A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [160]
The morning wore on. When it seemed that it would never end, a bell rang announcing lunchtime. The girls dropped their work, hauled out paper bags of lunch, ripped the bags open to form a tablecloth, spread out their onion-garnished sandwiches and started to eat. Francie’s hands were hot and sticky. She wanted to wash them before she ate so she asked her neighbor where the washroom was.
“No spik Eng-leash,” answered the girl in exaggerated greenhorn dialect.
“Nix verstandt,” said another who had been taunting her in idiomatic English all morning.
“What’s a washroom?” asked a fat girl.
“Where they make washers,” replied a wit.
Mark was collecting boxes. He stood in the doorway, his arms laden, made his Adam’s apple go up and down twice, and Francie heard him speak for the first time.
“Jesus Christ died on the cross for people like you,” he announced passionately, “and now you won’t show a new girl where the terlet is.”
Francie stared at him, astonished. Then she couldn’t help it—it had sounded so funny—she burst out laughing. Mark gulped, turned and disappeared down the hall. Everything changed then. A murmur ran round the table.
“She laughed!”
“Hey! The new girl laughed!”
“Laughed!”
A young Italian girl linked her arm in Francie’s and said, “Come on, new girl. I’ll show you the terlet.”
In the washroom, she turned on the water for Francie, punched down on the glass bowl of liquid soap and hovered over Francie solicitously while she washed her hands. When Francie would have dried her hands on the snowy, obviously-unused roller towel, her guide snatched her away.
“Don’t use that towel, new girl.”
“Why? It looks clean.”
“It’s dangerous. Some of the girls working here is clappy and you’ll catch it if you use the towel.”
“What’ll I do?” Francie waved her wet hands.
“Use your petticoat like we do.”
Francie dried her hands on her petticoat eyeing the deadly towel with horror.
Back in the workroom, she found that they had flattened her paper bag and set out the two bologna sandwiches mama had fixed for her. She saw that someone had placed a nice red tomato on her paper. The girls welcomed her back with smiles. The one who had led the taunts all morning, took a long swig out of a whiskey bottle and then passed it to Francie.
“Take a drink, new girl,” she ordered. “Them samwishes is dry going down alone.” Francie shrank back and declined hastily. “Go ahead! It’s only cold tea.” Francie thought of the washroom towel and shook her head “no” emphatically. “Ah!” exclaimed the girl. “I know why you don’t drink from my bottle. In the terlet, Anastasia scared you. Don’t you believe her, new girl. The boss started that clappy talk hisself so’s we wouldn’t use the towels. That way he saves a couple dollars each week on laundry.”
“Yeah?” said Anastasia, “I don’t see none of youse using the towel.”
“Hell, we only got half a hour for lunch. Who wants to waste time washing hands? Drink up, new girl.”
Francie took a long drink from the bottle. The cold tea was strong and refreshing. She thanked the girl and then tried to thank the donor of the tomato. Immediately each girl in turn denied giving it.
“What are you talking about?”
“What termater?”
“Don’t see no termater.”
“New girl brings a termater for lunch and don’t even remember.”
So they teased her. But now there was something warmly companionable about the teasing. Francie enjoyed the lunch period and was glad she had found out what they wanted from her. They had just wanted her to laugh—such a simple thing and so hard to find out.
The rest of the day passed pleasantly. The girls told her not to break her neck—that it was seasonable work and they’d all be laid off when the fall orders had been made up. The quicker the orders were finished, the sooner they’d be fired. Francie, pleased at being taken into the confidence of these older, more experienced workers, obligingly slowed down. They told jokes all afternoon and Francie laughed at them all, whether they were funny or just plain dirty. And her conscience bothered her only a little bit when