Read Online The Dream Merchants by Harold Robbins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Harold Robbins
Tags: Fiction, Action & Adventure
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face grew red. “But the responsibility is his,” he replied lamely.
She took his hand, still smiling. “You’re a good boy to say so, Johnny, but you’re not fooling anybody.”
The soup on the stove behind her began to boil; she dropped his hand and got up to look at it. She took a spoon and began to stir it, speaking over her shoulder to him. “No, it’s not that. There’s something on his mind and I don’t know what it is.” A discouraged tone seemed to permeate her voice. Peter seemed farther away from her now than he had ever been.
She remembered when Peter had first come into her father’s store. She had been fourteen then and he was about a year older.
He had just got off the boat and had a letter from her father’s brother, who had settled in Munich. He had looked like a real greenie too, his wrists shooting out from the cuffs of his too short jacket. Her father had given him a job in the small hardware store on Rivington Street and Peter had started in to go to night school. She used to help him with his English lessons.
It was the most natural thing in the world for them to fall in love. She remembered when he went to ask her father for permission for them to get married. She had watched them from behind the door that led into the back room of the store. Peter had stood there awkwardly watching her father, who was sitting on a high stool behind the counter, his little black yamalke perched on his head, reading the Jewish newspaper through his small spectacles.
At last, after a long, uneasy pause, Peter had spoken. “Mr. Greenberg.”
Her father had looked up at him over the rims of his glasses. He didn’t speak, he wasn’t a very talkative man.
Peter was nervous. “I—uh, that is, we—Esther and I, would like to get married.”
Her father had looked up at him over the rims of his glasses, then, without speaking, dropped his eyes back to his newspaper again. She remembered how her heart was pounding so loudly that she had been afraid they would hear it out in the store. She held her breath.
Peter spoke again; his voice was strained and cracked slightly. “Mr. Greenberg, did you hear me?”
Her father looked at him again and spoke in Yiddish. “Nu and why shouldn’t I hear you? Am I deaf?”
“But—but you didn’t answer me,” Peter stammered.
“I didn’t say no, did I?” Mr. Greenberg answered, still in Yiddish. “Neither am I so blind that I could not see what you were going to ask.” He turned back to his newspaper.
Peter stood there a moment as if he did not believe his ears; then he turned and started back to tell Esther. She had just time to get out of the way of the door before he burst into the room with his news.
When her father had died, Peter took over the store. Their little Doris was born in the room behind it. When she was three years old she had been a very sick little child and the big doctor they had gone to had told them the only thing they could do for her was to take her out of the city. That was how they came to Rochester, where, after a few years, Mark was born.
Now there was an urgency in Peter, a restlessness she had never seen before, something she didn’t quite understand. She felt strangely excluded from his mind, somehow apart from him, and felt a vague hurt within her.
She heard the door open. Peter came into the kitchen, brushing the snow from him.
Johnny cleared his throat in relief. Esther’s protracted silence had added to his embarrassment, he was glad that Peter had come in. “Bad weather,” he said.
Peter nodded his head morosely. “It looks like we’ll be closed tomorrow too,” he said irritably. “It doesn’t seem to be letting up.” He took off his overcoat and dropped it on a chair, where it began to shed small drops of water as the snow on it melted in the heat of the room.
“That’s what I thought,” Johnny said. “I’ve been thinking of running down to New York and seeing Joe at the studio. Why don’t you come
She took his hand, still smiling. “You’re a good boy to say so, Johnny, but you’re not fooling anybody.”
The soup on the stove behind her began to boil; she dropped his hand and got up to look at it. She took a spoon and began to stir it, speaking over her shoulder to him. “No, it’s not that. There’s something on his mind and I don’t know what it is.” A discouraged tone seemed to permeate her voice. Peter seemed farther away from her now than he had ever been.
She remembered when Peter had first come into her father’s store. She had been fourteen then and he was about a year older.
He had just got off the boat and had a letter from her father’s brother, who had settled in Munich. He had looked like a real greenie too, his wrists shooting out from the cuffs of his too short jacket. Her father had given him a job in the small hardware store on Rivington Street and Peter had started in to go to night school. She used to help him with his English lessons.
It was the most natural thing in the world for them to fall in love. She remembered when he went to ask her father for permission for them to get married. She had watched them from behind the door that led into the back room of the store. Peter had stood there awkwardly watching her father, who was sitting on a high stool behind the counter, his little black yamalke perched on his head, reading the Jewish newspaper through his small spectacles.
At last, after a long, uneasy pause, Peter had spoken. “Mr. Greenberg.”
Her father had looked up at him over the rims of his glasses. He didn’t speak, he wasn’t a very talkative man.
Peter was nervous. “I—uh, that is, we—Esther and I, would like to get married.”
Her father had looked up at him over the rims of his glasses, then, without speaking, dropped his eyes back to his newspaper again. She remembered how her heart was pounding so loudly that she had been afraid they would hear it out in the store. She held her breath.
Peter spoke again; his voice was strained and cracked slightly. “Mr. Greenberg, did you hear me?”
Her father looked at him again and spoke in Yiddish. “Nu and why shouldn’t I hear you? Am I deaf?”
“But—but you didn’t answer me,” Peter stammered.
“I didn’t say no, did I?” Mr. Greenberg answered, still in Yiddish. “Neither am I so blind that I could not see what you were going to ask.” He turned back to his newspaper.
Peter stood there a moment as if he did not believe his ears; then he turned and started back to tell Esther. She had just time to get out of the way of the door before he burst into the room with his news.
When her father had died, Peter took over the store. Their little Doris was born in the room behind it. When she was three years old she had been a very sick little child and the big doctor they had gone to had told them the only thing they could do for her was to take her out of the city. That was how they came to Rochester, where, after a few years, Mark was born.
Now there was an urgency in Peter, a restlessness she had never seen before, something she didn’t quite understand. She felt strangely excluded from his mind, somehow apart from him, and felt a vague hurt within her.
She heard the door open. Peter came into the kitchen, brushing the snow from him.
Johnny cleared his throat in relief. Esther’s protracted silence had added to his embarrassment, he was glad that Peter had come in. “Bad weather,” he said.
Peter nodded his head morosely. “It looks like we’ll be closed tomorrow too,” he said irritably. “It doesn’t seem to be letting up.” He took off his overcoat and dropped it on a chair, where it began to shed small drops of water as the snow on it melted in the heat of the room.
“That’s what I thought,” Johnny said. “I’ve been thinking of running down to New York and seeing Joe at the studio. Why don’t you come
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