By the Rivers of Brooklyn Read Free

he’s going to have a girl with him.”
    Ethel sniffed. “Surprise, surprise. Not Evelyn?”
    â€œNo, I think Evelyn gave him the boot. This is a new one, I don’t know her name. He met her at a dance last week.”
    Thinking about Jim, Ethel reflected that the Evans boys were different from most brothers she knew. In most families, the eldest son was serious and responsible, while the younger one was a bit wild and played the fool. She had known the Evans brothers all her life and while they were both good for a laugh, it was Bert, the younger, who was careful and steady, never spending too much or doing anything he might regret the next day. Bert was a smart young fellow, her mother had always said. He’d go far.
    They crossed the busy streets at Grand Army Plaza. The huge arch with its metal soldiers and sailors lofted ominously in the sky above them. People flowed down Flatbush Avenue, a living river so thick and fast it made Ethel grip Bert’s arm a little tighter. Then Prospect Park opened before them, a lush green space amid the crowded streets of Brooklyn, the ideal spot for lovers to stroll arm in arm. On Didder Hill, where Newfoundlanders gathered, they saw Jim walking towards them, jacket thrown over his shoulder, a very small red-haired girl on his arm.
    â€œBert, Ethel, this is Dorothy. Dorothy, I’d like you to meet my brother Bert and his girl, Ethel. They’re from home, from Newfoundland.”
    Even before Jim spoke the words, Ethel knew Dorothy was not a Newfoundlander. When she opened her mouth to say, “Pleased to meetcha,” Ethel could tell she was a New Yorker, a Brooklyn girl. Ethel wasn’t sure how to react, how to talk to her. They were used to the ever-changing parade of Jim’s girls, but they were always girls from home – Evelyn from St. John’s or Liza from Bonavista or Marina from Grand Bank. Girls who had been in New York six months or a year or three years, more stylish and made-up and loud-voiced the longer they had been here, but always Newfoundlanders, like all their friends, like everyone they danced with and went to movies with and ate Sunday dinner with.
    â€œMe and Dorothy are going to the show tonight,” said Jim. “You guys coming?”
    Bert looked at Ethel; she paused and then nodded. “We’d love to,” said Bert. Ethel had grown up believing that dances and movies and theatres were all sinful, places to be avoided. But here in New York even good churchgoing people seemed to do those things, and nobody talked about sin or going to hell at all. Uneasy at first, Ethel had adjusted. But Bert was so good. He always asked her first, always checked to see if it was all right with her.
    Ethel and Bert fell into step behind Dorothy and Jim as they walked along. Dorothy did most of the talking: she worked in a factory making artificial flowers. “It’s not bad pay,” she said, “the work is awful boring but I don’t mind that ‘cause I don’t have to pay any attention to it. I can carry on and have a few laughs with the other girls, you know?” She seemed so confident, so sure of herself and her place in the world. Her dress was sharper and more stylish than Ethel’s, even though she made less money – she had freely broadcast how much she was paid at the flower factory, which amazed Ethel, who thought talking about your pay almost akin to talking about your underwear.
    â€œOh, I had a letter from Mother,” said Bert when there was a break in the monologue. He handed it to Ethel. “She says she’s knitting you a sweater. She don’t know you’ll have little use for a sweater in Brooklyn in summertime.”
    Ethel laughed as she unfolded Mrs. Evans’ letter. Bert had told her how hot it was in July and August but she couldn’t imagine it properly. She and Rose had arrived in October and before long a New York winter had been upon them. Jim