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Then the two he was waiting for came in。 Singer entered the
door first； very straight and swank in his tailored Sunday suit。
Blount followed along just behind his elbow。 There was
something about the way they walked that struck him。 They
sat at their table； and Blount talked and ate with gusto while
Singer watched politely。 When the meal was finished they
stopped by the cash register for a few minutes。 Then as they
went out he noticed again there was something about their
walking together that made him pause and question himself。
What could it be？ The suddenness with which the memory
opened up deep down in his mind was a shock。 The big deafmute moron whom Singer used to walk with sometimes on the
way to work。 The sloppy Greek who made candy for Charles
Parker。198
The Greek always walked ahead and Singer followed。 He had
never noticed them much because they never came into the
place。 But why had he not remembered this？ Of all times he
had wondered about the mute to neglect such an angle。 See
everything in the landscape except the three waltzing
elephants。 But did it matter after all？
Biff narrowed his eyes。 How Singer had been before was not
important。 The thing that mattered was the way Blount and
Mick made of him a sort of home…made God。 Owing to the
fact he was a mute they were able to give him all the qualities
they wanted him to have。 Yes。 But how could such a strange
thing come about？ And why？
A one…armed man came hi and Biff treated him to a whiskey
on the house。 But he did not feel like talking to anyone。
Sunday dinner was a family meal。 Men who drank beer by
themselves on weeknights brought their wives and little kids
with them on Sunday。 The highchair they kept in the back was
often needed。 It was two…thirty and though many tables were
occupied the meal was almost over。 Biff had been on his feet
for the past four hours and was tired。 He used to stand for
fourteen or sixteen hours and not notice any effects at all。 But
now he had aged。 Considerably。 There was no doubt about it。
Or maybe matured was the word。 Not aged—certainly not—
yet。 The waves of sound in the room swelled and subsided
against his ears。 Matured。 His eyes smarted and it was as
though some fever in him made everything too bright and
sharp。
He called to one of the waitresses： 'Take over for me will you；
please？ I'm going out。'
The street was empty because of Sunday。 The sun shone
bright and clear； without warmth。 Biff held the collar of his
coat close to his neck。 Alone in the street he felt out of pocket。
The wind blew cold from the river。 He should turn back and
stay in the restaurant where he belonged。 He had no business
going to the place where he was headed。 For the past four
Sundays he had done this。 He had walked in the neighborhood
where he might see Mick。 And there was something about it
that was—not quite right。 Yes。 Wrong。 He walked slowly
down the sidewalk opposite the house
where she lived。 Last Sunday she had been reading the funny
papers on the front steps。 But this time as he glanced swiftly
toward the house he saw she was not there。 But tilted the brim
of his felt hat down over his eyes。 Perhaps she would come
into the place later。 Often on Sunday after supper she came for
a hot cocoa and stopped for a while at the table where Singer
was sitting。 On Sunday she wore a different outfit from the
blue skirt and sweater she wore on other days。 Her Sunday
dress was wine…colored silk with a dingy lace collar。 Once she
had had on stockings—with runs in them。 Always he wanted
to set her up to something； to give to her。 And not only
a
sundae or some sweet to eat—but something real。 That was all
he wanted for himself—to give to her。 Biff's mouth hardened。
He had done nothing wrong but in him he felt a strange guilt。
Why？ The dark guilt in all men； unreck…oned and without
a
name。
On the way home Biff found a penny lying half concealed by
rubbish in the gutter。 Thriftily he picked it up； cleaned the
coin with his handkerchief； and dropped it into the black
pocket purse； he carried。 It was four o'clock when he reached
the restaurant。 Business was stagnant。 There was not a single
customer in the place。
Business picked up around five。 The boy he had recently hired
to work part time showed up early。 The boy's name was Harry
Minowitz。 He lived in the same neighborhood with Mick and
Baby。 Eleven applicants had answered the ad in the paper； but
Harry seemed to be best bet。 He was well developed for his
age； and neat。 Biff had noticed the boy's teeth while talking to
him during the interview。 Teeth were always a good
indication。 His were large and very clean and white。 Harry
wore glasses； but that would not matter in the work。 His
mother made ten dollars a week sewing for a tailor down the
street； and Harry was an only child。
'Well；' Biff said。 'You've been with me a week； Harry。 Think
you're going to like it？' 'Sure； sir。 Sure I like it。
'
Biff turned the ring on his finger。 'Let's see。 What time do you
get off from school？' 〃Three o'clock； sir。'200
'Well； that gives you a couple of hours for study and
recreation。 Then here from six to ten。 Does that leave you
enough time for plenty of sleep？
'
'Plenty。 I don't need near that much。
'
'You need about nine and a half hours at your age； son。 Pure；
wholesome sleep。
'
He felt suddenly embarrassed。 Maybe Harry would think it
was none of his business。 Which it wasn't anyway。 He started
to turn aside and then thought of something。
。You go to Vocational？'
Harry nodded and rubbed his glasses on his shirtsleeve。
'Let's see。 I know a lot of girls and boys there。 Alva Richards
—I know his father。 And Maggie Henry。 And a
kid named Mick Kelly' He felt as though his ears
had caught afire。 He knew himself to be a fool。 He wanted to
turn and walk away and yet he only stood there； smiling and
mashing his nose with his thumb。 'You know her？' he asked
faintly。
'Sure； I live right next door to her。 But in school I'm a senior
while she's a freshman。'
Biff stored this meager information neatly in his mind to be
thought over later when he was alone。 'Business will be quiet
here for a while；' he said hurriedly。 Til leave it with you。 By
now you know how to handle things。 Just watch any
customers drinking beer and remember how many they've
drunk so you won't have to ask them and depend on what they
say。 Take your time making change and keep track of what
goes on。'
Biff shut himself in his room downstairs。 This was the place
where he kept his files。 The room had only one small window
and looked out on the side alley； and the air was musty and
cold。 Huge stacks of newspapers rose up to the ceiling。 A
home…made filing case covered one wall。 Near the door there
was an old…fashioned rocking…chair and a small table laid with
a pair of shears； a dictionary； and a mandolin。 Because of the
piles of newspaper it was impossible to take more than two
steps in any direction。 Biff rocked himself in the chair and
languidly plucked the strings of the mandolin。 His eyes closed
and he began to sing in a doleful voice：
201
I went to the animal fair。
The birds and the beasts were there；
And the old baboon by the light of the moon
Was combing his auburn hair。
He finished with a chord from the strings and the last sounds
shivered to silence in the cold air。
To adopt a couple of little children。 A boy and a girl。 About
three or four years old so they would always feel like he was
their own father。 Their Dad。 Our Father。 The little girl like
Mick （or Baby？） at that age。 Round cheeks and gray eyes and
flaxen hair。 And the clothes he would make for her—pink
crgpe de Chine frocks with dainty smocking at the yoke and
sleeves。 Silk socks and white buckskin shoes。 And a little red…
velvet coat and cap and muff for winter。 The boy was dark and
black…haired。 The little boy walked behind him and copied the
things he did。 In the summer the three of them would go to a
cottage on the Gulf and he would dress the children in their
sun suits and guide them carefully into the green； shallow
waves。 And then they would bloom as he grew old。 Our
Father。 And they would come to him with questions and he
would answer them。
Why not？
Biff took up his mandolin again。 'Tum…ti…tim…ti…tee； ti…tee； the
wedd…ing of the painted doll' The mandolin mocked the
refrain。 He sang through all the verses and wagged his foot to
the time。 Then he played 'K…K…K…Katie；' and 'Love's Old
Sweet Song。' These pieces were like the Agua Florida in the
way they made him remember。 Everything。 Through the first
year when he was happy and when she seemed happy even
too。 And when the bed came down with them twice in three
months。 And he didn't know that all the time her brain was
busy with how she could save a nickle or squeeze out an extra
dime。 And then him with Rio and the girls at her place。 Gyp
and Madeline and Lou。 And then later when suddenly he lost
it。 When he could lie with a woman no longer。 Mothero…eod！
So that at first it seemed everything was gone。
Lucile always understood