A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [76]
“Lonesome, Mister?”
Johnny looked at her a moment before he answered gently,
“No, Sister.”
“Sure?” she inquired archly.
“Sure,” he answered quietly.
She went her way. Francie skipped back and took Papa’s hand.
“Was that a bad lady, Papa?” she asked eagerly.
“No.”
“But she looked bad.”
“There are very few bad people. There are just a lot of people that are unlucky.”
“But she was all painted and…”
“She was one who had seen better days.” He liked the phrase. “Yes, she may have seen better days.” He fell into a thoughtful mood. Francie kept skipping ahead and collecting leaves.
They came upon the school and Francie proudly showed it to Papa. The late afternoon sun warmed its softly colored bricks and the small-paned windows seemed to dance in the sunshine. Johnny looked at it a long time, then he said,
“Yes, this is the school. This is it.”
Then, as whenever he was moved or stirred, he had to put it into a song. He held his worn derby over his heart, stood up straight looking up at the school house and sang:
School days, school days,
Dear old golden rule days.
Readin’ ’n writin’ ’n ’rithmetic…
To a passing stranger, it might have looked silly—Johnny standing there in his greenish tuxedo and fresh linen holding the hand of a thin ragged child and singing the banal song so unself-consciously on the street. But to Francie it seemed right and beautiful.
They crossed the street and wandered in the meadow that folks called “lots.” Francie picked a bunch of goldenrod and wild asters to take home. Johnny explained that the place had once been an Indian burying ground and how as a boy, he had often come there to hunt arrowheads. Francie suggested they hunt for some. They searched for half an hour and found none. Johnny recalled that as a boy, he hadn’t found any either. This struck Francie as funny and she laughed. Papa confessed that maybe it hadn’t been an Indian cemetery after all; maybe someone had made up that story. Johnny was more than right because he had made up the whole story himself.
Soon it was time to go home and tears came into Francie’s eyes because Papa hadn’t said anything about getting her into the new school. He saw the tears and figured out a scheme immediately.
“Tell you what we’ll do, Baby. We’ll walk around and pick out a nice house and take down the number. I’ll write a letter to your principal saying you’re moving there and want to be transferred to this school.”
They found a house—a one-story white one with a slanting roof and late chrysanthemums growing in the yard. He copied the address carefully.
“You know that what we are going to do is wrong?”
“Is it, Papa?”
“But it’s a wrong to gain a bigger good.”
“Like a white lie?”
“Like a lie that helps someone out. So you must make up for the wrong by being twice as good. You must never be bad or absent or late. You must never do anything to make them send a letter home through the mails.”
“I’ll always be good, Papa, if I can go to that school.”
“Yes. Now I’ll show you a way to go to school through a little park. I know right where it is. Yes sir, I know right where it is.”
He showed her the park and how she could walk through it diagonally to go to school.
“That should make you happy. You can see the seasons change as you come and go. What do you say to that?”
Francie, recalling something her mother had once read to her answered, “My cup runneth over.” And she meant it.
When Katie heard of the plan, she said: “Suit yourself. But I’ll have nothing to do with it. If the police come and arrest you for giving a false address, I’ll say honestly that I had nothing to do with it. One school’s as good or as bad as another. I don’t know why she wants to change. There’s homework no matter what school you go to.”
“It’s settled then,” Johnny said. “Francie, here’s a penny. Run down to the candy store and get a