A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [125]
Johnny was still living when Katie got there. He had pneumonia, the doctor told her, and there wasn’t a chance. It was merely a question of hours. Already he was in the coma that came before death. They took Katie to him. His bed was in a long corridor-like ward. There were fifty other beds in the ward. Katie thanked McShane and said good-bye. He went away knowing that she wanted to be alone with Johnny.
There was a screen, connoting dying, around Johnny’s bed. They brought a chair for Katie and she sat there all day watching him. He was breathing harshly and there were dried tears on his face. Katie stayed there until he died. He had never opened his eyes. He had not spoken a word to his wife.
It was night when she came home. She decided not to tell the children until the morning. “Let them have a night’s sleep behind them,” she thought, “one more night of griefless sleep.” She told them only that their father was in the hospital and very sick. She said no more. There was something about the way she looked that discouraged the children from asking questions.
Just as dawn came, Francie woke. She looked across the narrow bedroom and saw Mama sitting next to Neeley’s bed and looking down into his face. Her eyes were dark underneath and she looked as though she had been sitting there all night. When she saw that Francie was awake, she told her to get up and get dressed right away. She shook Neeley gently to awaken him and told him the same thing. She went out into the kitchen.
The bedroom was gray and cold and Francie shivered as she got into her clothes. She waited for Neeley, not wanting to go out to Mama alone. Katie was sitting by the window. They came before her and stood waiting.
“Your father is dead,” she told them.
Francie stood numb. There was no feeling of surprise or grief. There was no feeling of anything. What Mama just said had no meaning.
“You’re not to cry for him,” ordered Mama. Her next words had no sense either. “He’s out of it now and maybe he’s luckier than we are.”
* * *
An orderly at the hospital was in the pay of an undertaker whom he notified as soon as a death occurred. This wide-awake undertaker gained an advantage over his competitors in that he went after the business while the others waited for the business to come after them. This enterprising fellow called on Katie early in the morning.
“Mrs. Nolan,” he said, surreptitiously referring to the slip of paper on which the orderly had written her name and address, “I sympathize with you in your great grief. I give you a thought: What has come to you has to come to all of us.”
“What do you want?” asked Katie bluntly.
“To be your friend.” He hurried on before she could misunderstand. “There are details connected with…ah…the remains, I mean…” again a quick look at the slip, “I mean Mr. Nolan. I ask you to look on me as a friend who brings comfort at a time when…who will…well, I want you to leave everything in my hands.”
Katie understood. “How much would you charge for a simple funeral?”
“Now, don’t you worry about costs,” he hedged. “I’ll give him a fine funeral. There’s no man I respected more than Mr. Nolan.” (He had never known Mr. Nolan.) “I’ll make it my personal business to see that he gets the best there is. Don’t worry about the money.”
“I won’t. Because there’s none to worry about.”
He wet his lips. “Aside from the insurance money, of course.” It was a question, not a statement.
“There’s insurance. A little.”
“Ah!” He rubbed his hands together happily. “There’s where I can be of service. There’s red tape connected with collecting insurance. Take a long time before you get the money. Now, supposing you (and understand I’m not charging you for this) let me take care of it. You just sign this,” he whisked a paper out of his pocket, “turning your policy over to me. I’ll