A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

by Betty Smith

  Katie, Johnny's mother, and Francie and Neeley rode out to the cemetery in the first coach behind the hearse. The children sat with their backs to the driver. Francie was glad because she couldn't see the hearse which led the procession. She saw the coach which followed. Aunt Evy and Aunt Sissy were in that one alone. Their husbands couldn't come because they were working and Granma Mary Rommely was staying home to mind Sissy's new baby. Francie wished she were riding in the second coach. Ruthie Nolan wept and lamented during the whole of the ride. Katie sat in stony quiet. The carriage was close and smelled of damp hay and stale horse manure. The smell, the closeness, the riding backwards and the tension gave Francie an unfamiliar feeling of sickness.

  At the cemetery, there was a plain wooden box standing beside a deep hole. They put the cloth-covered casket with its shiny handles into the plain box. Francie looked away when they lowered it into the grave.

  It was a gray day and a chill wind was blowing. Little whirls of frozen dust eddied about Francie's feet. A short distance away, at a week-old grave, some men were stripping the withered flowers from the wire frames of the floral pieces heaped on the grave. They worked methodically, keeping the withered flowers in a neat heap and piling up the wire frames carefully. Theirs was a legitimate business. They bought this concession from the cemetery officials and sold the wire frames to the florists who used them over and over again. No one complained because the men were very scrupulous about not tearing off the flowers until they were well withered.

  Someone pushed a lump of cold damp earth into Francie's hand. She saw that Mama and Neeley were standing at the edge of the grave and dropping their handful of earth into it. Francie walked slowly to the edge, closed her eyes and opened her hand slowly. She heard a soft thud after a second, and that feeling of sickness came back again.

  After the burial, the coaches went in different directions. Each mourner was to be taken to his own home. Ruthie Nolan went off with some mourners who lived near her. She didn't even say good-bye. All during the services, she had refused to speak to Katie and the children. Aunt Sissy and Evy got into the carriage with Katie and Francie and Neeley. There wasn't room for five people so Francie had to sit on Evy's lap. They were all very quiet on the way home. Aunt Evy tried to cheer them up by telling some new stories about Uncle Willie and his horse. But no one smiled because no one listened.

  Mama made the coach stop at a barber shop around the corner from their house.

  "Go in there," she told Francie, "and get your father's cup."

  Francie didn't know what she meant. "What cup?" she asked.

  "Just ask for his cup."

  Francie went in. There were two barbers but no customers. One of the barbers sat on one of the chairs in a row against the wall. His left ankle rested on his right knee and he cradled a mandolin. He was playing "O, Sole Mio." Francie knew the song. Mr. Morton had taught it to them saying the title was "Sunshine." The other barber was sitting in one of the barber chairs looking at himself in the long mirror. He got down from the chair as the girl came in.

  "Yes?" he asked.

  "I want my father's cup."

  "The name?"

  "John Nolan."

  "Ah, yes. Too bad." He sighed as he took a mug from the row of them on a shelf. It was a thick white mug with "John Nolan" written on it in gold and fancy block letters. There was a worn-down cake of white soap at the bottom of it and a tired-looking brush. He pried out the soap and put it and the brush in a bigger unlettered cup. He washed Johnny's cup.

  While Francie waited, she looked around. She had never been inside a barber shop. It smelled of soap and clean towels and bay rum. There was a gas heater which hissed companionably. The barber had finished the song and started it over again. The thin tinkle of the mandolin made a sad sound in the warm shop. Francie sang Mr. Morton's words to the song in her mind.

  Oh, what's so fine, dear,

  As a day of sunshine.

  The storm is past at last.

  The sky is blue and clear.

  Everyone has a secret life, she mused. Papa never spoke about the barber shop, yet he had come here three times a week to be shaved. Fastidious Johnny had bought his own cup, emulating men who were in better circumstances. He wouldn't be shaved with lather from the common cup. Not Johnny. He had come there three times a week--when he had the money--and sat in one of those chairs and looked in that mirror and talked with the barber about--maybe--whether the Brooklyns had a good ball team that year or whether the Democrats would get in as usual. Perhaps he had sung when that other barber played the mandolin. Yes, she was sure that he had sung. Singing had come easier than breathing to him. She wondered if, when he had to wait, he read The Police Gazette lying on that bench?

  The barber gave her the washed and dried cup. "Johnny Nolan was a fine feller," he said. "Tell the mama that I, his barber, said this."

  "Thank you," whispered Francie gratefully. She went out closing the door on the sad sound of the mandolin.

  Back in the coach, she held out the cup to Katie. "That's for you to have," said Mama. "Neeley will have Papa's signet ring."

  Francie looked at her father's name in gold and whispered "Thank you" gratefully for the second time in five minutes.

  Johnny had been on earth for thirty-four years. Less than a week ago, he had walked on those streets. And now the cup, the ring and two unironed waiter's aprons at home were the only concrete objects left to connote that a man had once lived. There were no other physical reminders of Johnny, as he had been buried in all the clothes he owned with his studs and his fourteen-carat gold collar button.

  When they got home, they found that the neighbors had been in and straightened up the flat. The furniture had been put back in place in the front room and the withered leaves and fallen flower petals swept out. The windows had been opened and the rooms aired out. They had brought coal and made a great fire in the kitchen range and put a fresh white cloth on the table. The Tynmore girls had brought up a cake which they had baked themselves and it stood on a plate and was already sliced. Floss Gaddis and her mother had bought a whole lot of sliced bologna. It took two plates to hold it. There was a basket of freshly sliced rye bread and the coffee cups were set out on the table. There was a potful of freshly made coffee warming on the stove and someone had set a pitcher of real cream in the middle of the table. They had done all this while the Nolans were away. Then they had left, locked the door behind them and put the key under the mat.

  Aunt Sissy, Evy, mama, Francie, and Neeley sat at the table. Aunt Evy poured out the coffee. Katie sat for a long time looking at her cup. She remembered the last time Johnny had sat at that table. She did what Johnny had done; she pushed the cup away with her arm, put her head down on the table and cried in great ugly tearing sobs. Sissy put her arms around her and spoke in her gentle caressing voice.

  "Katie, Katie, don't cry so. Don't cry so, else the child you'll soon be bringing into this world will be a sad child."

  37

  KATIE STAYED IN BED THE DAY AFTER THE FUNERAL AND FRANCIE and Neeley wandered around the flat stunned and bewildered. Towards evening, Katie got up and made some supper for them. After they had eaten, she urged the children to go for a little walk, saying they needed the air.

  Francie and Neeley walked up Graham Avenue towards Broadway. It was a bitterly cold and a still night but there was no snow. The streets were empty. It was three days after Christmas and children were home playing with their new toys. The street lights were bleak and bright. A small icy wind coming in from the sea blew close to the ground. It whirled bits of dirty papers along the gutters.

  They had grown out of childhood in the last few days. Christmas as Christmas had passed unnoticed since their father had died on Christmas day. Neeley's thirteenth birthday had been lost somewhere in those last few days.

  They came to the brilliantly lighted facade of a big vaudeville house. Since they were reading children and read everything they came across, they stopped and automaticall
y read the list of acts playing that week. Underneath the sixth act, was an announcement in large letters.

  "Here next week! Chauncy Osborne, Sweet Singer of Sweet Songs. Don't miss him!"

  Sweet Singer...Sweet Singer...

  Francie had not shed a tear since her father's death. Neither had Neeley. Now Francie felt that all the tears she had were frozen together in her throat in a solid lump and the lump was growing...growing. She felt that if the lump didn't melt soon and change back into tears, she too would die. She looked at Neeley. Tears were falling out of his eyes. Then her tears came, too.

  They turned into a dark side street and sat on the edge of the sidewalk with their feet in the gutter. Neeley, though weeping, remembered to spread his handkerchief on the curb so that his new long pants wouldn't get dirty. They sat close together because they were cold and lonesome. They wept long and quietly, sitting there in the cold street. At last, when they could cry no more, they talked.

  "Neeley, why did Papa have to die?"

  "I guess God wanted him to die."

  "Why?"

  "Maybe to punish him."

  "Punish him for what?"

  "I don't know," said Neeley miserably.

  "Do you believe that God put Papa on this world?"

  "Yes."

  "Then He wanted him to live, didn't He?"

  "I guess so."

  "Then why did He make him die so quick?"

  "Maybe to punish him," repeated Neeley not knowing what else to answer.

  "If that's true, what good is it? Papa's dead and he don't know that he's punished. God made Papa the way he was and then said to Himself, I dare you to do anything about it. I just bet He said that."

  "Maybe you shouldn't talk about God like that," said Neeley apprehensively.

  "They say God's so great," said Francie scornfully, "and knows everything and can do everything. If He's so great, why didn't He help Papa instead of punishing him like you said?"

  "I just said maybe."

  "If God has charge of all the world," said Francie, "and the sun and the moon and the stars and all the birds and trees and flowers and all the animals and people, you'd think He'd be too busy and too important--wouldn't you--to spend so much time punishing one man--one man like Papa."

  "I don't think you should talk about God like that," said Neeley uneasily. "He might strike you down dead."

  "Then let Him," cried Francie fiercely. "Let Him strike me down dead right here in the gutter where I sit!"

  They waited fearfully. Nothing happened. When Francie spoke again, she was quieter.

  "I believe in the Lord, Jesus Christ, and His Mother, Holy Mary. Jesus was a living baby once. He went barefooted like we do in the summer. I saw a picture where He was a boy and had no shoes on. And when He was a man, He went fishing, like Papa did once. And they could hurt Him too, like they couldn't hurt God. Jesus wouldn't go around punishing people. He knew about people. So I will always believe in Jesus Christ."

  They made the sign of the cross as Catholics do when mentioning Jesus' name. Then she put her hand on Neeley's knee and spoke in a whisper.

  "Neeley, I wouldn't tell anybody but you, but I don't believe in God anymore."

  "I want to go home," said Neeley. He was shivering.

  When Katie let them in, she saw that their faces were tired, yet peaceful. "Well, they've cried it out," she thought.

  Francie looked at her mother, then looked away quickly. "While we were gone," she thought, "she cried and cried until she couldn't cry any more." The weeping wasn't mentioned aloud by any one of them.

  "I thought you'd come home cold," said Mama, "so I made a warm surprise for you."

  "What?" asked Neeley.

  "You'll see."

  The surprise was "hot chocolate" which was cocoa and condensed milk made into a paste and boiling water stirred into it. Katie poured the thick rich stuff into the cups. "And that's not all," she added. She took three marshmallows from a paper bag in her apron pocket and popped one into each cup.

  "Mama!" said the children simultaneously and ecstatically. "Hot chocolate" was something extra special, usually reserved for birthdays.

  "Mama is really somebody," thought Francie as she held her marshmallow down with her spoon and watched the melting white sworls vein the dark chocolate. "She knows we've been crying but she's not asking questions about it. Mama never..." Suddenly the right word about mama came to Francie. "Mama never fumbles."

  No, Katie never fumbled. When she used her beautifully shaped but worn-looking hands, she used them with surety, whether it was to put a broken flower into a tumbler of water with one true gesture, or to wring out a scrub cloth with one decisive motion--the right hand turning in, and the left out, simultaneously. When she spoke, she spoke truly with the plain right words. And her thoughts walked in a clear uncompromising line.

  Mama was saying: "Neeley's getting too big to sleep in the same room with his sister. So I fixed the room your..." she barely hesitated over the next word, "...father and I used to have. That's Neeley's bedroom now."

  Neeley's eyes jumped to his mother's. A room of his own! A dream come true; two dreams come true, long pants and a room...His eyes saddened then, as he thought of how these good things had come to him.

  "And I'll share your room, Francie." Instinctive tact made Katie put it that way instead of saying, "You'll share my room."

  "I wish I had my own room," thought Francie with a flare of jealousy. "But it's right, I guess, that Neeley have it. There are only two bedrooms and he couldn't sleep with Mama."

  Knowing Francie's thought, Katie said, "And when it gets warm again, Francie can have the front room. We'll put her cot in there and put a nice cover on it in the daytime and it will be like a private sitting room. All right, Francie?"

  "All right, Mama."

  After a while, Mama said: "We forgot the reading the last few nights but now we'll start again."

  "So things will go on just the same," thought Francie, a little surprised, as she took the Bible from the mantelpiece.

  "Being," said Mama, "that we lost Christmas this year, let's skip the part we're supposed to read and go to the birth of the Baby Jesus. We'll take turns reading. You start, Francie."

  Francie read.

  ...and so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her first-born son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in the manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

  Katie sighed sharply. Francie stopped reading and looked up inquiringly. "It's nothing," said Mama. "Go on reading."

  "No, it's nothing," Katie thought. "It's the time when I should feel life." Again the unborn child trembled faintly within her. "Was it because he knew of this coming child," she wondered silently, "that he stopped drinking at the last?" She had whispered to him that they were to have another child. Had he tried to be different when he knew? And knowing, did he die in the trying to be a better man? "Johnny...Johnny..." She sighed again.

  And they read, each in turn, of the birth of Jesus, and reading, they thought of Johnny dying. But each kept his thoughts.

  When the children were ready to go to bed, Katie did something very unusual. It was unusual because she was not a demonstrative woman. She held the children close to her and kissed them good night.

  "From now on," she said, "I am your mother and your father."

  38

  JUST BEFORE CHRISTMAS VACATION ENDED, FRANCIE TOLD MAMA THAT she wasn't going back to school.

  "Don't you like school?" Mama asked.

  "Yes, I do. But I'm fourteen now and I can get my working papers easy."

  "Why do you want to go to work?"

  "To help out."

  "No, Francie. I want you to go back to school and graduate. It's only a few more months. June will be here before you know it. You can get your working papers for this summer. Maybe Neeley, too. But you're both going to high school in the fall. So forget working
papers and go back to school."

  "But, Mama, how'll we get along till summer?"

  "We'll manage."

  Katie was not as confident as she sounded. She missed Johnny in more ways than one. Johnny had never worked steadily but there had been the unexpected Saturday or Sunday night job with the three dollars it brought in. Then, too, when things got too terrible, Johnny had had a way of pulling himself together for a little while to get them over the bad places. But now, there was no Johnny.

  Katie took stock. The rent was paid as long as she could keep those three tenements clean. There was a dollar and a half a week from Neeley's paper route. That would keep them in coal if they used a fire only at night. But wait! Twenty cents weekly insurance premium had to come out of that. (Katie was insured for a dime a week and each of the children for a nickel.) Well, a bit less coal and a little earlier to bed would take care of that. Clothes? Not to be thought of. Lucky Francie had those new shoes and Neeley the suit. The big question, then, was food. Maybe Mrs. McGarrity would let her do the washing again. That would be a dollar a week. Then she'd get a few outside cleaning jobs. Yes, they'd get along somehow.

  They got through to the end of March. By that time Katie was unwieldy. (The baby was due in May.) The ladies for whom she worked winced and looked away as they saw her, big with child, standing at the ironing board in their kitchens; or saw her in an awkward sprawling position on her hands and knees scrubbing their floors. They had to help her out of pity. Soon they realized that they were paying a cleaning woman and doing most of the work themselves anyhow. So, one after another, they told her they didn't need her any more.

  A day came when Katie didn't have the twenty cents for the insurance collector. He was an old friend of the Rommelys and knew Katie's circumstances.

  "I'd hate to see your policies lapse, Mrs. Nolan. Especially after you kept them up all these years."

  "You wouldn't lapse me just because I got behind a little in my payments?"

  "I wouldn't. But the company would. Look! Why don't you cash in the children's policies?"

  "I didn't know you could do that."