A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

by Betty Smith

  "That's the way it was with me too," confessed Francie, "except I've never kissed any boy. And now for the first time, I'm not lonely either."

  The waiter again replenished their almost filled water glasses. Francie knew it was a hint that they had sat there too long. People were waiting for tables. She asked Lee the time. Almost ten o'clock! They had been talking for nearly four hours!

  "I have to start for home," she said regretfully.

  "I'll take you home. Do you live near the Brooklyn Bridge?"

  "No. The Williamsburg."

  "I hoped it was the Brooklyn Bridge. I thought that if I ever got to New York, I'd like to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge."

  "Why not?" suggested Francie. "I can get a Graham Avenue trolley from the Brooklyn end that will take me right to my corner."

  They took the I.R.T. Subway to Brooklyn Bridge, got out and started to walk across. Halfway over, they paused to look down on the East River. They stood close together and he held her hand. He looked up at the skyline on the Manhattan shore.

  "New York! I've always wanted to see it and now I've seen it. It's true what they say--it's the most wonderful city in the world."

  "Brooklyn's better."

  "It hasn't got skyscrapers like New York, has it?"

  "No. But there's a feeling about it--Oh, I can't explain it. You've got to live in Brooklyn to know."

  "We'll live in Brooklyn some day," he said quietly. And her heart skipped a beat.

  She saw one of the cops who patrolled the Bridge coming toward them.

  "We'd better move," she said uneasily. "The Brooklyn Navy Yard's right over there and that camouflaged boat anchored there is a transport. The cops are always watching out for spies."

  As the cop came up to them Lee said, "We're not going to blow up anything. We're just looking at the East River."

  "Sure, sure," said the cop. "Don't I know how it is on a fine May night? Wasn't I young, meself, once and not so long ago as you might think?"

  He smiled at them. Lee smiled back and Francie grinned at both of them. The cop glanced at Lee's sleeve.

  "Well, so long, General," said the cop. "Give 'em hell when you get over there."

  "I'll do that," promised Lee.

  The cop went on his way.

  "Nice guy," commented Lee.

  "Everybody's nice," said Francie happily.

  When they got to the Brooklyn side, she said that he was not to take her the rest of the way home. She had often gone home alone late at night when working on the night shift, she explained. He'd get lost if he tried to find his way back to New York from her neighborhood. Brooklyn was tricky that way. You had to live there in order to find your way about, she said.

  In truth, she didn't want him to see where she lived. She loved her neighborhood and wasn't ashamed of it. But she felt that to a stranger who didn't know about it the way she did, it might seem a mean and shabby place.

  First she showed him where to get the El that would return him to New York. Then they walked over to where she had to get the trolley. They passed a one-window tattoo shop. Inside sat a young sailor with his sleeve rolled up. The tattoo artist sat before him on a stool with his pan of inks nearby. He was pricking out an arrow-pierced heart on the sailor boy's arm. Francie and Lee stopped to stare in the window. The sailor waved at them with his free arm. They waved back. The artist looked up and made signs that they were welcome to enter, Francie frowned and shook her head, "no."

  Walking away from the store, Lee said with wonder in his voice. "That fellow was actually getting tattooed! Gosh!"

  "Don't you ever ever let me catch you getting tattooed," she said with playful severity.

  "No, Mother," he answered meekly and they laughed.

  They stood on the corner waiting for the trolley. An awkward silence came between them. They stood apart and he kept lighting cigarettes and discarding them before they were half smoked. Finally a trolley came in sight.

  "Here comes my car," said Francie. She held out her right hand. "Good night, Lee."

  He threw away the cigarette he had just lighted.

  "Francie?" He held out his arms.

  She went to him and he kissed her.

  The next morning, Francie dressed in her new navy blue faille suit with the white georgette crepe blouse and her Sunday patent leather pumps. She and Lee had no date--had made no arrangements to meet again. But she knew he'd be waiting for her at five o'clock. Neeley got up from bed as she was about to leave. She asked him to tell mama she wouldn't be home for supper.

  "Francie's got a feller at last! Francie's got a feller at last!" chanted Neeley.

  He went to Laurie who was sitting by the window in her high chair. There was a bowl of oatmeal on the chair's tray. The baby was busily engaged in spooning out the oatmeal and dumping it on the floor. Neeley chucked her under the chin.

  "Hey! Dopey! At last Francie's got a feller."

  A faint line appeared on the inner edge of the child's right eyebrow (the Rommely line, Katie called it) as the two-year-old tried to understand.

  "Fran-nee?" she said in a puzzled way.

  "Listen, Neeley, I got her out of bed and gave her her oatmeal. It's your job to feed her now. And don't call her dopey."

  As she came out of the hallway on the street, she heard her name called. She looked up. Neeley was hanging out of the window in his pajamas. He sang at the top of his voice:

  There she goes

  On her toes,

  All dressed up

  In her Sunday clothes...

  "Neeley, you're terrible! Just terrible!" she called up to the window. He pretended not to understand.

  "Did you say he was terrible? Did you say he had a big mustache and a baldy head?"

  "You better go feed the baby," she hollered back.

  "Did you say you were going to have a baby, Francie? Did you say you were going to have a baby?"

  A man passing on the street winked at Francie. Two girls coming by arm-in-arm had a terrific fit of giggling.

  "You damned kid!" screamed Francie in impotent fury.

  "You cursed! I'm gonna tell Mama, I'm gonna tell Mama, I'm gonna tell mama you cursed," chanted Neeley.

  She heard the trolley coming and had to run for it.

  He was waiting for her when she got out of work. He met her with that smile.

  "Hello, my best girl." He tucked her arm within his.

  "Hello, Lee. It's good to see you again."

  "...dear," he prompted.

  "Dear," she added.

  They ate at the Automat--another place he had wanted to see. Since smoking wasn't permitted there and Lee couldn't sit still for long without smoking, they didn't linger to talk after coffee and dessert. They decided to go dancing. They found a dime-a-dance place just off Broadway where servicemen were given half rates. He bought a strip of twenty tickets for a dollar and they started to dance.

  They had gone but halfway around the floor when Francie discovered that his gangling awkwardness was extremely deceptive. He was a smooth and skillful dancer. They danced, holding each other closely. There was no need for conversation.

  The orchestra was playing one of Francie's favorite songs, "Some Sunday Morning."

  Some Sunday morning,

  When the weather's fine.

  She hummed the chorus as the vocalist sang it.

  Dressed up in gingham,

  What a bride I'll be.

  She felt Lee's arm tighten around her.

  I know my girl friends,

  They're gonna envy me.

  Francie was so happy. Once more around the floor, then the vocalist sang the chorus again, this time varying it slightly in honor of the soldiers present.

  Dressed up in khaki,

  What a groom you'll be.

  Her arm tightened around his shoulders and she rested her cheek on his tunic. She had the same thought Katie had had seventeen years ago dancing with Johnny--that she'd willingly accept any sacrifice or hardship if she could only
have this man near her for always. And like Katie, Francie gave no thought to the children who might have to help her work out the hardship and sacrifice.

  A group of soldiers were leaving the hall. As was the custom, the orchestra cut off the song they were playing and went into "Till We Meet Again." Everyone stopped dancing and sang a farewell to the soldiers. Francie and Lee held hands and sang, even though neither was quite certain of the words.

  ...When the clouds roll by Then I'll come back to you, Then the skies will seem more blue...

  There were cries of "Good-bye, soldier!" "Good luck, soldier!" "Till we meet again, soldier." Then the departing soldiers stood in a group and sang the song. Lee pulled Francie towards the door.

  "We'll leave now," he said. "So that this moment will remain a perfect memory."

  They walked down the stairs slowly, the song following them. As they reached the street, they waited until the song died away.

  ...Pray each night for me, Till we meet again.

  "Let it be our song," he whispered, "and think of me every time you hear it."

  As they walked, it started to rain and they had to run and find shelter in the doorway of a vacant store. They stood in the protected and dark doorway, held each other's hand and watched the rain falling.

  "People always think that happiness is a faraway thing," thought Francie, "something complicated and hard to get. Yet, what little things can make it up; a place of shelter when it rains--a cup of strong hot coffee when you're blue; for a man, a cigarette for contentment; a book to read when you're alone--just to be with someone you love. Those things make happiness."

  "I'm leaving early in the morning."

  "Not for France?" Suddenly she was jolted out of her happiness.

  "No, for home. My mother wants me for a day or two before..."

  "Oh!"

  "I love you, Francie."

  "But you're engaged. That's the first thing you ever told me."

  "Engaged," he said bitterly. "Everybody's engaged. Everybody in a small town is engaged or married or in trouble. There's nothing else to do in a small town.

  "You go to school. You start walking home with a girl--maybe for no other reason than that she lives out your way. You grow up. She invites you to parties at her home. You go to other parties--people ask you to bring her along; you're expected to take her home. Soon no one else takes her out. Everybody thinks she's your girl and then...well, if you don't take her around, you feel like a heel. And then, because there's nothing else to do, you marry. And it works out all right if she's a decent girl (and most of the time she is) and you're a halfway decent fellow. No great passion but a kind of affectionate contentment. And then children come along and you give them the great love you kind of miss in each other. And the children gain in the long run.

  "Yes, I'm engaged all right. But it isn't the same between her and me as it is between you and me."

  "But you're going to marry her?"

  He waited a long time before he answered.

  "No."

  She was happy again.

  "Say it, Francie," he whispered. "Say it."

  She said, "I love you, Lee."

  "Francie..." there was urgency in his voice, "I may not come back from over there and I'm afraid...afraid. I might die...die, never having had anything...never...Francie, can't we be together for a little while?"

  "We are together," said Francie innocently.

  "I mean in a room...alone...Just till morning when I leave?"

  "I...couldn't."

  "Don't you want to?"

  "Yes," she answered honestly.

  "Then why...."

  "I'm only sixteen," she confessed bravely. "I've never been with...anybody. I wouldn't know how."

  "That makes no difference."

  "And I've never been away from home overnight. My mother would worry."

  "You could tell her you spent the night with a girl friend."

  "She knows I have no girl friend."

  "You could think of some excuse...tomorrow."

  "I wouldn't need to think of an excuse. I'd tell her the truth."

  "You would?" he asked in astonishment.

  "I love you. I wouldn't be ashamed...afterwards if I stayed with you. I'd be proud and happy and I wouldn't want to lie about it."

  "I had no way of knowing, no way of knowing," he whispered as if to himself.

  "You wouldn't want it to be something...sneaky, would you?"

  "Francie, forgive me. I shouldn't have asked. I had no way of knowing."

  "Knowing?" asked Francie, puzzled.

  He put his arms around her and held her tightly. She saw that he was crying.

  "Francie, I'm afraid...so afraid. I'm afraid that if I go away I'll lose you...never see you again. Tell me not to go home and I'll stay. We'll have tomorrow and the next day. We'll eat together and walk around or sit in a park or ride on top of a bus and just talk and be with each other. Tell me not to go."

  "I guess you have to go. I guess that it's right that you see your mother once more before.... I don't know. But I guess it's right."

  "Francie, will you marry me when the war's over --if I come back?"

  "When you come back, I'll marry you."

  "Will you, Francie?...please, will you?"

  "Yes."

  "Say it again."

  "I'll marry you when you come back, Lee."

  "And, Francie, we'll live in Brooklyn."

  "We'll live wherever you want to live."

  "We'll live in Brooklyn, then."

  "Only if you want to, Lee."

  "And will you write to me every day? Every day?"

  "Every day," she promised.

  "And will you write to me tonight when you get home and tell me how much you love me so that the letter will be waiting for me when I get home?" She promised. "Will you promise never to let anyone kiss you? Never to go out with anyone? To wait for me...no matter how long? And if I don't come back, never to want to marry anyone else?"

  She promised.

  And he asked for her whole life as simply as he'd ask for a date. And she promised away her whole life as simply as she'd offer a hand in greeting or farewell.

  It stopped raining after a while and the stars came out.

  53

  SHE WROTE THAT NIGHT AS SHE HAD PROMISED--ALONG LETTER in which she poured out all her love and repeated the promises she had given.

  She left a little earlier for work to have time to mail the letter from the Thirty-fourth Street post office. The clerk at the window assured her that it would reach its destination that afternoon. That was Wednesday.

  She looked for but tried not to expect a letter Thursday night. There hadn't been time--unless he, too, wrote immediately after they had parted. But of course, he had to pack maybe--get up early to make his train. (It never occurred to her that she had managed to find time.) There was no letter Thursday night.

  Friday, she had to work straight through--a sixteen-hour shift--because the company was short-handed on account of an influenza epidemic. When she got home a little before two in the morning, there was a letter propped against the sugar bowl on the kitchen table. She ripped it open eagerly.

  "Dear Miss Nolan."

  Her happiness died. It couldn't be from Lee because he'd write, "Dear Francie." She turned the page and looked at the signature. "Elizabeth Rhynor (Mrs.)" Oh! His mother. Or a sister-in-law. Maybe he was sick and couldn't write. Maybe there was an army rule that men about to go overseas couldn't write letters. He had asked someone to write for him. Of course. That was it. She started to read the letter.

  "Lee told me all about you. I want to thank you for being so nice and friendly to him while he was in New York. He arrived home Wednesday afternoon but had to leave for camp the next night. He was home only a day and a half. We had a very quiet wedding, just the families and a few friends..."

  Francie put the letter down. "I've been working sixteen hours in a row," she thought, "and I'm tired. I've read thousands of me
ssages today and no words make sense right now. Anyhow, I got into bad reading habits at the Bureau--reading a column at a glance and seeing only one word in it. First I'll wash the sleep out of my eyes, have some coffee, and read the letter again. This time I'll read it right."

  While the coffee heated, she splashed cold water on her face thinking that when she came to the part of the letter that said "wedding" she'd go on reading and the next words would be: "Lee was the best man. I married his brother, you know."

  Katie lying awake in her bed heard Francie moving about in the kitchen. She lay tense...waiting. And she wondered what it was she waited for.

  Francie read the letter again.

  "...wedding, just the families and a few friends. Lee asked me to write and explain why he hadn't answered your letter. Again thank you for entertaining him so nicely while he was in your city. Yours truly, Elizabeth Rhynor (Mrs.)"

  There was a postscript.

  "I read the letter you sent Lee. It was mean of him to pretend to be in love with you and I told him so. He said to tell you he's dreadfully sorry. E.R."

  Francie was trembling violently. Her teeth made little biting sounds.

  "Mama," she moaned. "Mama!"

  Katie heard the story. "It's come at last," she thought, "the time when you can no longer stand between your children and heartache. When there wasn't enough food in the house you pretended that you weren't hungry so they could have more. In the cold of a winter's night you got up and put your blanket on their bed so they wouldn't be cold. You'd kill anyone who tried to harm them--I tried my best to kill that man in the hallway. Then one sunny day, they walk out in all innocence and they walk right into the grief that you'd give your life to spare them."

  Francie gave her the letter. She read it slowly and as she read, she thought she knew how it was. Here was a man of twenty-two who evidently (to use one of Sissy's phrases) had been around. Here was a girl sixteen years old; six years younger than he. A girl--in spite of bright-red lipstick and grown-up clothes and a lot of knowledge picked up here and there--who was yet tremulously innocent; a girl who had come face to face with some of the evil of the world and most of its hardships, and yet had remained curiously untouched by the world. Yes, she could understand her appeal for him.

  Well, what could she say? That he was no good or at best just a weak man who was easily susceptible to whoever he was with? No, she couldn't be so cruel as to say that. Besides the girl wouldn't believe her anyhow.