Ann Arbor!
The University of Michigan was there. And in two more days, she would be on a train heading for Ann Arbor. Summer school was over. She had passed the four subjects she had elected. Crammed by Ben, she had passed the regents' college entrance examinations, too. That meant that she, sixteen and a half years old, could now enter college with half a year's freshman credits behind her.
She had wanted to go to Columbia in New York or Adelphi in Brooklyn, but Ben said that part of education was adapting oneself to a new environment. Her mother and McShane had agreed. Even Neeley said it would be a good thing for her to go far off to college--she might get rid of her Brooklyn accent that way. But Francie didn't want to get rid of it any more than she wanted to get rid of her name. It meant that she belonged some place. She was a Brooklyn girl with a Brooklyn name and a Brooklyn accent. She didn't want to change into a bit of this and a bit of that.
Ben had chosen Michigan for her. He said it was a liberal state college, had a good English department and low tuition. Francie wondered, if it was so good, why he hadn't matriculated there instead of at the university of another midwestern state. He explained that eventually he would practice in that state, enter into its politics and he might as well be classmates with its prominent citizens of the future.
Ben was twenty now. He was in the Reserve Officers' Training Corps of his college and he looked very handsome in his uniform.
Ben!
She looked at the ring on the third finger of her left hand. Ben's high school ring. "M.H.S. 1918." Inside was engraved, "B.B. to F.N." He had told her that while he knew his mind, she was too young to know hers. He gave her the ring to bind what he called their understanding. Of course, it would be five more years before he'd be in a position to marry, he said. By that time she'd be old enough to know her own mind. Then, if there was still the understanding, he'd ask her to accept another kind of ring. Since Francie had five years in which to make up her mind, the responsibility of deciding whether or not to marry Ben did not weigh too heavily upon her.
Amazing Ben!
He had graduated from high school in January 1918, had entered college immediately, taken a staggering number of courses and had come back to summer school in Brooklyn to take more work, and--as he confessed at the end of the session--to be with Francie again. Now, in September 1918, he was returning to college to start his junior year!
Good old Ben!
Decent, honorable, and brilliant. He knew his own mind. He'd never ask one girl to marry him and the next day go off and marry another girl. He'd never ask her to write out her love and then let someone else read the letter. Not Ben...not Ben. Yes, Ben was wonderful. She was proud to have him for a friend. But she thought of Lee.
Lee!
Where was Lee now?
He had sailed away to France on a transport just like the one she now saw slipping out of the harbor--a long boat with its swirls of camouflage and the silent white faces of its thousand soldier passengers, looking from where she stood like so many white-headed pins in a long awkward pin cushion.
("Francie, I'm afraid...so afraid. I'm afraid that if I go away I'll lose you...never see you again. Tell me not to go....")
("I guess that it's right that you see your mother once more before...I don't know....")
He was with the Rainbow Division--the Division even now pushing into the Argonne Woods. Was he even now lying dead in France under a plain white cross? Who would tell her if he died? Not the woman in Pennsylvania.
("Elizabeth Rhynor [Mrs.]")
Anita had left months ago to work somewhere else and had left no address. No one to ask...no one to tell her.
Fiercely she wished he were dead so that the woman in Pennsylvania could never have him. In the next breath she prayed, "Oh God, don't let him be killed and I won't complain no matter who has him. Please...Please!"
Oh time...time, pass so that I forget!
("You'll be happy again, never fear. But you won't forget.")
Mother was wrong. She had to be wrong. Francie wanted to forget. It was four months since she had known him but she couldn't forget. ("Happy again...but you'll never forget.") How could she be happy again if she couldn't forget?
Oh Time, Great Healer, pass over me and let me forget.
("Everytime you fall in love it will be because something in the man reminds you of him.")
Ben had the same slow smile. But she had thought she was in love with Ben last year--long before she had seen Lee. So that didn't work out.
Lee, Lee!
The recreation period was over and a new bunch of girls came in. It was their recreation period now. They flocked around the piano and started on a sequence of "Smile" songs. Francie knew what would come.
Run, run, you fool, before the waves of hurt start breaking.
But she couldn't move.
They did Ted Lewis's song: "For When My Baby Smiles at Me." From that it was inevitable that they go into "There Are Smiles That Make You Happy."
And then it came.
Smile the while
You kiss me sad adieu....
("...think of me every time you hear it. Think of me....") She ran out of the room. She snatched her gray hat and her new gray purse and gloves from her locker. She ran for the elevator.
She looked up and down the canyonlike street. It was dark and deserted. A tall man in uniform stood in the shadowed doorway of the next building. He walked out of the dark and came towards her with a shy lonely smile.
She closed her eyes. Granma had said that the Rommely women had the power of seeing the ghosts of their beloved dead. Francie had never believed it because she had never seen Papa. But now...now....
"Hello, Francie."
She opened her eyes. No, he wasn't a ghost.
"I had an idea that you'd feel blue--your last night on the job--so I came to take you home. Surprised?"
"No. I thought you'd come," she said.
"Hungry?"
"Starved!"
"Where do you want to go? Want to get some coffee at the Automat or would you like chop suey?"
"No! No!"
"Child's?"
"Yes. Let's go to Child's and have buttercakes and coffee."
He took her hand and drew her arm through his.
"Francie, you seem so strange tonight. You're not mad at me, are you?"
"No."
"Glad I came?"
"Yes," she said quietly. "It's good to see you, Ben."
56
SATURDAY! THE LAST SATURDAY IN THEIR OLD HOME. THE NEXT day was Katie's wedding day and they were going straight to their new home from the church. The movers were coming Monday morning for their stuff. They were leaving most of their furniture for the new janitress. They were taking only their personal belongings and the front-room furniture. Francie wanted the green carpet with the big pink roses, the cream-colored lace curtains and the lovely little piano. These things were to be installed in the room set aside for Francie in their new home.
Katie insisted on working as usual that last Saturday morning. They laughed when mother set out with her broom and pail. McShane had given her a checking account with a thousand dollars in it as a wedding present. According to Nolan standards, Katie was rich now and didn't have to do another lick of work. Yet, she insisted on working that last day. Francie suspected that she had a sentimental feeling about the houses and wanted to give them a last good cleaning before she left.
Shamelessly, Francie searched for the checkbook in her mother's purse and examined the only stub in the fabulous folder.
No: 1
Date: 9-20-18
To: Eva Flittman
For: Because she's my sister
Total: 1000.00
Amt this ck: 200.00
Bal fwd: 800.00
Francie wondered why that amount? Why not fifty dollars or five hundred? Why two hundred? Then she understood. Two hundred was the amount Uncle Willie was insured for; what Evy would have collected had he died. No do
ubt Katie considered Willie as good as dead.
No check had been made out for Katie's wedding dress. She explained that she didn't want to use any of that money for herself until after she had married the giver. In order to buy the dress, she had borrowed the money she had saved for Francie, promising to give her a check for it as soon as the ceremony was over.
On that last Saturday morning, Francie strapped Laurie into her two-wheeled sulky and took her down on the street. She stood on the corner for a long time watching the kids lug their junk up Manhattan Avenue to Carney's junk shop. Then she walked up that way and went into Cheap Charlie's during a lull in business. She put a fifty-cent piece down on the counter and announced that she wanted to take all the picks.
"Aw, now, Francie! Gee, Francie," he said.
"I don't have to bother picking. Just give me all the stuff on the board."
"Aw, lissen!"
"Then there aren't any prize numbers in that box, are there, Charlie?"
"Christ, Francie, a feller is got to make a living and it comes slow in this business--a penny at a time."
"I always thought those prizes were fake. You ought to be ashamed--fooling little kids that way."
"Don't say that. I give them a penny's worth of candy for each cent they spend here. The pick is just so's it's more interesting."
"And it makes them keep coming back--hoping."
"If they don't go here, they go across to Gimpy's, see? And it's better they come here because I'm a married man," he said virtuously, "and I don't take girls in my back room, see?"
"Oh, well. I guess there's something in what you say. Look! Have you got a fifty-cent doll?"
He dredged up an ugly-faced doll from under the counter. "I only got a sixty-nine-cent doll but I'll let you have it for fifty cents."
"I'll pay for it if you'll hang it up as a prize and let some kid win it."
"But look, Francie: A kid wins it. All the kids expect to win then, see? It's a bad example."
"O, for sweet Christ's sake," she said, not profanely but prayerfully, "let somebody win something just once!"
"All right! All right! Don't get excited, now."
"I just want one little kid to get something for nothing."
"I'll put it up and I won't take the number out of the box, either, after you go. Satisfied?"
"Thanks, Charlie."
"And I'll tell the winner the doll's name's Francie, see?"
"Oh no, you don't! Not with the face that doll's got."
"You know what, Francie?"
"What?"
"You're getting to be quite a girl. How old are you now?"
"I'll be seventeen in a couple of months."
"I remember you used to be a skinny long-legged kid. Well, I think you'll make a nice-looking woman some day--not pretty, but something."
"Thanks for nothing." She laughed.
"Your kid sister?" he nodded at Laurie.
"Uh-huh."
"First thing you know she'll be lugging junk and coming in here with her pennies. One day they're babies in buggies and the next day they're in here taking picks. Kids grow up quick in this neighborhood."
"She'll never lug junk. And she'll never come in here, either."
"That's right. I hear you're moving away."
"Yes, we're moving away."
"Well, the best of luck, Francie."
She took Laurie to the park, lifted her out of the sulky and let her run around on the grass. A boy came by selling pretzels and Francie bought one for a penny. She crumbled it into bits and scattered it on the grass. A flock of sooty sparrows appeared from nowhere and squabbled over the bits. Laurie stumbled about trying to catch them. The bored birds let her get within inches of them before they lifted their wings and took off. The child screamed with delighted laughter each time a bird flew away.
Pulling Laurie along in the sulky, Francie went over for a last look at her old school. It was but a couple of blocks from the park which she visited every day, but for some reason or other, Francie had never gone back to see it since the night she graduated.
She was surprised at how tiny it seemed now. She supposed the school was just as big as it had ever been only her eyes had grown used to looking at bigger things.
"There's the school that Francie went to," she told Laurie.
"Fran-nee went to school," agreed Laurie.
"Your papa came with me one day and sang a song."
"Papa?" asked Laurie, puzzled.
"I forgot. You never saw your papa."
"Laurie saw Papa. Man. Big man." She thought Francie meant McShane.
"That's right," agreed Francie.
In the two years since she had last looked on the school, Francie had changed from a child to a woman.
She went home past the house whose address she had claimed. It looked little and shabby to her now, but she still loved it.
She passed McGarrity's saloon. Only McGarrity didn't own it any more. He had moved away early in the summer. He had confided in Neeley that he, McGarrity, was a man who had his ear to the ground and was therefore in a position to hear prohibition coming. He was getting all set for it, too. He bought a large place on the Hempstead Turnpike out on Long Island and was systematically stocking its cellars with liquor against the day. As soon as prohibition came, he was going to open up what he called a Club. He had the name picked out: The Club Mae-Marie. His wife was going to wear an evening dress and be a hostess, which was right up her alley, McGarrity explained. Francie was sure that Mrs. McGarrity would be very happy as a hostess. She hoped that Mr. McGarrity would be happy some day, too.
After lunch, she went around to the library to turn in her books for the last time. The librarian stamped her card and shoved it back to her without, as was usual, looking up.
"Could you recommend a good book for a girl?" asked Francie.
"How old?"
"She is eleven."
The librarian brought up a book from under the desk. Francie saw the title: If I Were King.
"I don't really want to take it out," said Francie, "and I'm not eleven years old."
The librarian looked up at Francie for the first time.
"I've been coming here since I was a little girl," said Francie, "and you never looked at me till now."
"There are so many children," said the librarian fretfully. "I can't be looking at each one of them. Anything else?"
"I just want to say about that brown bowl...what it has meant to me...the flower always in it."
The librarian looked at the brown bowl. There was a spray of pink wild aster in it. Francie had an idea that the librarian was seeing the brown bowl for the first time, also.
"Oh that! The janitor puts the flowers in. Or somebody. Anything else?" she asked impatiently.
"I'm turning in my card." Francie pushed the wrinkled dog-eared card covered with stamped dates across the desk. The librarian picked it up and was about to tear it in two, when Francie took it back from her.
"I guess I'll keep it after all," she said.
She went out and took a last long look at the shabby little library. She knew she would never see it again. Eyes changed after they looked at new things. If in the years to be she were to come back, her new eyes might make everything seem different from the way she saw it now. The way it was now was the way she wanted to remember it.
No, she'd never come back to the old neighborhood.
Besides in years to come, there would be no old neighborhood to come back to. After the war, the city was going to tear down the tenements and the ugly school where a woman principal used to whip little boys, and build a model housing project on the site; a place of living where sunlight and air were to be trapped, measured and weighed, and doled out so much per resident.
Katie banged her broom and pail in the corner with that final bang that meant she was through. Then she picked up the broom and pail again and replaced them gently.
As she dressed to go out--she was going for a last-minute fitting of th
e jade-green velvet dress she had chosen to be married in--she fretted because the weather was so mild for the end of September. She thought it might be too warm to wear a velvet dress. She was angry that the fall was so late in coming that year. She argued with Francie when Francie insisted that fall was here.
Francie knew that autumn had come. Let the wind blow warm, let the days be heat hazy; nevertheless autumn had come to Brooklyn. Francie knew that this was so because now, as soon as night came and the street lights went on, the hot-chestnut man set up his little stand on the corner. On the rack above the charcoal fire, chestnuts roasted in a covered pan. The man held unroasted ones in his hand and made little crosses on them with a blunt knife before he put them in the pan.
Yes, autumn had surely come when the hot-chestnut man appeared--no matter what the weather said to the contrary.
After Laurie had been tucked into her crib for her afternoon nap, Francie packed a few last things in a wooden Fels-Naptha soap box. From over the mantelpiece, she took down the crucifix and the picture of her and Neeley on Confirmation Day. She wrapped these things in her First Communion veil and placed them in the box. She folded her father's two waiter's aprons and put them in. She wrapped the shaving cup with the name "John Nolan" on it in gilt block letters, in a white georgette crepe blouse which Katie had put in the "give-away" basket because its lace jabot had torn badly in the wash. It was the blouse Francie had worn that rainy night when she stood in the doorway with Lee. The doll named Mary and the pretty little box which had once held ten gilded pennies, were stowed away next. Her sparse library went into the box: the Gideon Bible, The Complete Works of Wm. Shakespeare, a tattered volume of Leaves of Grass, the three scrapbooks --The Nolan Volume of Contemporary Poetry, The Nolan Book of Classical Poems, and The Book of Annie Laurie.
She went into the bedroom, turned back her mattress and took from under it a notebook in which she had kept a desultory diary during her thirteenth year, and a square manila envelope. Kneeling before the box, she opened the diary and read a random entry dated September 24th, three years ago.
Tonight when I took a bath, I discovered I was changing into a woman. It's about time!
She grinned as she packed the diary in the box. She looked at the writing on the envelope.