A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [98]
She wasn’t satisfied with the play she saw the following Saturday, either. All right. The long-lost lover came home just in time to pay the mortgage. What if he had been held up and couldn’t make it? The landlord would have to give them thirty days to get out—at least that’s how it was in Brooklyn. In that month something might turn up. If it didn’t and they had to get out, well, they’d have to make the best of it. The pretty heroine would have to get on piece work in the factory; her sensitive brother would have to go out peddling papers. The mother would have to do cleaning by the day. But they’d live. You betcha they’d live, thought Francie grimly. It takes a lot of doing to die.
Francie couldn’t understand why the heroine didn’t marry the villain. It would solve the rent problem and surely a man who loved her so much that he was willing to go through all kinds of fuss because she wouldn’t have him wasn’t a man to ignore. At least, he was around while the hero was off on a wild-goose chase.
She wrote her own third act to that play—what would happen if. She wrote it out in conversations and found it a remarkably easy way of writing. In a story you had to explain why people were the way they were but when you wrote in conversation you didn’t have to do that because the things the people said explained what they were. Francie had no trouble selling herself on dialogue. Once more she changed her mind about what profession she’d follow. She decided she wouldn’t be an actress after all. She’d be a writer of plays.
29
IN THE SUMMER OF THAT SAME YEAR, JOHNNY GOT THE NOTION THAT his children were growing up ignorant of the great ocean that washed the shores of Brooklyn. Johnny felt that they ought to go out to sea in a ship. So he decided to take them for a rowboat ride at Canarsie and do a little deep-sea fishing on the side. He had never gone fishing and he’d never been in a rowboat. But that’s the idea he got.
Weirdly tied up with this idea, and by a reasoning process known only to Johnny, was the idea of taking Little Tilly along on the trip. Little Tilly was the four-year-old child of neighbors whom he had never met. In fact, he had never seen Little Tilly but he got this idea that he had to make something up to her on account of her brother Gussie. It all tied up with the notion of going to Canarsie.
Gussie, a boy of six, was a murky legend in the neighborhood. A tough little hellion, with an overdeveloped underlip, he had been born like other babies and nursed at his mother’s great breasts. But there all resemblance to any child, living or dead, ceased. His mother tried to wean him when he was nine months old but Gussie wouldn’t stand for it. Denied the breast, he refused a bottle, food or water. He lay in his crib and whimpered. His mother, fearful that he would starve, resumed nursing him. He sucked contentedly, refusing all other food, and lived off his mother’s milk until he was nearly two years old. The milk stopped then because his mother was with child again. Gussie sulked and bided his time for nine long months. He refused cow’s milk in any form or container and took to drinking black coffee.
Little Tilly was born and the mother flowed with milk again. Gussie went into hysterics the first time he saw the baby nursing. He lay on the floor, screaming and banging his head. He wouldn’t eat for four days and he refused to go to the toilet. He got haggard and his mother got frightened. She thought it wouldn’t do any harm to give him the breast just once. That was her big mistake. He was like a dope fiend getting the stuff after a long period of deprivation. He wouldn’t let go.
He took all of his mother’s milk from that time on and