A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

by Betty Smith

Those were the Rommely women: Mary, the mother, Evy, Sissy, and Katie, her daughters, and Francie, who would grow up to be a Rommely woman even though her name was Nolan. They were all slender, frail creatures with wondering eyes and soft fluttery voices. But they were made out of thin invisible steel.

“There are very few bad people. There are just a lot of people that are unlucky.”

Francie wrote the name, she heard the chords; she heard her father singing, “And ’twas there that Annie Laurie.”…Papa…Papa…. “…a song, he said, that belonged to a better world,” Katie went on. “He would have liked the child named after one of his songs.” “Laurie is a pretty name,” said Francie. And Laurie became the baby’s name.

“Beautiful legs, then, is the secret of being a mistress,” concluded Francie. She looked down at her own long thin legs. “I’ll never make it, I guess.” Sighing, she resigned herself to a sinless life.