A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [124]
“No, I’m not drunk,” he said.
“Nobody said…” began Katie.
“At last I’m through with it. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!” He pounded the table. They knew he was speaking the truth. “I haven’t touched a drop since that night…” he broke off suddenly. “But no one would believe me any more. No one….”
“There, Johnny,” said Mama soothingly.
“What’s the matter, Papa?” asked Francie.
“Sh! Don’t bother your father,” said Mama. She spoke to Johnny. “There’s coffee left from this morning, Johnny. It’s nice and hot and we’ve got milk tonight. I was waiting until you came home so that we could eat together.” She poured coffee.
“We ate already,” said Neeley.
“Hush!” Mama told him. She put milk into the coffee and sat opposite Johnny. “Drink it, Johnny, while it’s hot.”
Johnny stared at the cup. Suddenly he pushed it from him and Katie drew a sharp breath as it clattered to the floor. Johnny buried his head in his arms and sobbed shudderingly. Katie went to him.
“What’s the matter, Johnny, what’s the matter?” she asked soothingly. Finally he sobbed out:
“They threw me out of the Waiters’ Union today. They said I was a bum and a drunk. They said they’d never give me another job as long as I live.” He controlled his sobs for a moment and his voice was frightened as he said, “as long as I live!” He wept bitterly. “They wanted me to turn in my Union button.” He put his hand over the tiny green-and-white button he wore in his lapel. Francie’s throat got tight as she remembered how he often said he wore it like an ornament, a rose. He was so proud to be a Union man. “But I wouldn’t give it up,” he sobbed.
“That’s nothing, Johnny. You just get a good rest and get on your feet again and they’ll be glad to take you in. You’re a good waiter and the best singer they’ve got.”
“I’m no good any more. I can’t sing any more. Katie, they laugh at me now when I sing. The last few jobs I had, they hired me to give the people a laugh. It’s come to that, now. I’m finished.” He sobbed wildly; he sobbed as though he never could stop.
Francie wanted to run into the bedroom and hide her head under the pillow. She edged toward the door. Mama saw her.
“Stay here!” she said sharply. She spoke to Papa again. “Come, Johnny. Rest a while and you’ll feel better. The oil stove is lit and I’ll put it in the bedroom and it will be nice and warm. I’ll sit with you until you fall asleep.” She put her arms around him. Gently, he put her arms away and went into the bedroom alone, sobbing more quietly. Katie spoke to the children. “I’m going to stay with Papa for a while. Keep on talking or doing whatever you were doing.” The children stared at her numbly. “What are you looking at me like that for?” her voice broke. “Nothing’s the matter.” They looked away. She went into the front room to get the oil stove.
Francie and Neeley did not look at each other for a long time. Finally he said, “Do you want to talk about olden times?”
“No,” said Francie.
36
JOHNNY DIED THREE DAYS LATER.
He had gone to bed that night and Katie had sat by him until he went to sleep. Later she slept with Francie so as not to disturb him. Sometime during the night he got up, dressed quietly and went out. He did not return the next night. The second day they began looking for him. They looked all over but Johnny hadn’t been in any of his accustomed haunts for a week.
The second night, McShane came over to take Katie to a nearby Catholic Hospital. On the way over he told her, as gently as he could, about Johnny. Johnny had been found early that morning huddled in a doorway. He was unconscious when a cop found him. His tuxedo jacket was buttoned up over his undershirt and the cop saw the St. Anthony’s medal around his neck and called up the Catholic Hospital ambulance. There were no marks of identification on him. Later the cop