The assistant (3 page)

went to other people's houses if she had a choice. Her bedroom was another impossibility, tiny, dark, despite the two by three foot opening in the wall, through which she could see the living room windows; and at night Morris and Ida had to pass through her room to get to theirs, and from their bedroom back to the bathroom. They had several times talked of giving her the big room, the only comfortable one in the house, but there was no place else that would hold their double bed. The fifth room was a small icebox off the second floor stairs, in which Ida stored a few odds and ends of clothes and furniture. Such was home. Helen had once in anger remarked that the place was awful to live in, and it had made her feel bad that her father had felt so bad. She heard Morris's slow footsteps on the stairs. He came aimlessly into the living room and tried to relax in a stiff armchair. He sat with sad eyes, saying nothing, which was how he began when he wanted to say something. When she and her brother were kids, at least on Jewish holidays Morris would close the store and venture forth to Second Avenue to see a Yiddish play, or take the family visiting; but after Ephraim died he rarely went beyond the corner. Thinking about his life always left her with a sense of the waste of her own. She looks like a little bird, Morris thought. Why should she be lonely? Look how pretty she looks. Whoever saw such blue eyes? He reached into his pants pocket and took out a five-dollar bill. "Take," he said, rising and embarrassedly handing her the money. "You will need for shoes." "You just gave me five dollars downstairs." "Here is five more." "Wednesday was the first of the month, Pa." "I can't take away from you all your pay." "You're not taking, I'm giving." She made him put the five away. He did, with renewed shame. "What did I ever give you? Even your college education I took away." "It was my own decision not to go, yet maybe I will yet You can never tell." "How can you go? You are twenty-three years old." "Aren't you always saying a person's never too old to go to school?" "My child," he sighed, "for myself I don't care, for you I want the best but what did I give you?" "I'll give myself," she smiled. "There's hope." With this he had to be satisfied. He still conceded her a future. But before he went down, he said gently, "What's the matter you stay home so much lately? You had a fight with Nat?" "No." Blushing, she answered, "I don't think we see things in the same way." He hadn't the heart to ask more. Going down, he met Ida on the stairs and knew she would cover the same ground. In the evening there was a flurry of business. Morris's mood quickened and he exchanged pleasantries with the customers. Carl Johnsen, the Swedish painter, whom he hadn't seen in weeks, came in with a wet smile and bought two dollars' worth of beer, cold cuts and sliced Swiss cheese. The grocer was at first worried he would ask to charge-he had never paid what he owed on the books before Morris had stopped giving trust-but the painter had the cash. Mrs. Anderson, an old loyal customer, bought for a dollar. A stranger then came in and left eighty-eight cents. After him two more customers appeared. Morris felt a little surge of hope. Maybe things were picking up. But after half-past eight his hands grew heavy with nothing to do. For years he had been the only one for miles around who stayed open at night and had just about made a living from it, but now Schmitz matched him hour for hour. Morris sneaked a little smoke, then began to cough. Ida pounded on the floor upstairs, so he clipped the butt and put it away. He felt restless and stood at the front window, watching the street. He watched a trolley go by. Mr. Lawler, formerly a customer, good for at least a fiver on Friday nights, passed the store. Morris hadn't seen him for months but knew where he was going. Mr. Lawler averted his gaze and hurried along. Morris watched him disappear around the corner. He lit a match and again checked the register-nine and a half dollars, not even expenses. Julius Karp opened the front door and poked his foolish head in. "Podolsky came?" "Who Podolsky?" "The refugee." Morris said in annoyance, "What refugee?" With a grunt Karp shut the door behind him. He was short, pompous, a natty dresser in his advanced age. In the past, like Morris, he had toiled long hours in his shoe store, now he stayed all day in silk pajamas until it came time to relieve Louis before supper. Though the little man was insensitive and a blunderer, Morris had got along fairly well with him, but since Karp had rented the tailor shop to another grocer, sometimes they did not speak. Years ago Karp had spent much time in the back of the grocery, complaining of his poverty as if it were a new invention and he its first victim. Since his success with wines and liquors he came in less often, but he still visited Morris more than his welcome entitled him to, usually to run down the grocery and spout unwanted advice. His ticket of admission was his luck, which he gathered wherever he reached, at a loss, Morris thought, to somebody else. Once a drunk had heaved a rock at Karp's window, but it had shattered his. Another time, Sam Pearl gave the liquor dealer a tip on a horse, then forgot to place a bet himself. Karp collected five hundred for his ten-dollar bill. For years the grocer had escaped resenting the man's good luck, but lately he had caught himself wishing on him some small misfortune. "Podolsky is the one I called up to take a look at your gesheft," Karp answered. "Who is this refugee, tell me, an enemy yours?" Karp stared at him unpleasantly. "Does a man," Morris insisted, "send a friend he should buy such a store that you yourself took away from it the best business?" "Podolsky ain't you," the liquor dealer replied. "I told him about this place. I said, 'The neighborhood is improving. You can buy cheap and build up this store. It's run down for years, nobody changed anything there for twenty years.' " "You should live so long how much I changed-" Morris began but he didn't finish, for Karp was at the window, peering nervously into the dark street. "You saw that gray car that just passed," the liquor dealer said. "This is the third time I saw it in the last twenty minutes." His eyes were restless. Morris knew what worried him. "Put in a telephone in your store," he advised, "so you will feel better." Karp watched the street for another minute and worriedly replied, "Not for a liquor store in this neighborhood. If I had a telephone, every drunken bum would call me to make deliveries, and when you go there they don't have a cent." He opened the door but shut it in afterthought. "Listen, Morris," he said, lowering his voice, "if they come back again, I will lock my front door and put out my lights. Then I will call you from the back window so you can telephone the police." "This will cost you five cents," Morris said grimly. "My credit is class A." Karp left the grocery, disturbed. God bless Julius Karp, the grocer thought. Without him I would have my life too easy. God made Karp so a poor grocery man will not forget his life is hard. For Karp, he thought, it was miraculously not so hard, but what was there to envy? He would allow the liquor dealer his bottles and gelt just not to be him. Life was bad enough. At nine-thirty a stranger came in for a box of matches. Fifteen minutes later Morris put out the lights in his window. The street was deserted except for an automobile, parked in front of the laundry across the car tracks. Morris peered at it sharply but could see nobody in it. He considered locking up and going to bed, then decided to stay open the last few minutes. Sometimes a person came in at a minute to ten. A dime was a dime. A noise at the side door which led into the hall frightened him. "Ida?" The door opened slowly. Tessie Fuso came in in her housecoat, a homely Italian girl with a big face. "Are you closed, Mr. Bober?" she asked embarrassedly. "Come in," said Morris. "I'm sorry I came through the back way but I was undressed and didn't want to go out in the street." "Don't worry." "Please give me twenty cents' ham for Nick's lunch tomorrow." He understood. She was making amends for Nick's trip around the corner that morning. He cut her an extra slice of ham. Tessie bought also a quart of milk, package of paper napkins and loaf of bread. When she had gone he lifted the register lid. Ten dollars. He thought he had long ago touched bottom but now knew there was none. I slaved my whole life for nothing, he thought. Then he heard Karp calling him from the rear. The grocer went inside, worn out. Raising the window he called harshly, "What's the matter there?" "Telephone the police," cried Karp. "The car is parked across the street." "What car?" "The holdupniks." "There is nobody in this car, I saw myself." "For God's sake, I tell you call the police. I will pay for the telephone." Morris shut the window. He looked up the phone number and was about to dial the police when the store door opened and he hurried inside. Two men were standing at the other side of the counter, with handkerchiefs over their faces. One wore a dirty yellow clotted one, the other's was white. The one with the white one began pulling out the store lights. It took the grocer a half-minute to comprehend that he, not Karp, was their victim. Morris sat at the table, the dark light of the dusty bulb falling on his head, gazing dully at the few crumpled bills before him, including Helen's check, and the small pile of silver. The gunman with the dirty handkerchief, fleshy, wearing a fuzzy black hat, waved a pistol at the grocer's head. His pimply brow was thick with sweat; from time to time with furtive eyes he glanced into the darkened store. The other, a taller man in an old cap and torn sneakers, to control his trembling leaned against the sink, cleaning his fingernails with a matchstick. A cracked mirror hung behind him on the wall above the sink and every so often he turned to stare into it. "I know damn well this ain't everything you took in," said the heavy one to Morris, in a hoarse, unnatural voice. "Where've you got the rest hid?" Morris, sick to his stomach, couldn't speak. "Tell the goddam truth." He aimed the gun at the grocer's mouth. "Times are bad," Morris muttered. "You're a Jew liar." The man at the sink fluttered his hand, catching the other's attention. They met in the center of the room, the other with the cap hunched awkwardly over the one in the fuzzy hat, whispering into his ear. "No," snapped the heavy one sullenly. His partner bent lower, whispering earnestly through his handkerchief. "I say he hid it," the heavy one snarled, "and I'm gonna get it if I have to crack his goddam head." At the table he whacked the grocer across the face. Morris moaned. The one at the sink hastily rinsed a cup and filled it with water. He brought it to the grocer, spilling some on his apron as he raised the cup to his lips. Morris tried to swallow but managed only a dry sip. His frightened eyes sought the man's but he was looking elsewhere. "Please," murmured the grocer. "Hurry up," warned the one with the gun. The tall one straightened up and gulped down the water. He rinsed the cup and placed it on a cupboard shelf. He then began to hunt among the cups and dishes there and pulled out the pots on the bottom. Next, he went hurriedly through the drawers of an old bureau in the room, and on hands and knees searched under the couch. He ducked into the store, removed the empty cash drawer from the register and thrust his hand into the slot, but came up with nothing. Returning to the kitchen he took the other by the arm and whispered to him urgently. The heavy one elbowed him aside. "We better scram out of here." "Are you gonna go chicken on me?" "That's all the dough he has, let's beat it." "Business is bad," Morris muttered. "Your Jew ass is bad, you understand?" "Don't hurt me." "I will give you your last chance. Where have you got it hid?" "I am a poor man." He spoke through cracked lips. The one in the dirty handkerchief raised his gun. The other, staring into the mirror, waved frantically, his black eyes bulging, but Morris saw the blow descend and felt sick of himself, of soured expectations, endless frustration, the years gone up in smoke, he could not begin to count how many. He had hoped for much in America and got little. And because of him Helen and Ida had less. He had defrauded them, he and the bloodsucking store. He fell without a cry. The end fitted the day. It was his luck, others had better.

2

During the week that Morris lay in bed with a thickly bandaged head, Ida tended the store fitfully. She went up and down twenty times a day until her bones ached and her head hurt with all her worries. Helen stayed home Saturday, a half-day in her place, and Monday, to help her mother, but she could not risk longer than that, so Ida, who ate in snatches and had worked up a massive nervousness, had to shut the store for a full day, although Morris angrily protested. He needed no attention, he insisted, and urged her to keep open at least half the day or he would lose his remaining few customers; but Ida, short of breath, said she hadn't the strength, her legs hurt. The grocer attempted to get up and pull on his pants but was struck by a violent headache and had to drag himself back to bed. On the Tuesday the store was closed a man appeared in the neighborhood, a stranger who spent much of his time standing on Sam Pearl's corner with a toothpick in his teeth, intently observing the people who passed by; or he would drift down the long block of stores, some empty, from Pearl's to the bar at the far end of the street. Beyond that was a freight yard, and in the distance, a bulky warehouse. After an occasional slow beer in the tavern, the stranger turned the corner and wandered past the high-fenced coal yard; he would go around the block until he got back to Sam's candy store. Once in a while the man would walk over to Morris's closed grocery, and with both hands shading his brow, stare through the window; sighing, he went back to Sam's. When he had as much as he could take of the corner he walked around the block again, or elsewhere in the neighborhood. Helen had pasted a paper on the window of the front door, that said her father wasn't well but the store would open on Wednesday. The man spent a good deal of time studying this paper. He was young, dark-bearded, wore an old brown rain-stained hat, cracked patent leather shoes and a long black cvercoat that looked as if it had been lived in. He was tall and not bad looking, except for a nose that had been broken and badly set, unbalancing his face. His eyes were melancholy. Sometimes he sat at the fountain with Sam Pearl, lost in his thoughts, smoking from a crumpled pack of cigarettes he had bought with pennies. Sam, who was used to all kinds of people, and had in his time seen many strangers appear in the neighborhood and as quickly disappear, showed no special concern for the man, though Goldie, after a full day of his presence complained that too much was too much; he didn't pay rent. Sam did notice that the stranger sometimes seemed to be under stress, sighed much and muttered inaudibly to himself. However, he paid the man scant attention-everybody to their own troubles. Other times the stranger, as if he had somehow squared himself with himself, seemed relaxed, even satisfied with his existence. He read through Sam's magazines, strolled around in the neighborhood and when he returned, lit a fresh cigarette as he opened a paper-bound book from the rack in the store. Sam served him coffee when he asked for it, and the stranger, squinting from the smoke of the butt in his mouth, carefully counted out five pennies to pay. Though nobody had asked him he said his name was Frank Alpine and he had lately come from the West, looking for a better opportunity. Sam advised if he could qualify for a chauffeur's license, to try for work as a hack driver. It wasn't a bad life. The man agreed but stayed around as if he was expecting something else to open up. Sam put him down as a moody gink. The day Ida reopened the grocery the stranger disappeared but he returned to the candy store the next morning, and seating himself at the fountain, asked for coffee. He looked bleary, unhappy, his beard hard, dark, contrasting with the pallor of his face; his nostrils were inflamed and his voice was husky. He looks half in his grave, Sam thought. God knows what hole he slept in last night. As Frank Alpine was stirring his coffee, with his free hand he opened a magazine lying on the counter, and his eye was caught by a picture in color of a monk. He lifted the coffee cup to drink but had to put it down, and he stared at the picture for five minutes. Sam, out of curiosity, went behind him with a broom, to see what he was looking at. The picture was of a thin-faced, dark-bearded monk in a coarse brown garment, standing barefooted on a sunny country road. His skinny, hairy arms were raised to a flock of birds that dipped over his head. In the background was a grove of leafy trees; and in the far distance a church in sunlight. "He looks like some kind of a priest," Sam said cautiously. "No, it's St. Francis of Assisi. You can tell from that brown robe he's wearing and all those birds in the air. That's the time he was preaching to them. When I was a kid, an old priest used to come to the orphans' home where I was raised, and every time he came he read us a different story about St. Francis. They are clear in my mind to this day." "Stories are stories," Sam said. "Don't ask me why I never forgot them." Sam took a closer squint at the picture. "Talking to the birds? What was he-crazy? I don't say this out of any harm." The stranger smiled at the Jew. "He was a great man. The way I look at it, it takes a certain kind of a nerve to preach to birds." "That makes him great, because he talked to birds?" "Also for other things. For instance, he gave everything away that he owned, every cent, all his clothes off his back. He enjoyed to be poor. He said poverty was a queen and he loved her like she was a beautiful woman." Sam shook his head. "It ain't beautiful, kiddo. To be poor is dirty work." "He took a fresh view of things." The candy store owner glanced again at St. Francis, then poked his broom into a dirty corner. Frank, as he drank his coffee, continued to study the picture. He said to Sam, "Every time I read about somebody like him I get a feeling inside of me I have to fight to keep from crying. He was born good, which is a talent if you have it." He spoke with embarrassment, embarrassing Sam. Frank drained his cup and left. That night as he was wandering past Morris's store he glanced through the door and saw Helen inside, relieving her mother. She looked up and noticed him staring at her through the plate glass. His appearance startled her; his eyes were haunted, hungry, sad; she got the impression he would come in and ask for a handout and had made up her mind to give him a dime, but instead he disappeared. On Friday Morris weakly descended the stairs at six A. M., and Ida, nagging, came after him. She had been opening at eight o'clock and had begged him to stay in bed until then, but he had refused, saying he had to give the Poilisheh her roll. "Why does three cents for a lousy roll mean more to you than another hour sleep?" Ida complained. "Who can sleep?" "You need rest, the doctor said." "Rest I will take in my grave." She shuddered. Morris said, "For fifteen years she gets here her roll, so let her get." "All right, but let me open up. I will give her and you go back to bed." "I stayed in bed too long. Makes me feel weak." But the woman wasn't there and Morris feared he had lost her to the German. Ida insisted on dragging in the milk boxes, threatening to shout if he made a move for them. She packed the bottles into the refrigerator. After Nick Fuso they waited hours for another customer. Morris sat at the table, reading the paper, occasionally raising his hand gently to feel the bandage around his head. When he shut his eyes he still experienced moments of weakness. By noon he was glad to go upstairs and crawl into bed and he didn't get up until Helen came home. The next morning he insisted on opening alone. The Poilisheh was there. He did not know her name. She worked somewhere in a laundry and had a little dog called Polaschaya. When she came home at night she took the little Polish dog for a walk around the block. He liked to run loose in the coal yard. She lived in one of the stucco houses nearby. Ida called her die antisemitke, but that part of her didn't bother Morris. She had come with it from the old country, a different kind of anti-Semitism from in America. Sometimes he suspected she needled him a little by asking for a "Jewish roll," and once or twice, with an odd smile, she wanted a "Jewish pickle." Generally she said nothing at all. This morning Morris handed her her roll and she said nothing. She didn't ask him about his bandaged head though her quick beady eyes stared at it, nor why he had not been there for a week; but she put six pennies on the counter instead of three. He figured she had taken a roll from the bag one of the days the store hadn't opened on time. He rang up the six-cent sale. Morris went outside to pull in the two milk cases. He gripped the boxes but they were like rocks, so he let one go and tugged at the other. A storm cloud formed in his head and blew up to the size of a house. Morris reeled and almost fell into the gutter, but he was caught by Frank Alpine, in his long coat, steadied and led back into the store. Frank then hauled in the milk cases and refrigerated the bottles. He quickly swept up behind the counter and went into the back. Morris, recovered, warmly thanked him. Frank said huskily, his eyes on his scarred and heavy hands, that he was new to the neighborhood but living here now with a married sister. He had lately come from the West and was looking for a better job. The grocer offered him a cup of coffee, which he at once accepted. As he sat down Frank placed his hat on the floor at his feet, and he drank the coffee with three heaping spoonfuls of sugar, to get warm quick, he said. When Morris offered him a seeded hard roll, he bit into it hungrily. "Jesus, this is good bread." After he had finished he wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, then swept the crumbs off the table with one hand into the other, and though Morris protested, he rinsed the cup and saucer at the sink, dried them and set them on top of the gas range, where the grocer had got them. "Much obliged for everything." He had picked up his hat but made no move to leave. "Once in San Francisco I worked in a grocery for a couple of months," he remarked after a minute, "only it was one of those supermarket chain store deals." "The chain store kills the small man." "Personally I like a small store myself. I might someday have one." "A store is a prison. Look for something better." "At least you're your own boss." "To be a boss of nothing is nothing." "Still and all, the idea of it appeals to me. The only thing is I would need experience on what goods to order. I mean about brand names, and et cetera. I guess I ought to look for a job in a store and get more experience." "Try the A &P," advised the grocer. "I might." Morris dropped the subject. The man put on his hat. "What's the matter," he said, staring at the grocer's bandage, "did you have some kind of an accident to your head?" Morris nodded. He didn't care to talk about it, so the stranger, somehow disappointed, left. He happened to be in the street very early on Monday when Morris was again struggling with the milk cases. The stranger tipped his hat and said he was off to the city to find a job but he had time to help him pull in the milk. This he did and quickly left. However, the grocer thought he saw him pass by in the other direction about an hour later. That afternoon when he went for his Forward he noticed him sitting at the fountain with Sam Pearl. The next morning, just after six, Frank was there to help him haul in the milk bottles and he willingly accepted when Morris, who knew a poor man when he saw one, invited him for coffee. "How is going now the job?" Morris asked as they were eating. "So-so," said Frank, his glance shifting. He seemed preoccupied, nervous. Every few minutes he would set down his cup and uneasily look around. His lips parted as if to speak, his eyes took on a tormented expression, but then he shut his jaw as if he had decided it was better never to say what he intended. He seemed to need to talk, broke into sweat-his brow gleamed with it-his pupils widening as he struggled. He looked to Morris like someone who had to retch-no matter where; but after a brutal interval his eyes grew dull. He sighed heavily and gulped down the last of his coffee. After, he brought up a belch. This for a moment satisfied him. Whatever he wants to say, Morris thought, let him say it to somebody else. I am only a grocer. He shifted in his chair, fearing to catch some illness. Again the tall man leaned forward, drew a breath and once more was at the point of speaking, but now a shudder passed through him, followed by a fit of shivering. The grocer hastened to the stove and poured out a cup of steaming coffee. Frank swallowed it in two terrible gulps. He soon stopped shaking, but looked defeated, humiliated, like somebody, the grocer felt, who had lost out on something he had wanted badly. "You caught a cold?" he asked sympathetically. The stranger nodded, scratched up a match on the sole of his cracked shoe, lit a cigarette and sat there, listless. "I had a rough life," he muttered, and lapsed into silence. Neither of them spoke. Then the grocer, to ease the other's mood, casually inquired, "Where in the neighborhood lives your sister? Maybe I know her." Frank answered in a monotone. "I forget the exact address. Near the park somewheres." "What is her name?" "Mrs. Garibaldi." "What kind name is this?" "What do you mean?" Frank stared at him. "I mean the nationality?" "Italian. I am of Italian extraction. My name is Frank Alpine-Alpino in Italian." The smell of Frank Alpine's cigarette compelled Morris to light his butt. He thought he could control his cough and tried but couldn't. He coughed till he feared his head would pop off. Frank watched with interest. Ida banged on the floor upstairs, and the grocer ashamedly pinched his cigarette and dropped it into the garbage pail. "She don't like me to smoke," he explained between coughs. "My lungs ain't so healthy." "Who don't?" "My wife. It's a catarrh some kind. My mother had it all her life and lived till eighty-four. But they took a picture of my chest last year and found two dried spots. This frightened my wife." Frank slowly put out his cigarette. "What I started out to say before about my life," he said heavily, "is that I have had a funny one, only I don't mean funny. I mean I've been through a lot. I've been close to some wonderful things- jobs, for instance, education, women, but close is as far as I go." His hands were tightly clasped between his knees. "Don't ask me why, but sooner or later everything I think is worth having gets away from me in some way or other. I work like a mule for what I want, and just when it looks like I am going to get it I make some kind of a stupid move, and everything that is just about nailed down tight blows up in my
face." "Don't throw away your chance for education," Morris advised. "It's the best thing for a young man." "I could've been a college graduate by now, but when the time came to start going, I missed out because something else turned up that I took instead. With me one wrong thing leads to another and it ends in a trap. I want the moon so all I get is cheese." "You are young yet." "Twenty-five," he said bitterly. "You look older." "I feel old-damn old." Morris shook his head. "Sometimes I think your life keeps going the way it starts out on you," Frank went on. "The week after I was born my mother was dead and buried. I never saw her face, not even a picture. When I was five years old, one day my old man leaves this furnished room where we were staying, to get a pack of butts. He takes off and that was the last I ever saw of him. They traced him years later but by then he was dead. I was raised in an orphans' home and when I was eight they farmed me out to a tough family. I ran away ten times, also from the next people I lived with. I think about my life a lot. I say to myself, 'What do you expect to happen after all of that?' Of course, every now and again, you understand, I hit some nice good spots in between, but they are few and far, and usually I end up like I started out, with nothing." The grocer was moved. Poor boy. "I've often tried to change the way things work out for me but I don't know how, even when I think I do. I have it in my heart to do more than I can remember." He paused, cleared his throat and said, "That makes me sound stupid but it's not as easy as that. What I mean to say is that when I need it most something is missing in me, in me or on account of me. I always have this dream where I want to tell somebody something on the telephone so bad it hurts, but then when I am in the booth, instead of a phone being there, a bunch of bananas is hanging on a hook." He gazed at the grocer then at the floor. "All my life I wanted to accomplish something worthwhile-a thing people will say took a little doing, but I don't. I am too restless- six months in any one place is too much for me. Also I grab at everything too quick-too impatient. I don't do what I have to-that's what I mean. The result is I move into a place with nothing, and I move out with nothing. You understand me?" "Yes," said Morris. Frank fell into silence. After a while he said, "I don't understand myself. I don't really know what I'm saying to you or why I am saying it." "Rest yourself," said Morris. "What kind of a life is that for a man my age?" He waited for the grocer to reply-to tell him how to live his life, but Morris was thinking, I am sixty and he talks like me. "Take some more coffee," he said. "No, thanks." Frank lit another cigarette and smoked it to the tip. He seemed eased yet not eased, as though he had accomplished something (What? wondered the grocer) yet had not. His face was relaxed, almost sleepy, but he cracked the knuckles of both hands and silently sighed. Why don't he go home? the grocer thought. I am a working man. "I'm going." Frank got up but stayed. "What happened to your head?" he asked again. Morris felt the bandage. "This Friday before last 1 had here a holdup." "You mean they slugged you?" The grocer nodded. "Bastards like that ought to die." Frank spoke vehemently. Morris stared at him. Frank brushed his sleeve. "You people are Jews, aren't you?" "Yes," said the grocer, still watching him. "I always liked Jews." His eyes were downcast. Morris did not speak. "I suppose you have some kids?" Frank asked. "Me?" "Excuse me for being curious." "A girl." Morris sighed. "I had once a wonderful boy but he died from an ear sickness that they had in those days." "Too bad." Frank blew his nose. A gentleman, Morris thought with a watery eye. "Is the girl the one that was here behind the counter a couple of nights last week?" "Yes," the grocer replied, a little uneasily. "Well, thanks for all the coffee." "Let me make you a sandwich. Maybe you'll be hungry later." "No thanks." The Jew insisted, but Frank felt he had all he wanted from him at the moment. Left alone, Morris began to worry about his health. He felt dizzy at times, often headachy. Murderers, he thought. Standing before the cracked and faded mirror at the sink he unwound the bandage from his head. He wanted to leave it off but the scar was still ugly, not nice for the customers, so he tied a fresh bandage around his skull. As he did this he thought of that night with bitterness, recalling the buyer who hadn't come, nor had since then, nor ever would. Since his recovery, Morris had not spoken to Karp. Against words the liquor dealer had other words, but silence silenced him. Afterward the grocer looked up from his paper and was startled to see somebody out front washing his window with a brush on a stick. He ran out with a roar to drive the intruder away, for there were nervy window cleaners who did the job without asking permission, then held out their palms to collect. But when Morris came out of the store he saw the window washer was Frank Alpine. "Just to show my thanks and appreciation." Frank explained he had borrowed the pail from Sam Pearl and the brush and squeegee from the butcher next door. Ida then entered the store by the inside door, and seeing the window being washed, hurried outside. "You got rich all of a sudden?" she asked Morris, her face inflamed. "He does me a favor," the grocer replied. "That's right," said Frank, bearing down on the squeegee. "Come inside, it's cold." In the store Ida asked, "Who is this goy?" "A poor boy, an Italyener he looks for a job. He gives me a help in the morning with the cases milk." "If you sold containers like I told you a thousand times, you wouldn't need help." "Containers leak. I like bottles." "Talk to the wind," Ida said. Frank came in blowing his breath on water-reddened fists. "How's it look now, folks, though you can't really tell till I do the inside." Ida remarked under her breath, "Pay now for your favor." "Fine," Morris said to Frank. He went to the register and rang up "no sale." "No, thanks," Frank said, holding up his hand. "For services already rendered." Ida reddened. "Another cup coffee?" Morris asked. "Thanks. Not as of now." "Let me make you a sandwich?" "I just ate." He walked out, threw the dirty water into the gutter, returned the pail and brush, then came back to the grocery. He went behind the counter and into the rear, pausing to rap on the doorjamb. "How do you like the clean window?" he asked Ida. "Clean is clean." She was cool. "I don't want to intrude here but your husband was nice to me, so I just thought maybe I could ask for one more small favor. I am looking for work and I want to try some kind of a grocery job just for size. Maybe I might like it, who knows? It happens I forgot some of the things about cutting and weighing and such, so I am wondering if you would mind me working around here for a couple-three weeks without wages just so I could learn again? It won't cost you a red cent. I know I am a stranger but I am an honest guy. Whoever keeps an eye on me will find that out in no time. That's fair enough, isn't it?" Ida said, "Mister, isn't here a school." "What do you say, pop?" Frank asked Morris. "Because somebody is a stranger don't mean they ain't honest," answered the grocer. "This subject don't interest me. Interests me what you can learn here. Only one thing"- he pressed his hand to his chest-"a heartache." "You got nothing to lose on my proposition, has he now, Mrs?" Frank said. "I understand he don't feel so hot yet, and if I helped him out a short week or two it would be good for his health, wouldn't it?" Ida didn't answer. But Morris said flatly, "No. It's a small, poor store. Three people would be too much." Frank flipped an apron off a hook behind the door and before either of them could say a word, removed his hat and dropped the loop over his head. He tied the apron strings around him. "How's that for fit?" Ida flushed, and Morris ordered him to take it off and put it back on the hook. "No bad feelings, I hope," Frank said on his way out. Helen Bober and Louis Karp walked, no hands touching, in the windy dark on the Coney Island boardwalk. Louis had, on his way home for supper that evening, stopped her in front of the liquor store, on her way in from work. "How's about a ride in the Mercury, Helen? I never see you much anymore. Things were better in the bygone days in high school." Helen smiled. "Honestly, Louis, that's so far away." A sense of mourning at once oppressed her, which she fought to a practiced draw. "Near or far, it's all the same for me." He was built with broad back and narrow head, and despite prominent eyes was presentable. In high school, before he quit, he had worn his wet hair slicked straight back. One day, after studying a picture of a movie actor in the Daily News, he had run a part across his head. This was as much change as she had known in him. If Nat Pearl was ambitious, Louis made a relaxed living letting the fruit of his father's investment fall into his lap. "Anyway," he said, "why not a ride for old-times' sake?" She thought a minute, a gloved finger pressed into her cheek; but it was a fake gesture because she was lonely. "For old-times' sake, where?" "Name your scenery-continuous performance." "The Island?" He raised his coat collar. "Brr, it's a cold, windy night You wanna freeze?" Seeing her hesitation, he said, "But I'll die game. When'll I pick you up?" "Ring my bell after eight and I'll come down." "Check," Louis said. "Eight bells." They walked to Seagate, where the boardwalk ended. She gazed with envy through a wire fence at the large lit houses fronting the ocean. The Island was deserted, except here and there an open hamburger joint or pinball machine concession. Gone from the sky was the umbrella of rosy light that glowed over the place in summertime. A few cold stars gleamed down. In the distance a dark Ferris wheel looked like a stopped clock. They stood at the rail of the boardwalk, watching the black, restless sea. All during their walk she had been thinking about her life, the difference between her aloneness now and the fun when she was young and spending every day of summer in a lively crowd of kids on the beach. But as her high school friends had got married, she had one by one given them up; and as others of them graduated from college, envious, ashamed of how little she was accomplishing, she stopped seeing them too. At first it hurt to drop people but after a time it became a not too difficult habit. Now she saw almost no one, occasionally Betty Pearl, who understood, but not enough to make much difference. Louis, his face reddened by the wind, sensed her mood. "What's got in you, Helen?" he said, putting his arm around her. "I can't really explain it. All night I've been thinking of the swell times we had on this beach when we were kids. And do you remember the parties? I suppose I'm blue that I'm no longer seventeen." "What's so wrong about twenty-three?" "It's old, Louis. Our lives change so quickly. You know what youth means?" "Sure I know. You don't catch me giving away nothing for nothing. I got my youth yet." "When a person is young he's privileged," Helen said, "with all kinds of possibilities. Wonderful things might happen, and when you get up in the morning you feel they will. That's what youth means, and that's what I've lost. Nowadays I feel that every day is like the day before, and what's worse, like the day after." "So now you're a grandmother?" "The world has shrunk for me." "What do you wanna be-Miss Rheingold?" "I want a larger and better life. I want the return of my possibilities." "Such as which ones?" She clutched the rail, cold through her gloves. "Education," she said, "prospects. Things I've wanted but never had." "Also a man?" "Also a man." His arm tightened around her waist. "Talk is too cold, baby, how's about a kiss?" She brushed his cold lips, then averted her head. He did not press her. "Louis," she said, watching a far-off light on the water, "what do you want out of your life?" He kept his arm around her. "The same thing I got- plus." "Plus what?" "Plus more, so my wife and family can have also." "What if she wanted something different than you do?" "Whatever she wanted I would gladly give her." "But what if she wanted to make herself a better person, have bigger ideas, live a more worthwhile life? We die so quickly, so helplessly. Life has to have some meaning." "I ain't gonna stop anybody from being better," Louis said, "That's up to them." "I suppose," she said. "Say, baby, let's drop this deep philosophy and go trap a hamburger. My stomach complains." "Just a little longer. It's been ages since I came here this late in the year." He pumped his arms. "Jesus, this wind, it flies up my pants. At least gimme another kiss." He unbuttoned his overcoat. She let him kiss her. He felt her breast. Helen stepped back out of his embrace. "Don't, Louis." "Why not?" He stood there awkwardly, annoyed. "It gives me no pleasure." "I suppose I'm the first guy that ever gave it a nip?" "Are you collecting statistics?" "Okay," he said, "I'm sorry. You know I ain't a bad guy, Helen." "I know you're not, but please don't do what I don't like." "There was a time you treated me a whole lot better." "That was the past, we were kids." It's funny, she remembered, how necking made glorious dreams. "We were older than that, up till the time Nat Pearl started in college, then you got interested in him. I suppose you got him in mind for the future?" "If I do, I don't know it." "But he's the one you want, ain't he? I like to know what that stuck up has got beside a college education? I work for my living." "No, I don't want him, Louis." But she thought, Suppose Nat said I love you? For magic words a girl might do magic tricks. "So if that's so, what's wrong with me?" "Nothing. We're friends." "Friends I got all I need." "What do you need, Louis?" "Cut out the wisecracks, Helen. Would it interest you that I would honestly like to marry you?" He paled at his nerve. She was surprised, touched. "Thank you," she murmured. "Thank you ain't good enough. Give me yes or no." "No, Louis." "That's what I thought." He gazed blankly at the ocean. "I never guessed you were at all remotely interested. You go with girls who are so different from me." "Please, when I go with them you can't see my thoughts." "No," she admitted. "I can give you a whole lot better than you got." "I know you can, but I want a different life from mine now, or yours. I don't want a storekeeper for a husband." "Wines and liquors ain't exactly pisher groceries." "I know." "It ain't because your old man don't like mine?" "No." She listened to the wind-driven, sobbing surf. Louis said, "Let's go get the hamburgers." "Gladly." She took his arm but could tell from the stiff way he walked that he was hurt. As they drove home on the