A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [129]
At the cemetery, there was a plain wooden box standing beside a deep hole. They put the cloth-covered casket with its shiny handles into the plain box. Francie looked away when they lowered it into the grave.
It was a gray day and a chill wind was blowing. Little whirls of frozen dust eddied about Francie’s feet. A short distance away, at a week-old grave, some men were stripping the withered flowers from the wire frames of the floral pieces heaped on the grave. They worked methodically, keeping the withered flowers in a neat heap and piling up the wire frames carefully. Theirs was a legitimate business. They bought this concession from the cemetery officials and sold the wire frames to the florists who used them over and over again. No one complained because the men were very scrupulous about not tearing off the flowers until they were well withered.
Someone pushed a lump of cold damp earth into Francie’s hand. She saw that Mama and Neeley were standing at the edge of the grave and dropping their handful of earth into it. Francie walked slowly to the edge, closed her eyes and opened her hand slowly. She heard a soft thud after a second, and that feeling of sickness came back again.
After the burial, the coaches went in different directions. Each mourner was to be taken to his own home. Ruthie Nolan went off with some mourners who lived near her. She didn’t even say good-bye. All during the services, she had refused to speak to Katie and the children. Aunt Sissy and Evy got into the carriage with Katie and Francie and Neeley. There wasn’t room for five people so Francie had to sit on Evy’s lap. They were all very quiet on the way home. Aunt Evy tried to cheer them up by telling some new stories about Uncle Willie and his horse. But no one smiled because no one listened.
Mama made the coach stop at a barber shop around the corner from their house.
“Go in there,” she told Francie, “and get your father’s cup.”
Francie didn’t know what she meant. “What cup?” she asked.
“Just ask for his cup.”
Francie went in. There were two barbers but no customers. One of the barbers sat on one of the chairs in a row against the wall. His left ankle rested on his right knee and he cradled a mandolin. He was playing “O, Sole Mio.” Francie knew the song. Mr. Morton had taught it to them saying the title was “Sunshine.” The other barber was sitting in one of the barber chairs looking at himself in the long mirror. He got down from the chair as the girl came in.
“Yes?” he asked.
“I want my father’s cup.”
“The name?”
“John Nolan.”
“Ah, yes. Too bad.” He sighed as he took a mug from the row of them on a shelf. It was a thick white mug with “John Nolan” written on it in gold and fancy block letters. There was a worn-down cake of white soap at the bottom of it and a tired-looking brush. He pried out the soap and put it and the brush in a bigger unlettered cup. He washed Johnny’s cup.
While Francie waited, she looked around. She had never been inside a barber shop. It smelled of soap and clean towels and bay rum. There was a gas heater which hissed companionably. The barber had finished the song and started it over again. The thin tinkle of the mandolin made a sad sound in the warm shop. Francie sang Mr. Morton’s words to the song in her mind.
Oh, what’s so fine, dear,
As a day of sunshine.
The storm is past at last.
The sky is blue and clear.
Everyone has a secret life, she mused. Papa never spoke about the barber shop, yet he had come here three times a week to be shaved.