A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [173]
“Go on a cobblestoned street where autos don’t go and if there isn’t any manure, wait for a horse and follow him until there is.”
“Gee whiz,” protested Neeley, “I’m sorry we ever bought the old tree.”
“What’s the matter with us,” said Francie. “These aren’t olden times. We’ve got money now. All we have to do is give some old kid on the block a nickel and he’ll collect it for us.”
“Yeah,” agreed Neeley, relieved.
“I should think,” said Mama, “that you’d want to take care of your tree with your own hands.”
“The difference between rich and poor,” said Francie, “is that the poor do everything with their own hands and the rich hire hands to do things. We’re not poor any more. We can pay to have some things done for us.”
“I want to stay poor, then,” said Katie, “because I like to use my hands.”
Neeley, as always, became bored when his mother and sister began one of their figuring-out conversations. To change the subject, he said, “I bet Laurie’s as big as that tree.” They fished the baby out of her basket and measured her against the tree.
“Exzactle the same height,” said Francie, imitating Mr. Seigler.
“I wonder which will grow the fastest?” said Neeley.
“Neeley, we’ve never had a puppy or a kitten. So let’s make a pet out of the tree.”
“Aw, a tree can’t be a pet.”
“Why can’t it? It lives and breathes, doesn’t it? We’ll give it a name. Annie! The tree’s Annie and the baby’s Laurie and together, they’re the song.”
“You know what?” asked Neeley.
“No. What?”
“You’re crazy. That’s what.”
“I know it and isn’t it wonderful? Today I don’t feel like Miss Nolan, supposed to be seventeen and head reader of The Model Press Clipping Bureau. It’s like olden times when I had to let you carry the junk money. I feel just like a kid.”
“And you are,” said Katie. “A kid just turned fifteen.”
“Yeah? You won’t think so when you see what Neeley bought me for Christmas.”
“What you made me buy you,” corrected Neeley.
“Show Mama what you made me buy you for Christmas, smarty. Just go on and show her,” urged Francie.
When he showed Mama, her voice scaled up like Francie’s when she said, “Spats?”
“Just to keep my ankles warm,” explained Neeley.
Francie showed her dance set and Mama let loose her “Oh, my!” of astonishment.
“Do you think that’s what fast women wear?” asked Francie hopefully.
“If they do, I’m sure they all come down with pneumonia. Now let’s see: What’ll we have for supper?”
“Aren’t you going to object?” Francie was disappointed because Mama wasn’t making a fuss.
“No. All women go through a black-lace-drawers time. You came to it earlier than most and you’ll get over it sooner. I think we’ll heat up the soup and have that and soup meat and potatoes….”
“Mama thinks she knows everything,” thought Francie resentfully.
* * *
They attended mass together Christmas morning. Katie was having a prayer said for the repose of Johnny’s soul.
She looked very pretty in her new hat. The baby looked nice, too, in her new outfit. Neeley, wearing his new spats, manfully insisted on carrying the baby. As they passed Stagg Street, some boys hanging out in front of a candy store, hooted at Neeley. His face got red. Francie knew they were making fun of his spats and to save his feelings, she pretended they hooted because he was carrying a baby and she offered to take Laurie. He refused the offer. He knew as well as she did that they were making fun of his spats and he was filled with bitterness at the narrow-mindedness of Williamsburg. He decided to put the spats away in the box when he got home and not wear them again until they moved to a more decent neighborhood.
Francie was wearing her lace pants and freezing. Whenever an icy wind blew her coat apart and went through her thin dress, it was as if she had no underwear on at all. “I wish—oh, how I wish I had my flannel bloomers on,” she mourned. “Mama was right. A person could get pneumonia. But I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of letting her know. I guess I’ll have to put these lace things away until summer.”
Inside the church, they pre-empted