An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

morning, and at the same time relieved of his watch and

overcoat by two brakemen who had found him hiding in the

car, he had picked up a Kansas City paper— The Star— only

to realize that his worst fear in regard to all that had

occurred had come true. For there, under a two-column

head, and with fully a column and a half of reading matter

below, was the full story of all that had happened: a little

girl, the eleven-year-old daughter of a well-to-do Kansas

City family, knocked down and almost instantly killed—she

had died an hour later; Sparser and Miss Sipe in a hospital

and under arrest at the same time, guarded by a policeman

sitting in the hospital awaiting their recovery; a splendid car

very seriously damaged; Sparser’s father, in the absence of

the owner of the car for whom he worked, at once incensed

and made terribly unhappy by the folly and seeming

criminality and recklessness of his son.

But what was worse, the unfortunate Sparser had already

been charged with larceny and homicide, and wishing, no

doubt, to minimize his own share in this grave catastrophe,

had not only revealed the names of all who were with him in

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the car—the youths in particular and their hotel address—

but had charged that they along with him were equally

guilty, since they had urged him to make speed at the time

and against his will—a claim which was true enough, as

Clyde knew. And Mr. Squires, on being interviewed at the

hotel, had furnished the police and the newspapers with the

names of their parents and their home addresses.

This last was the sharpest blow of all. For there followed

disturbing pictures of how their respective parents or

relatives had taken it on being informed of their sins. Mrs.

Ratterer, Tom’s mother, had cried and declared her boy

was a good boy, and had not meant to do any harm, she

was sure. And Mrs. Hegglund—Oscar’s devoted but aged

mother—had said that there was not a more honest or

generous soul and that he must have been drinking. And at

his own home— The Star had described his mother as

standing, pale, very startled and very distressed, clasping

and unclasping her hands and looking as though she were

scareely able to grasp what was meant, unwilling to believe

that her son had been one of the party and assuring all that

he would most certainly return soon and explain all, and

that there must be some mistake.

However, he had not returned. Nor had he heard anything

more after that. For, owing to his fear of the police, as well

as of his mother—her sorrowful, hopeless eyes, he had not

written for months, and then a letter to his mother only to

say that he was well and that she must not worry. He gave

neither name nor address. Later, after that he had

wandered on, essaying one small job and another, in St.

Louis, Peoria, Chicago, Milwaukee—dishwashing in a

restaurant, soda-clerking in a small outlying drug-store,

attempting to learn to be a shoe clerk, a grocer’s clerk, and

what not; and being discharged and laid off and quitting

because he did not like it. He had sent her ten dollars once

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—another time five, having, as he felt, that much to spare.

After nearly a year and a half he had decided that the

search must have lessened, his own part in the crime being

forgotten, possibly, or by then not deemed sufficiently

important to pursue—and when he was once more making

a moderate living as the driver of a delivery wagon in

Chicago, a job that paid him fifteen dollars a week, he

resolved that he would write his mother, because now he

could say that he had a decent place and had conducted

himself respectably for a long time, although not under his

own name.

And so at that time, living in a hall bedroom on the West

Side of Chicago—Paulina Street—he had written his

mother the following letter:

DEAR MOTHER:

Are you still in Kansas City? I wish you would write and

tell me. I would so like to hear from you again and to

write you again, too, if you really want me to. Honestly I

do, Ma. I have been so lonely here. Only be careful and

don’t let any one know where I am yet. It won’t do any

good and might do a lot of harm just when I am trying

so hard to get a start again. I didn’t do anything wrong

that time, myself. Really I didn’t, although the papers

said so—just went along. But I was afraid they would

punish me for something that I didn’t do. I just couldn’t

come back then. I wasn’t to blame and then I was

afraid of what you and father might think. But they

invited me, Ma. I didn’t tell him to go any faster or to

take that car like he said. He took it himself and invited

me and the others to go along. Maybe we were all to

blame for running down that little girl, but we didn’t

mean to. None of us. And I have been so terribly sorry

ever since. Think of all the trouble I have caused you!

And just at the time when you most needed me. Gee!

Mother, I hope you can forgive me. Can you?

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I keep wondering how you are. And Esta and Julia and

Frank and Father. I wish I knew where you are and

what you are doing. You know how I feel about you,

don’t you, Ma? I’ve got a lot more sense now, anyhow,

I see things different than I used to. I want to do

something in this world. I want to be successful. I have

only a fair place now, not as good as I had in K. C., but

fair, and not in the same line. But I want something

better, though I don’t want to go back in the hotel

business either if I can help it. It’s not so very good for a

young man like me—too high-flying, I guess. You see I

know a lot more than I did back there. They like me all

right where I am, but I got to get on in this world.

Besides I am not really making more than my expenses

here now, just my room and board and clothes but I am

trying to save a little in order to get into some line

where I can work up and learn something. A person

has to have a line of some kind these days. I see that

now.

Won’t you write me and tell me how you all are and

what you are doing? I’d like to know. Give my love to

Frank and Julia and Father and Esta, if they are all still

there. I love you just the same and I guess you care for

me a little, anyhow, don’t you? I won’t sign my real

name, because it may be dangerous yet (I haven’t

been using it since I left K. C.) But I’ll give you my other

one, which I’m going to leave off pretty soon and take

up my old one. Wish I could do it now, but I’m afraid to

yet. You can address me, if you will, as

HARRY TENET

General Delivery, Chicago

I’ll call for it in a few days. I sign this way so as not to

cause you or me any more trouble, see? But as soon

as I feel more sure that this other thing has blown over,

I’ll use my own name again sure.

Lovingly,

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YOUR SON.

He drew a line where his real name should be and

underneath wrote “you know” and mailed the letter.

Following that, because his mother had been anxious about

him all this time and wondering where he was, he soon

received a letter, postmarked Denver, which surprised him

very much, for he had expected to hear from her as still in

Kansas City.

DEAR SON:

I was surprised and so glad to get my boy’s letter and

to know that you were alive and safe. I had hoped and

prayed that you would return to the straight and narrow

path—the only path that will ever lead you to success

and happiness of any kind, and that God would let me

hear from you as safe and well and working some-

where and doing well. And now he has rewarded my

prayers. I knew he would. Blessed be His holy name.

Not that I blame you altogether for all that terrible

trouble you got into and bringing so much suffering and

disgrace on yourself and us—for well I know how the

devil tempts and pursues all of us mortals and

particularly just such a child as you. Oh, my son, if you