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.He pressed his arms against his sides and plunged into the living-room.His eyes darted to the studio couch.It wasn’t made up as yet for sleeping this night.A cry started deep in him.He gritted his teeth, choked the cry silent.In front of his eyes, her belongings added up, precious now, her bed, her magazines under the end table, her two pictures on the walls, the Oroczco reproduction, the Degas print of the two mauve dancing girls.She had itemized their history to him Tuesday night like a new bride reporting to her husband on her dowries and treasures.The Oroczco had been saved for; the dancing girls won at a benefit party for some cause.“Make yourself at home, Sam.I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”He turned around.“No, thanks, Mrs.Buckles,” and then, reconsidering: Tea was a stimulant and if he told her after a cup or two of tea, she might not be so affected.“All right.” Mrs.Buckles whisked out of the living-room and he walked to the windows as he had on Monday night.There was the street below, he made himself think; there was the street below, the street below …Mrs.Buckles came in, a lacquer tray between her hands.Sam helped her place the tray on the end table at the foot of the studio couch.She sat down on the couch and daintily, her tiny fifth finger curling politely, she poured him a cup of tea.He took the cup and crossed to the easy chair.Over the studio couch, behind Mrs.Buckles’ shoulder, the two mauve girls, handsome and muscular, were dancing.“How soon do you expect Suzy?” she said.“Mrs.Buckles — Mrs.Buckles — You ought to know — I love Suzy.We intended to tell you tonight we were getting married.”Mrs.Buckles blinked and put her cup and saucer down on the lacquer tray.“We love each other,” Sam said.“You ought to know —Suzy’s been — ”Mrs.Buckles craned forward as if she hadn’t seen him until now.“You seemed distrait, I thought, when you came in.Very distrait.Did you say? Married — ”“Yes, but something — ”“Pardon me, Mr.Miller.Perhaps it is just as well Suzy is detained.Pardon me, but may I speak candidly?”Good God, he thought.Where’s this going.“Mrs.Buckles — ”“Pardon me, Mr.Miller.This is not altogether a complete surprise.Have you considered what a mixed marriage actually means?”“This is no time.I’m sorry.But — ”“This is the best time of all.” Her voice was steady, her two yellowish hands clasped together on her lap so that she seemed to him like a cornered mouse.“Have you considered that your faith and Suzy’s faith, Mr.Miller, will not be conducive to a happy married life? I have nothing but understanding for your people.Your people have suffered cruelly from Mr.Hitler.I may be an old woman.I am an old woman.I will be seventy years in March but I know what is happening to the Jewish people.They are not Christians who persecute the Jews — ”“Please.You don’t understand — ”“But I do understand.I have had my suspicions that Suzy and yourself were drifting into a serious situation.Not that she confided in me as a daughter should.She is wayward.” One hand waved towards the pile of magazines.“But in my life, I have seen many wayward young girls settling down and marrying in accordance with their faith.”Sam got to his feet and stared down at the small woman expounding her dogmas.He didn’t resent what she was saying.He understood her, sensing there wasn’t so much difference after all between Mrs.Buckles’ genteel Protestantism and the lustier Jewishness of his own mother pleading with him not to bring home a schicksa; both mothers were defenders of their own traditions, both were afraid of the stranger outside the tribe.And gently he broke in.“Mrs.Buckles! Suzy has been detained!” A tremor shook him and shook his words and he was conscious of her staring at him, suddenly apprehensive, suddenly fearful of the wind of warning in his words.“She’ll be back — when, I don’t know — I’ve notified the police.Suzy — Suzy has temporarily — she’s disappeared.” He watched Mrs.Buckles’ fingers leap to the withered lips.“Please, Mrs.Buckles.Both of us love her.Both of us must — In the morning, Detective Wajek will be here to ask some questions.”His eyes strained in his head and all that day and night flared before him, and a pity for the old woman agitated him, a pity larger than his own loss that second, for this mother was like that other mother remembered now in sparks of fire; this mother like Mrs.Randolph had lost a child.He walked over to Mrs.Buckles and touched her arm with his fingers.She was quivering; under his fingers her arm seemed thin as a leaf.“Thank you for coming here,” Mrs.Buckles said, dry-eyed.“I am alone here.”His heart lifted in admiration for the courage behind the polite words, the politeness a courage, a tradition of courage that blasted his eyes even clearer.He understood now where Suzy got her courage; out of the old woman, out of the abolitionist ancestors before the old woman, out of the courageous past Suzy had sprung.“Don’t you worry,” he said.“We’ll get her back.If you want, I’ll stay here tonight — You might need — If you want — ” The old woman was crying the tiny tears of the aged.Her head had turned towards the arm where his hand was, to the hand full of the sun of life.“Don’t you worry.We’ll get her back.” He was choking and he was strong and he was full of pity.“We’ll get her back, Mrs.Buckles.We will, mom.”CHAPTER 11THURSDAY’S sun rolled over the Brooklyn war plants clustering near the giant stone feet of the bridges into Manhattan [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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