A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [16]
In Dublin’s fair city,
The girls are so pretty,
Twas there that I first met….
Francie, smilingly happy, had the door open before he could sing the next line.
“Where’s your mother?” he asked. He always asked that when he came in.
“She went to the show with Sissy.”
“Oh!” He sounded disappointed. He was always disappointed if Katie wasn’t there. “I work at Klommer’s tonight. Big wedding party.” He brushed his derby with his coat sleeve before he hung it up.
“Waiting or singing?” Francie asked.
“Both. Have I got a clean waiter’s apron, Francie?”
“There’s one clean but not ironed. I’ll iron it for you.”
She set up the ironing board on two chairs and put the iron to heat. She got a square of thick wrinkled duck material with linen tape ties and sprinkled it. While she waited for the iron to get hot, she heated the coffee and poured him a cup. He drank it and ate the sugar bun that they had saved for him. He was very happy because he had a job that night and because it was a nice day.
“A day like this is like somebody giving you a present,” he said.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Isn’t hot coffee a wonderful thing? How did people get along before it was invented?”
“I like the way it smells.”
“Where did you buy these buns?”
“Winkler’s. Why?”
“They make them better every day.”
“There’s some Jew bread left, a piece.”
“Fine!” He took the slice of bread and turned it over. The Union sticker was on that piece. “Good bread, well made by Union bakers.” He pulled the sticker off. A thought struck him. “The Union label on my apron!”
“It’s right here, sewn in the seam. I’ll iron it out.”
“That label is like an ornament,” he explained, “like a rose that you wear. Look at my Waiters’ Union button.” The pale green-and-white button was fastened in his lapel. He polished it with his sleeve. “Before I joined the Union the bosses paid me what they felt like. Sometimes they paid me nothing. The tips, they said, would take care of me. Some places even charged me for the privilege of working. The tips were so big, they said, that they could sell the waiting concession. Then I joined the Union. Your mother shouldn’t begrudge the dues. The Union gets me jobs where the boss has to pay me certain wages, regardless of tips. All trades should be unionized.”
“Yes, Papa.” By now, Francie was ironing away. She loved to hear him talk.
Francie thought of the Union Headquarters. One time she had gone there to bring him an apron and carfare to go to a job. She saw him sitting with some men. He wore his tuxedo all the time. It was the only suit he had. His black derby was cocked jauntily and he was smoking a cigar. He took his hat off and threw the cigar away when he saw Francie come in.
“My daughter,” he said proudly. The waiters looked at the thin child in her ragged dress and then exchanged glances. They were different from Johnny Nolan. They had regular waiter jobs during the week and picked up extra money on Saturday night jobs. Johnny had no regular job. He worked at one-night places here and there.
“I want to tell you fellows,” he said, “that I got a couple of fine children home and a pretty wife. And I want to tell you that I’m not good enough for them.”
“Take it easy,” said a friend and patted him on the shoulder.
Francie overheard two men outside the group talking about her father. The short man said,
“I want you to hear this fellow talk about his wife and his kids. It’s rich. He’s a funny duck. He brings his wages home to his wife but keeps his tips for booze. He’s got a funny arrangement at McGarrity’s. He turns all his tips over to him and McGarrity supplies him with drinks. He don’t know whether McGarrity owes him money or whether he owes McGarrity. The system must work out pretty good for him, though. He’s always carrying a load.” The men walked away.
There was a pain around Francie’s heart but when she saw how the men standing around her father liked him, how they smiled and laughed at what he said and how eagerly they listened to him, the pain lessened. Those two men were exceptions. She knew that everyone loved her father.