know what to do when she cried. And she cried often. In desperation, he finally said he had to get back and finish his route. If he wasn’t home for supper, his mother would wonder if something had happened to him. When Jerry said it, he was sorry. He could plainly see, by the hurt expression on Mrs. Prescott’s face, she didn’t want him to go.

But as sorry as he was, Jerry made up his mind that, except for delivering the paper and collecting on Saturdays, he wouldn’t visit Mrs. Prescott’s apartment again. He didn’t know why, but it just didn’t seem right.

Several days later, Mrs. Prescott stopped Jerry in the hall and asked him to come in, but Jerry said he couldn’t. His mother worried when he came home late. It was a lie, but it worked.

At the beginning of the following week, Mrs. Prescott again invited him to stop for milk and cookies, and this time Jerry said he had to get home as soon as he could. He had a lot of homework to do (another lie).

Three days later when she invited him to come in, Jerry told her his mother was angry with him for eating cookies and drinking milk before supper. They were ruining his appetite (a third lie). That was her last invitation.

Approaching Mrs. Prescott’s apartment the next day, Jerry could hear her sobbing behind the closed door as he dropped the newspaper and turned to hurry down the stairs.