A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [92]
An answer came to Katie. It was so simple that a flash of astonishment that felt like pain shot through her head. Education! That was it! It was education that made the difference! Education would pull them out of the grime and dirt. Proof? Miss Jackson was educated, the McGarrity wasn’t. Ah! That’s what Mary Rommely, her mother, had been telling her all those years. Only her mother did not have the one clear word: education!
Watching the children struggling up the stairs with their tree, listening to their voices, still so babylike, she got these ideas about education.
“Francie is smart,” she thought. “She must go to high school and maybe beyond that. She’s a learner and she’ll be somebody someday. But when she gets educated, she will grow away from me. Why, she’s growing away from me now. She does not love me the way the boy loves me. I feel her turn away from me. She does not understand me. All she understands is that I don’t understand her. Maybe when she gets education, she will be ashamed of me—the way I talk. But she will have too much character to show it. Instead she will try to make me different. She will come to see me and try to make me live in a better way and I will be mean to her because I’ll know she’s above me. She will figure out too much about things as she grows older; she’ll get to know too much for her own happiness. She’ll find out that I don’t love her as much as I love the boy. I cannot help it that this is so. But she won’t understand that. Sometimes I think she knows that now. Already she is growing away from me; she will fight to get away soon. Changing over to that far-away school was the first step in her getting away from me. But Neeley will never leave me, that is why I love him best. He will cling to me and understand me. I want him to be a doctor. He must be a doctor. Maybe he will play the fiddle, too. There is music in him. He got that from his father. He has gone further on the piano than Francie or me. Yes, his father has the music in him but it does him no good. It is ruining him. If he couldn’t sing, those men who treat him to drinks wouldn’t want him around. What good is the fine way he can sing when it doesn’t make him or us any better? With the boy, it will be different. He’ll be educated. I must think out ways. We’ll not have Johnny with us long. Dear God, I loved him so much once—and sometimes I still do. But he’s worthless…worthless. And God forgive me for ever finding it out.”
Thus Katie figured out everything in the moments it took them to climb the stairs. People looking up at her—at her smooth pretty vivacious face—had no way of knowing about the painfully articulated resolves formulating in her mind.
They set the tree up in the front room after spreading a sheet to protect the carpet of pink roses from falling pine needles. The tree stood in a big tin bucket with broken bricks to hold it upright. When the rope was cut away, the branches spread out to fill the whole room. They draped over the piano and it was so that some of the chairs stood among the branches. There was no money to buy tree decorations or lights. But the great tree standing there was enough. The room was cold. It was a poor year, that one—too poor for them to buy the extra coal for the front room stove. The room smelled cold and clean and aromatic. Every day, during the week the tree stood there, Francie put on her sweater and zitful cap and went in and sat under the tree. She sat there and enjoyed the smell and the dark greenness of it.
Oh, the mystery of a great tree, a prisoner in a tin wash bucket in a tenement front room!
Poor as they were that year, it was a very nice Christmas and the children did not lack for gifts. Mama gave each of them a pair of long woolen drawers, drop-seat style, and a woolen shirt with long sleeves and itchy insides. Aunt Evy gave them a joint present: