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a centerpiece for the table. Don’t you think it’s pretty?”

      “For ten bucks it should be.”

      “The babies’ breath is starting to die,” she said drowsily, fussing around in the basket.

      “You want some tea?” he asked.

      “Didn’t you make coffee?”

      “No. I’m going back to bed.”

      He poured her a cup of tea. She came to life as she drank it. “What did you do last night?” she asked.

      “Went to the movies with Eva. I was thinking about asking her over this evening. That would be all right, wouldn’t it?”

      “Of course.” She paused, then said, “Jimmy?”

      She wanted something; it was in her voice. “What?”

      “You know that piece you used to play on the piano?”

      “‘Danny Boy’?”

      “Yes. That one. Would you teach me it?”

      “Teach you ‘Danny Boy’?”

      “Yes.”

      “Are you kidding?”

      “Not the whole thing. Just a few notes.”

      She got up and went to the piano in the living room. “Come on,” she called.

      “It’s only a quarter after seven.”

      “Just a few notes.”

      “No. Daddy’s sleeping.”

      “Just a few notes. You don’t have to play it loud. Hold the pedal down.”

      She pestered him until finally he got up and went in to the piano.

      “Play the right hand,” she said. He played the first dozen notes with one finger. She had her mouth pursed in absorption.

      “Again.”

      Then she tried the first few notes.

      “It’s Ralph’s favorite song.”

      “You can’t learn how to play the piano in five minutes.”

      “Just show me those first couple of notes again.”

      Jim played it again.

      The father roared from the bedroom. “What in hell is going on down there?”

      Florence flipped the wooden cover over the keys.

      “It’s nothing, Daddy. I was just trying something. Go back to sleep.”

      “Go to bed,” he roared.

      “Okay. I am.”

      The two of them went back to the kitchen. “What a stupid idea,” said Jim. Today of all days he didn’t want to aggravate the father.

      They could hear him coming down the stairs. “Oh hell,” said Florence. “He’s up now.” She went to the living room to meet him.

      “You don’t have to get up Daddy. It’s only twenty after seven.”

      “I don’t know how a person is supposed to sleep when you’re thumping the piano down here. Are you gone cracked?”

      “I was just practicing something,” she explained, following him into the kitchen. He had on the pants of one of his good blue suits and a pajama top. His gray-black hair was tousled.

      “It’s a hell of an hour to be practicing something.”

      He saw Jim. “Are you up too?” He went to the stove. “Is there no coffee made?”

      “No,” said Jim.

      “What are you drinking?”

      “Tea.”

      “You couldn’t make a pot of coffee?”

      Jim got up from the chair. “I’ll make it now.”

      “I’ll make it myself,” said the father. “Sit down.” He measured out the coffee and water, and put the pot on to boil. Then he sat at the table with the two children. “There’s neither one of you can make coffee as good as your father, anyway.”

      “What time will you be back from Fordham today?” Florence asked him.

      Jim gave her a look: she would have to bring it up.

      “When I can,” said the father. “About three, I suppose.”

      “They’re coming around that time,” said Florence, “so don’t delay.”

      “What would I delay for?”

      “How do you like the centerpiece?”

      Harry looked at the flowers. “It’s all right,” he said. “The whole house looks grand. You did hard work.”

      Florence beamed. “You’re going to like them, Daddy. I know you will.”

      “I don’t know of any reason why not.”

      “We’ll have fun. We can have some people in this evening. Jim is having Eva.”

      There were often times Jim wanted to strangle Florence, and this was another one. If he hired a sound truck and announced his business up and down the avenue, it wouldn’t be half as effective as telling Florence. The father got his hackles up right away at the mention of Eva. “The Polack?”

      “She’s not a Polack, Dad,” said Jim. “Her mother and father are Hungarian-born Americans, and she’s an American-born American.”

      The father made a noise with his mouth. “Were you out with her again last night?”

      “Yes, I was.”

      “Have you intentions of marrying this girl?”

      Jim was startled. “Who? Eva?”

      “If you’re going out with her every week, certainly she has expectations.”

      “We don’t go out every week.”

      “Well it’s damn near to every week if it’s not every week.”

      “It’s not anything serious.”

      “Indeed ’n’ I hope it’s not anything serious. You haven’t your school finished yet. You haven’t a tosser in your pocket. Is there any sense in courting a girl?”

      “What do you mean, courting?” Jim forced a laugh. “We’re just friends.”

      The father made a guttural noise that was the equivalent of “horse shit,” but he didn’t say it.

      “You’re making a big thing out of nothing,” said Jim.

      “I’m just warning you for your own good.”

      Jim stood up to leave. “Is it all right if I have her in this evening? I mean, you won’t take that for a formal engagement, I hope, if she comes this evening?”

      “Have her in if you want,” the father replied. “She’ll be glad enough of something to eat, I suppose.”

      “She doesn’t need anything to eat,” Jim retorted. “They eat better than we do.”

      “Sure.”

      Jim left the kitchen before they could get started on the Hairy Apple again. Was there anywhere a more pig-headed man?

      Jim got to his room and nestled under the covers again. His resting spot was still warm, and it felt good. But he couldn’t sleep; he didn’t have any peace of mind. In a way, he had been looking forward to his act of revolt when he would bring Eva into the house. Now that it was all set, the father had taken all the pleasure out of it with

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