At last he settled them in a booth by the window. Lucile had a special and there was a breast of chicken cut up fine, cream of wheat, and carrots for Baby. She played with her food and spilled milk on her little frock. He sat with them until the rush started. Then he had to be on his feet to keep things going smoothly.
People eating. The wide-open mouths with the food pushed in.
What was it? The line he had read not long ago. Life was only a matter of intake and alimentation and reproduction. The place was crowded. There was a swing band on the radio.
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 deaf mute moron whom Singer used to walk with sometimes on the way to work. The sloppy Greek who made candy for Charles Parker. 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, unreckoned 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.’
‘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: 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 crepe 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.