He felt weak, his legs unsteady. Thinking it was because his stomach was empty, he decided to get some pretzels and beer with the dimes. Later, he could get some spoiled fruit from the fruit store and would ask Mr. Davido for some bread. Wally walked along under the El to Mc-Cafferty’s tavern, near the railroad cut.
Opening the screen door, he glanced along the bar and was almost paralyzed with fright. His brother Jimmy, in uniform, was standing at the rear of the bar drinking a beer. Wally’s heart banged hard as he stepped back and closed the screen door. It slipped from his hand and slammed shut. The men at the bar looked up, and Jimmy saw Wally through the door.
“Jesus Christ!”
Wally was already running. He heard the door slam and knew Jimmy was coming after him. Though he strained every muscle in his heavy, jouncing body, he could hear Jimmy’s footsteps coming nearer. Wally sped down the block, across the tracks of the railroad siding, and into the coal yard. He ran past some men loading a coal truck and crossed the cobblestoned yard, with his brother coming after him. Wally’s lungs hurt. He wanted to run inside the coal loft and hide, but he knew he would be cornered there. He looked around wildly, then made for the hill of coal near the fence. He scrambled up. Jimmy came up after him, but Wally kicked down the coal and it hit Jimmy on the face and chest. He slipped and cursed, but gripped his club and came up again. At the top of the coal pile, Wally boosted himself up on the fence and dropped heavily to the other side. As he hit the earth his legs shook, but fear would not let him stop. He ran across a back yard and thumped up the inclined wooden cellar door, jumping clumsily over a picket fence. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jimmy hoisting himself over the coal-yard fence. Wally wanted to get into the delicatessen man’s back yard so he could go down to the cellar and come out on the avenue. Mr. Davido would let him hide in the toilet of the barbershop.
Wally ran across the flower bed in the next back yard and lifted himself over the picket fence. His sweaty palms slipped and he pitched forward, his pants cuff caught on one of the pointed boards. His hands were in the soft earth of an iris bed, and he dangled from the picket fence by one leg. He wriggled his leg and pulled frantically. The cuff
tore away and he fell into the flower bed. He pushed himself up, but before he could move, Jimmy had hurdled the fence and tackled him. Wally fell on the ground, the breath knocked out of him. He lay there whimpering.
“You dirty bastard,” Jimmy said. “I’ll break your goddamn back.”
He swung his club down on Wally’s legs. Wally shrieked and tried to pull in his legs, but Jimmy held him down and whacked him across the thighs and buttocks. Wally tried to shield his legs with his arms, but Jimmy beat him harder.
“Oh, please, please, please,” cried Wally, wriggling under his brother’s blows, “please, Jimmy, my legs, my legs. Don’t hit my legs!”
“You scum.”
“My legs,” screamed Wally, “my legs, I’ll get gangrene, my legs, my legs!”
The pain burned through his body. He felt nauseated. “My legs,” he moaned.
Jimmy let up. He wiped his wet face and said, “I told you to stay the hell outta this neighborhood. If I see you here again, I’ll murder you.”
Looking up, Wally saw two frightened women gazing at them out of their windows. Jimmy brushed off his uniform and went over to the cellar door. He pulled it open and walked downstairs.
Wally lay still among the trampled flowers.
“Why didn’t the policeman arrest him?” asked Mrs. Werner, the delicatessen man’s wife.
“It’s the policeman’s brother,” explained Mrs. Margolies.
He lay on his stomach, arms outstretched, and his cheek pressed against the ground. His nose was bleeding, but he was too exhausted to move. The sweat ran down his arms and the back of his coat was stained dark with it. For a long while he had no thoughts; then the nausea subsided a little, and bits of things floated through his mind. He recalled how he used to play in the coal yard with Jimmy when they were kids. He thought of the Fourth Street boys coasting down the snow-covered sides of the railroad cut in the winter. Then he thought of standing in front of the candy store on quiet summer evenings, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, smoking and fooling around with Vincent and the guys, talking about women, good times, and ballplayers, while they all waited for the late papers to come in. He thought about Vincent, and he remembered the day Vincent went away. It was during the Depression, and the unemployed guys stood on the corner, smoking and chewing gum and making remarks to the girls who passed by. Like Wally, Vincent had
quit going to the agencies, and he stayed on the corner with the rest of them, smoking and spitting around. A girl passed by and Vincent said something to her which made the guys laugh. Mr. Davido was looking out the window of the barbershop across the street. He slammed down the scissors and left the customer sitting in the chair. His face was red as he crossed the street. He grabbed Vincent by the arm and struck him hard across the face, shouting, “You bum, why don’t you go look for a job?” Vincent’s face turned gray. He didn’t say anything, but walked away, and they never saw him again. That’s how it was.
Mrs. Margolies said, “He’s laying there for a long time. Do you think he’s dead?”
“No,” said Mrs. Werner, “I just saw him move.”
Wally pushed himself up and stumbled down the stone steps of the cellar. Groping his way along the wall, he came up the stairs in front of the delicatessen. He searched through his pockets for the twenty cents his mother had given him but couldn’t find them. The nausea came back and he wanted a place to sit down and rest. He crossed the street, walking unsteadily toward the barbershop.
Mr. Davido was standing near the window, sharpening a straight razor on a piece of sandstone. The sight of Wally that morning had brought up old memories, and he was thinking about Vincent. As he rubbed the razor round and round on the lathered sandstone, he glanced up and saw Wally staggering across the street. His pants were torn and covered with dirt, and his face was bloody. Wally opened the screen door, but Mr. Davido said sharply, “Stay outta here now, you’re drunk.”
“Honest I ain’t,” said Wally. “I didn’t have a drop.”
“Why you look like that?”
“Jimmy caught me and almost killed me. My legs must be black and blue.” Wally lowered himself into a chair.
“I’m sorry, Wally.” Mr. Davido got him some water, and Wally swallowed a little.
“Come on, Wally, on the chair,” the barber said heartily. “I shave you an you rest an feel cooler.”
He helped Wally onto the barber’s chair; then he lowered the back and raised the front so that Wally lay stretched out as if he were on a bed. The barber swung a towel around his neck and began to rub a blob of hot lather into his beard. It was a tough beard and hadn’t been shaved for a week. Mr. Davido rubbed the lather in deeply with his gentle, stubby fingers.
As he was rubbing Wally’s beard, the barber looked at him in the
mirror and thought how he had changed. The barber’s eyes grew sad as he recalled how things used to be, and he turned away to look out the window. He thought about his son Vincent. How wonderful it would be if Vincent came home someday, he would put his arms around his boy and kiss him on the cheek …
Wally was also thinking how it used to be. He remembered how it was when he looked in the mirror before going out on Saturday night. He had a yellow mustache and wore a green hat. He remembered his expensive suits and the white carnation in his buttonhole and a good cigar to smoke.
He opened his eyes.
“You know,” he said, “the place is different now.”
“Yes,” said the barber, looking out the window.
Wally closed his eyes.
Mr. Davido looked down at him. Wally was breathing quietly. His lips were pulled together tightly, and the tears were rolling down his cheeks. The barber slowly raised the lather until it mixed with the tears.
1943
T
he two lunch waitresses had heard the sad news from Mr. Mollendorf when they came in at ten-thirty, and for the rest of the day their eyes were red and swollen from crying. After lunch, when things grew slow, they sat on the bench in front of the wall mirror in the rear of the restaurant and they would look at Eileen’s empty tables, and then they would begin to cry again. At four o’clock, after the two girls for the evening meal had hung up their raincoats and umbrellas and had changed into their uniforms, Gracie and Clara told them, and the four of them began to cry.
“She was only twenty-eight,” wept Mary, and the sobs grew louder as the girls thought of Eileen lying dead in the hospital after her gallbladder operation.
At four-fifteen, Mr. Mollendorf, the chef and owner of the restaurant, came out of the kitchen in his apron and chef’s cap and asked them please to control themselves and set the tables for the evening meal. It was a sad thing that had happened, but this was a business establishment from which they all drew their living, and it wasn’t good for the customers to be served by a bunch of crying women. As he turned to go into the kitchen, something occurred to Mr. Mollendorf and he said, “Which one of you girls wants to serve Eileen’s station tonight?”
No one spoke. They were almost horrified at the thought.
“The one who serves it tonight can serve it all the time from now on,” said Mr. Mollendorf.
No one answered him. They knew Eileen’s station was the best in the restaurant, good for at least a dollar more each night, but no one spoke.
“Well, what about you, Gracie? You were her best friend,” said the boss.
“No, please, no, Mr. Mollendorf. Honest, I just couldn’t.”
“Clara? You could use a little extra money.”
“No, thanks, Mr. Mollendorf.”
“Mary?”
“No, sir.”
“Elsie?”
“No, thank you.”
Mr. Mollendorf shrugged his shoulders. “In that case, okay,” he said. “Now I just got to call the agency for a new girl and give her the best station.”
The girls, neatly attired in their trim black-and-white uniforms, were silent. They all looked so frightened Mr. Mollendorf felt sorry for them.
“Okay, girls,” he said in a kind voice, “don’t worry. I’m hurt too. She was a very fine person, very fine, and only twenty-eight years.” He wiped his eye with the back of his hand and then went back into the kitchen.
“He ain’t so bad,” said Mary. They all agreed Mr. Mollendorf was all right. They set the tables for the evening meal. The afternoon dragged on and it began to rain harder outside.
“Even the heavens are crying,” said Mary.
“I guess the supper will be spoiled,” said Clara.
“Let it,” Elsie said. “I don’t feel like working anyway, when I think of her laying there dead in the hospital.”
“You know what?” said Gracie quietly.
“What?”
“Her—her steady customer—”
The girls had forgotten him. In spite of themselves, the tears came once more.
“When he comes in, I’m not gonna let any new girl wait on him,” Gracie told them, “I’m gonna wait on him myself.”
“That’s right, Gracie,” Clara agreed. “You couldn’t let a stranger tell him. It just—well, it wouldn’t be right.”
At five-thirty, the new girl came from the agency. She carried her uniform in a cardboard dress box from Klein’s. Mr. Mollendorf told Gracie to take her downstairs to change, then give her the bill
of fare and show her where things were. Gracie took the new waitress, whose name was Rose, downstairs to the lockers. Then she told Rose about Eileen and her operation.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Rose, “truly I am. I don’t want to enrich myself on the dead.”
“No, nobody does.”
“Leastways not I.”
Gracie told her about Eileen’s steady customer. “When he comes in, will you mind if I serve him?” she asked. “You know, it’s more personal.”
“I understand perfectly,” Rose said. “Anything I can do, I will gladly do it.”
“Thanks.”
“Were they goin together?”
“Well—not exactly, but they woulda soon. He’s been coming here every night for the past two years and he always sits at Eileen’s table. She knew exactly what he wanted. All he does is give the meat order, everything else is the same. First, he has fruit cup, then green-pea soup with croutons or vegetable soup—it’s all according what we’re serving—then he has his meat order—medium, with string beans and mashed potatoes, and then homemade apple pie or blueberry pie, if blueberries are in season, and coffee with two creams, because he likes it light. Eileen knew exactly what he wanted. He didn’t have to say two words.”
“He musta been used to her.”
“Yeah, and he liked her. At first he was shy and didn’t talk to her much, but after about five or six months she sorta won him around with her smile and her nice ways and he began to talk to her. Eileen always said he was very smart. He used to know everything about current events and the war and stuff like that.”
“Do you think he’ll take it bad?”
“Yeah,” said Gracie, “I think so—that’s why I want to tell him myself. You know how it is.”
“Yes I know,” Rose said sentimentally.
Rose had changed into her uniform, which was also black with a white collar and cuffs and a white apron. A customer could tell that she hadn’t worked there before, because her shoes were black whereas the other girls wore white shoes.
Gracie introduced Rose to the girls and showed her Eileen’s section.
“He sits in this seat here,” she said, pointing to the third table along the wall. “You can recognize him because he’s thin and sorta blond and he always reads the
World-Telegram.”
“If I see him, I’ll call you,” said Rose.
“That’s right.”
They went back to the bench near the mirror and the girls sat there talking in quiet tones. They told Rose stories of Eileen’s goodness—how she never got married because she was supporting her old mother, whom her two married brothers had neglected, and how pretty and good-natured she was, never getting angry at a girl who cut in ahead of her in the kitchen, and how she was always smiling so that everyone liked her.
The girls watched the rain streaming down the windows. The restaurant was empty and seemed emptier still when they looked at each of the tables so neatly set with silverware and white napkins and tablecloths. At the front of the store the cashier read a book, and the waitresses sat at the back in the half darkness, thinking about the things people think when somebody has just died.
“What time does this guy come in?” Rose asked Gracie while they were getting desserts in the kitchen.
“Usually half past seven.”
Rose looked at her wristwatch. “It’s ten to eight.”
“Sometimes he don’t come in. Maybe on account of the rain he won’t come in tonight,” Gracie said.
“I hope he does.”
When Gracie went outside again, she saw him hanging up his coat near his regular table and her heart skipped a beat. She served her desserts and caught Rose’s eye. Rose looked and saw him reading the
World-Telegram.
She smiled knowingly. The other waitresses saw the interchange of glances and the atmosphere grew tense.
Gracie straightened her apron and tried to calm herself. She decided to say nothing and let him ask. She went over to the table in Eileen’s section and poured a glass of water for the man. He looked up from his newspaper. His eyes were a kind of dull blue and his hair was dry and thinning on top. He was mildly surprised at seeing Gracie.
“Shall—shall I give you the order?”
“Yes, sir.” She would tell him when he asked her where Eileen was. Gracie girded herself for the moment. The girls were at their tasks, looking up to see what was going on.
“Well,” he said, lightly rubbing his cheek with his long, bony fingers, “I usually take a fruit cup, and green-pea soup with croutons. Then tonight I’ll have chopped steak—medium, please, and string beans and mashed potatoes.”
Gracie wrote quickly.
“I usually take blueberry pie and coffee with two creams for dessert.”
She closed her book and stood there for a minute, waiting for him to ask about Eileen, but he turned to his paper. She was disappointed. He looked up again.
“Did I—is something wrong?”
“No, sir.” She walked hurriedly into the kitchen, her face set hard.
Two of the girls gathered around her in the kitchen.
“Did you tell him?” asked Mary.
“No, he didn’t even ask where she was.”
Mary’s face fell. “Oh,” she exclaimed, disappointed.
“That’s the way they are,” said Clara philosophically. “They don’t know whether you’re dead or alive and they don’t care.”
“Yeah,” said Gracie.
“Maybe he thinks she’s off tonight,” Mary suggested.
Gracie brightened. “You got somethin,” she said, “except he knew she was off Thursdays, and this is Tuesday.”
“Yes, but maybe he forgot.”
“Tell him outright,” said Clara, “tell him outright and see what he says.”
“Yes, maybe I’ll do that.”
Gracie got the bread and butter, some salad, and a fruit cup. She set the food down on his table, and he lowered his newspaper.
“Sir,” she said.
He looked up, almost frightened.
“Being you’re a steady customer,” she said, “I thought you might be interested to know that Eileen, the girl who usually serves here—well, she’s—she passed away this morning in the hospital from a gallbladder operation.”
Gracie wasn’t able to control herself. Her mouth was distorted and the tears began to roll down her cheeks. The girls knew that she had told him.
He didn’t know what to say. He swallowed and was embarrassed, and he looked around nervously at the other tables.
“I—I see,” he said, his voice curiously uncontrolled. “I’m sorry.” His eyes dropped to the paper. Gracie blinked the tears out of her eyes and pressed her lips tightly together. She walked quickly away.
“The hell with him,” she said to Clara in the kitchen. “The hell with him. I only hope he croaks.”
“He deserves it,” Clara said.
Gracie called Rose over. She tore out his check from her order book. “Here,” she said, “serve him. I can’t stand his guts.”
“Did you tell him?” asked Rose.
“I told him all right, but nothing to what I’d like to tell him.”
“They’re all alike,” said Clara.
The word went around to the other girls, and they looked at him scornfully as they walked past his table with their loaded trays. Rose served him mechanically. She removed his fruit dish and shoved down the soup. He seemed not to notice. His eyes were on his paper.
The girls were angry and talked about him in the kitchen.
“You’d think he’d show a little loyalty,” said Mary.
“Didn’t he ask more about it?”
“No, he just said, ’I see. I’m sorry’—cold like, and he didn’t say another word.”
“I’d like to ram this chopped steak down his throat,” Rose said vehemently.
“Me too,” said Clara.
They went out again, but they could not control their glances. Before long, the customers were staring in the direction of the man. From the scornful faces of the waitresses they knew that something was wrong.
Once, he glanced up and he saw the people looking at him. His eyes fell quickly, and his hand trembled as he cut his meat. Then suddenly he wiped his lips and laid his napkin on the table. He picked up his check and took his hat and coat from the hook on the wall. His face was very white. He quickly paid his check and left.
The girls were stunned. They stood frozen, their serving suspended. When the door closed behind him, they gathered together some soiled dishes and hurried into the kitchen.
“Did you see that?” asked Clara. “He left right in the middle of the meal.”
“He must’ve felt sick about Eileen,” said Mary.
“Maybe he saw how we felt about him,” Gracie said.
“No, I don’t think so. I think Mary’s right,” Clara said. “Some guys are like that. They don’t talk much, but inside they eat their heart out.”
“I don’t know,” said Gracie.
“For godsakes, girls,” called Mr. Mollendorf, “I’m running a restaurant here, not a meeting hall. Go back to your tables.”
The group broke up. They filed out into the restaurant through the swinging doors.