A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [139]
“That’s all.” Still McGarrity waited.
“I guess I’ll go, then,” ventured Neeley.
“All right, son,” sighed McGarrity. He watched the boy walk out of the back door. “If he’d only turn around and say something…something…personal,” thought McGarrity. But Neeley didn’t turn around.
McGarrity tried Francie the next day. He came upstairs to the flat, sat down and said nothing. Francie got a little frightened and started sweeping towards the door. “If he comes at me,” she thought, “I can run out.” McGarrity sat quiet for a long time, thinking he was getting her used to him. He didn’t know he was frightening her.
“Write any grade A, number one compositions lately?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
He waited a while. “Do you think we’ll get into this war?”
“I…I don’t know.” She edged closer to the door.
He thought, “I’m scaring her. She thinks I’m like that fellow in the hallway.” Aloud he said, “Don’t be afraid, I’m going. You can lock the door after me, if you want.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. After he had gone, Francie thought: “I guess he only wanted to talk. But I have nothing to say to him.”
Mae McGarrity came up once. Francie was on her knees trying to poke out some dirt from behind the water pipes under the sink. Mae told her to get up and forget it.
“Lord love you, child,” she said. “Don’t be killing yourself working. This flat will be standing here long after you and I are dead and gone.”
She took a mound of rosy Jell-O out of the icebox, cut it in half and slid a portion on another plate. She garnished it liberally with whipped cream, plunked two spoons on the table, sat down and indicated that Francie do the same.
“I’m not hungry,” lied Francie.
“Eat anyhow, to be sociable,” Mae said.
It was the first time Francie had ever eaten Jell-O and whipped cream. It was so good, she had to remember her manners and not gobble it down. As she ate, she thought, “Why, Mrs. McGarrity’s all right. Mr. McGarrity’s all right, too. Only I guess they aren’t all right to each other.”
Mae and Jim McGarrity sat alone at a little round table in back of the saloon eating their usual hurried and silent supper. Unexpectedly, she placed her hand on his arm. He trembled at the unexpected touch. His small light eyes looked into her large mahogany-colored ones and saw pity in them.
“It won’t work out, Jim,” she said gently. Excitement churned up in him. “She knows!” he thought. “Why…why…she understands.”
“There’s an old saying,” Mae continued. “Money won’t buy everything.”
“I know,” he said. “I’ll let them go, then.”
“Wait until a couple of weeks after her kid is born. Give them a show.” She got up and walked out to the bar.
McGarrity sat there, torn apart by his feelings. “We held a conversation,” he thought in wonder. “No names were mentioned and nothing was said exactly in the words. But she knew what I was thinking and I knew what she was thinking.” He hurried after his wife. He wanted to hold on to that understanding. He saw Mae standing at the end of the bar. A husky teamster had his arm around her waist and was whispering something in her ear. She had her hand over her mouth to hold back her laughter. As McGarrity came in, the teamster removed his arm sheepishly and moved down to stand with a group of men. As McGarrity went behind the bar, he looked into his wife’s eyes. They were blank and had no understanding in them. McGarrity’s face fell into the old lines of grievous disappointment as he started his evening’s work.
Mary Rommely was getting old. She was no longer able to go about Brooklyn alone. She had a longing to see Katie before her confinement, so she gave the insurance collector a message.
“When a woman gives birth,” she told him, “death holds her hand for a little while. Sometimes he doesn’t let go. Tell my youngest daughter that I would see her once more before her time comes.”
The collector gave the message. The following Sunday, Katie went over to see her mother, taking Francie with her. Neeley begged off, saying he had promised to pitch for the Ten Eycks who were trying to get up a ball game in the lots.
Sissy’s kitchen