he was the oldest. He saw her standing in the doorway. It was a white darkness. Deep shadows crept fast across the milky snow. The street lamps burned coldly, a cold glow in a colder haze. An automobile passed, its tire chains clanging dismally.
‘Arturo!’
He knew what she wanted. In disgust he clinched his teeth. He knew she wanted him to go to the store. She was a yellow-belly, just plain yellow, passing the buck to him, afraid of Craik. Her voice had that peculiar tremor that came with grocery-store time. He tried to get out of it by pretending that he hadn’t heard, but she kept calling until he was ready to scream and the rest of the kids, hypnotized by that tremor in her voice, stopped throwing snowballs and looked at him, as though begging him to do something.
He tossed one more snowball, watched it splatter, and then trudged through the snow and across the icy pavement. Now he could see her plainly. Her jaws quivered from the twilight cold. She stood with arms squeezing her thin body, tapping her toes to keep them warm.
‘Whaddya want?’ he said.
‘It’s cold,’ she said. ‘Come inside, and I’ll tell you.’
‘What is it, Ma? I’m in a hurry.’
‘I want you to go to the store.’
‘The store? No! I know why you want me to go – because you’re afraid on account of the bill. Well, I ain’t going. Never.’
‘Please go,’ she said. ‘You’re big enough to understand. You know how Mr Craik is.’
Of course he knew. He hated Craik, that skunk, always asking him if his father was drunk or sober, and what did his father do with his money, and how do you wops live without a cent, and how does it happen that your old man never stays home at night, what’s he got – a woman on the side, eating up his money? He knew Mr Craik and he hated him.
‘Why can’t August go?’ he said. ‘Heck sakes, I do all the work around here. Who gets the coal and wood? I do. Every time. Make August go.’
‘But August won’t go. He’s afraid.’
‘Blah. The coward. What’s there to be afraid of? Well, I’m not going.’
He turned and tramped back to the boys. The snowball fight was resumed. On the opposition side was Bobby Craik, the grocer’s son. I’ll get you, you dog. On the porch Maria called again. Arturo did not answer. He shouted so that her voice might be drowned out. Now it was darkness, and Mr Craik’s windows bloomed in the night. Arturo kicked a stone from the frozen earth and shaped it within a snowball. The Craik boy was fifty feet away, behind a tree. He threw with a frenzy that strained his whole body, but it missed – sailing a foot out of line.
Mr Craik was whacking a bone with his cleaver on the chopping block when Maria entered. As the door squealed he looked up and saw her – a small insignificant figure in an old black coat with a high fur collar, most of the fur shed so that white hide spots appeared in the dark mass. A weary brown hat covered her forehead – the face of a very old little child hiding beneath it. The faded gloss from her rayon stockings made them a yellowish tan, accentuating the small bones and white skin beneath them, and making her old shoes seem even more damp and ancient. She walked like a child, fearfully, on tiptoe, awed, to that familiar place from which she invariably made her purchases, farthest away from Mr Craik’s chopping block, where the counter met the wall.
In the earlier years she used to greet him. But now she felt that perhaps he would not relish such familiarity, and she stood quietly in her corner, waiting until he was ready to wait on her.
Seeing who it was, he paid no attention, and she tried to be an interested and smiling spectator as he swung his cleaver. He was of middle height, partially bald, wearing celluloid glasses – a man of forty-five. A thick pencil rested behind one ear, and a cigarette behind the other. His white apron hung to his shoe tops, a blue butcher string wound many times around his waist. He was hacking a bone inside a red and juicy rump.
She said: ‘It looks good, doesn’t it?’
He flipped the steak over and over, swished a square of paper from the roll, spread it over the scales, and tossed the steak upon it. His quick, soft fingers wrapped it expertly. She estimated that it was close to two dollars’ worth, and she wondered who had purchased it – possibly one of Mr Craik’s rich American women customers up on University Hill.
Mr Craik heaved the rest of the rump upon his shoulder and disappeared inside the icebox, closing the door behind him. It seemed he stayed a long time in that icebox. Then he emerged, acted surprised to see her, cleared his throat, clicked the icebox door shut, padlocked it for the night, and disappeared into the back room.
She supposed he was going to the washroom to wash his hands, and that made her wonder if she was out of Gold Dust Cleanser, and then, all at once, everything she needed for the house crashed through her memory, and a weakness like fainting overcame her as quantities of soap, margarine, meat, potatoes, and so many other things seemed to bury her in an avalanche.
Craik reappeared with a broom and began to sweep the sawdust around the chopping block. She lifted her eyes to the clock: ten minutes to six. Poor Mr Craik! He looked tired. He was like all men, probably starved for a hot meal.
Mr Craik finished his sweeping and paused to light a cigarette. Svevo smoked only cigars, but almost all American men smoked cigarettes. Mr Craik looked at her, exhaled, and went on sweeping.
She said, ‘It is cold weather we’re having.’
But he coughed, and she supposed he hadn’t heard, for he disappeared into the back room and returned with a dust pan and a paper box. Sighing as he bent down, he swept the sawdust into the pan and poured it into the paper box.
‘I don’t like this cold weather,’ she said. ‘We are waiting for spring, especially Svevo.’
He coughed again, and before she knew it he was carrying the box back to the rear of the store. She heard the splash of running water. He returned, drying his hands on his apron, that nice white apron. At the cash register, very loudly, he rang up NO SALE. She changed her position, moving her weight from one foot to the other. The big clock ticked away. One of those electric clocks with the strange ticks. Now it was exactly six o’clock.
Mr Craik scooped the coins from the cash box and spread them on the counter. He tore a slip of paper from the roll and reached for his pencil. Then he leaned over and counted the day’s receipts. Was it possible that he was not aware of her presence in the store? Surely he had seen her come in and stand there! He wet the pencil on the tip of his pink tongue and began adding up the figures. She raised her eyebrows and strolled to the front window to look at the fruits and vegetables. Oranges sixty cents a dozen. Asparagus fifteen cents a pound. Oh my, oh my. Apples two pounds for a quarter.
‘Strawberries!’ she said. ‘And in winter, too! Are they California strawberries, Mr Craik?’
He swept the coins into a bank sack and went to the safe, where he squatted and fingered the combination lock. The big clock ticked. It was ten minutes after six when he closed the safe. Immediately he disappeared into the rear of the store again.
Now she no longer faced him. Shamed, exhausted, her feet had tired, and with hands clasped in her lap she sat on an empty box and stared at the frosted front windows. Mr Craik took off his apron and threw it over the chopping block. He lifted the cigarette from his lips, dropped it to the floor and crushed it deliberately. Then
