“What else?” Ida said, “give right away in auction.”
“The best thing is to sell even if we have to give away,” Morris argued. “If we sell the store we can also make something on the house. Then I can pay my debts and have maybe a couple thousand dollars. But if we give in auction how can I sell the house?”
“So if we sell who will buy?” Ida snapped.
“Can’t we auction off the store without going into bankruptcy?” Helen asked.
“If we auction we will get nothing. Then when the store is empty and it stays for rent, nobody will buy the house. There are already two places for rent on this block. If the wholesalers hear I went in auction they will force me in bankruptcy and take away the house also. But if we sell the store, then we can get a better price for the house.”
“Nobody will buy,” Ida said. “I told you when to sell but you wouldn’t listen.”
“Suppose you did sell the house and store,” Helen asked, “what would you do then?”
“Maybe I could find a small place, maybe a candy store. If I could find a partner we could open up a store in a nice neighborhood.”
Ida groaned. “Penny candy I won’t sell. Also a partner we had already, he should drop dead.”
“Couldn’t you look for a job?” Helen said.
“Who will give me at my age a job?” Morris asked.
“You’re acquainted with some people in the business,” she answered. “Maybe somebody could get you a cashier’s job in a supermarket.”
“You want your father to stand all day on his feet with his varicose veins?” Ida asked.
“It would be better than sitting in the freezing back of an empty store.”
“So what will we do?” Morris asked, but nobody answered.
Upstairs, Ida told Helen that things would be better if she got married.
“Who should I marry, Mama?”
“Louis Karp,” said Ida.
The next evening she visited Karp when he was alone in the liquor store and told him their troubles. The liquor dealer whistled through his teeth.
Ida said, “You remember last November you wanted to send us a man by the name Podolsky, a refugee he was interested to go in the grocery business?”
“Yes. He said he would come here but he caught a cold in his chest.”
“Did he buy some place a store?”
“Not yet,” Karp said cautiously.
“He still wants to buy?”
“Maybe. But how could I recommend him a store like yours?”
“Don’t recommend him the store, recommend him the price. Morris will sell now for two thousand cash. If he wants the house we will give him a good price. The refugee is young, he can fix up the business and give the goyim a good competition.”
“Maybe I’ll call him sometime,” Karp remarked. He casually inquired about Helen. Surely she would be getting married soon?
Ida faced the way she hoped the wind was blowing. “Tell Louis not to be so bashful. Helen is lonely and wants to go out with somebody.”
Karp coughed into his fist. “I don’t see your clerk any more. How is that?” He spoke offhandedly, walking carefully, knowing the size of his big feet.
“Frank,” Ida said solemnly, “don’t work for us any more. Morris told him to leave, so he left last week.”
Karp raised bushy brows. “Maybe,” he said slowly, “I will call Podolsky and tell him to come tomorrow night. He works in the day.”
“In the morning is the best time. Comes in then a few Morris’s old customers.”
“I will tell him to take off Wednesday morning,” Karp said.
He later told Louis what Ida had said about Helen, but Louis, looking up from clipping his fingernails, said she wasn’t his type.
“When you got gelt in your pocket any woman is your type,” Karp said.
“Not her.”
“We will see.”
The next afternoon Karp came into Morris’s and speaking as if they were the happiest of friends, advised the grocer: “Let Podolsky look around here but not too long. Also keep your mouth shut about the business. Don’t try to sell him anything. When he finishes in here he will come to my house and I will explain him what’s what.”
Morris, hiding his feelings, nodded. He felt he had to get away from the store, from Karp, before he collapsed. Reluctantly he agreed to do as the liquor dealer suggested.
Early Wednesday morning Podolsky arrived, a shy young man in a thick greenish suit that looked as if it had been made out of a horse blanket. He wore a small foreign-looking hat and carried a loose umbrella. His face was innocent and his eyes glistened with good will.
Morris, uneasy at what he was engaged in, invited Podolsky into the back, where Ida nervously awaited him, but the refugee tipped his hat and said he would stay in the store. He slid into the corner near the door and nothing could drag him out. Luckily, a few customers dribbled in, and Podolsky watched with interest as Morris professionally handled them.
When the store was empty, the grocer tried to make casual talk from behind the counter, but Podolsky, though constantly clearing his throat, had little to say. Overwhelmed by pity for the poor refugee, at what he had in all probability lived through, a man who had sweated blood to save a few brutal dollars, Morris, unable to stand the planned dishonesty, came from behind the counter, and taking Podolsky by the coat lapels, told him earnestly that the store was rundown but that a boy with his health and strength, with modern methods and a little cash, could build it up in a reasonable time and make a decent living out of it.
Ida shrilly called from the kitchen she needed the grocer to help her peel potatoes, but Morris kept on talking till he was swimming in his sea of woes; then he recalled Karp’s warning, and though he felt more than ever that the liquor dealer was thoroughly an ass, abruptly broke off the story he was telling. Yet before he could tear himself away from the refugee, he remarked, “I could sell for two thousand, but for fifteen-sixteen cash, anybody who wants it can take the store. The house we will talk about later. Is this reasonable?”
“Why not?” Podolsky murmured, then again clammed up.
Morris retreated into the kitchen. Ida looked at him as if he had committed murder but did not speak. Two or three more people appeared, then after ten-thirty the dry trickle of customers stopped. Ida grew fidgety and tried to think of ways to get Podolsky out of the place but he stayed on. She asked him to come into the back for a glass of tea; he courteously refused. She remarked that Karp must now be anxious to see him; Podolsky bobbed his head and stayed. He tightened the cloth around his umbrella stick. Not knowing what else to say she absently promised to leave him all her recipes for salads. He thanked her, to her surprise, profusely.
From half past ten to twelve nobody approached the store. Morris went down to the cellar and hid. Ida sat dully in the back. Podolsky waited in his corner. Nobody saw as he eased himself and his black umbrella out of the grocery and fled.
On Thursday morning Morris spat on his shoebrush and polished his shoes. He was wearing his suit. He rang the hall bell for Ida to come down, then put on his hat and coat, old but neat because he rarely used them. Dressed, he rang up “no sale” and hesitantly pocketed eight quarters.
He was on his way to Charlie Sobeloff, an old partner. Years ago, Charlie, a cross-eyed but clever conniver, had come to the grocer with a meager thousand dollars in his pocket, borrowed money, and offered to go into partnership with him—Morris to furnish four thousand—to buy a grocery Charlie had in mind. The grocer disliked Charlie’s nervousness and pale cross-eyes, one avoiding what the other looked at; but he was persuaded by the man’s nagging enthusiasm and they bought the store. It was a good business, Morris thought, and he was satisfied. But Charlie, who had taken accountancy in night school, said he would handle the books, and Morris, in spite of Ida’s warnings, consented, because, the grocer argued, the books were always in front of his eyes for inspection. But Charlie’s talented nose had sniffed the right sucker.
Morris never looked at the books until, two years after they had bought the place, the business collapsed.
The grocer, stunned, heartbroken, could not at first understand what had happened, but Charlie had figures to prove that the calamity had been bound to occur. The overhead was too high—they had paid themselves too high wages —his fault, Charlie admitted; also profits were low, the price of goods increasing. Morris now knew that his partner had, behind his back, cheated, manipulated, stolen whatever lay loose. They sold the place for a miserable price, Morris going out dazed, cleaned out, whereas Charlie in a short time was able to raise the cash to repurchase and restock the store, which he gradually worked into a thriving self-service business. For years the two had not met, but within the last four or five years, the ex-partner, when he returned from his winters in Miami, for reasons unknown to Morris, sought out the grocer and sat with him in the back, his eyes roving, his ringed fingers drumming on the table as he talked on about old times when they were young. Morris, through the years, had lost his hatred of the man, though Ida still could not stand him, and it was to Charlie Sobeloff that the grocer, with a growing sense of panic, had decided to run for help, a job—anything.
When Ida came down and saw Morris, in his hat and coat, standing moodily by the door, she said in surprise, “Morris, where you going?”
“I go to my grave,” the grocer said.
Seeing he was overwrought, she cried out, clasping her hands to her bosom, “Where do you go, tell me?”
He had the door open. “I go for a job.”
“Come back,” she cried in anger. “Who will give you?”
But he knew what she would say and was already in the street.
As he went quickly past Karp’s he noticed that Louis had five customers—drunkards all—lined up at the counter and was doing a thriving business in brown bottles. He had sold only two quarts of milk in four hours. Although it shamed him, Morris wished the liquor store would burn to the ground.
At the corner he paused, overwhelmed by the necessity of choosing a direction. He hadn’t remembered that space provided so many ways to go. He chose without joy. The day, though breezy, was not bad—it promised better, but he had little love left for nature. It gave nothing to a Jew. The March wind hastened him along, prodding the shoulders. He felt weightless, unmanned, the victim in motion of whatever blew at his back; wind, worries, debts, Karp, holdupniks, ruin. He did not go, he was pushed. He had the will of a victim, no will to speak of.
“For what I worked so hard for? Where is my youth, where did it go?”
The years had passed without profit or pity. Who could he blame? What fate didn’t do to him he had done to himself. The right thing was to make the right choice but he made the wrong. Even when it was right it was wrong. To understand why, you needed an education but he had none. All he knew was he wanted better but had not after all these years learned how to get it. Luck was a gift. Karp had it, a few of his old friends had it, well-to-do men with grandchildren already, while his poor daughter, made in his image, faced—if not actively sought—old-maidhood. Life was meager, the world changed for the worse. America had become too complicated. One man counted for nothing. There were too many stores, depressions, anxieties. What had he escaped to here?
The subway was crowded and he had to stand till a pregnant woman, getting off, signaled him to her seat. He was ashamed to take it but nobody else moved, so he sat down. After a while he began to feel at ease, thought he would be satisfied to ride on like this, provided he never got to where he was going. But he did. At Myrtle Avenue he groaned softly, and left the train.
Arriving at Sobeloff’s Self-Service Market, Morris, although he had heard of the growth of the place from Al Marcus, was amazed at its size. Charlie had tripled the original space by buying the building next door and knocking out the wall between the stores, later running an extension three-quarters of the way into the back yards. The result was a huge market with a large number of stalls and shelved sections loaded with groceries. The supermarket was so crowded with people that to Morris, as he peered half-scared through the window, it looked like a department store. He felt a pang, thinking that part of this might now be his if he had taken care of what he had once owned. He would not envy Charlie Sobeloff his dishonest wealth, but when he thought of what he could do for Helen with a little money his regret deepened that he had nothing.
He spied Charlie standing near the fruit stalls, the balabos, surveying the busy scene with satisfaction. He wore a gray Homburg and blue serge suit, but under the unbuttoned suit jacket he had tied a folded apron around his silk-shirted paunch, and wandered around, thus attired, overseeing. The grocer, looking through the window, saw himself opening the door and walking the long half block to where Charlie was standing.
He tried to speak but was unable to, until after so much silence the boss said he was busy, so say it.
“You got for me, Charlie,” muttered the grocer, “a job? Maybe a cashier or something? My business is bad, I am going in auction.”
Charlie, still unable to look straight at him, smiled. “I got five steady cashiers but maybe I can use you part time. Hang up your coat in the locker downstairs and I’ll give you directions what to do.”
Morris saw himself putting on a white duck jacket with “Sobeloff’s Self-Service” stitched in red over the region of the heart. He would stand several hours a day at the checking counter, packing, adding, ringing up the cash into one of Charlie’s, massive chromium registers. At quitting time, the boss would come over to check his money.
“You’re short a dollar, Morris,” Charlie said with a little chuckle, “but we will let it go.”
“No,” the grocer heard himself say. “I am short a dollar, so I will pay a dollar.”
He took several quarters out of his pants pocket, counted four, and dropped them into his ex-partner’s palm. Then he announced he was through, hung up his starched jacket, slipped on his coat and walked with dignity to the door. He joined the one at the window and soon went away.
Morris clung to the edge of a silent knot of men who drifted along Sixth Avenue, stopping at the employment agency doors to read impassively the list of jobs chalked up on the blackboard signs. There were openings for cooks, bakers, waiters, porters, handymen. Once in a while one of the men would secretly detach himself from the others and go into the agency. Morris followed along with them to Forty-fourth Street, where he noted a job listed for countermen behind a steam counter in a cafeteria. He went one flight up a narrow staircase and into a room that smelled of tobacco smoke. The grocer stood there, uncomfortable, until the big-faced owner of the agency happened to look up over the roll-top desk he was sitting at.
“You looking for something, mister?”
“Counterman,” Morris said.
“You got experience?”
“Thirty years.”
The owner laughed. “You’re the champ but they want a kid they can pay twenty a week.”
“You got something for a man my experience?”
“Can you slice sandwich meat nice and thin?”
“The best.”
“Come back next week, I might have something for you.”
The grocer continued along with the crowd. At Forty-seventh Street he applied for a waiter’s job in a kosher restaurant but the agency had filled the job and forgotten to erase it from their sign.
“So what else you got for me?” Morris asked the manager.
“What work do you do?”
“I had my own store, grocery and delicatessen.”
“So why do you ask for waiter?”
“I didn’t see for counterman anything.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifty-five.”
“I should live so long till you see fifty-five again,” said the manager. As Morris turned to go the man offered him a cigarette but the grocer said his cough kept him from smoking.
At Fiftieth he went up a dark staircase and sat on a wooden bench at the
far end of a long room.
The boss of the agency, a man with a broad back and a fat rear, holding a dead cigar butt between stubby fingers, had his heavy foot on a chair as he talked in a low voice to two gray-hatted Filipinos.
Seeing Morris on the bench he called out, “Whaddye want, pop?”
“Nothing. I sit on account I am tired.”
“Go home,” said the boss.
He went downstairs and had coffee at a dish-laden table in the Automat.
America.
Morris rode the bus to East Thirteenth Street, where Breitbart lived. He hoped the peddler would be home but only his son Hymie was. The boy was sitting in the kitchen, eating cornflakes with milk and reading the comics.
“What time comes home papa?” Morris asked.
“About seven, maybe eight,” Hymie mumbled.
Morris sat down to rest. Hymie ate, and read the comics. He had big restless eyes.
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
The grocer got up. He found two quarters in his pocket and left them on the table. “Be a good boy. Your father loves you.”
He got into the subway at Union Square and rode to the Bronx, to the apartment house where Al Marcus lived. He felt sure Al would help him find something. He would be satisfied, he thought, with little, maybe a night watchman’s job.
When he rang Al’s bell, a well-dressed woman with sad eyes came to the door.
“Excuse me,” said Morris. “My name is Mr. Bober. I am an old-time customer Al Marcus’s. I came to see him.”
“I am Mrs. Margolies, his sister-in-law.”
“If he ain’t home I will wait.”
“You’ll wait a long time,” she said, “they took him to the hospital yesterday.”
Though he knew why he couldn’t help asking.
“Can you go on living if you’re already dead?”
When the grocer got home in the cold twilight Ida took one look at him and began to cry.
The Assistant Page 21
