“So where is your buyer?” he asked Ida.
Looking absently into the store she did not reply.
“You should sell long ago the store,” she remarked after a minute.
“When the store was good, who wanted to sell? After came bad times, who wanted to buy?”
“Everything we did too late. The store we didn’t sell in time. I said, ‘Morris, sell now the store.’ You said, ‘Wait.’ What for? The house we bought too late, so we have still a big mortgage that it’s hard to pay every month. ‘Don’t buy,’ I said, ‘times are bad.’ ‘Buy,’ you said, ‘will get better. We will save rent.’”
He answered nothing. If you had failed to do the right thing, talk was useless.
When Helen entered, she asked if the buyer had come. She had forgotten about him but remembered when she saw her mother’s dress.
Opening her purse, she took out her pay check and handed it to her father. The grocer, without a word, slipped it under his apron into his pants pocket.
“Not yet,” Ida answered, also embarrassed. “Maybe later.”
“Nobody goes in the night to buy a store,” Morris said. “The time to go is in the day to see how many customers. If this man comes here he will see with one eye the store is dead, then he will run home.”
“Did you eat lunch?” Ida asked Helen.
“Yes.”
“What did you eat?”
“I don’t save menus, Mama.”
“Your supper is ready.” Ida lit the flame under the pot on the gas range.
“What makes you think he’ll come today?” Helen asked her.
“Karp told me yesterday. He knows a refugee that he looks to buy a grocery. He works in the Bronx, so he will be here late.”
Morris shook his head.
“He’s a young man,” Ida went on, “maybe thirty—thirty—two. Karp says he saved a little cash. He can make alterations, buy new goods, fix up modern, advertise a little and make here a nice business.”
“Karp should live so long,” the grocer said.
“Let’s eat.” Helen sat at the table.
Ida said she would eat later.
“What about you, Papa?”
“I am not hungry.” He picked up his paper.
She ate alone. It would be wonderful to sell out and move but the possibility struck her as remote. If you had lived so long in one place, all but two years of your life, you didn’t move out overnight.
Afterward she got up to help with the dishes but Ida wouldn’t let her. “Go rest,” she said.
Helen took her things and went upstairs.
She hated the drab five-room flat; a gray kitchen she used for breakfast so she could quickly get out to work in the morning. The living room was colorless and cramped; for all its overstuffed furniture of twenty years ago it seemed bar ren because it was lived in so little, her parents being seven days out of seven in the store; even their rare visitors, when invited upstairs, preferred to remain in the back. Sometimes Helen asked a friend up, but she 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 we
lcome 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.
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 overcoat 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 Assistant Page 3
