“Take heed!”
“Perhaps he had better not eat,” interposed his mother.
“Don’t interfere.” And to David, “Are you going to eat?”
Trembling, and almost on the verge of nausea, David picked up the spoon and forcing himself, ate. The sickening spasm passed.
Impatiently, his father turned to Luter. “What were you saying, Joe?”
“I was saying,” said Luter in his slow voice, “that you would have to lock up the place after you left — only one door, you see. The rest I will close before I go.” He reached into his coat pocket and drawing out a ring of keys, detached one. “This one closes it. And I’ll tell you,” he handed the key to David’s father. “I’m putting it down as four hours. The whole job won’t take you more than two — three at most.”
“I see.”
“You won’t get the extra this week though. The bookkeeper—”
“Next week then.”
Luter cleared his throat. “You’re having one diner less tomorrow evening,” he said to David’s mother.
“Yes?” she asked in constrained surprise, and turning to David’s father, “Will you be so late, Albert?”
“Not I.”
“No, not Albert,” chuckled Luter, “I.”
David’s heart leaped in secret joy.
“Then I shan’t prepare dinner for you tomorrow night?”
“No, I have something to do tomorrow night,” he said vaguely. “Sunday perhaps. No, I’ll tell you. If I’m not here by seven o’clock Sunday, don’t keep the dinner waiting for me.”
“Very well.”
“I’ll pay for the week in full anyhow.”
“If you’re not coming—” she objected.
“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” said Luter, “that’s settled.” He nodded and picked up his spoon.
During the rest of the meal, David ate cautiously peering up furtively from time to time to see whether anything he did was displeasing his father. At Luter, he never ventured a glance for fear the very sight of the man would confuse him into further blunders. By the time his mother set the dessert before him, he was already casting about for some way to retreat, some place where he could hide and yet be thought present, or at least, be accounted for. He might feign drowsiness and his mother would put him to bed, but he could not do that now. It was too early. What would he do till then? Where could he escape for a little while? The rooms of the house passed before his mind. The frontroom? His father would say, “What is he doing in there in the dark?” The bedroom? No. His father would say the same thing. Where? The bathroom. Yes! He would sit on the toilet seat. Stay there till he heard some one call, then come out.
He had eaten the last prune, and was just about to slip from his chair when out of the corner of his eye, he saw Luter’s hand move toward his vest-pocket and draw out his watch.
“I must go!” He smacked his lips.
He was going! David could have danced for joy. It was too good to be true!
“So soon?” asked his mother.
To David’s surprise, his father laughed, and a moment later Luter joined him as if they shared some secret joke.
“I’m somewhat late as it is.” Luter pushed his chair back and rose. “But first I must pay you.”
David stared at his plate, listening. He could think of only one thing — Luter was going, would be gone in another minute. He glanced up. His father had just gone into the bedroom and in the moment of his absence Luter darted quick eyes at his mother. David shivered with revulsion and hastily looked down. Taking the coat which David’s father had just brought out, Luter got into it, and David with all the forces of his mind, tried to hasten the feet that were moving toward the door.
“Well,” Luter finally said, “a good week to you all. May the prayer,” his hat pointed at David, “recover soon.”
“Thank you,” said his mother. “Good week.”
“Lift your head,” snapped his father. David hastily looked up. “Goodnight, Joe, I’ll see you to-morrow. Good luck.” Both men laughed.
“Good night.” Luter went out.
With a quiet sigh of relief David uncurled from the tense, inner crouch his body seemed to have assumed, and looking about saw his father gazing at the door. His face had relaxed into a bare smile.
“He’s looking for trouble,” he said dryly.
“What do you mean?”
His father uttered an amused snort. “Didn’t you notice how peculiarly he behaved tonight?”
“I did—” she hesitated, watching his face inquiringly—“at least — Why?”
He turned to her; her eyes swerved back to the dishes.
“Didn’t you notice how embarrassed he was?”
“No. Well. Perhaps.”
“Then you don’t notice very much,” he chuckled shortly. “He’s off to a marriage-broker.”
“Oh!” Her brow cleared.
“Yes. It’s a secret. You understand? You know nothing about it.”
“I understand,” she smiled faintly.
“He’s free as air, and he’s looking for a stone around his neck.”
“Perhaps he does need a wife,” she reminded him. “I mean I have often heard him say he wanted a home and children.”
“Ach, children! Fresh grief! It isn’t children he’s looking for, it’s a little money. He wants to open a shop of his own. At least that’s what he says.”
“I thought you said he was looking for troubles?” she laughed.
“Certainly! He’s hurrying things too much. If he waited a few more years he’d have enough money of his own to set up a shop — without a wife. Wait! I said to him. Wait! No, he said. I need a thousand. I want a big place four or five presses. But he’ll find out what a Yiddish thousand is. If it melts no further than five hundred the morning after he ducked under the canopy, let none call him unfortunate.” He belched quietly, the adam’s apple on his neck jogging, and then looked around with knit brows as though seeking something.
“I heard him ask you to close up the shop,” she inquired.
“Yes, he’s giving me a little overtime. I won’t be home till four or five — perhaps later. Bah!” he burst out impatiently, “The man makes eighteen dollars a week — six more than I do — and he itches to pawn himself to a wife.” He paused, looked about again—“Where’s The Tageblatt?”
His wife looked up startled. “The Tageblatt”, she repeated in dismay, “Oh, where are my wits, I’ve forgotten to buy it. The rain! I put it off.”
He scowled.
Noisily setting the dishes down in the sink, she wiped her hands on a towel. “I’ll be only a minute.”
“Where are you going?”
“My shawl.”
“What’s the matter with him, hasn’t he feet?”
“But I can do it so much more quickly.”
“That’s the whole trouble with you,” he said curtly. “You do everything for him. Let him go down.”
“But it’s wet out, Albert.”
His face darkened, “Let him go down,” he repeated. “Is it any wonder he won’t eat. He moulders in the house all day! Get your coat on.” His head jerked sharply. “Shudder when I speak to you.”
David sprang from his seat, gazed apprehensively at his mother.
“Oh,” she protested, “why do you—”
“Be still! Well?”
“Very well,” she said, annoyed yet resigned, “I’ll get him his coat.”
She brought his coat out of the bedroom and helped him into it, his father meanwhile standing above them and muttering, as he always did, that he was big enough to fetch and get into his clothes by himself. Uneasily he tried to take his rubbers from her, but she insisted on helping him.
“It’s two cents,” she gave him a dime. “Here is ten. Ask for The Tageblatt and wait till they give you change.”
“Eight cents change,” his father admonished. “And don’t forget The Tageblatt.”