A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [23]
“After your mama cooks this,” he said, “tell her to take the marrow out, spread it on a piece of bread with pepper, salt, and make a nice samwish for you.”
“I’ll tell Mama.”
“You eat it and get some meat on your bones, ha, ha.”
After the bone was wrapped and paid for, he sliced off a thick piece of liverwurst and gave it to her. Francie was sorry that she deceived that kind man by buying the other meat elsewhere. Too bad Mama didn’t trust him about chopped meat.
It was still early in the evening and the street lights had not yet come on. But already, the horseradish lady was sitting in front of Hassler’s grinding away at her pungent roots. Francie held out the cup that she had brought from home. The old mother filled it halfway up for two cents. Happy that the meat business was over, Francie bought two cents’ worth of soup greens from the green grocer’s. She got an emasculated carrot, a droopy leaf of celery, a soft tomato and a fresh sprig of parsley. These would be boiled with the bone to make a rich soup with shreds of meat floating in it. Fat, homemade noodles would be added. This, with the seasoned marrow spread on bread, would make a good Sunday dinner.
After a supper of fried fricadellen, potatoes, smashed pie, and coffee, Neeley went down on the street to play with his friends. Although there was no signal nor agreement, the boys always gathered on the corner after supper where they stood the whole evening, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched forward, arguing, laughing, pushing each other around and jigging in time to whistled tunes.
Maudie Donavan came around to go to confession with Francie. Maudie was an orphan who lived with two maiden aunts who worked at home. They made ladies’ shrouds for a living at so much per dozen for a casket company. They made satin tufted shrouds: white ones for dead virgins, pale lavender for the young married, purple for the middle-aged and black for the old. Maudie brought some pieces. She thought Francie might like to make something out of them. Francie pretended to be glad but shuddered as she put the gleaming scraps away.
The church was smoky with incense and guttering candles. The nuns had put fresh flowers on the altars. The Blessed Mother’s altar had the nicest flowers. She was more popular with the sisters than either Jesus or Joseph. People were lined up outside the confessionals. The girls and fellows wanted to get it over with before they went out on their dates. The line was longest at Father O’Flynn’s cubicle. He was young, kind, tolerant and easy on the penances.
When her turn came, Francie pushed aside the heavy curtain and knelt in the confessional. The old, old mystery took hold as the priest slid open the tiny door that separated him from the sinner and made the sign of the cross before the grilled window. He started whispering rapidly and monotonously in Latin with his eyes closed. She caught the mingled odors of incense, candle wax, flowers, and the good black cloth and shaving lotion of the priest.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned….”
Quickly were her sins confessed and quickly absolved. She came out with her head bowed over her clasped hands. She genuflected before the altar, then knelt at the rail. She said her penance using her mother-of-pearl rosary to keep count of the prayers. Maudie, who lived a less complicated life, had had fewer sins to confess and had gotten out sooner. She was sitting outside on the steps waiting when Francie came out.
They walked up and down the block, arms about each other’s waists, the way girl friends did in Brooklyn. Maudie had a penny. She bought an ice cream sandwich and treated Francie to a bite. Soon Maudie had to go in. She wasn’t allowed out on the street after eight at night. The girls parted after mutual promises were asked and given to go to confession together the following Saturday.
“Don’t forget,” called Maudie, walking backwards away from Francie, “I called for you this time and it’s your turn to call for me next time.”
“I won’t forget,