Read Online The Winter of Our Discontent by John Steinbeck - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Steinbeck
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glass of water? I’ll take a couple of fizzers now.”
Ethan went to the storeroom and brought back a Dixie cup of water from the tap. She dropped three of the flat tablets in and let them fizz. Then, “Mud in your eye,” she said and tossed it back. “Get to work, you devils,” she said.
“I hear you’re going to read Mary’s fortune today.”
“Oh, Lord! I nearly forgot. I should go in the business. I could made my own fortune.”
“Mary loves it. Are you good at it?”
“Nothing to be good at. You let people—women, that is— talk about themselves and then tell it back to them and they think you’ve got second sight.”
“And tall dark strangers?”
“There’s that, sure. If I could read men, I wouldn’t have pulled the bellywhoppers I have. Brother! did I misread a couple of characters.”
“Didn’t your first husband die?”
“No, my second, peace be to his ashes, the son of a— No, let it ride. Peace be to his ashes.”
Ethan greeted the entering elderly Mrs. Ezyzinski solicitously and lingered over the transference of a quarter of a pound of butter, even passed a complimentary word or two about the weather, but Margie Young-Hunt, relaxed and smiling, inspected the gold-sealed cans of pâté de foie gras and the minuscule jewel-cases of caviar in back of the counter by the cash register.
“Now,” said Margie when the old lady tottered out, muttering to herself in Polish.
“Now—what?”
“I was just thinking—if I knew as much about men as I do about women, I’d put out my shingle. Why don’t you teach me about men, Ethan?”
“You know enough. Maybe too much.”
“Oh, come on! Don’t you have a silly bone in your body?”
“Want to start now?”
“Maybe some evening.”
“Good,” he said. “A group. Mary and you and the two kids. Subject: men—their weakness and stupidity and how to use them.”
Margie ignored his tone. “Don’t you ever work late— accounts first of the month, that stuff?”
“Sure. I take the work home.”
She raised her arms over her head and her fingers moused in her hair.
“Why?” she asked.
“Cat’s why to make kittens’ britches.”
“See what you could teach me if you would?”
Ethan said, “ ‘And after that they had mocked Him, they took the robe off from Him and put His own raiment on Him and led Him away to crucify Him. And as they came out they found a man of Cyrene, Simon by name. Him they compelled to bear His cross. And when they were come unto a place called Golgotha—that is to say, a place of a skull—’ ”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
“Yes—yes—that is correct. . . .”
“Do you know what a son of a bitch you are?”
“Yes, O Daughter of Jerusalem.”
Suddenly she smiled. “Know what I’m going to do? I’m going to read one hell of a fortune this morning. You’re going to be a big shot, did you know? Everything you touch will turn to gold—a leader of men.” She walked quickly to the door and then turned back, grinning. “I dare you to live up to it and I dare you not to. So long, Savior!” How strange the sound of heeltaps on pavement, striking in anger.
At ten o’clock everything changed. The big glass doors of the bank folded open and a river of people dipped in for money and brought the money to Marullo’s and took away the fancy foods Easter calls for. Ethan was busy as a water skater until the sixth hour struck.
The angry firebell from its cupola on the town hall clanged the sixth hour. The customers drifted away with their bags of baked meats. Ethan brought in the fruit stands and closed the front doors, and then for no reason except that a darkness fell on the world and on him, he pulled down the thick green shades and the darkness fell on the store. Only the neon in the cold counter glared a ghostly blue.
Behind the counter he cut four fat slices of rye bread and buttered them liberally. He slid open the cold doors and picked out two slices of processed Swiss cheese and
Ethan went to the storeroom and brought back a Dixie cup of water from the tap. She dropped three of the flat tablets in and let them fizz. Then, “Mud in your eye,” she said and tossed it back. “Get to work, you devils,” she said.
“I hear you’re going to read Mary’s fortune today.”
“Oh, Lord! I nearly forgot. I should go in the business. I could made my own fortune.”
“Mary loves it. Are you good at it?”
“Nothing to be good at. You let people—women, that is— talk about themselves and then tell it back to them and they think you’ve got second sight.”
“And tall dark strangers?”
“There’s that, sure. If I could read men, I wouldn’t have pulled the bellywhoppers I have. Brother! did I misread a couple of characters.”
“Didn’t your first husband die?”
“No, my second, peace be to his ashes, the son of a— No, let it ride. Peace be to his ashes.”
Ethan greeted the entering elderly Mrs. Ezyzinski solicitously and lingered over the transference of a quarter of a pound of butter, even passed a complimentary word or two about the weather, but Margie Young-Hunt, relaxed and smiling, inspected the gold-sealed cans of pâté de foie gras and the minuscule jewel-cases of caviar in back of the counter by the cash register.
“Now,” said Margie when the old lady tottered out, muttering to herself in Polish.
“Now—what?”
“I was just thinking—if I knew as much about men as I do about women, I’d put out my shingle. Why don’t you teach me about men, Ethan?”
“You know enough. Maybe too much.”
“Oh, come on! Don’t you have a silly bone in your body?”
“Want to start now?”
“Maybe some evening.”
“Good,” he said. “A group. Mary and you and the two kids. Subject: men—their weakness and stupidity and how to use them.”
Margie ignored his tone. “Don’t you ever work late— accounts first of the month, that stuff?”
“Sure. I take the work home.”
She raised her arms over her head and her fingers moused in her hair.
“Why?” she asked.
“Cat’s why to make kittens’ britches.”
“See what you could teach me if you would?”
Ethan said, “ ‘And after that they had mocked Him, they took the robe off from Him and put His own raiment on Him and led Him away to crucify Him. And as they came out they found a man of Cyrene, Simon by name. Him they compelled to bear His cross. And when they were come unto a place called Golgotha—that is to say, a place of a skull—’ ”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
“Yes—yes—that is correct. . . .”
“Do you know what a son of a bitch you are?”
“Yes, O Daughter of Jerusalem.”
Suddenly she smiled. “Know what I’m going to do? I’m going to read one hell of a fortune this morning. You’re going to be a big shot, did you know? Everything you touch will turn to gold—a leader of men.” She walked quickly to the door and then turned back, grinning. “I dare you to live up to it and I dare you not to. So long, Savior!” How strange the sound of heeltaps on pavement, striking in anger.
At ten o’clock everything changed. The big glass doors of the bank folded open and a river of people dipped in for money and brought the money to Marullo’s and took away the fancy foods Easter calls for. Ethan was busy as a water skater until the sixth hour struck.
The angry firebell from its cupola on the town hall clanged the sixth hour. The customers drifted away with their bags of baked meats. Ethan brought in the fruit stands and closed the front doors, and then for no reason except that a darkness fell on the world and on him, he pulled down the thick green shades and the darkness fell on the store. Only the neon in the cold counter glared a ghostly blue.
Behind the counter he cut four fat slices of rye bread and buttered them liberally. He slid open the cold doors and picked out two slices of processed Swiss cheese and
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