A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [197]
“Sure, sure,” said the cop. “Don’t I know how it is on a fine May night? Wasn’t I young, meself, once and not so long ago as you might think?”
He smiled at them. Lee smiled back and Francie grinned at both of them. The cop glanced at Lee’s sleeve.
“Well, so long, General,” said the cop. “Give ’em hell when you get over there.”
“I’ll do that,” promised Lee.
The cop went on his way.
“Nice guy,” commented Lee.
“Everybody’s nice,” said Francie happily.
When they got to the Brooklyn side, she said that he was not to take her the rest of the way home. She had often gone home alone late at night when working on the night shift, she explained. He’d get lost if he tried to find his way back to New York from her neighborhood. Brooklyn was tricky that way. You had to live there in order to find your way about, she said.
In truth, she didn’t want him to see where she lived. She loved her neighborhood and wasn’t ashamed of it. But she felt that to a stranger who didn’t know about it the way she did, it might seem a mean and shabby place.
First she showed him where to get the El that would return him to New York. Then they walked over to where she had to get the trolley. They passed a one-window tattoo shop. Inside sat a young sailor with his sleeve rolled up. The tattoo artist sat before him on a stool with his pan of inks nearby. He was pricking out an arrow-pierced heart on the sailor boy’s arm. Francie and Lee stopped to stare in the window. The sailor waved at them with his free arm. They waved back. The artist looked up and made signs that they were welcome to enter, Francie frowned and shook her head, “no.”
Walking away from the store, Lee said with wonder in his voice. “That fellow was actually getting tattooed! Gosh!”
“Don’t you ever ever let me catch you getting tattooed,” she said with playful severity.
“No, Mother,” he answered meekly and they laughed.
They stood on the corner waiting for the trolley. An awkward silence came between them. They stood apart and he kept lighting cigarettes and discarding them before they were half smoked. Finally a trolley came in sight.
“Here comes my car,” said Francie. She held out her right hand. “Good night, Lee.”
He threw away the cigarette he had just lighted.
“Francie?” He held out his arms.
She went to him and he kissed her.
The next morning, Francie dressed in her new navy blue faille suit with the white georgette crepe blouse and her Sunday patent leather pumps. She and Lee had no date—had made no arrangements to meet again. But she knew he’d be waiting for her at five o’clock. Neeley got up from bed as she was about to leave. She asked him to tell mama she wouldn’t be home for supper.
“Francie’s got a feller at last! Francie’s got a feller at last!” chanted Neeley.
He went to Laurie who was sitting by the window in her high chair. There was a bowl of oatmeal on the chair’s tray. The baby was busily engaged in spooning out the oatmeal and dumping it on the floor. Neeley chucked her under the chin.
“Hey! Dopey! At last Francie’s got a feller.”
A faint line appeared on the inner edge of the child’s right eyebrow (the Rommely line, Katie called it) as the two-year-old tried to understand.
“Fran-nee?” she said in a puzzled way.
“Listen, Neeley, I got her out of bed and gave her her oatmeal. It’s your job to feed her now. And don’t call her dopey.”
As she came out of the hallway on the street, she heard her name called. She looked up. Neeley was hanging out of the window in his pajamas. He sang at the top of his voice:
There she goes
On her toes,
All dressed up
In her Sunday clothes…
“Neeley, you’re terrible! Just terrible!” she called up to the window. He pretended not to understand.
“Did you say he was terrible? Did you say he had a big mustache and a baldy head?”
“You better go feed the baby,” she hollered back.
“Did you say you were going to have a baby, Francie? Did you say you were going to have a baby?”
A man passing on the street winked