B.V.D.'s hung on the mat of coarse black hair that framed his barrel chest. He didn't speak, but his coal-black eyes stared meanly at her.
"What's he cryin' for?" she asked, gesturing toward the bedroom.
"Where yuh been?" he asked in a heavy voice, ignoring her question.
She began moving toward the bedroom. ''Swimmin'," she answered succinctly.
"Till ten thirty at night?" he asked, looking at the kitchen clock.
"It's a long way back from Coney Island," she answered, opening the bedroom door.
His hand caught her arm and spun her around. She stared at him, her eyes cold and bleak. "Why didn't you stop an' tell yer mother?" he shot at her angrily. "She was worried about you. An' you know she ain't feelin' too good."
"She'd be a lot better if you got a job so's she wouldn't have to work nights," she replied nastily.
He raised his hands as if to strike her.
"Go ahead, I dare you!" she taunted, her lips bared over her teeth.
He swore at her in Polish. ''Coorva! Whore!"
A contempt came into her eyes. "Beer-guzzlin' bum!" she snapped. "Yuh wouldn't dare. Yuh know my mother would throw yuh out if yuh did!"
Slowly his hand fell to his side. "If I wasn't such a good friend of your father's when he was alive, I would have no care for you," he muttered.
"Leave him out of this!" she said quickly. "At least he was a man. He took care of his family. He didn't lay aroun' drinktn' beer all day."
He was on the defensive now. She could sense it, and a triumph rose in her. "Your mother doesn't want me to work the buildings any more," he said uncertainly. "She made me promise when we got married. She said losing one man to them was enough."
"You saw him fall," she said coldly. "Was it your promise or your fear that keeps you home?"
The baby's cries grew louder and more urgent. He stood there a moment breathing heavily, then turned away from her. "Go see what Peter wants," he said.
The bedroom door closed behind her. He lumbered over to the icebox and took out a can of beer. Expertly he punctured the top and tilted it over his Ups. Some of the beer ran down his cheeks, spilling onto his undershirt. He drank long and thirstily and threw the empty can into a paper bag on the sink.
He looked at the closed bedroom door. The baby's cries had stopped. He stared at the door. She was a bitch, there was no other word for her. He wiped his mouth with the side of his arm. Nobody could do anything with her. It had been Uke that since the time her mother told her they were to be married.
He closed his eyes with the effort of remembering. It was only three years ago. A month after her father had stepped from a steel girder twenty-three stories in the skies.
He could still see the look of surprise on Henry's face when he realized the scaffold that should have been there, wasn't. It was a moment of paralysis of action. His lips started to form the word "Peter!" His hand reached anxiously for his friend.
Then he spun suddenly toward the earth. Looking down, Peter could see Henry's cap saiHng gently away from him, his friend's blond hair sparkling iridescently in the sun as he tumbled over and over.
The beer came up in him at the remembered nausea. He held his breath a moment, then belched. The nausea went away. He could see his friend every time he looked at Marja. The same white-blond hair, high Polack cheekbones, and sensual mouth. And the way she walked, too,
reminded him of her father. They both had the same surefooted, catlike step.
He had first noticed it the night he came to propose to Katti. A month after Marja's father had died. He had put on his best suit, the one he wore to church on Sundays, and bought a two-dollar box of candy at the drugstore. The druggist had assured him it was the best he had, and fresh, too. He had climbed the stairs to the apartment and stood outside in the hall, sweating from the exertion and nervousness. He hesitated a moment, then knocked cautiously at the door.
A moment later he heard her mother's
"What's he cryin' for?" she asked, gesturing toward the bedroom.
"Where yuh been?" he asked in a heavy voice, ignoring her question.
She began moving toward the bedroom. ''Swimmin'," she answered succinctly.
"Till ten thirty at night?" he asked, looking at the kitchen clock.
"It's a long way back from Coney Island," she answered, opening the bedroom door.
His hand caught her arm and spun her around. She stared at him, her eyes cold and bleak. "Why didn't you stop an' tell yer mother?" he shot at her angrily. "She was worried about you. An' you know she ain't feelin' too good."
"She'd be a lot better if you got a job so's she wouldn't have to work nights," she replied nastily.
He raised his hands as if to strike her.
"Go ahead, I dare you!" she taunted, her lips bared over her teeth.
He swore at her in Polish. ''Coorva! Whore!"
A contempt came into her eyes. "Beer-guzzlin' bum!" she snapped. "Yuh wouldn't dare. Yuh know my mother would throw yuh out if yuh did!"
Slowly his hand fell to his side. "If I wasn't such a good friend of your father's when he was alive, I would have no care for you," he muttered.
"Leave him out of this!" she said quickly. "At least he was a man. He took care of his family. He didn't lay aroun' drinktn' beer all day."
He was on the defensive now. She could sense it, and a triumph rose in her. "Your mother doesn't want me to work the buildings any more," he said uncertainly. "She made me promise when we got married. She said losing one man to them was enough."
"You saw him fall," she said coldly. "Was it your promise or your fear that keeps you home?"
The baby's cries grew louder and more urgent. He stood there a moment breathing heavily, then turned away from her. "Go see what Peter wants," he said.
The bedroom door closed behind her. He lumbered over to the icebox and took out a can of beer. Expertly he punctured the top and tilted it over his Ups. Some of the beer ran down his cheeks, spilling onto his undershirt. He drank long and thirstily and threw the empty can into a paper bag on the sink.
He looked at the closed bedroom door. The baby's cries had stopped. He stared at the door. She was a bitch, there was no other word for her. He wiped his mouth with the side of his arm. Nobody could do anything with her. It had been Uke that since the time her mother told her they were to be married.
He closed his eyes with the effort of remembering. It was only three years ago. A month after her father had stepped from a steel girder twenty-three stories in the skies.
He could still see the look of surprise on Henry's face when he realized the scaffold that should have been there, wasn't. It was a moment of paralysis of action. His lips started to form the word "Peter!" His hand reached anxiously for his friend.
Then he spun suddenly toward the earth. Looking down, Peter could see Henry's cap saiHng gently away from him, his friend's blond hair sparkling iridescently in the sun as he tumbled over and over.
The beer came up in him at the remembered nausea. He held his breath a moment, then belched. The nausea went away. He could see his friend every time he looked at Marja. The same white-blond hair, high Polack cheekbones, and sensual mouth. And the way she walked, too,
reminded him of her father. They both had the same surefooted, catlike step.
He had first noticed it the night he came to propose to Katti. A month after Marja's father had died. He had put on his best suit, the one he wore to church on Sundays, and bought a two-dollar box of candy at the drugstore. The druggist had assured him it was the best he had, and fresh, too. He had climbed the stairs to the apartment and stood outside in the hall, sweating from the exertion and nervousness. He hesitated a moment, then knocked cautiously at the door.
A moment later he heard her mother's
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