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Jesse's Dream

By Victor Hess

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Chapter 1 January 13, 1957

It was still dark outside. I steered my green Schwinn bike around piles of snow and frozen slush so cold that I’d have to stop and break away the ice that kept building up on the chain. If it wasn’t for my bike though, it would have taken me so much longer to deliver Sunday’s Cincinnati Press.
My route covered the older part of Xenia, Ohio, and some people were already out shoveling walks and driveways, their snow piles creating more obstacles for me to avoid. If I turned too quickly, even my rugged tires would slip; and more than once, I took a spill. Newspapers flew out of my canvas bag, and I felt sorry for the subscribers at the end of my route during weather like this because those papers would be wet and even, sometimes, torn. When that happened, my tips suffered.
Hill Street was so slippery I had to walk the bike up the hill. At the top, I made my next delivery and then I stopped at the edge of the Monroe Street viaduct, a bridge that started at the top of Monroe Street, spanned the busy railroad yard, and descended sharply down to Third Street. I stared down the long straight road. There were no tire tracks; it was white and untouched. I thought, “a sled - yes; my bike - no” and rode one block east, over to Columbus Street. It would cost me a few more minutes, but I would avoid a big spill down the steep side of the bridge. I followed tire tracks that showed some cars had made the same choice.
After I crossed the six sets of railroad tracks, I swerved to avoid a rut in the road, only to hit a deep pothole hidden by the snow. In an instant, I was laid out on the road, blood pouring from my lip and my last three newspapers strewn around me. I scrambled to find the third paper that had buried itself under snow a few feet away. My lip was swelling, and I could taste the blood and sense a sting deep in my otherwise numb lip. I put the papers back in the bag, and as I lifted my bike, I saw the flat front tire. I’d have to finish my route on foot, dragging a bike and nursing a bleeding lip. My eyes were wet with tears, my nose running, and, when I brought my coat sleeve up to wipe it all clear, my entire face stung.
My lip kept throbbing as I finally got to the last house. When Mrs. Norman opened her door for me, she nearly screamed.
“Jesse Hall! What on earth?”
“It’s okay. I’ll be okay,” I said, half believing my words, relieved that the paper I handed her had no blood on it.
“Your dad needs to get you to the hospital.” Those words frightened me, and my eyes teared up again.
“Your face!” she said, with a look of pity in her eyes.
“I’ll be home in a minute, Mrs. Norman,” I slurred through my swollen lip, each word painful.
Mrs. Norman didn’t know I lived with just my mom and my sister. No dad would be there to take me to the hospital. But I didn’t want to take the time to explain that to her right now. Maybe next week. I just wanted to get home quick and look in a mirror.
I walked my crippled bike the final block home and stashed it behind the glider on the front porch. It looked like only a tube and tire would be needed. Maybe a patch on the tube would let me make it through Monday’s deliveries. I’d have to deal with that after church.
Once I got up the stairs and into our apartment, the warmth felt good, but the pain from my busted lip got worse.
“Jesse, what happened?” Mom asked, and rushed over from the kitchen stove, held my head with both hands, and inspected my lip. She used a dish cloth to dab blood from it, and then she started touching my cheek, near my nose, just under my eye. I jerked away from the fierce pain.
“I wrecked my bike by the tracks. Mrs. Norman said I needed to go to the hospital.” I knew Mom wouldn’t take me to the hospital. We had no car. She didn’t even know how to drive, and we couldn’t afford it anyway.
“Here, hold this on your lip. We have to stop the bleeding. I’ll get some ointment.”
My two-year-old sister was already sitting on the couch playing with her doll when I sat down next to her.
“Jesse, boo boo,” she said, using a term that we made up to describe any wound that bruised, broke the skin, or just plain hurt. She laid her doll down, climbed in my lap, and held her hand on the washcloth.
“Me help,” she said and gently wiped the wet cloth on my cheek, then my lip, and then she touched my cheek again.
“Me help,” she repeated.
I leaned back on the arm of the couch, and she lay on my chest. Her touch was soothing, and I welcomed each wipe of the cloth.
“Okay, let’s take a look,” Mom said, returning with a fresh cloth and this tube of ointment we used for cuts and burns. Christina gently pulled the old dishcloth from my face.
“Well, that’s not so bad after all,” Mom said. “How does it feel?”
“Better,” I said. The stinging was gone. The taste of blood was gone. Mom told me to swish out my mouth with salt water and that stung for just a moment.
“It looked so bad when you got here. You’re very lucky.” She kept studying the lip and the wound on my cheek. “Here, look.” She took me to the long mirror she kept by the sewing machine. “It’s like nothing ever happened.” I sensed her relief that we wouldn’t have to owe for a medical bill. I wondered now why Mrs. Norman made such a fuss.
“I don’t know what we would do if we had to see the doctor. Your dad owes me three months of child support,” she said. She kept count, and this time I didn’t try to defend him.
I guess I was lucky. Even my headache from the fall was gone.
When I finally sat down to a bowl of oatmeal, Christina said, “Boo boo all gone. All gone, Jesse.” I licked my lips. The swelling had gone down.
“I’ll get Christina ready for church,” Mom said.

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