Sold on a Monday

by Kristina McMorris

“A thousand words will not leave so deep an impression as one deed.” —Henrik Ibsen

“As I drove off, I just kept thinking about those boys. They didn’t ask for the bum score they’re getting, but somehow they’ll make do. Adults, we’re all so busy griping about our tough breaks, and kids like them, their lives change in a split second and you hardly hear a peep. Not about the big things anyway.” Gaining conviction, he quickened his pace. “Even when life’s downright lousy, most kids are still so resilient because…well, I guess ’cause they don’t know any different. It’s like they only realize how unfair their lives are if you tell them. And even then, all they need is the smallest amount of hope and they could do just about anything they set their minds to…” Voice trailing off, Ellis appeared to have said far more than he had intended.

For the characters in this story, their journey started with a picture—and the same can aptly be said of my endeavor to write this book. When I first stumbled upon an old newspaper photo of four young siblings huddled on the steps of an apartment building in Chicago, their mother shielding her face from the camera, the sign in the foreground stunned me. The image had first appeared in the Vidette-Messenger of Valparaiso, Indiana, in 1948 and, in a brief caption, claimed to exhibit the desperation of the Chalifoux family. The picture troubled me so much that I bookmarked the page on my computer. (One of many odd compulsions that differentiate historical fiction writers from normal people.) As a mom myself, I kept wondering what could have possibly pushed their mother, or both parents, to that point. In the direst of times, I could fathom perhaps having to give up my children for the sake of their well-being. But why on earth ask for money in return? Over breakfast with a writers’ group, I stated that very question, meant rhetorically, yet my friend Maggie answered without missing a beat: “Because they wanted to eat.”

There was such logic in her tone, and she was right to challenge my assumptions. I was judging the family through the lens of modern times, as well as by my own set of standards. My mind spun with scenarios with which I could fully empathize. Unfortunately, in the end, the purported truth behind the photograph matched none of those. While delving into research, I discovered an article by Vanessa Renderman published in the Times of Northwest Indiana in 2013. It was a follow-up on the siblings who had once been the children in that haunting picture. Among the most stunning elements of their tale was this: an accusation by some family members who say the mother actually received money to stage the photograph. Looking at the sign again, I noticed how perfectly the letters were painted. They even appeared to have been embellished with reflective marks. And that was when the premise of Sold on a Monday emerged, rooted in an unexpected what-if: Specifically, what if a reporter’s seemingly harmless choice to stage a photo led to unintended consequences for everyone involved? Whether or not there was any deception involved in the real picture I couldn’t tell you, but it did wind up going viral (to use a contemporary term). The captioned photo, much like in my story, was soon published in other newspapers throughout the country and prompted a wave of donations and offers of everything from money and jobs to homes for the kids. Nonetheless, within two years, all the children, includi...