A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [75]
“You mean we can move near that school?”
“No, but there has to be another way. I’ll go there with you tomorrow and we’ll see what we can see.”
Francie was so excited she couldn’t sleep the rest of the night. She was up at seven but Johnny was still sleeping soundly. She waited in a perspiration of impatience. Each time he sighed in his sleep, she ran in to see if he was waking up.
He woke about noon and the Nolans sat down to dinner. Francie couldn’t eat. She kept looking at Papa but he made her no sign. Had he forgotten? Had he forgotten? No, because while Katie was pouring the coffee, he said carelessly,
“I guess me and the Prima Donna will take a little walk later on.”
Francie’s heart jumped. He had not forgotten. He had not forgotten. She waited. Mama had to answer. Mama might object. Mama might ask why. Mama might say she guessed she’d go along too. But all Mama said was, “All right.”
Francie did the dishes. Then she had to go down to the candy store to get the Sunday paper; then to the cigar store to get Papa a nickel Corona. Johnny had to read the paper. He had to read every column of it including the society section in which he couldn’t possibly be interested. Worse than that, he had to make comments to Mama on every item he read. Each time he’d put the paper aside, turn to Mama and say, “Funny things in the papers nowadays. Take this case,” Francie would almost cry.
Four o’clock came. The cigar had long since been smoked, the paper lay gutted on the floor, Katie had tired of having the news analyzed and had taken Neeley and gone over to visit Mary Rommely.
Francie and Papa set out hand in hand. He was wearing his only suit, the tuxedo and his derby hat and he looked very grand. It was a splendid October day. There was a warm sun and a refreshing wind working together to bring the tang of the ocean around each corner. They walked a few blocks, turned a corner and were in this other neighborhood. Only in a great sprawling place like Brooklyn could there be such a sharp division. It was a neighborhood peopled by fifth and sixth generation Americans, whereas in the Nolan neighborhood, if you could prove you had been born in America, it was equivalent to a Mayflower standing.
Indeed, Francie was the only one in her classroom whose parents were American-born. At the beginning of the term, Teacher called the roll and asked each child her lineage. The answers were typical.
“I’m Polish-American. My father was born in Warsaw.”
“Irish-American. Me fayther and mither were born in County Cork.”
When Nolan was called, Francie answered proudly: “I’m an American.”
“I know you’re American,” said the easily exasperated teacher. “But what’s your nationality?”
“American!” insisted Francie even more proudly.
“Will you tell me what your parents are or do I have to send you to the principal?”
“My parents are American. They were born in Brooklyn.”
All the children turned around to look at a little girl whose parents had not come from the old country. And when Teacher said, “Brooklyn? Hm. I guess that makes you American, all right,” Francie was proud and happy. How wonderful was Brooklyn, she thought, when just being born there automatically made you an American!
Papa told her about this strange neighborhood: how its families had been Americans for more than a hundred years back; how they were mostly Scotch, English and Welsh extraction. The men worked as cabinet makers and fine carpenters. They worked with metals: gold, silver and copper.
He promised to take Francie to the Spanish section of Brooklyn some day. There the men worked as cigarmakers and each chipped in a few pennies a day to hire a man to read to them while they worked. And the man read fine literature.
They walked along the quiet Sunday street. Francie saw a leaf flutter from a tree and she skipped ahead to get it. It