A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [15]
“Don’t he look still and easy,” a boy said. “But that’s only a fake. He’s layin’ his chance for when Frank ain’t lookin’ then he’ll bite him and kick him to death.”
“Yeah,” said another boy. “I seen him run over a little baby yesterday.”
A third boy had an inspiration. “I seen him do number one on a old lady sittin’ by the gutter sellin’ apples. All over the apples, too,” he added as an afterthought.
“They put them blinkers on him so’s he can’t see how little people is. If he could see how small they is, he would kill them all.”
“Them blinkers make him think people is little?”
“Little like pee-wees.”
“Gee!”
Each boy as he spoke knew that he was lying. Yet he believed what the other boys said about the horse. Eventually the boys tired of watching gentle Bob just stand there. One of them picked up a stone and threw it at the horse. Bob’s skin rippled where it struck him and the boys shivered in anticipation of his going berserk. Frank looked up and spoke to them in a gentle Brooklyn voice.
“You don’t want to go and do that now. The horse didn’t do nothin’ to you.”
“Oh, no?” shouted a boy indignantly.
“No,” answered Frank.
“Aw, go———yourself,” came the inevitable coup de grace from the smallest boy.
Still gently spoke Frank as he let a rill of water run over the horse’s rump: “Do you want to go away from here or do I have to break a couple of your asses?”
“You and who else?”
“I’ll show you who else!” Suddenly Frank swooped down and picked up a loose cobblestone and squared off as if to throw it. The boys backed away hollering out offended retorts.
“I guess this is a free country.”
“Yeah. You don’t own the streets.”
“I’m gonna tell my uncle, the cop, on you.”
“Beat it now,” said Frank indifferently. He replaced the cobblestone carefully.
The big boys drifted away, tired of the game. But the little boys seeped back. They wanted to see Frank give Bob his oats.
Frank finished washing the horse and stood him under the tree where his head was in the shade. He hung a filled feed bag on his neck, then he went to work washing the wagon, whistling, “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.” As if this was a signal, Flossie Gaddis who lived below the Nolans, stuck her head out of the window.
“Hello, there,” she called vivaciously.
Frank knew who called. He waited a long time and then answered “Hello” without looking up. He walked around to the other side of the wagon where Floss couldn’t see him but her persistent voice followed.
“Done for the day?” she asked brightly.
“Soon. Yeah.”
“I guess you’re going out sporting, beings it’s a Saturday night tonight.” No answer. “Don’t tell me a good-looking feller like you ain’t got no girl.” No answer. “They’re running a racket tonight at the Shamrock Club.”
“Yeah?” He didn’t sound interested.
“Yeah. I got a ticket admitting lady and gent.”
“Sorry. I’m all tied up.”
“Staying home to keep your old lady company?”
“Maybe.”
“Aw, go to hell!” She slammed the window down and Frank breathed a sigh of relief. That was over.
Francie felt sorry for Flossie. She never gave up hope no matter how many times she lost out with Frank. Flossie was always running after men and they were always running away from her. Francie’s Aunt Sissy ran after men, too. But somehow they ran to meet her halfway.
The difference was that Flossie Gaddis was starved about men and Sissy was healthily hungry about them. And what a difference that made.
3
PAPA CAME HOME AT FIVE O’CLOCK. BY THAT TIME, THE HORSE AND wagon had been locked up in Fraber’s stable, Francie had finished her book and her candy and had noted how pale and thin the late afternoon sun was on the worn fence boards. She held the sun-warmed, wind-freshened pillow to her cheek a moment before she replaced it on her cot. Papa came in singing his favorite ballad, “Molly Malone.” He always sang it coming up the stairs so that everyone would know he was