Read Online Goodbye, Columbus by Philip Roth - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Philip Roth
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deserve a vacation?”
She held herself to me and I could feel her trembling. “I told your mother I would take care of her Neil she shouldn’t worry. And now you go running—”
I put my arms around her and kissed her on the top of her head. “C’mon,” I said, “you’re being silly. I’m not running away. I’m just going away for a week, on a vacation.”
“You’ll leave their telephone number God forbid you should get sick.”
“Okay.”
“Millburn they live?”
“Short Hills. I’ll leave the number.”
“Since when do Jewish people live in Short Hills? They couldn’t be real Jews believe me.”
“They’re real Jews,” I said.
“I’ll see it I’ll believe it.” She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, just as I was zipping up the sides of the suitcase. “Don’t close the bag yet. I’ll make a little package with some fruit in it, you’ll take with you.”
“Okay, Aunt Gladys,” and on the way to work that morning I ate the orange and the two peaches that she’d put in a bag for me.
A few hours later Mr. Scapello informed me that when I returned from my vacation after Labor Day, I would be hoisted up onto Martha Winney’s stool. He himself, he said, had made the same move some twelve years ago, and so it appeared that if I could manage to maintain my balance I might someday be Mr. Scapello. I would also get an eight-dollar increase in salary which was five dollars more than the increase Mr. Scapello had received years before. He shook my hand and then started back up the long flight of marble stairs, his behind barging against his suit jacket like a hoop. No sooner had he left my side then I smelled spearmint and looked up to see the old man with veiny nose and jowls.
“Hello, young man,” he said pleasantly. “Is the book back?”
“What book?”
“The Gauguin. I was shopping and I thought I’d stop by to ask. I haven’t gotten the card yet. It’s two weeks already.”
“No,” I said, and as I spoke I saw that Mr. Scapello had stopped midway up the stairs and turned as though he’d forgotten to tell me something. “Look,” I said to the old man, “it should be back any day.” I said it with a finality that bordered on rudeness, and I alarmed myself, for suddenly I saw what would happen: the old man making a fuss, Mr. Scapello gliding down the stairs, Mr. Scapello scampering up to the stacks, Scapello scandalized, Scapello profuse, Scapello presiding at the ascension of John McKee to Miss Winney’s stool. I turned to the old man, “Why don’t you leave your phone number and I’ll try to get a hold of it this afternoon—” but my attempt at concern and courtesy came too late and the man growled some words about public servants, a letter to the Mayor, snotty kids, and left the library, thank God, only a second before Mr. Scapello returned to my desk to remind me that everyone was chipping in for a present for Miss Winney and that if I liked I should leave a half dollar on his desk during the day.
After lunch the colored kid came in. When he headed past the desk for the stairs, I called over to him. “Come here,” I said. “Where are you going?”
“The heart section.”
“What book are you reading?”
“That Mr. Go-again’s book. Look, man, I ain’t doing nothing wrong. I didn’t do no writing in anything. You could search me—”
“I know you didn’t. Listen, if you like that book so much why don’t you please take it home? Do you have a library card?”
“No, sir, I didn’t take
nothing
.”
“No, a library card is what we give to you so you can take books home. Then you won’t have to come down here every day. Do you go to school?”
“Yes, sir. Miller Street School. But this here’s summertime. It’s okay I’m not in school. I ain’t
supposed
to be in school.”
“I know. As long as you go to school you can
have a
library card. You could take the book home.”
“What you keep telling me take that book home
She held herself to me and I could feel her trembling. “I told your mother I would take care of her Neil she shouldn’t worry. And now you go running—”
I put my arms around her and kissed her on the top of her head. “C’mon,” I said, “you’re being silly. I’m not running away. I’m just going away for a week, on a vacation.”
“You’ll leave their telephone number God forbid you should get sick.”
“Okay.”
“Millburn they live?”
“Short Hills. I’ll leave the number.”
“Since when do Jewish people live in Short Hills? They couldn’t be real Jews believe me.”
“They’re real Jews,” I said.
“I’ll see it I’ll believe it.” She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, just as I was zipping up the sides of the suitcase. “Don’t close the bag yet. I’ll make a little package with some fruit in it, you’ll take with you.”
“Okay, Aunt Gladys,” and on the way to work that morning I ate the orange and the two peaches that she’d put in a bag for me.
A few hours later Mr. Scapello informed me that when I returned from my vacation after Labor Day, I would be hoisted up onto Martha Winney’s stool. He himself, he said, had made the same move some twelve years ago, and so it appeared that if I could manage to maintain my balance I might someday be Mr. Scapello. I would also get an eight-dollar increase in salary which was five dollars more than the increase Mr. Scapello had received years before. He shook my hand and then started back up the long flight of marble stairs, his behind barging against his suit jacket like a hoop. No sooner had he left my side then I smelled spearmint and looked up to see the old man with veiny nose and jowls.
“Hello, young man,” he said pleasantly. “Is the book back?”
“What book?”
“The Gauguin. I was shopping and I thought I’d stop by to ask. I haven’t gotten the card yet. It’s two weeks already.”
“No,” I said, and as I spoke I saw that Mr. Scapello had stopped midway up the stairs and turned as though he’d forgotten to tell me something. “Look,” I said to the old man, “it should be back any day.” I said it with a finality that bordered on rudeness, and I alarmed myself, for suddenly I saw what would happen: the old man making a fuss, Mr. Scapello gliding down the stairs, Mr. Scapello scampering up to the stacks, Scapello scandalized, Scapello profuse, Scapello presiding at the ascension of John McKee to Miss Winney’s stool. I turned to the old man, “Why don’t you leave your phone number and I’ll try to get a hold of it this afternoon—” but my attempt at concern and courtesy came too late and the man growled some words about public servants, a letter to the Mayor, snotty kids, and left the library, thank God, only a second before Mr. Scapello returned to my desk to remind me that everyone was chipping in for a present for Miss Winney and that if I liked I should leave a half dollar on his desk during the day.
After lunch the colored kid came in. When he headed past the desk for the stairs, I called over to him. “Come here,” I said. “Where are you going?”
“The heart section.”
“What book are you reading?”
“That Mr. Go-again’s book. Look, man, I ain’t doing nothing wrong. I didn’t do no writing in anything. You could search me—”
“I know you didn’t. Listen, if you like that book so much why don’t you please take it home? Do you have a library card?”
“No, sir, I didn’t take
nothing
.”
“No, a library card is what we give to you so you can take books home. Then you won’t have to come down here every day. Do you go to school?”
“Yes, sir. Miller Street School. But this here’s summertime. It’s okay I’m not in school. I ain’t
supposed
to be in school.”
“I know. As long as you go to school you can
have a
library card. You could take the book home.”
“What you keep telling me take that book home
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