John Steinbeck - The Winter of Our Discontent

Ethan went to the storeroom and brought back a Dixie cup of water from the tap. She dropped three of the flat tablets in and let them fizz. Then, “Mud in your eye,” she said and tossed it back. “Get to work, you devils,” she said.

“I hear you’re going to read Mary’s fortune today.”

“Oh, Lord! I nearly forgot. I should go in the business. I could made my own fortune.”

“Mary loves it. Are you good at it?”

“Nothing to be good at. You let people—women, that is—talk about themselves and then tell it back to them and they think you’ve got second sight.”

“And tall dark strangers?”

“There’s that, sure. If I could read men, I wouldn’t have pulled the bellywhoppers I have. Brother! did I misread a couple of characters.”

“Didn’t your first husband die?”

“No, my second, peace be to his ashes, the son of a— No, let it ride. Peace be to his ashes.”

Ethan greeted the entering elderly Mrs. Ezyzinski solicitously and lingered over the transference of a quarter of a pound of butter, even passed a complimentary word or two about the weather, but Margie Young-Hunt, relaxed and smiling, inspected the gold-sealed cans of pâté de foie gras and the minuscule jewel-cases of caviar in back of the counter by the cash register.

“Now,” said Margie when the old lady tottered out, muttering to herself in Polish.

“Now—what?”

“I was just thinking—if I knew as much about men as I do about women, I’d put out my shingle. Why don’t you teach me about men, Ethan?”

“You know enough. Maybe too much.”

“Oh, come on! Don’t you have a silly bone in your body?”

“Want to start now?”

“Maybe some evening.”

“Good,” he said. “A group. Mary and you and the two kids. Subject: men—their weakness and stupidity and how to use them.”

Margie ignored his tone. “Don’t you ever work late—accounts first of the month, that stuff?”

“Sure. I take the work home.”

She raised her arms over her head and her fingers moused in her hair.

“Why?” she asked.

“Cat’s why to make kittens’ britches.”

“See what you could teach me if you would?”

Ethan said, “ ‘And after that [9] And after that… : Matthew 27:31-33. they had mocked Him, they took the robe off from Him and put His own raiment on Him and led Him away to crucify Him. And as they came out they found a man of Cyrene, Simon by name. Him they compelled to bear His cross. And when they were come unto a place called Golgotha—that is to say, a place of a skull—’ ”

“Oh, for God’s sake!”

“Yes—yes—that is correct....”

“Do you know what a son of a bitch you are?”

“Yes, O Daughter of Jerusalem.”

Suddenly she smiled. “Know what I’m going to do? I’m going to read one hell of a fortune this morning. You’re going to be a big shot, did you know? Everything you touch will turn to gold—a leader of men.” She walked quickly to the door and then turned back, grinning. “I dare you to live up to it and I dare you not to. So long, Savior!” How strange the sound of heeltaps on pavement, striking in anger.

At ten o’clock everything changed. The big glass doors of the bank folded open and a river of people dipped in for money and brought the money to Marullo’s and took away the fancy foods Easter calls for. Ethan was busy as a water skater until the sixth hour struck.

The angry firebell from its cupola on the town hall clanged the sixth hour. The customers drifted away with their bags of baked meats. Ethan brought in the fruit stands and closed the front doors, and then for no reason except that a darkness fell on the world and on him, he pulled down the thick green shades and the darkness fell on the store. Only the neon in the cold counter glared a ghostly blue.

Behind the counter he cut four fat slices of rye bread and buttered them liberally. He slid open the cold doors and picked out two slices of processed Swiss cheese and three slices of ham. “Lettuce and cheese,” he said, “lettuce and cheese. When a man marries he lives in the trees.” He mortared the top slices of bread with mayonnaise from a jar, pressed the lids down on the sandwiches, and trimmed the bits of lettuce and ham fat from the edges. Now a carton of milk and a square of waxed paper for wrapping. He was folding the ends of the paper neatly when a key rattled in the front door and Marullo came in, wide as a bear and sack-chested so that his arms seemed short and stood out from his body. His hat was on the back of his head so that his stiff iron-gray bangs showed like a cap. Marullo’s eyes were wet and sly and sleepy, but the gold caps on his front teeth shone in the light from the cold counter. Two top buttons of his pants were open, showing his heavy gray underwear. He hooked little fat thumbs in the roll of his pants under his stomach and blinked in the half-darkness.

“Morning, Mr. Marullo. I guess it’s afternoon.”

“Hi, kid. You shut up good and quick.”

“Whole town’s shut. I thought you’d be at mass.”

“No mass today. Only day in the year with no mass.”

“That so? I didn’t know that. Anything I can do for you?”

The short fat arms stretched and rocked back and forth on the elbows. “My arms hurt, kid. Arthritis.... Gets worse.”

“Nothing you can do?”

“I do everything—hot pads, shark oil, pills—still hurts. All nice and shut up. Maybe we can have a talk, eh, kid?” His teeth flashed.

“Anything wrong?”

“Wrong? What’s wrong?”

“Well, if you’ll wait a minute, I’ll just take these sandwiches to the bank. Mr. Morphy asked for them.”

“You’re a smart kid. You give service. That’s good.”

Ethan went through the storeroom, crossed the alley, and knocked on the back door of the bank. He passed the milk and sandwiches in to Joey.

“Thanks. You didn’t need to.”

“It’s service. Marullo told me.”

“Keep a couple of Cokes cold, will you? I got dry zeros in my mouth.”

When Ethan returned, he found Marullo peering into a garbage can.

“Where do you want to talk, Mr. Marullo?”

“Start here, kid.” He picked cauliflower leaves from the can. “You cutting off too much.”

“Just to make them neat.”

“Cauliflower is by weight. You throwing money in the garbage. I know a smart Greek fella owns maybe twenty restaurants. He says the big secret is watch the garbage cans. What you throw out, you don’t sell. He’s a smart fella.”

“Yes, Mr. Marullo.” Ethan moved restlessly toward the front of the store with Marullo behind him bending his elbows back and forth.

“You sprinkling good the vegetables like I said?”

“Sure.”

The boss lifted a head of lettuce. “Feels dry.”

“Well, hell, Marullo, I don’t want to waterlog them—they’re one-third water now.”

“Makes them look crisp, nice and fresh. You think I don’t know? I start with one pushcart—just one. I know. You got to learn the tricks, kid, or you go broke. Meat, now—you paying too much.”

“Well, we advertise Grade A beef.”

“A, B, C—who knows? It’s on the card, ain’t it? Now, we going to have a nice talk. We got dead wood on our bills. Anybody don’t pay by the fifteenth—off the books.”

“We can’t do that. Some of these people have been trading here for twenty years.”

“Listen, kid. Chain stores won’t let John D. Rockefeller charge a nickel.”

“Yes, but these people are good for it, most of them.”

“What’s ‘good for it’? It ties up money. Chain stores buy car-loads. We can’t do that. You got to learn, kid. Sure—nice people! Money is nice too. You got too much meat scraps in the box.”