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Updated: May 14, 2025
When anybody was sick ice cream could make them well. So Mrs. Sardotopolis lifted Joe up and turned her eyes toward an ice cream stand. She stopped. If Joe said, "Wanna," she would buy him some. But Joe didn't seem to know what she was offering, although usually he was quite a citizen. So she said aloud, "Wanna ice cream, Joe?" To this Joe made no answer except to let his head fall back. Mrs.
Sardotopolis hurried by with no more than a look. Some day she would let the gypsy tell her fortune. It cost only twenty-five cents. But now there was no time. Too much to do. Her arms heavy, tireless arms that knew how to work for fifteen hours each day clung to the bundle Joe made in his shawl. But the doctor was a fool. What harm could ice cream do?
They sat outside their stores in old chairs, hovered protectingly over the outdoor knick-knack counters, walked lazily in search of iced drinks or stood with their noses close together arguing. The store windows glittered with crude colors and careless peasants' clothes. It was at such times as this, hurrying home from a doctor's office or a grocery store, that Mrs. Sardotopolis enjoyed herself.
The glazier sitting in front of his glassware store stood up and blinked. "Whatsamatter?" he asked. Mrs. Sardotopolis didn't answer, but stood in front of her house, holding the bundle in her arms and repeating its name. A small crowd gathered. She addressed herself to several women of her race. "I knew, before it come," she said. "He didn't want no ice cream." Mrs.
Sardotopolis grew frightened and walked fast. As she came near her home Mrs. Sardotopolis was leaning over the bundle in her arms, crying, "Joe! Joe! Do you hear, Joe?" The streets swarmed with the early evening crowds of men and women going home. In the cars the people stood packed as if they were sardines. A few feet from her door beside the candy and notion store Mrs. Sardotopolis stopped.
So from day to day she listened not for their noise but to hear if any of them grew quiet. Joe had grown quiet. Joe was the baby, a year and a half, and quite a citizen. After several days Mrs. Sardotopolis couldn't stand Joe's quiet any more. His skin, too, made her feel sad. His skin was hot and dry. So she had hurried off to the doctor. There was hardly time in her day for such an errand.
Her little eyes would take in the gleaming arrays of tin pans, calico remnants, picture books, hair combs and things like that with which the merchants of Halsted Street fill their windows. But this time Mrs. Sardotopolis had seven blocks to go to her home and there was no time for looking at things. Despite the heat she had carefully wrapped the baby in her arms in a shawl. When Mrs.
There was a gypsy leaning out of the doorway. Mrs. Sardotopolis stared at her. "Tell your fortune, missus," called the gypsy. Mrs. Sardotopolis nodded and entered the hallway. Her head felt dizzy. But there was nothing to do until tomorrow, when they buried Joe. With a curious thrill under her heavy bosom, Mrs. Sardotopolis held out her work-coarsened palm to the gypsy.
Her heavy face had grown white. She raised the bundle closer to her eyes and looked at it. "Joe!" she repeated. "What's a matter, Joe?" The bundle was silent. So Mrs. Sardotopolis pinched it. Then she stared at the closed eyes. Then she seized the bundle and crushed it desperately in her heavy arms, against her heavy bosom. "Joe!" she repeated. "What's a matter, Joe?"
Sardotopolis found that she was sitting alone in a corner of the room. She felt tired. There was no use hugging the baby any more. Joe was dead. In a few days he would be buried. Tears. Yes, particularly since in a few months he would have had a smaller brother. Now Mrs. Sardotopolis was frightened. Joe was the first to die. She walked out of the house, down the dark hallway into the street.
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