It was a homily about his long-dead dear father, when they were all children living in a rutted village of small huts, a gaunt family of ten—nine boys and an undersized girl. Oh, they were marvelously poor: on occasion he had chewed bark and even grass, bloating his belly, and often the boys bit one another, including the sister, upon the arms and neck in rage at their hunger.
“So my poor father, who had a long beard down to here”—he stooped, reaching his hand to his knee and at once tears sprang up in Josip’s eyes—“my father said, ‘Children, we are poor people and strangers wherever we go, let us at least live in peace, or if not—’”
But the clothier was not able to finish because the presser, plumped on the backless chair, where he read his letters, swaying a little had begun to whimper and then bawl, and the tailor, who was making odd clicking noises in his throat, had to turn away.
“Promise,” Marcus begged, “that you won’t fight any more.”
Josip wept his promise, and Emilio, with wet eyes, gravely nodded.
This, the clothier exulted, was fellowship, and with a blessing on both their heads, departed, but even before he was altogether gone, the air behind him was greased with their fury.
Twenty-four hours later he fenced them in. A carpenter came and built a thick partition, halving the presser’s and tailor’s work space, and for once there was astonished quiet between them. They were, in fact, absolutely silent for a full week. Marcus, had he had the energy, would have jumped in joy and kicked his heels together. He noticed, of course, that the presser occasionally stopped pressing and came befuddled to the new door to see if the tailor was still there, and though the tailor did the same, it went no further than that. Thereafter Emilio Vizo no longer whispered to himself and Josip Bruzak touched no beer; and when the emaciated letters arrived from the other side, he took them home to read by the dirty window of his dark room; when night came, though there was electricity, he preferred to read by candlelight.
One Monday morning he opened his table drawer to get at his garlic salami and found it had been roughly broken in two. With his pointed knife raised, he rushed at the tailor, who, at that very moment, because someone had battered his black hat, was coming at him with his burning iron. He caught the presser along the calf of the arm and opened a smelly purple wound, just as Josip stuck him in the groin, and the knife hung there for a minute.
Roaring, wailing, the clothier ran in, and, despite their wounds, sent them packing. When he had left, they locked themselves together and choked necks.
Marcus rushed in again, shouting, “No, no, please, please,” flailing his withered arms, nauseated, enervated (all he could hear in the uproar was the thundering clock), and his heart, like a fragile pitcher, toppled from the shelf and bump bumped down the stairs, cracking at the bottom, the shards flying everywhere.
Although the old Jew’s eyes were glazed as he crumpled, the assassins could plainly read in them, What did I tell you? You see?
A CHOICE OF PROFESSION
Cronin, after discovering that his wife, Marge, had been two-timing him with a friend, suffered months of crisis. He had loved Marge and jealousy lingered unbearably. He lived through an anguish of degrading emotions, and a few months after his divorce, left a well-paying job in Chicago to take up teaching. He had always wanted to teach. Cronin taught composition and survey of literature in a small college town in Northern California, and after an initially exhilarating period, began to find it a bore. This caused him worry because he hoped to be at peace in the profession. He wasn’t sure whether it was true boredom or simply not knowing whether he wanted to teach the rest of his life. He was bored mostly outside the classroom—the endless grading of papers and bookkeeping chores; and for a man of his type, Cronin felt, he had too much to read. He also felt he had been asking from teaching more than he was entitled to. He had always thought of teaching as something religious and perhaps still did. It had to do with giving oneself to others, a way of being he hadn’t achieved in his marriage. Cronin, a tall, bulky-shouldered man with sensitive eyes, and a full brown mustache, smoked too much. His trousers were usually smeared with cigarette ashes he brushed off his thighs; and lately, after a period of forbearance, he had begun to drink. Apart from students there were few women around who weren’t married, and he was alone too often. Though at the beginning he was invited to faculty parties, he wanted nothing to do with the wives of his colleagues.
The fall wore away. Cronin remained aimlessly in town during the winter vacation. In the spring term a new student, an older girl, appeared in his literature class. Unlike most of the other girls, she wore bright attractive dresses and high heels. She wore her light hair in a bun from which strands slipped but she was otherwise feminine and neat, a mature woman, he realized. Although she wasn’t really pretty, her face was open and attractive. Cronin wondered at her experienced eyes and deep-breasted figure. She had slender shoulders and fairly heavy but shapely legs. He thought at first she might be a faculty wife but she was without their combination of articulateness and timidity; he didn’t think she was married. He also liked the way she listened to him in class. Many of the students, when he lectured or read poetry, looked sleepy, stupefied, or exalted, but she listened down to bedrock, as if she were expecting a message or had got it. Cronin noticed that the others in the class might listen to the poetry but she also listened to Cronin. Her name, not very charming, was Mary Lou Miller. He could tell she regarded him as a man, and after so long a dry, almost perilous season, he responded to her as a woman. Though Cronin wasn’t planning to become involved with a student, he had at times considered taking up with one but resisted it on principle. He wanted to be protected in love by certain rules, but loving a student meant no rules to begin with.
He continued to be interested in her and she occasionally would wait at his desk after class and walk with him in the direction of his office. He often thought she had something personal to say to him, but when she spoke it was usually to say that one or another poem had moved her; her taste, he thought, was a little too inclusive. Mary Lou rarely recited in class. He found her a bit boring when they talked for more than five minutes, but that secretly pleased him because the attraction to her was quite strong and this was a form of insurance. One morning, during a free hour, he went to the registrar’s office on some pretext or other, and looked up her records. Cronin was surprised to discover she was twenty-four and only a first-year student. He, though he sometimes felt forty, was twenty-nine. Because they were so close in age, as well as for other reasons, he decided to ask her out. That same afternoon Mary Lou knocked on his office door and came in to see him about a quiz he had just returned. She had got a low C and it worried her. Cronin lit her cigarette and noticed that she watched him intently, his eyes, mustache, hands, as he explained what she might have written on her paper. They were sitting within a foot of one another, and when she raised both arms to fix her bun, the imprint of her large nipples on her dress caught his attention. It was during this talk in the office that he suggested they go for a drive one evening at the end of the week. Mary Lou agreed, saying maybe they could stop off somewhere for a drink, and Cronin, momentarily hesitating, said he thought they might. All the while they had been talking she was looking at him from some inner place in herself, and he had the feeling he had been appraising her superficially.
On the ride that night Mary Lou sat close to Cronin. She had at first sat at the door but soon her warm side was pressed to his though he had not seen her move. They had started at sunset and for an hour the sky was light. The Northern California winter, though colder than he had anticipated, was mild compared to a winter in Chicago, but Cronin was glad to be in touch with spring. He liked the lengthening days, and tonight it was a relief to be with a woman once more. The car passed through a number of neon-lit mountain towns neither of them had been in before, and Cronin noticed that every motel flashed vacancy signs. Part of his good mood was an awareness of the approach of a new season, and par
t, that he had thought it over and decided there was nothing to worry about. She was a woman, no eighteen year old kid he would be taking advantage of. Nor was he married and about to commit adultery. He felt a sincere interest in her.
It was a pleasant evening drive in early March and on their way back they stopped off at a bar in Red Bluff, about forty miles from the college, where it was unlikely anyone they knew would see them. The waiter brought drinks and when Mary Lou had finished hers she excused herself, went to the ladies’ room, and upon returning, asked for another on the rocks. She had on a bright blue dress, rather short, and wore no stockings. During the week she used no lip rouge or nail polish; tonight she had both on and Cronin thought he liked her better without them. She smiled at him, her face, after she had had two, flushed. In repose her smile settled into the tail end of bitterness, an expression touched with cynicism, and he wondered about her. They had talked about themselves on the ride, she less than he, Cronin reticently. She had been brought up on a farm in Idaho. He had spent most of his life in Evanston, Illinois, where his grandfather, an evangelical minister, had lived and preached. Cronin’s father had died when Cronin was fourteen. Mary Lou told him she had once been married and was now divorced. He had guessed something of the sort and at that point admitted he had been divorced himself. He could feel his leg touching hers under the table and realized it was her doing. Cronin, pretty much contented, had had one drink to her two, and he was nursing his first when she asked for a third. She had become quiet but when their eyes met she smiled again.
“Do you mind if I call you Mary Louise?” Cronin asked her.
“You can if you want to,” she said, “but my real name is Mary Lou. That’s on my birth certificate.”
He asked her how long she had been married before her divorce.
“Oh, just about three years. One that I didn’t live with him. How about yourself?”
“Two,” said Cronin.
She drank from her glass. He liked the fact that she was satisfied with a few biographical details. A fuller exchange of information could come later.
He lit a cigarette, only his second since they had come in, whereas she squashed one butt to light another. He wondered why she was nervous.
“Happy?” Cronin asked.
“I’m okay, thanks.” She crushed a newly lit cigarette, thought about it and lit another.
She seemed about to say something, paused, and said, “How long have you been teaching, if you don’t mind me asking you?”
Cronin wondered what was on her mind. “Not so long,” he answered. “This is only my first year.”
“You sure put a lot in it.”
He could feel the calf of her leg pressed warmly against his; yet she was momentarily inattentive, vaguely looking around at the people in the bar.
“How about you?” he asked.
“In what ways?”
“How is it you started college so comparatively late?”
She finished her drink. “I never wanted to go when I graduated high school. Instead I worked a couple of years, then I joined the Wacs.” She fell silent.
He asked if she wanted him to order another drink.
“Not right away.” Mary Lou’s eyes focused on his face. “First I want to tell you something about myself. Do you want to hear it?”
“Yes, if you want to tell me.”
“It’s about my life,” Mary Lou said. “When I was in the Wacs I met this guy, Ray A. Miller, a T-5 from Providence, Rhode Island, and we got hitched in secret in Las Vegas. He was a first-class prick.”
Cronin gazed at her, wondering if she had had one too many. He considered suggesting they leave now but Mary Lou, sitting there solidly, smoking the last cigarette in her pack, told Cronin what she had started out to.
“I call him that word because that’s what he was. He married me just to live easy off me. He talked me into doing what he wanted, and I was too goddamn stupid to say no, because at that time I loved him. After we left the service-he set me up in this flea-bitten three-room apartment in San Francisco, where I was a call girl. He took the dough and I got the shit.”
“Call girl?” Cronin almost groaned.
“A whore, if you want me to say it.”
Cronin was overwhelmed. He felt a momentary constricting fright and a strange uneasy jealousy, followed by a sense of disappointment and unexpected loss.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Her leg was tense against his but he let his stay though it seemed to him it trembled. His cigarette ash broke, and while brushing it off his thigh, Cronin managed to withdraw his leg from hers. Her face was impassive.
Mary Lou slowly fixed her bun, removing a large number of hairpins and placing them thickly back again.
“I suppose you have a bad opinion of me now?” she said to Cronin, after she had fixed her hair.
He said he had no opinion at all, though he knew he had. “I’m just sorry it happened.”
She looked at him intently. “One thing I want you to know is I don’t have that kind of a life any more. I’m not interested in it. I’m interested in taking it as it comes or goes but not for money any more. That won’t happen to me again.”
Cronin said he was surprised it ever had.
“It was just a job I had to do,” Mary Lou explained. “That’s how I thought about it. I kept on it because I was afraid Ray would walk out on me. He always knew what he wanted but I didn’t. He was a strong type and I wasn’t.”
“Did he walk out?”
She nodded. “We were having fights about what to do with the dough. He said he was going to start some kind of a business but he never did.”
“That’s when you quit?”
She lowered her eyes. “Not all at once. I stayed for a while to get some money to go to college with. I didn’t stay long and I haven’t got enough, so I have to work in the cafeteria.”
“When did you finally quit?”
“In three months, when I got arrested.”
He asked about that.
“My apartment was raided by two San Francisco bulls. But it was my first offense so the judge paroled me. I’m paroled now and for one more year.”
“I guess you’ve been through the mill,” Cronin said, toying with his glass.
“I sure have,” said Mary Lou, “but I’m not the same person I once was. I learned a lot.”
“Would you care for a last drink before we leave?” he asked. “It’s getting late. We’ve got an hour’s drive.”
“No, but thanks anyway.”
“I’ll just have a last drink.”
The waiter brought Cronin a scotch.
“Tell me why you told me this,” he asked Mary Lou after he had drunk from his glass.
“I don’t know for sure,” she said. “Some of it is because I like you. I like the way you teach in your class. That’s why I got the idea of telling you.”
“But why, specifically?”
“Because everything’s different now.”
“The past doesn’t bother you?”
“Not much. I wanted to tell you before this but ] couldn’t do it in your office without a drink to start me off.”
“Do you want me to do anything for you?” Cronin asked her.
“For instance, what?” said Mary Lou.
“If you want to talk to anybody about yourself I could get you the name of a psychiatrist.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I don’t need one. The guy I talk to about myself will have to do it for nothing, for kicks.”
She asked Cronin for one of his cigarettes and smoked while he finished his drink.
As they were getting ready to leave, Mary Lou said, “The way I figure, it wasn’t all my fault but it’s dead and gone now. I got the right to think of the future.”
“You have,” said Cronin.
On the ride home he felt more objective and not unsympathetic to the girl, yet he was still disappointed, and from time to time, irritated with himself.
“Anyway,” Cronin
told her, “you can work for a better way of life now.”
“That’s why I want an education for,” Mary Lou said.
2.
It took Cronin a surprisingly long time to get over having been let down by Mary Lou. He had built her up in his mind as a woman he might want to spend some time with, and the surprise of her revelation, and his disillusionment, lingered so long he felt unsettled. “What’s this, Marge all over again?” He didn’t want any more of that, and not from this girl. He saw her in class, as usual, three times a week. She seemed to listen with the same interest, maybe less interested, but she didn’t approach him and no longer waited at his desk to walk with him to his office. Cronin understood that to mean he was to make the next move now that he knew, but he didn’t make it. What could he say to her—that he wished he didn’t know? Or now that he knew, sometimes when he glanced at her in class he pictured her being paid off by the last guy she had slept with. She was in his thoughts much of the time. He wondered what would have happened that night they were out if she hadn’t made that confession. Could he have guessed from the way she performed in bed that she had been a professional? He continued to think of having her and sometimes the thought was so wearing he avoided looking at her in class. He found his desire hard to bear but after a month it wore down. She seemed not very interesting to him then, and he was often aware how hard her expression was. He felt sorry for her and occasionally smiled, and once in a while she seemed cynically to smile back.
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