A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [208]
“She’ll never lug junk. And she’ll never come in here, either.”
“That’s right. I hear you’re moving away.”
“Yes, we’re moving away.”
“Well, the best of luck, Francie.”
She took Laurie to the park, lifted her out of the sulky and let her run around on the grass. A boy came by selling pretzels and Francie bought one for a penny. She crumbled it into bits and scattered it on the grass. A flock of sooty sparrows appeared from nowhere and squabbled over the bits. Laurie stumbled about trying to catch them. The bored birds let her get within inches of them before they lifted their wings and took off. The child screamed with delighted laughter each time a bird flew away.
Pulling Laurie along in the sulky, Francie went over for a last look at her old school. It was but a couple of blocks from the park which she visited every day, but for some reason or other, Francie had never gone back to see it since the night she graduated.
She was surprised at how tiny it seemed now. She supposed the school was just as big as it had ever been only her eyes had grown used to looking at bigger things.
“There’s the school that Francie went to,” she told Laurie.
“Fran-nee went to school,” agreed Laurie.
“Your papa came with me one day and sang a song.”
“Papa?” asked Laurie, puzzled.
“I forgot. You never saw your papa.”
“Laurie saw Papa. Man. Big man.” She thought Francie meant McShane.
“That’s right,” agreed Francie.
In the two years since she had last looked on the school, Francie had changed from a child to a woman.
She went home past the house whose address she had claimed. It looked little and shabby to her now, but she still loved it.
She passed McGarrity’s saloon. Only McGarrity didn’t own it any more. He had moved away early in the summer. He had confided in Neeley that he, McGarrity, was a man who had his ear to the ground and was therefore in a position to hear prohibition coming. He was getting all set for it, too. He bought a large place on the Hempstead Turnpike out on Long Island and was systematically stocking its cellars with liquor against the day. As soon as prohibition came, he was going to open up what he called a Club. He had the name picked out: The Club Mae-Marie. His wife was going to wear an evening dress and be a hostess, which was right up her alley, McGarrity explained. Francie was sure that Mrs. McGarrity would be very happy as a hostess. She hoped that Mr. McGarrity would be happy some day, too.
After lunch, she went around to the library to turn in her books for the last time. The librarian stamped her card and shoved it back to her without, as was usual, looking up.
“Could you recommend a good book for a girl?” asked Francie.
“How old?”
“She is eleven.”
The librarian brought up a book from under the desk. Francie saw the title: If I Were King.
“I don’t really want to take it out,” said Francie, “and I’m not eleven years old.”
The librarian looked up at Francie for the first time.
“I’ve been coming here since I was a little girl,” said Francie, “and you never looked at me till now.”
“There are so many children,” said the librarian fretfully. “I can’t be looking at each one of them. Anything else?”
“I just want to say about that brown bowl…what it has meant to me…the flower always in it.”
The librarian looked at the brown bowl. There was a spray of pink wild aster in it. Francie had an idea that the librarian was seeing the brown bowl for the first time, also.
“Oh that! The janitor puts the flowers in. Or somebody. Anything else?” she asked impatiently.
“I’m turning in my card.” Francie pushed the wrinkled dog-eared card covered with stamped dates across the desk. The librarian picked it up and was about to tear it in two, when Francie took it back from her.
“I guess I’ll keep it after all,” she said.
She went out and took a last long look at the shabby little library. She knew she would never see it again. Eyes changed after they looked at new things. If in the years to be she were to come back, her new eyes might make everything seem different from the way she saw it now. The way