The Hired Girl(77)

“Understandable, understandable,” murmured Mr. Rosenbach, nodding and rocking as if he was praying — he bobs and rocks when he prays, and so does Mr. Solomon. “Still, it would be better if there were no secrets between father and son.”

These words cut Mr. Solomon to the quick. He blurted out, “It’s Ruth.”

I saw the look on Mr. Rosenbach’s face: surprise and dismay. By then I’d stopped crying, because watching them was so interesting. It was like being at a play.

Mr. Rosenbach said, “Ruth Kleman? The little Polish girl?”

Mr. Solomon straightened in his chair. He looked noble and resolute, as a young lover should. “I know she’s not German,” he said, “so Mama won’t like it. And she — her family — is more Orthodox than we are. But I love her. And I don’t think being Orthodox is such a bad thing. Grossvater came to America so that his children could be Jews. Who are we if we fail to practice our religion? I like Ruth’s synagogue better than Har Sinai; I would like to worship there. And that’s not all. I want to study Talmud. I know it’s not what you planned for me, Papa, but I don’t care about the store. I respect you, Papa, and I love you; I admire what you did, creating the business. But I don’t think I’m cut out to be a businessman. The store doesn’t interest me. I want to be a scholar. Papa, I’m sorry.”

His voice broke on the last words.

I stayed very still. I didn’t want them to notice me and send me away. There they were: Solly with his hands clasped around his whiskey glass, and Mr. Rosenbach perched on the edge of his chair, with his weight resting on the tips of his toes.

He crouched there, motionless. Then he sprang up. He walked to the windows and opened the shutters to let the air come in, though it was hot outside. He looked down at his desk as if he’d never seen it before, and he touched the letter opener and the blotter. He picked up the ormolu desk clock and fiddled with the gears.

At last he returned to his chair and sat down. “Shlomo,” he said — that’s the Jewish nickname for Solomon, which nobody but Malka uses —“you are my good son, my first born. I had hoped you would have a gift for business, but my greatest wish is for your happiness. If you love Ruth Kleman and believe she can make you happy, you should marry her. And if you want to study Talmud”— he took up his glass of whiskey once more —“why, then, you will be a scholar. It’s not too shabby, to have a scholar in the family. I will be proud of you.” He raised his head and looked Mr. Solomon directly in the eye. “I will always be proud of my son.”

I saw Mr. Solomon’s face working. He was struggling against tears. He said, “Thank you, Papa,” and his father nodded matter-of-factly. I watched as they drained the last of the whiskey in their glasses and set the glasses down, almost in unison. “So,” Mr. Rosenbach said, “you will go to Miss Kleman and ask her to marry you?”

“I meant to. I want to.” Mr. Solomon shot me an accusing look. “Only I don’t know how, after this rotten business. I don’t know what she must be thinking of me, or whether I should ask her father —” He shook his head. “Perhaps it ought to be put off.”

“By no means,” said Mr. Rosenbach, “not if you wish to succeed. If there’s one thing I know about women it’s this: where matters of the heart are concerned, they don’t like to wait. They suffer too much.”

Mr. Solomon winced. “You think I should ask her now.”

“If you love her,” said Mr. Rosenbach. “If you’re sure.”

“I know I love her,” said Mr. Solomon. “And I believe she cares for me, or did, before this happened. But it won’t be easy to explain, and I don’t know if her father will agree to the match, and then Mama —”

“Leave your mother to me,” said Mr. Rosenbach, and Mr. Solomon heaved a short sigh. He got up and started to go out of the room.

He had forgotten all about me. But Mr. Rosenbach hadn’t. He cleared his throat and nicked his head in my direction. “What about this poor child?”

I felt a thrill of hope, because poor child made it sound as if I might not be sent away. I realized at that moment that I was willing to beg, if I could keep my job. Now that it’s over, I wish I hadn’t begged, because it wasn’t dignified. A girl in a novel would have been too proud. “Please,” I said, “please, forgive me. I know I shouldn’t have meddled, and I never will again. Everyone here has been so kind to me, and I haven’t anywhere else to go.” I felt a sob rise in my throat and I let myself cry. I don’t think it was feminine wiles. The truth is, I was so wretched that the tears cried themselves.