A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [11]
“Gol-lee!” he whispered rolling his big brown Jewish eyes. The idea that those Goyem thought him man enough to be capable of thinking about any girl, Gentile or Jew, staggered him and he went his way saying gol-lee over and over.
The boys walked on slowly, looking slyly at the big boy who had made the remark about the girls, and wondering whether he would lead off into a dirty talk session. But before this could start, Francie heard her brother say,
“I know that kid. He’s a white Jew.” Neeley had heard papa speak so of a Jewish bartender that he liked.
“They ain’t no such thing as a white Jew,” said the big boy.
“Well, if there was such a thing as a white Jew,” said Neeley with that combination of agreeing with others, and still sticking to his own opinions, which made him so amiable, “he would be it.”
“There never could be a white Jew,” said the big boy, “even in supposing.”
“Our Lord was a Jew.” Neeley was quoting Mama.
“And other Jews turned right around and killed him,” clinched the big boy.
Before they could go deeper in theology, they saw another little boy turn on to Ainslie Street from Humboldt Street carrying a basket on his arm. The basket was covered with a clean ragged cloth. A stick stuck up from one corner of the basket, and, on it, like a sluggish flag stood six pretzels. The big boy of Neeley’s gang gave a command and they made a tightly-packed run on the pretzel seller. He stood his ground, opened his mouth and bawled, “Mama!”
A second-story window flew open and a woman clutching a crepe-paperish kimono around her sprawling breasts, yelled out,
“Leave him alone and get off this block, you lousy bastards.”
Francie’s hands flew to cover her ears so that at confession she would not have to tell the priest that she had stood and listened to a bad word.
“We ain’t doing nothing, lady,” said Neeley with that ingratiating smile which always won over his mother.
“You bet your life, you ain’t. Not while I’m around.” Then without changing her tone she called to her son, “And get upstairs here, you. I’ll learn you to bother me when I’m taking a nap.” The pretzel boy went upstairs and the gang ambled on.
“That lady’s tough.” The big boy jerked his head back at the window.
“Yeah,” the others agreed.
“My old man’s tough,” offered a smaller boy.
“Who the hell cares?” inquired the big boy languidly.
“I was just saying,” apologized the smaller boy.
“My old man ain’t tough,” said Neeley. The boys laughed.
They ambled along, stopping now and then to breathe deeply of the smell of Newtown Creek which flowed its narrow tormented way a few blocks up Grand Street.
“God, she stinks,” commented the big boy.
“Yeah!” Neeley sounded deeply satisfied.
“I bet that’s the worst stink in the world,” bragged another boy.
“Yeah.”
And Francie whispered yeah in agreement. She was proud of that smell. It let her know that nearby was a waterway, which, dirty though it was, joined a river that flowed out to the sea. To her, the stupendous stench suggested far-sailing ships and adventure and she was pleased with the smell.
Just as the boys reached the lot in which there was a ragged diamond tramped out, a little yellow butterfly flew across the weeds. With man’s instinct to capture anything running, flying, swimming or crawling, they gave chase, throwing their ragged caps at it in advance of their coming. Neeley caught it. The boys looked at it briefly, quickly lost interest in it and started up a four-man baseball game of their own devising.
They played furiously, cursing, sweating and punching each other. Every time a stumble bum passed and loitered for a moment, they clowned and showed off. There was a rumor that the Brooklyn’s had a hundred scouts roaming the streets of a Saturday afternoon watching lot games and spotting promising players. And there wasn’t a Brooklyn boy who wouldn’t rather play on the Brooklyn’s team than be president of the United States.
After a while, Francie got tired of watching them. She knew that they would play and fight and show