A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [137]
“I talked it over with my Missus,” dreamed McGarrity, “and she agreed with me that we could use your girl. No hard work, you understand, just making the beds and washing a few dishes. I could use the boy downstairs, peeling eggs and cutting cheese into hunks, you know, for the free lunch at night. He wouldn’t be anywhere near the bar. He’d work in the back kitchen. It would be for an hour or so after school and half a day on Saturday. I’d pay each two dollars a week.”
Katie’s heart jumped. “Four dollars a week,” she figured to herself, “and the dollar and a half from the paper route. Both of them could stay in school. There’d be enough to eat. It would get us through.”
“What do you say, Mrs. Nolan?” he asked.
“It’s up to the children,” she answered.
“Well?” He threw his voice in their direction. “What do you say?”
Francie pretended to tear herself away from her book. “What did you say?”
“Would you like to help Mrs. McGarrity around the house?”
“Yes, sir,” said Francie.
“And you?” He looked at Neeley.
“Yes, sir,” echoed the boy.
“That’s settled.” He turned to Katie. “Of course it’s only temporary until we can get a regular woman to take over the house and kitchen work.”
“I’d rather it was temporary, anyhow,” said Katie.
“You might be a little short.” He worked his hand down into his pocket. “So I’ll pay the first week’s salary in advance.”
“No, Mr. McGarrity. If they earn the money, they’ll have the privilege of collecting it and bringing it home themselves at the end of the week.”
“All right.” But instead of taking his hand from his pocket, he closed it over the thick roll of bills. He thought, “I’ve got so much money that buys me nothing. And they haven’t got anything.” He had an idea.
“Mrs. Nolan, you know how Johnny and I done business. I gave him credit and he turned his tips over to me. Well, when he died, he was a little ahead.” He took out the thick roll of bills. Francie’s eyes popped when she saw all that money. McGarrity’s idea was to say that Johnny was twelve dollars ahead and to give Katie that sum. He looked at Katie as he took the rubber band off the money. Her eyes narrowed and he changed his mind about the twelve dollars. He knew she’d never believe it. “Of course, it isn’t much,” he said casually. “Just two dollars. But I figure it belongs to you.” He detached two bills and held them out to her.
Katie shook her head. “I know there is no money owing us. If you told the truth, you’d say that Johnny owed you.” Ashamed at being caught, McGarrity put the thick roll back in his pocket where it felt uncomfortable against his thigh. “But, Mr. McGarrity, I do thank you for your kind intentions,” Katie said.
Her last few words released McGarrity’s tongue. He started to talk; he spoke of his boyhood in Ireland, of his mother and father and the many brothers and sisters. He spoke of his dream marriage. He told her everything that had been in his thoughts for years. He didn’t run down his wife and children. He left them out of his story entirely. He told about Johnny; how Johnny had spoken daily of his wife and children.
“Take those curtains,” McGarrity said, waving a thick hand at the half curtains made of yellow calico with a red rose design. “Johnny told me how you ripped up an old dress of yours and made kitchen curtains out of it. He said it made the kitchen look fine, like the inside of a Gypsy wagon.”
Francie, who had abandoned the pretense of study, picked up McGarrity’s last two words. “Gypsy wagon,” she thought, looking at the curtains with new eyes. “So Papa had said that. I didn’t think he noticed the new curtains at the time. At least he didn’t say anything. But he had noticed. He had said that nice thing about them to this man.” Hearing Johnny spoken of so made Francie almost believe that he wasn’t dead. “So Papa had said things like that to this man.” She stared at McGarrity with new interest. He was a short stocky man with