A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [193]
And so he sat in the front room evenings. He blew into the harmonica, strummed the guitar, thumped the great drum, and clashed the brass cymbals. And he grieved because he was a failure.
51
WHEN IT GOT TOO COLD TO GO WALKING, FRANCIE ENROLLED IN two evening classes at the Settlement House—sewing and dancing.
She learned to decode paper patterns and to run a sewing machine. In time she hoped to be able to make her own clothes.
She learned “ballroom” dancing, although neither she nor her partners ever expected to set foot in something called a ballroom. Sometimes her partner was one of the brilliantine-haired neighborhood sheiks who was a snappy dancer and made her watch her steps. Sometimes he was a little old boy of fourteen in knee pants and she made him watch his steps. She loved dancing and took to it instinctively.
And that year began to draw to a close.
“What’s that book you’re studying, Francie?”
“That’s Neeley’s geometry book.”
“What’s geometry?”
“Something you have to pass to get into college, Mama.”
“Well, don’t sit up too late.”
“What news do you bring me of my mother and sisters?” Katie asked the insurance collector.
“Well, for one thing I just insured your sister’s babies, Sarah and Stephen.”
“But she’s had them insured since birth—a nickel a week policy.”
“This is a different policy. Endowment.”
“What does that mean?”
“They don’t have to die to collect. They get a thousand dollars each when they’re eighteen. It’s insurance to get them through college.”
“Oh my! First a doctor and hospital to give birth, then college insurance. What next?”
“Any mail, Mama?” asked Francie as usual when she got home from work.
“No. Just a card from Evy.”
“What does she say?”
“Nothing. Except they’ve got to move again on account of Willie’s drumming.”
“Where’re they moving now?”
“Evy found a one-family house in Cypress Hills. I wonder whether that’s in Brooklyn?”
“It’s out East New York way—where Brooklyn changes into Queens. It’s around Crescent Street, the last stop on the Broadway El. I mean it used to be the last stop until they extended the El to Jamaica.”
Mary Rommely lay in her narrow white bed. A crucifix stood out on the bare wall above her head. Her three daughters and Francie, her eldest granddaughter, stood by her bed.
“Ai. I am eighty-five now and I feel that this is my last time of sickness. I wait for death with the courage I gained from living. I will not speak falsely and say to you: ‘Do not grieve for me when I go.’ I have loved my children and tried to be a good mother and it is right that my children grieve for me. But let your grief be gentle and brief. And let resignation creep into it. Know that I shall be happy. I shall see face to face the great saints I have loved all my life.”
Francie showed the snapshots to a group of girls in the recreation room.
“This is Annie Laurie, my baby sister. She’s only eighteen months old but she runs all over the place. And you ought to hear her talk!”
“She’s cute.”
“This is my brother, Cornelius. He’s going to be a doctor.”
“He’s cute.”
“This is my mother.”
“She’s cute. And so young-looking.”
“And this is me on the roof.”
“The roof’s cute.”
“I’m cute,” said Francie with mock belligerence.
“We’re all cute.” The girls laughed. “Our supervisor’s cute—the old wagon. I hope she chokes.”
They laughed and laughed.
“What are we all laughing at?” asked Francie.
“Nothing.” They laughed harder.
“Send Francie. The last time I asked for sauerkraut he chased me out of the store,” complained Neeley.
“You’ve got to ask