A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [143]
(Imagine Mama lazy!)
“Hunger is not beautiful. It is also unnecessary. We have well-organized charities. No one need go hungry.”
Francie ground her teeth. Her mother hated the word “charity” above any word in the language and she had brought up her children to hate it too.
“Now, I’m not a snob,” stated Miss Garnder. “I do not come from a wealthy family. My father was a minister with a very small salary.”
(But it was a salary, Miss Garnder.)
“And the only help my mother had was a succession of untrained maids, mostly girls from the country.”
(I see. You were poor, Miss Garnder, poor with a maid.)
“Many times we were without a maid and my mother had to do all the housework herself.”
(And my mother, Miss Garnder, has to do all her own housework, and yes, ten times more cleaning than that.)
“I wanted to go to the state university but we couldn’t afford it. My father had to send me to a small denominational college.”
(But admit you had no trouble going to college.)
“And believe me, you’re poor when you go to such a college. I know what hunger is, too. Time and time again my father’s salary was held up and there was no money for food. Once we had to live on tea and toast for three days.”
(So you know what it is to be hungry, too.)
“But I’d be a dull person if I wrote about nothing but being poor and hungry, wouldn’t I?” Francie didn’t answer. “Wouldn’t I?” repeated Miss Garnder emphatically.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Now, your play for graduation.” She took a thin manuscript from her desk drawer. “Some parts are very good indeed; other parts, you’ve gone off. For instance,” she turned a page, “here Fate says: ‘And Youth, what is thy ambition?’ And the boy answers: ‘I would be a healer. I would take the broken bodies of men and mend them.’ Now that’s a beautiful idea, Frances. But you spoil it here. Fate: ‘That’s what thou would’st be. But see! This is what thou shalt be.’ Light shines on old man soldering bottom of ash can. Old Man: ‘Ah, once I thought to be a mender of men. Now I’m a mender of…’” Miss Garnder looked up suddenly. “You didn’t by any chance mean that to be funny, did you, Frances?”
“Oh, no, ma’am.”
“After our little talk you can see why we can’t use your play for graduation.”
“I see.” Francie’s heart all but broke.
“Now Beatrice Williams has a cute idea. A fairy waves a wand and girls and boys in costume come out and there’s one for each holiday in the year and each one says a little poem about the holiday he represents. It’s an excellent idea but unfortunately Beatrice cannot make rhymes. Wouldn’t you like to take that idea and write the verses? Beatrice wouldn’t mind. We can put a note on the program that the idea comes from her. That’s fair enough, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am. But I don’t want to use her ideas. I want to use my own.”
“That’s commendable, of course. Well, I won’t insist.” She stood up. “I’ve taken all this time with you because I honestly believe that you have promise. Now that we’ve talked things out, I’m sure you’ll stop writing those sordid little stories.”
Sordid. Francie turned the word over. It was not in her vocabulary. “What does that mean—sordid?”
“What—did—I—tell—you—when—you—don’t—know—a—word,” sing-songed Miss Garnder drolly.
“Oh! I forgot.” Francie went to the big dictionary and looked up the word. Sordid: Filthy. Filthy? She thought of her father wearing a fresh dicky and collar every day of his life and shining his worn shoes as often as twice a day. Dirty. Papa had his own mug at the barber shop. Base. Francie passed that up not knowing exactly what it meant. Gross. Never! Papa was a dancer. He was slender and quick. His body wasn’t gross. Also mean and low. She remembered a hundred and one little tendernesses and acts of thoughtfulness on the part of her father. She remembered how everyone had loved him so. Her face got hot. She couldn’t see the next words because the page turned red under her eyes. She turned on Miss Garnder, her face twisted with fury.