A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [108]
She thought it was too cold to wash him on the street. She took him back to the stable for that. She thought the yellow soap was too biting, so she brought along a cake of Sweetheart Soap and a big old bath towel to dry him with. The men at the stable offered to wash the horse and wagon for her but she insisted on washing the horse herself. Two men got into a fight over who should wash the wagon. Evy settled it by saying one could wash it one day and the other, the next day.
She heated Drummer’s wash water on a gas plate in the boss’s office. She’d never think of washing him in cold water. She washed him with the warm water and the sweet-scented soap and dried him carefully bit by bit with the towel. He never committed an indignity on her while she washed him. He snorted and whinnied happily throughout the washing. His skin rippled in voluptuous delight when Evy rubbed him dry. When she worked around his chest, he rested his tremendous head on her small shoulder. There was no doubt about it. The horse was madly in love with Evy.
When Flittman recovered and reported back for work, the horse refused to leave the stable with him on the wagon seat. They had to give Flittman another route and another horse. But Drummer wouldn’t get out with any other driver either. The boss had just about made up his mind to have him sold, when he got an idea. Among the drivers, there was an effeminate young man who talked with a lisp. They put him on Flittman’s wagon. Drummer seemed satisfied and consented to go out with the ladylike driver on the seat.
So Drummer took up his regular duties again. But every day at noon, he turned into the street where Evy lived and stood in front of her door. He wouldn’t go back to the stables until Evy had come down, given him a bit of apple or some sugar, stroked his nose and called him a good boy.
“He was a funny horse,” said Francie after she heard the story.
“He may have been funny,” said Aunt Evy, “but he sure knew what he wanted.”
32
FRANCIE HAD STARTED A DIARY ON HER THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY WITH the entry:
Dec. 15. Today I enter my teens. What will the year bring forth? I wonder.
The year brought forth little according to the entries which became sparser as the year wore on. She had been prompted to start a diary because fictional heroines kept them and filled them with lush sighing thoughts. Francie thought her diary would be like that, but excepting for some romantic observations on Harold Clarence, actor, the entries were prosaic. Towards the end of the year she riffled through the pages reading an item here and there.
Jan. 8. Granma Mary Rommely has a pretty carved box that her great-grandfather made in Austria over a hundred years ago. She has a black dress and white petticoat and shoes and stockings in it. They are her burying clothes as she doesn’t want to be buried in a shroud. Uncle Willie Flittman said he wants to be cremated and his ashes scattered from the Statue of Liberty. He thinks he’ll be a bird in the next life and he wants a good start. Aunt Evy said he’s a bird already, a cuckoo. Mama scolded me for laughing. Is cremation better than burying? I wonder.
Jan. 10. Papa sick today.
March 21. Neeley stole pussy willows from McCarren’s Park and gave them to Gretchen Hahn. Mama said he’s too young to be thinking about girls. There’s time enough, she said.
April 2. Papa hasn’t worked for three weeks. There’s something wrong with his hands. They shake so much he can’t hold anything.
April 20. Aunt Sissy says she’s going to have a baby. I don’t believe it because she’s flat in front. I heard her tell Mama she’s carrying it in the back. I wonder.
May 8. Papa sick today.
May 9. Papa went to work tonight but had to come home. Said the people didn’t need him.
May 10. Papa sick. Had bad nightmares in the daytime and screamed.