Evan Hunter - Sons

Mr. McInerny was a tolerable old bore who apprised me of the fact that forest products ranked seventh in the United States industry in this year of our Lord 1920, and would no doubt rise even higher on the scale in years to come. There are unlimited opportunities in paper for a young man who’s not afraid of hard work, he said. I assured him that I was not afraid of hard work, and then told him of my not inconsiderable experience in lumbering — the font, so to speak, of the paper industry (Ah, yes, the font indeed, Mr. McInerny said, nodding) — and of my apprenticeship at Ramsey-Warner, all of which seemed to impress him favorably. But at last he got around to the part of the interview I was dreading, “Why did you leave your last place of employment, Mr. Tyler?”

“I was let go,” I said.

“Why were you let go?” Mr. McInerny asked.

I had coped with this question on every interview I’d had during the past three weeks, debating whether I should lie in answer to it, knowing it would take nothing more than a telephone call to ascertain the truth of whatever I said, and finally developing a sort of compromise answer, a lie that wasn’t quite a lie, a truth that wasn’t quite that either.

“There was a personality conflict with another employee,” I said.

Mr. McInerny looked at me very closely. “What kind of personality conflict?” he asked, surprising me. On my last several interviews, the clever answer I’d evolved had not been challenged. I sat now in silence, wondering what to say next. “What kind of personality conflict?” Mr. McInerny asked again in his gentle boring voice.

“A man I worked with was making false accusations about me,” I said, and realized I would now have to define the accusations and do a dissertation besides on innocence defiled, realized in short that I’d already lost the job.

“What kind of accusations?” Mr. McInerny predictably asked.

“Well,” I said, figuring honesty was the best policy, “they thought I was a radical.”

“Who thought so?”

“Mr. Moreland who fired me.”

“Are you a radical?”

“No, sir.”

“How do I know you’re not?”

Throwing caution entirely to the winds, I said, “How do I know you’re not, Mr. McInerny?”

“I‘m not looking for work,” he answered.

We stared at each other in polite silence, Mr. McInerny smiling in his bored and gentle way, I knowing for certain that the smoke had gone all the way up the flue. Mr. McInerny shook hands with me, and promised to let me know his decision by the end of the week, but I knew I had not got the job. My suit, which had begun to dry out a little in his office, got soaked all over again the moment I stepped outside. With my luck, I was sure it would shrink to half its size before I got home. It had cost me thirty-five dollars and ninety-five cents less than a year ago.

It was still raining when I got off the streetcar. A tall slender girl wearing a white raincape was standing on the front stoop of my building, her dark head bent, studying the falling raindrops in the sidewalk puddles. She looked up as I approached, seemingly on the verge of glancing away again immediately, as though she had wrongly greeted too many strangers during her wait and was now ready to reject even the person she expected.

“Hello, Bert,” she said.

“Hello, Rosie,” I said, surprised. “What’re you doing out here in the rain?”

“Nancy asked me to stop by, but she doesn’t seem to be home.”

“Well, come on up,” I said. “No sense getting wet.”

“I would welcome a hot cup of tea,” Rosie said.

“Sure, come on up.”

We climbed the steps to the second floor in silence. There was the aroma of mustiness in the hallway, the steady sound of rain drumming on the roof, the angrier splash of the waterspout in the areaway. From the flat downstairs, I could hear the eldest of the Grzymek children practicing scales on the parlor piano, a dreary accompaniment to the rain. There was no light on our landing, save for the natural illumination from the airshaft window at the top of the stairs. I moved closer to the window, searching through my keys for the one to the front door, and then turned and felt for the keyhole. Rosie stood silently beside me. When I opened the door, she went into the kitchen and walked directly to the stove.

“Damn rain,” she said.

“I’ll bank the fire and put up a kettle.”

“I’d prefer a drink if you’ve got anything.”

“I think so.”

She did not take off her cape. She stood huddled near the stove while I shoveled coal into it, and then she reached into her bag for a package of Sweet Caps, shook one loose, lighted it, and blew out a long stream of smoke, almost as if it were a visible sigh.

“You should get a telephone,” she said. “For situations like this.”

“Can’t afford one. Especially now.”

“How’s it going, Bert?”

“Nothing so far.”

“You’ll find something.”

“Unless everybody already knows I’m a Communist.”

“You shouldn’t say that. Not even in jest.”

“Who’s jesting?” I said.

“Bert,” Rosie said, and then stopped. I turned from the cabinet near the stove, where I was rummaging through the bottles, but she only shook her head and puffed again on the cigarette.

“Looks like all I’ve got is some Rock and Rye a fellow at the mill made.”

“Fine,” she said.

“It’s sort of sweet.”

“I only need it to take off the chill.”

“Wait, here’s some scotch.”

The bottle was almost empty, the last of the wedding reception whiskey Nancy and I had brought from Eau Fraiche. I poured a little into the glasses and carried them to where Rosie was standing near the stove.

“To your finding work soon,” she said, raising her glass.

“Amen,” I said, and drank with her.

“Bert,” she said, and again shook her head, and puffed on her cigarette, and then lifted the stove lid and dropped the butt onto the coals. She walked to the table, put her glass down, turned to me, folded her arms across the cape, and said, “Bert, Nancy won’t be back until two o’clock.”

“What do you mean?”

“We arranged this between us.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to talk to you.”

“Is this going to be about Allen?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t Allen come himself?”

“Because he doesn’t know anything about your fancied grievance.”

“Oh, is it fancied?”

“Yes.”

“Rosie,” I said, “I’ve been out of work for close to three weeks. I’ve got thirty-two dollars in the bank, and the rent’s about due, and that isn’t fancied.”

“Your grievance is.”

“I lost my job.”

“Allen had nothing to do with that.”

“Didn’t he? Then why hasn’t he come around?”

“Because he’s... no, I won’t tell you. It’ll only convince you you’re right.”

“What is it?”

Rosie shook her head.

“Well,” I said, “my feet are wet, so if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to change my socks and put on some slippers.”

“No!” she said sharply. “I told Nancy we’d have this settled by two, and damn it, we will!” She reached into her bag for another cigarette, struck two matches before she managed to get it going, and then glared at me angrily, as if I’d been responsible for her inability to light it.

“As for Nancy,” I said, “I never thought she’d be a party...”

“That’s right, start imagining things against your own wife, too.”

“No one asked her to start meddling in...”

“ I did. Allen had nothing to do with your getting fired.”