The house agent came back down the hall rubbing his hands. “Well, well, well … Ah I see that we’ve come to a favorable decision. … You are very wise too, not a finer location in the city of New York and in a few months you wont be able to get anything out this way for love or money. …”
“Yes we’ll take it from the first of the month.”
“Very good. … You wont regret your decision, Mr. Olafson.”
“I’ll send you a check for the amount in the morning.”
“At your own convenience. … And what is your present address please. …” The houseagent took out a notebook and moistened a stub of pencil with his tongue.
“You had better put Hotel Astor.” She stepped in front of her husband.
“Our things are stored just at the moment.”
Mr. Olafson turned red.
“And … er … we’d like the names of two references please in the city of New York.”
“I’m with Keating and Bradley, Sanitary Engineers, 43 Park Avenue …”
“He’s just been made assistant general manager,” added Mrs. Olafson.
When they got out on the Drive walking downtown against a tussling wind she cried out: “Darling I’m so happy. … It’s really going to be worth living now.”
“But why did you tell him we lived at the Astor?”
“I couldnt tell him we lived in the Bronx could I? He’d have thought we were Jews and wouldnt have rented us the apartment.”
“But you know I dont like that sort of thing.”
“Well we’ll just move down to the Astor for the rest of the week, if you’re feeling so truthful. … I’ve never in my life stopped in a big downtown hotel.”
“Oh Bertha it’s the principle of the thing. … I don’t like you to be like that.”
She turned and looked at him with twitching nostrils. “You’re so nambypamby, Billy. … I wish to heavens I’d married a man for a husband.”
He took her by the arm. “Let’s go up here,” he said gruffly with his face turned away.
They walked up a cross street between buildinglots. At a corner the rickety half of a weatherboarded farmhouse was still standing. There was half a room with blueflowered paper eaten by brown stains on the walls, a smoked fireplace, a shattered builtin cupboard, and an iron bedstead bent double.
Plates slip endlessly through Bud’s greasy fingers. Smell of swill and hot soapsuds. Twice round with the little mop, dip, rinse and pile in the rack for the longnosed Jewish boy to wipe. Knees wet from spillings, grease creeping up his forearms, elbows cramped.
“Hell this aint no job for a white man.”
“I dont care so long as I eat,” said the Jewish boy above the rattle of dishes and the clatter and seething of the range where three sweating cooks fried eggs and ham and hamburger steak and browned potatoes and cornedbeef hash.
“Sure I et all right,” said Bud and ran his tongue round his teeth dislodging a sliver of salt meat that he mashed against his palate with his tongue. Twice round with the little mop, dip, rinse and pile in the rack for the longnosed Jewish boy to wipe. There was a lull. The Jewish boy handed Bud a cigarette. They stood leaning against the sink.
“Aint no way to make money dishwashing.” The cigarette wabbled on the Jewish boy’s heavy lip as he spoke.
“Aint no job for a white man nohow,” said Bud. “Waitin’s better, they’s the tips.”
A man in a brown derby came in through the swinging door from the lunchroom. He was a bigjawed man with pigeyes and a long cigar sticking straight out of the middle of his mouth. Bud caught his eye and felt the cold glint twisting his bowels.
“Whosat?” he whispered.
“Dunno. … Customer I guess.”
“Dont he look to you like one o them detectives?”
“How de hell should I know? I aint never been in jail.” The Jewish boy turned red and stuck out his jaw.
The busboy set down a new pile of dirty dishes. Twice round with the little mop, dip, rinse and pile in the rack. When the man in the brown derby passed back through the kitchen, Bud kept his eyes on his red greasy hands. What the hell even if he is a detective. … When Bud had finished the batch, he strolled to the door wiping his hands, took his coat and hat from the hook and slipped out the side door past the garbage cans out into the street. Fool to jump two hours pay. In an optician’s window the clock was at twentyfive past two. He walked down Broadway, past Lincoln Square, across Columbus Circle, further downtown towards the center of things where it’d be more crowded.
She lay with her knees doubled up to her chin, the nightgown pulled tight under her toes.
“Now straighten out and go to sleep dear. … Promise mother you’ll go to sleep.”
“Wont daddy come and kiss me good night?”
“He will when he comes in; he’s gone back down to the office and mother’s going to Mrs. Spingarn’s to play euchre.”
“When’ll daddy be home?”
“Ellie I said go to sleep. … I’ll leave the light.”
“Dont mummy, it makes shadows. … When’ll daddy be home?”
“When he gets good and ready.” She was turning down the gaslight. Shadows out of the corners joined wings and rushed together. “Good night Ellen.” The streak of light of the door narrowed behind mummy, slowly narrowed to a thread up and along the top. The knob clicked; the steps went away down the hall; the front door slammed. A clock ticked somewhere in the silent room; outside the apartment, outside the house, wheels and gallumping of hoofs, trailing voices; the roar grew. It was black except for the two strings of light that made an upside down L in the corner of the door.
Ellie wanted to stretch out her feet but she was afraid to. She didnt dare take her eyes from the upside down L in the corner of the door. If she closed her eyes the light would go out. Behind the bed, out
