Free Cinderella Man by Marc Cerasini Page B

bulk across the dock and pitched it onto the pallet, then they moved to the loading net for another. Working together the two quickly speared and moved a second sack.
    â€œYou see us falling behind, Jake?” asked Mike. They hoisted a third and a fourth onto the pallet. “He’s all right.”
    They continued hooking and hauling, bag after bag. Jake stood there with arms crossed, watching every move. Finally, the foreman uncrossed his arms, shook his head, and walked away.
    Sweat burning his eyes, Braddock lifted his face to Mike.
    â€œAppreciate it.”
    Two simple words. A life span of gratitude.
    Â 
    The bright dawn didn’t last. By midday, clouds had moved in to drench the city of Newark in sheets of stinging rain. Five years ago, Mae Braddock would have run squealing from the wet, holding her pocketbook over her head as she sought shelter in a corner drugstore, where she’d sit at the counter and warm up with a nice, hot cup of tea.
    But this wasn’t five years ago, and her place on the endless, snaking soup line was too precious. Her children were hungry and they had no food. So Mae wasn’t moving for anything, least of all a little water.
    At the head of the line, women in raincoats ladled soup and handed out soaked bread from the open back of a truck. Ahead of Mae were hundreds of men, women, and children. Some were sad, some embarrassed, some just hollowed-out shells, emptied by the relentless years of numbing loss.
    While the rain fell, Mae held her six-year-old daughter close to her body. She tried her best to curl around the little girl and keep her dry, but it did no good. Rose Marie ended up as soaking wet as all of them.
    After the downpour finally subsided, Mae continued to cradle her daughter in her exhausted arms. Her two boys, bored with all the waiting, began to race around her, shooting finger guns.
    â€œGot you!” shouted Jay.
    â€œNo, you don’t! Got you!” cried Howard.
    For the life of her, Mae didn’t know where they gotthe energy. “Boys, settle down please.” Mae’s voice sounded as drained as she felt.
    The boys listened and stopped shooting, but less than a minute later they found a pair of puddles—and a whole new form of ammunition.
    â€œGot you!” shouted Jay, splashing his brother.
    â€œNo, you don’t! Got you!”
    â€œLady, watch your kids!” complained a man behind them after Jay splashed him with a reckless volley.
    â€œBoys, come here now!” Mae cried. She turned to the man. “I’m so sorry.” Then she looked down at the six-year-old in her arms. “You need to stand for a little while, honey.”
    Mae lowered Rosy to the street’s cracked concrete. She hated to do it, but her arms were about to fall off.
    â€œI don’t want to,” cried Rosy. Her shoes were old, with holes, and as they hit the pavement, the dampness seeped through her socks. “It’s wet.”
    Mae sighed. “Are you a big girl or a little girl?”
    â€œLittle!”
    Not the answer Mae wanted. “Rosy—”
    But Rose Marie was too cold, wet, and tired to listen to any form of parental reasoning. With a scowling face, she began to yowl.
    â€œWho’s making all that racket? Sounds like a trombone.”
    Instantly, the tantrum stopped. Rosy’s father had appeared beside her, big and strong and making strange sounds with his lips as he moved one hand out and back from his face.
    Rosy blinked wide eyes. “What’s a turmone?”
    â€œTrombone, honey,” said Jim, smiling down. “It’s a musical instrument.”
    As the little girl’s arms stretched toward her daddy, Mae’s eyes questioned her husband.
    â€œI got a shift,” said Jim, lifting Rosy into his arms. “Foreman says tomorrow maybe a double.”
    As Jim adjusted his daughter’s weight in his arms Mae noticed her husband moving something from inside his coat to