LITMIR.BIZ

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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 he went to the back room again, returning with his coat. As he straightened his collar, he spoke to her for the first time.

      ‘Come on, Mrs Bandini. My God, I can’t hang around here all night long.’

      At the sound of his voice she lost her balance. She smiled to conceal her embarrassment, but her face was purplish and her eyes lowered. Her hands fluttered at her throat.

      ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘I was – waiting for you!’

      ‘What’ll it be, Mrs Bandini – shoulder steak?’

      She stood in the corner and pursed her lips. Her heart beat so fast she could think of nothing at all to say now.

      She said: ‘I think I want –’

      ‘Hurry up, Mrs Bandini. My God, you been here about a half hour now, and you ain’t made up your mind yet.’

      ‘I thought –’

      ‘Do you want shoulder steak?’

      ‘How much is shoulder steak, Mr Craik?’

      ‘Same price. My God, Mrs Bandini. You been buying it for years. Same price. Same price all the time.’

      ‘I’ll take fifty cents’ worth.’

      ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ he said. ‘Here I went and put all that meat in the icebox.’

      ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Craik.’

      ‘I’ll get it this time. But after this, Mrs Bandini, if you want my business, come early. My God, I got to get home sometime tonight.’

      He brought out a cut of shoulder and stood sharpening his knife.

      ‘Say,’ he said. ‘What’s Svevo doing these days?’

      In the fifteen-odd years that Bandini and Mr Craik knew one another, the grocer always referred to him by his first name. Maria always felt that Craik was afraid of her husband. It was a belief that secretly made her very proud. Now they talked of Bandini, and she told him again the monotonous tale of a bricklayer’s misfortunes in the Colorado winters.

      ‘I seen Svevo last night,’ Craik said. ‘Seen him up around Effie Hildegarde’s house. Know her?’

      No – she didn’t

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