A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [128]
The flat was sickly with the combined scents of roses, lilies and carnations. Forever after, Francie hated those flowers, but it pleased Katie to know how much people had thought of Johnny.
A few moments before they were to close the coffin lid on Johnny, Katie came out to the kitchen to the children. She put her hands on Francie’s shoulders and spoke low.
“I heard some neighbors whispering. They said you won’t look at your father because he wasn’t a good father to you.”
“He was a good father,” said Francie fiercely.
“Yes, he was,” agreed Katie. She waited, letting the children make their own decision.
“Come on, Neeley,” said Francie. Hand in hand, the children went in to their father. Neeley looked quickly, then, afraid he would start crying, he ran out of the room. Francie stood there with her eyes on the ground, afraid to look. Finally she lifted her eyes. She couldn’t believe that Papa wasn’t living! He wore his tuxedo suit which had been cleaned and pressed. He had on a fresh dicky and collar and a carefully tied bow tie. There was a carnation in his lapel and, above it, his Union button. His hair was shining and golden and as curling as ever. One of the locks was out of place and had fallen down on the side of his forehead a little. His eyes were closed as though he were sleeping lightly. He looked young and handsome and well-cared for. She noticed for the first time how finely arched his eyebrows were. His small mustache was trimmed and looked as debonair as ever. All the pain and grief and worry had left his face. It was smooth and boyish-looking. Johnny was thirty-four years old when he died. But he looked younger now; like a boy just past twenty. Francie looked at his hands, crossed so casually over a silver crucifix. There was a circlet of whiter skin on his third finger where he used to wear the signet ring that Katie had given him when they married. (Katie had taken it off to give to Neeley when he grew up.) It was queer to see Papa’s hands so quiet when she remembered them as always trembling. Francie noticed how narrow and sensitive-looking they were with the long and tapering fingers. She stared steadily at his hands and thought she saw them move. Panic churned up in her and she wanted to run away. But the room was full of people watching her. They would say she was running away because…He had been a good father. He had! He had! She put her hand on his hair and put the lock back in place. Aunt Sissy came and put her arm around her and whispered, “It’s time.” Francie stepped back to stand with Mama while they closed the lid.
At the mass, Francie knelt on one side of Mama and Neeley on the other. Francie kept her eyes on the floor so that she wouldn’t have to look at the flower-covered coffin standing on trestles before the altar. Once she stole a look at her mother. Katie was kneeling, staring straight ahead, her face white and quiet under the widow’s veil.
When the priest stepped down and walked around the coffin sprinkling holy water at the four corners of it, a woman sitting across the aisle sobbed wildly. Katie, jealous and fiercely possessive even in death, turned sharply to look at the woman who dared weep for Johnny. She looked well at the woman, then turned her head away. Her thoughts were like torn bits of paper blowing around.
“Hildy O’Dair is old for her age,” she thought. “It’s like powder was sprinkled on her yellow hair. But she’s not much older than me…thirty-two or three. She was eighteen when I was seventeen. You go your way and I’ll go my way. You mean you’ll go her way. Hildy, Hildy…he’s my feller, Katie Rommely…Hildy, Hildy…but she’s my best friend…I’m not much good, Hildy…I shouldn’t have led you on…you go your…Hildy, Hildy. Let her cry, let her cry,” thought Katie. “Someone who loved Johnny should cry for him and I can’t cry. Let her….”
Katie, Johnny’s mother, and Francie and Neeley rode out to the cemetery in the first coach behind the hearse. The children sat with their backs to the driver. Francie was glad because she couldn’t