A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

by Betty Smith

  "You were one of my best pupils. You wrote so prettily. I enjoyed your compositions. But these last ones..." she flicked at them contemptuously.

  "I looked up the spelling and took pains with my penmanship and..."

  "I'm referring to your subject matter."

  "You said we could choose our own subjects."

  "But poverty, starvation and drunkenness are ugly subjects to choose. We all admit these things exist. But one doesn't write about them."

  "What does one write about?" Unconsciously, Francie picked up the teacher's phraseology.

  "One delves into the imagination and finds beauty there. The writer, like the artist, must strive for beauty always."

  "What is beauty?" asked the child.

  "I can think of no better definition than Keats': 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty.'"

  Francie took her courage into her two hands and said, "Those stories are the truth."

  "Nonsense!" exploded Miss Garnder. Then, softening her tone, she continued: "By truth, we mean things like the stars always being there and the sun always rising and the true nobility of man and mother-love and love for one's country," she ended anti-climactically.

  "I see," said Francie.

  As Miss Garnder continued talking, Francie answered her bitterly in her mind.

  "Drunkenness is neither truth nor beauty. It's a vice. Drunkards belong in jail, not in stories. And poverty. There is no excuse for that. There's work enough for all who want it. People are poor because they're too lazy to work. There's nothing beautiful about laziness.

  (Imagine Mama lazy!)

  "Hunger is not beautiful. It is also unnecessary. We have well-organized charities. No one need go hungry."

  Francie ground her teeth. Her mother hated the word "charity" above any word in the language and she had brought up her children to hate it too.

  "Now, I'm not a snob," stated Miss Garnder. "I do not come from a wealthy family. My father was a minister with a very small salary."

  (But it was a salary, Miss Garnder.)

  "And the only help my mother had was a succession of untrained maids, mostly girls from the country."

  (I see. You were poor, Miss Garnder, poor with a maid.)

  "Many times we were without a maid and my mother had to do all the housework herself."

  (And my mother, Miss Garnder, has to do all her own housework, and yes, ten times more cleaning than that.) "I wanted to go to the state university but we couldn't afford it. My father had to send me to a small denominational college."

  (But admit you had no trouble going to college.) "And believe me, you're poor when you go to such a college. I know what hunger is, too. Time and time again my father's salary was held up and there was no money for food. Once we had to live on tea and toast for three days."

  (So you know what it is to be hungry, too.)

  "But I'd be a dull person if I wrote about nothing but being poor and hungry, wouldn't I?" Francie didn't answer. "Wouldn't I?" repeated Miss Garnder emphatically.

  "Yes ma'am."

  "Now, your play for graduation." She took a thin manuscript from her desk drawer. "Some parts are very good indeed; other parts, you've gone off. For instance," she turned a page, "here Fate says: 'And Youth, what is thy ambition?' And the boy answers: 'I would be a healer. I would take the broken bodies of men and mend them.' Now that's a beautiful idea, Frances. But you spoil it here. Fate: 'That's what thou would'st be. But see! This is what thou shalt be.' Light shines on old man soldering bottom of ash can. Old Man: 'Ah, once I thought to be a mender of men. Now I'm a mender of...'" Miss Garnder looked up suddenly. "You didn't by any chance mean that to be funny, did you, Frances?"

  "Oh, no, ma'am."

  "After our little talk you can see why we can't use your play for graduation."

  "I see." Francie's heart all but broke.

  "Now Beatrice Williams has a cute idea. A fairy waves a wand and girls and boys in costume come out and there's one for each holiday in the year and each one says a little poem about the holiday he represents. It's an excellent idea but unfortunately Beatrice cannot make rhymes. Wouldn't you like to take that idea and write the verses? Beatrice wouldn't mind. We can put a note on the program that the idea comes from her. That's fair enough, isn't it?"

  "Yes, ma'am. But I don't want to use her ideas. I want to use my own."

  "That's commendable, of course. Well, I won't insist." She stood up. "I've taken all this time with you because I honestly believe that you have promise. Now that we've talked things out, I'm sure you'll stop writing those sordid little stories."

  Sordid. Francie turned the word over. It was not in her vocabulary. "What does that mean--sordid?"

  "What--did--I--tell--you--when--you--don't--know--a--word," sing-songed Miss Garnder drolly.

  "Oh! I forgot." Francie went to the big dictionary and looked up the word. Sordid: Filthy. Filthy? She thought of her father wearing a fresh dicky and collar every day of his life and shining his worn shoes as often as twice a day. Dirty. Papa had his own mug at the barber shop. Base. Francie passed that up not knowing exactly what it meant. Gross. Never! Papa was a dancer. He was slender and quick. His body wasn't gross. Also mean and low. She remembered a hundred and one little tendernesses and acts of thoughtfulness on the part of her father. She remembered how everyone had loved him so. Her face got hot. She couldn't see the next words because the page turned red under her eyes. She turned on Miss Garnder, her face twisted with fury.

  "Don't you ever dare use that word about us!"

  "Us?" asked Miss Garnder blankly. "We were talking about your compositions. Why, Frances!" Her voice was shocked. "I'm surprised! A well-behaved girl like you. What would your mother say if she knew you had been impertinent to your teacher?"

  Francie was frightened. Impertinence to a teacher was almost a reformatory offense in Brooklyn. "Please excuse me. Please excuse me," she repeated abjectly. "I didn't mean it."

  "I understand," said Miss Garnder gently. She put her arm around Francie and led her to the door. "Our little talk has made an impression on you, I see. Sordid is an ugly word and I'm glad you resented my using it. It shows that you understand. Probably you don't like me any more, but please believe that I spoke for your own good. Someday you'll remember what I said and you'll thank me for it."

  Francie wished adults would stop telling her that. Already the load of thanks in the future was weighing her down. She figured she'd have to spend the best years of her womanhood hunting up people to tell them that they were right and to thank them.

  Miss Garnder handed her the "sordid" compositions and the play, saying, "When you get home, burn these in the stove. Apply the match to them yourself. And as the flames rise, keep saying: 'I am burning ugliness. I am burning ugliness.'"

  Walking home from school, Francie tried to figure the whole thing out. She knew Miss Garnder wasn't mean. She had spoken for Francie's good. Only it didn't seem good to Francie. She began to understand that her life might seem revolting to some educated people. She wondered, when she got educated, whether she'd be ashamed of her background. Would she be ashamed of her people; ashamed of handsome papa who had been so lighthearted, kind and understanding; ashamed of brave and truthful Mama who was so proud of her own mother, even though Granma couldn't read or write; ashamed of Neeley who was such a good honest boy? No! No! If being educated would make her ashamed of what she was, then she wanted none of it. "But I'll show that Miss Garnder," she vowed. "I'll show her I've got an imagination. I certainly will show her."

  She started her novel that day. Its heroine was Sherry Nola, a girl conceived, born and brought up in sweltering luxury. The story was called THIS IS I and it was the untrue story of Francie's life.

  Francie had twenty pages written now. So far, it ran to minute descriptions of the lush furnishings of Sherry's house, rhapsodies over Sherry's exquisite clothes, and course-by-course accounts of fabulous meals consumed by the heroine.

  When it was finished, Francie planned
to ask Sissy's John to take it over to his shop and get it published for her. Francie had a fine dream about how it would be when she presented her book to Miss Garnder. The scene was all worked out in her mind. She went over the dialogue.

  FRANCIE

  (As she gives book to Miss Garnder.)

  I believe you'll find nothing sordid in this. Please consider it as my term's work. I hope you won't mind its being published.

  (Miss Garnder's jaw drops open. Francie takes no notice.) It's a bit easier to read print, don't you think?

  (As Miss Garnder reads, Francie stares out window, unconcernedly.) MISS GARNDER

  (After reading.)

  Why Frances! This is wonderful!

  FRANCIE

  What?

  (With a start of remembrance.)

  Oh, the novel. I dashed it off at odd moments. It doesn't take long to write things of which you know nothing. When you write of actual things, it takes longer, because you have to live them first.

  Francie crossed that out. She wouldn't want Miss Garnder to suspect her feelings had been hurt. She rewrote it.

  FRANCIE

  What?

  (Recalling.)

  Oh! The novel. I'm glad you like it.

  MISS GARNDER

  (Timidly.)

  Frances, could...could I ask you to autograph it for me?

  FRANCIE

  But of course.

  (Miss Garnder uncaps her fountain pen and presents it, pen-point end towards herself, to Francie. Francie writes: "Compliments of M. Frances K. Nolan.") MISS GARNDER

  (Examining autograph.)

  What a distinctive signature!

  FRANCIE

  It's merely my legal name.

  MISS GARNDER

  (Timidly.)

  Frances?

  FRANCIE

  Please feel as free to speak to me as in the old days.

  MISS GARNDER

  Could I ask you to write, "To my friend, Muriel Garnder" above your signature?

  FRANCIE

  (After a barely perceptible pause.)

  And why not?

  (With a twisted smile.)

  I've always written what you asked me to write.

  (Writes inscription.)

  MISS GARNDER

  (Low whisper.)

  Thank you.

  FRANCIE

  Miss Garnder...not that it matters, now...but would you grade this work...just for old times' sake?

  (Miss Garnder takes red pencil. Writes large "A Plus" on book.) It was such a rosy dream that Francie started the next chapter in a fever of excitement. She'd write and write and get it done quickly so the dream could come true. She wrote:

  "Parker," Sherry Nola asked her personal maid, "what's cook giving us for dinner tonight?"

  "Breast of pheasant under glass, I believe, with hothouse asparagus and imported mushrooms and pineapple mousse, Miss Sherry."

  "It sounds horribly dull," observed Sherry.

  "Yes, Miss Sherry," agreed the maid respectfully.

  "You know, Parker, I'd like to indulge a whim of mine."

  "Your whims are the household's commands."

  "I'd like to see a lot of simple desserts and choose my dinner from among them. Please bring me a dozen charlotte russe, some strawberry shortcake and a quart of ice cream--make it chocolate, a dozen lady fingers and a box of French chocolates."

  "Very good, Miss Sherry."

  A drop of water fell on the page. Francie looked up. No, the roof wasn't leaking, it was merely her mouth watering. She was very, very hungry. She went to the stove and looked into the pot. It had a pale bone in it, surrounded by water. There was some bread in the bread box. It was a bit hard but better than nothing. She cut a slice and poured a cup of coffee and dipped the bread into the coffee to soften it. As she ate, she read what she had just written. She made an astonishing discovery.

  "Look here, Francie Nolan," she told herself, "in this story you're writing exactly the same thing you wrote in those stories Miss Garnder didn't like. Here, you're writing that you're very hungry. Only you're writing it in a twisted roundabout silly way."

  Furious with the novel, she ripped the copy-book apart and stuffed it into the stove. When the flames began licking on it, her fury increased and she ran and got her box of manuscripts from under her bed. Carefully putting aside the four about her father, she crammed the rest of them into the stove. She was burning all her pretty "A" compositions. Sentences came out clearer for an instant before a sheet blackened and crumbled. A giant poplar, tall and high, serene and cool against the sky. Another: Softly the blue skies arch overhead. 'Tis a perfect October day. The end of another sentence...hollyhocks like distilled sunsets and larkspur like concentrate of heaven.

  "I never saw a poplar and I read somewhere about the sky arching and I never saw those flowers except in a seed catalogue. And I got A's because I was a good liar." She poked the papers to make them burn faster. As they changed into ashes, she chanted, "I am burning ugliness. I am burning ugliness." As the last flame died away, she announced dramatically to the water boiler, "There goes my writing career."

  All of a sudden, she was frightened and lonely. She wanted her father, she wanted her father. He couldn't be dead, he just couldn't be. In a little while, he'd come running up the stairs singing, "Molly Malone." She'd open the door and he'd say, "Hello, Prima Donna." And she'd say, "Papa, I had a terrible dream. I dreamed you were dead." Then she'd tell him what Miss Garnder had said and he'd find the words to convince her that everything was all right. She waited, listening. Maybe it was a dream. But no, no dream lasted that long. It was real. Papa was gone forever.

  She put her head down on the table and sobbed. "Mama doesn't love me the way she loves Neeley," she wept. "I tried and tried to make her love me. I sit close to her and go wherever she goes and do whatever she asks me to do. But I can't make her love me the way Papa loved me."

  Then she saw her mother's face in the trolley car when Mama sat with her head back and her eyes closed. She remembered how white and tired Mama had looked. Mama did love her. Of course she did. Only she couldn't show it in the ways that Papa could. And Mama was good. Here, she expected the baby any minute and she was still out working. Supposing Mama died when she had the baby? Francie's blood turned icy at the thought. What would Neeley and she do without Mama? Where could they go? Evy and Sissy were too poor to take them. They'd have no place to live. They had no one in all the world but Mama.

  "Dear God," Francie prayed, "don't let Mama die. I know that I told Neeley that I didn't believe in You. But I do! I do! I just said that. Don't punish Mama. She didn't do anything bad. Don't take her away because I said I didn't believe in You. If You let her live, I'll give You my writing. I'll never write another story again if You'll only let her live. Holy Mary, ask your son, Jesus, to ask God not to let my mother die."

  But she felt that her prayer was of no use. God remembered that she had said that she didn't believe in Him and He'd punish her by taking Mama as He had taken Papa. She became hysterical with terror and thought of her mother as already dead. She rushed out of the flat to look for her. Katie wasn't cleaning in their house. She went into the second house and ran up the three flights of stairs, calling "Mama!" She wasn't in that house. Francie went into the third and last house. Mama wasn't on the first floor. Mama wasn't on the second floor. There was one floor left. If Mama wasn't there, then she was dead. She screamed: "Mama! Mama!"

  "I'm up here," came Katie's quiet voice from the third floor. "Don't holler so."

  Francie was so relieved that she all but collapsed. She didn't want her mother to know she had been crying. She searched for her handkerchief. Not having it, she dried her eyes on her petticoat and walked up the last flight slowly.

  "Hello, Mama."

  "Has something happened to Neeley?"

  "No, Mama." (She always thinks of Neeley first.)

  "Well, hello then," said Katie smiling. Katie surmised that something had gone wrong in school to
upset Francie. Well, if she wanted to tell her....

  "Do you like me, Mama?"

  "I'd be a funny person, wouldn't I, if I didn't like my children."

  "Do you think I'm as good-looking as Neeley?" She waited anxiously for Mama's answer because she knew that Mama never lied. Mama's answer was a long time in coming.

  "You have very pretty hands and nice long thick hair."

  "But do you think I'm as good-looking as Neeley?" persisted Francie, wanting her mother to lie.

  "Look, Francie, I know that you're getting at something in a roundabout way and I'm too tired to figure it out. Have a little patience until after the baby gets here. I like you and Neeley and I think you're both nice enough looking children. Now please try not to worry me."

  Francie was instantly contrite. Pity twisted her heart as she saw her mother, so soon to bear a child, sprawled awkwardly on her hands and knees. She knelt beside her mother.

  "Get up, Mama, and let me finish this hall. I have time." She plunged her hand into the pail of water.

  "No!" exclaimed Katie sharply. She took Francie's hand out of the water and dried it on her apron. "Don't put your hands in that water. It has soda and lye in it. Look what it's done to my hands." She held out her shapely but work-scarred hands. "I don't want your hands to get like that. I want you to have nice hands always. Besides, I'm almost finished."

  "If I can't help, can I sit on the stairs and watch?"

  "If you've nothing better to do."

  Francie sat watching her mother. It was so good to be there and know that Mama was alive and close by. Even the scrubbing made a safe, pleasant sound. Swish-a-swish-a-swish-a-swish-a went the brush. Slup-a slup-a slup-slup went the rag wiping up. Klunk, flump went the brush and rag as Mama dropped them into the pail. Skrunk, skrunk went the pail as mama pushed it to the next area.

  "Haven't you any girl friends to talk to, Francie?"

  "No. I hate women."

  "That's not natural. It would do you good to talk things over with girls your own age."

  "Have you any women friends, Mama?"

  "No, I hate women," said Katie.

  "See? You're just like me."

  "But I had a girl friend once and I got your father through her. So you see, a girl friend comes in handy sometimes." She spoke jokingly, but her scrub brush seemed to swish out, you-go-your-way, I'll-go-my-way. She fought back her tears. "Yes," she continued, "you need friends. You never talk to anybody but Neeley and me, and read your books and write your stories."