The Complete Stories Page 6

  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

  Steady Customer

  The 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.

  “I’m convinced,” Clara said to Gracie, “I’m convinced he really and truly loved her.”

  1943

  The Literary Life of Laban Goldman

  Coming upstairs, Laban Goldman was rehearsing arguments against taking his wife to the movies so that he could attend his regular classes in night school, when he met Mrs. Campbell, his neighbor, who lived in the apartment next door.

  “Look, Mrs. Campbell,” said Laban, holding up a newspaper. “Again! This time in The Brooklyn Eagle.”

  “Another letter?” Mrs. Campbell said. “How do you do it?”

  “They like the way I express myself on the subject of divorce.” He pointed to his letter in the newspaper.

  “I’ll read it over later,” Mrs. Campbell said. “Joe brings home the Eagle. He cuts out your letters. You know, he showed everyone the one about tolerance. Everyone thought the sentiments were very excellent.”

  “You mean my New York Times letter?” Laban beamed.

  “Yes, it had excellent sentiments,” said Mrs. Campbell, continuing downstairs. “Maybe someday you ought to write a book.”

  A tremor of bittersweet joy shook Laban Goldman. “With all my heart, I concur with your hope,” he called down after her.

  “Nobody can tell,” Mrs. Campbell said.

  Laban opened the door of his apartment and stepped into the hallway. The meeting with Mrs. Campbell had given him confidence. He felt that his arguments would take on added eloquence. As he was hanging up his hat and coat on the clothes tree in the hall, he heard his wife talking on the telephone.

  “Laban?” she called.

  “Yes.” He tried to make it sound cold.

  Emma came into the hallway. She was a small woman, heavily built.

  “Sylvia is calling,” she said.

  He held up the paper. “The editor printed a letter,” he said quickly. “It means I will have to go to school tonight.”

  Emma clutched her hands and pressed them to her bosom. “Laban,” she cried, “you promised me.”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “No, tonight!”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Laban!” she screamed.


  He held his ground. “Don’t make an issue,” he said. “Tomorrow is the same picture.”

  Emma bounded over to the telephone. “Sylvia,” she cried, “you see, now he doesn’t go.”

  Laban tried to duck into his room, but she was too quick for him.

  “Telephone,” she announced coldly. Wearily he walked over to the phone.

  “Poppa,” said Sylvia, “why have you broken your promise that you gave to Momma?”

  “Listen, Sylvia, for a minute, without talking. I didn’t break my promise. All I want to do is to delay or postpone it till tomorrow, and she jumps to conclusions.”

  “You promised me today,” cried Emma, who was standing there, listening.

  “Please,” he said, “have the common decency to refrain from talking when I’m talking to someone else.”

  “You are talking to my daughter,” she declared with dignity.

  “I am well aware and conscious that your daughter is your daughter.”

  “All the time big words,” she taunted.

  “Poppa, don’t fight,” said Sylvia over the telephone. “You promised you would take Momma to the movies tonight.”

  “It just so happens that my presence is required in school tonight. The Brooklyn Eagle printed a vital letter I wrote, and Mr. Taub, my English teacher, likes to discuss them in class.”

  “Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”

  “The issue is alive and pertinent today. Tomorrow, today’s paper will be yesterday’s.”

  “What is the letter about?”

  “It’s a sociological subject of import. You will read it.”

  “Poppa, this can’t go on,” said Sylvia sharply. “I have two young children to take care of. I can’t keep tearing myself away from my family every other night to take Momma to the movies. It’s your duty to take her out.”

  “I have no alternative.”

  “What do you mean, Poppa?”

  “My education comes first.”