A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [162]
It was agreed.
They walked briskly, outdistancing loitering kids homeward bound from the junk shops. They looked towards Carney’s as they passed Scholes Street and noticed the crowd outside of Cheap Charlie’s.
“Kids,” said Neeley contemptuously, jingling some coins in his pockets.
“Remember, Neeley, when we used to go out selling junk?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Yeah,” agreed Francie. It was, in fact, two weeks since they had dragged their last haul to Carney’s.
Neeley presented the flat package to Mama. “For you and Francie,” he said. Mama unwrapped it. It was a pound box of Loft’s peanut brittle. “And I didn’t buy it out of my salary, either,” explained Neeley mysteriously. They made Mama go into the bedroom for a minute. They arranged the ten new bills on the table, then called Mama out.
“For you, Mama,” said Francie with a grand wave of her hand.
“Oh, my!” said Mama. “I can hardly believe it.”
“And that’s not all,” said Neeley. He took eighty cents in change from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Tips for running errands fast,” he explained. “I saved ’em all week. There was more, but I bought the candy.”
Mama slid the change across the table to Neeley. “All the tips you make, you keep for spending money,” she said.
(Just like Papa, thought Francie.)
“Gee! Well, I’ll give Francie a quarter out of it.”
“No.” Mama got a fifty-cent piece from the cracked cup and gave it to Francie. “That’s Francie’s spending money. Fifty cents a week.” Francie was pleased. She hadn’t expected that much of an allowance. The children overwhelmed their mother with thanks.
Katie looked at the candy, at the new bills and then at her children. She bit her lip, turned suddenly and went into the bedroom, closing the door after her.
“Is she mad about something?” whispered Neeley.
“No,” said Francie. “She’s not mad. She just didn’t want us to see her start crying.”
“How do you know she’s going to cry?”
“ ’Cause. When she looked at the money, I saw that tears stood in her eyes.”
44
FRANCIE HAD BEEN WORKING TWO WEEKS WHEN THE LAYOFF CAME. The girls exchanged looks while the boss explained that it was just for a few days.
“A few days, six months long,” explained Anastasia for Francie’s information.
The girls were going over to a Greenpoint factory which needed hands for winter orders, poinsettias and artificial holly wreaths. When the layoff came there, they’d go on to another factory. And so on. They were Brooklyn migratory workers following seasonal work from one part of the borough to the other.
They urged Francie to go along with them but she wanted to try new work. She figured that since she had to work, she’d get variety in it by changing her job each chance she got. Then, like the sodas, she could say she had tried every work there was.
Katie found an ad in The World that said a file clerk was wanted; beginner considered, age sixteen, state religion. Francie bought a sheet of writing paper and an envelope for a penny and carefully wrote an application and addressed it to the ad’s box number. Although she was only fourteen, she and her mother agreed that she could pass for sixteen easily. So she said she was sixteen in the letter.
Two days later, Francie received a reply on an exciting letterhead: a pair of shears lying on a folded newspaper with a pot of paste nearby. It was from the Model Press Clipping Bureau on Canal Street, New York, and it asked Miss Nolan to report for an interview.
Sissy went shopping with Francie and helped her buy a grown-up dress and her first pair of high-heeled pumps. When she tried on her new outfit, Mama and Sissy swore that she looked sixteen except for her hair. Her braids made her look very kiddish.
“Mama, please let me get it bobbed,” begged Francie.
“It took you fourteen years to grow that hair,” said Mama, “and I’ll not let you have it cut off.”
“Gee, Mama, you’re way behind the time.”
“Why do you want short hair like a boy?”
“It would be easier to care for.”
“Taking care of her hair