by K. S. Lindsay
Based on a real story.
Joseph never took a seat. He’d learned, quickly, that the street car he road each morning into Seattle would fill up. So, he would stand and leave another seat for the ladies and any children that boarded after him.
Three miles along on the route on an icy January morning early in 1920, Joseph stood on the running board of the packed street car, clinging to a brass pole by the sleeve of his well-worn workman’s coat. Hope warmed him, when he thought of the promise of full-time work he’d been given the evening before at the union office. Joseph bore with the frigid chill as the streetcar slowly made its way down Woodland Park Avenue.
Joseph also entertained himself with occasional glances at the harmless flirtation unfolding behind him between the strapping young man who shared his running board and the pretty brunette seated inside.
It all helped as the driver slowed the car, once again, to allow more passengers aboard. The icy wind and frosty streets made it understandable why so many were anxious that early morning to clamber aboard the packed trolley as it slowly slid downhill toward the new canal bridge.
Still, Joseph idly wondered about the weight of so many people and if the driver considered this with each stop, or if his only thoughts were with the nickels and dimes being collected by the box boy who slipped, eel-like amongst the passengers gathering fares.
As the street car went into the turn onto North 39th Street, Joseph turned his thoughts back to his own potential nickels and dimes. A permanent job, and the chance to provide regularly once again, buoyed his spirits about the future. Still, with the instinct of years of riding, he clung tighter to the pole as the trolley went into the turn.
Joseph didn’t feel the crash. He hadn’t noticed the car slip off the tracks. He never would recall the time when, almost naturally, the street car lay down on the road. Joseph heard the tinkling sound of breaking glass, like soundtrack to the dark pain that blossomed through him.
An eternity of pain later, Joseph heard the shouting, screaming and crying. Opening his eyes, he found himself amidst shattered pieces of streetcar and bodies. The bodies slowly rose up, most being lifted feverishly, with accompanying shouts. Using as an excuse for inaction the delicacy of the females in the pile, Joseph lay still and continued to accommodate the pain.
When hands finally reached for him, he pushed them away at first, expecting to rise by himself. That was when he finally noticed the sea of glass shards, twisted metal and splintered wood – plus blood and other debris – that gave him no safe place to set his hands. When hands reached for him a second time, he allowed himself to be lifted upright.
Joseph staggered from the scene, bewildered. Looking back and seeing the bloody, shattered, unmoving limbs still visible beneath larger pieces of the broken street car, he turned to a frosty, grassy patch of ground and rejected his small breakfast. He shrugged off the concerned hands, and questions, as he clutched his knees, vomited and cried.
Standing again, and wiping his mouth with his torn sleeve, he acknowledged the pain again. Another look around, however, at the dozens upon dozens of people that lay writhing on the cold cobbles and earth, he felt his luck at being upright.
He waited, with a few of the other, older and enfeebled, passengers, to give the officials, now arriving, his version of events.
“Name?” the obviously exhausted young officer asked brusquely.
Just then, a newly arrived reporter walked up and asked the officer something. Joseph didn’t catch the question – he knew his hearing had been damaged along with something in his chest and his arm – so he waited.
“Name?” the officer demanded again.
“Joseph Pfister,” Joseph answered quickly.
He saw the officer write it down, and then noticed that he was saying something to the reporter. Joseph waited.
“Where were you?” the officer then asked.
Joseph explained, giving details about what he saw, who he’d been standing near, and who he had seen inside the car.
The reporter continued to pester the officer, off and on during Joseph’s recital, which was slow, but thorough. When the officer turned toward the reporter, Joseph waited again. When officer moved a few steps away, Joseph decided his interview had ended.
He glanced around, wanting to help, but wanting even more to be home with his wife, under her care. He knew his wife would want him to help, but as he turned to look around, he realized that time was working against him.
The broken streetcar lay, in two pieces, perpendicular to a telephone pole, leaving the street nearly clear of debris – beyond the bodies pulled from the wreckage and being covered by cloth. Joseph acknowledged that no street cars would be passing this particular street for several more hours.
He had to start walking, up the hill and back home, to his family, before his injuries made the effort impossible.
Part II
Frances Gierhofer ran down the streets, thinking only of getting to her daughter before anyone else gave her the news. She had no idea how to tell Mary about the accident – and her husband’s death – but the minute she’d read the early edition, she’d taken off running.
Reaching Mary’s house, Frances tried to catch her breath. Mary emerged from the house, brushing her hands off on her well-worn skirt, her smile disappearing as she caught sight of her mother. Frances found herself unable to speak and, without little grace, she thrust the newspaper at her daughter. Then she caught her daughter after the name in the grimy, grey newsprint sunk into her mind.
As Frances helped Mary back into the warmth of the kitchen, the oldest girl came to help. Frances saw the youngest, the poor little thing, toddle in from the bedrooms. Mary, tears silently streaming down her cheeks, swept up both her girls in a fierce embrace.
Frances fussed, using the need to make tea as a way to recover from her own exertions – and her grief. Just as she sat at the table, placing the cup of tea near Mary, the door opened and Jack – Mary’s oldest, and only son – came in. The boy’s face disintegrated at the news, but he carefully clutched his mother and sisters and comforted them all.
As others arrived, the small house expanded to fit them all. The talking, and the silence, alternated as everyone tried to absorb the news. As dusk settled around the house, Mary rose up and started to tend to the guests. Frances regarded her daughter, with her spine consciously straight, as she bustled around the kitchen. Comfort would be needed later, when the others had gone.
The door opened to admit another to the already crowded room, and Frances wondered about taking the baby, some lights and some of the guests out into the salon. She didn’t see the speaker, but she heard the voice in the sudden silence.
“Mary?”
A mug fell to the floor, shattering, before everyone erupted.
Mary, and his family and friends, drew into a monstrously chaotic embrace a bewildered, and obviously battered, Joseph.
Tears, and laughter, flowed over the whole room. They seated Joseph in the seat previously used by Frances, with Mary squatted before him – minutely examining and caressing him.
Joseph’s oldest daughter clutched her grandmother around the middle, asking over and over, “Is it true? Is it true?” Joseph heard it, but he could only endure the pain by focusing on Mary’s face. Unmindful of the frosty cold of his hands, he placed them on his wife’s face. She solemnly looked back at him.
“I’m home,” he said simply.
“Yes,” she answered, “you are. The newspaper said you’d died.”
Joseph nodded, thinking of the reporter. “It was someone else,” he said, with a heartfelt sigh, wondering about the strapping young man and the young brunette.
“I’m sorry for his family,” Mary said, as she would, “but I’m so thankful for us.”
Joseph smiled at his dear, sweet Mary. “So am I.”
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For a non-fiction version of this story, read ‘Streetcar Accident’ in the book, ‘Pork Neckbones, Sauerkraut & Rutabagas: Memories of My Green Lake Girlhood,’ by Dorothea Nordstrand. Copies of the book can be found through History House of Greater Seattle or HistoryLink.com
©2014 Kirby Lindsay. This column is protected by intellectual property laws, including U.S. copyright laws. Reproduction, adaptation or distribution without permission is prohibited.