A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [121]
“You Rommely women are too deep for us men,” decided Johnny. A thought struck him. “Say! You didn’t do that to me, did you?”
In answer, Katie got the children out of bed. She had them stand before him in their long white nightgowns. “Look at them,” she commanded. Johnny looked at his son. It was as if he were looking in a trick mirror where he saw himself perfectly but on a smaller scale. He looked at Francie. There was Katie’s face all over again (only more solemn) except for the eyes. They were Johnny’s eyes. On an impulse, Francie picked up a plate and held it over her heart the way Johnny held his hat when he sang. She sang one of his songs:
They called her frivolous Sal.
A peculiar sort of a gal…
She had Johnny’s expressions and Johnny’s gestures.
“I know, I know,” Papa whispered. He kissed his children, gave them each a pat on the backside and told them to go back to bed. After they had gone, Katie pulled Johnny’s head down and whispered something to him.
“No!” he said in a surprised voice.
“Yes, Johnny,” she said quietly. He put his hat on. “Where are you going, Johnny?”
“Out.”
“Johnny, please don’t come home…” she looked towards the bedroom door.
“I won’t, Katie,” he promised. He kissed her gently and went out.
Francie woke up in the middle of the night wondering what had taken her out of her sleep. Ah! Papa hadn’t come home yet. That was it. She never slept soundly until she knew he had come home. Once awake, she started thinking. She thought of Sissy’s baby. She thought of birth. Her thoughts went to birth’s corollary: death. She didn’t want to think of death; how everybody was born but to die. While she was fighting off thoughts of death, they heard Papa coming up the stairs singing softly. She shivered when she heard that he was singing the last verse of “Molly Malone.” He never sang that verse. Never! Why…?
She died of a fever,
And no one could save her,
And that’s how I lo-ost
Sweet Molly Malone…
Francie didn’t stir. It was a rule that when Papa came home late, mama was to open the door. She didn’t want the children to lose their sleep. The song was coming to an end. Mama didn’t hear—she wasn’t getting up. Francie jumped out of bed. The song was ended before she reached the door. When she opened it, Papa was standing there quietly, his hat in his hand. He was looking straight before him, over her head.
“You won, Papa,” she said.
“Did I?” he asked. He walked into the room not looking at her.
“You finished the song.”
“Yes, I finished the song, I guess.” He sat in the chair by the window.
“Papa….”
“Turn out the light and go back to bed.” (The light was kept burning low against his return.) She turned out the light.
“Papa, are…are you sick?”
“No. I’m not drunk,” he said clearly from the dark. And Francie knew that he spoke the truth.
She went to bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not know why, but she wept.
35
ONCE MORE IT WAS IN THE WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS. FRANCIE HAD just had her fourteenth birthday. Neeley, as he put it, was waiting to turn thirteen any moment. It looked as though it wouldn’t be such a good Christmas. There was something wrong with Johnny. Johnny wasn’t drinking. There had been other times, of course, when Johnny stopped drinking but that was when he was working. Now he wasn’t drinking at all and he wasn’t working, and the wrong thing about Johnny was that he wasn’t drinking but he was acting like he was drinking.
He hadn’t spoken to his family in more than two weeks. Francie remembered the last time Papa had said anything to her was that night when he