The Featherbed. Джон Миллер

      Elsie snorted. “Really, Dora. You’d think you were the company spokesman. What good is an extra buck a week if I’m gonna be trapped in here and end up like a piece of charcoal?”

      “And plus,” added Lenny, “this strike is as much against the city as it is against the factories. Damned inspectors are so stupid. Or more likely someone’s paying them off. They gotta know that as soon as they come in, those guys are unlocking the doors and shuttling the kids out the back. Have ya ever seen this place get a fine? Have ya? That’s ‘cause they’re all patsies.”

      “I know you’re right, but I just wish we were gettin’ up for a better wage is all, as long as we’re talkin’ about a strike. For Pete’s sake, I’m still gettin’ eight dollars a week after three years here!”

      “Just be there,” said Carlo. “I hear there’s gonna be some good speeches. And you never know, Dora. Maybe you’ll meet the man o’ your dreams.”

      Dora stopped sewing for a second and raised her hands in defeat. “I’ll be there, I’ll be there! But I’m not gonna be pickin’ out my wedding dress just yet.”

      Neither am I, thought Rebecca, and she hunkered down into her machine, trying to focus on her pleats, which were being pulled just a bit too fast under the pistoning needle.

       Chapter Four

      November 20th 1909

      Today I met the man who will be my husband. That is, he will be my husband if I cannot find of a way out of it, and I must confess I’m losing some hope.

      It is not him that I find objectionable. He wasn’t so bad, really. I just wish I could think of a better way to convince Papa that I should be able to pick the man I marry. I have not dared raise the subject since last Friday, for fear that Papa would change his mind about the delay and arrange the wedding for sooner. All the perfectly reasonable arguments he will not believe are valid ones, so as a result I am condemned to hours of unproductive plotting. No, if I am to convince him to cancel the arrangement it will have to be something very very good. Especially now, after the meeting.

      But here I go again, not telling the story first, before my reaction bubbles up like soup at a raging boil. Mrs. Pearson would be most displeased. Story, reflection. Story, reflection, she’d say. I should write it out five hundred times on a slate for punishment. Then maybe I’d get it right.

      The meeting with Isaac and his father took place in our kitchen. It was just moments after Mama sprang the news on me as we walked in the door. Mr. Kalish and his son would be arriving for tea, she said.

      No sooner had she said it than they arrived at our door, quite the sight the two of them. The father was wrinkled and tiny with a wispy, tangled grey beard and a big, dark hat. He was walking with a cane and looked old enough to be his son’s grandfather. His face was sunken in at the cheekbones, but he was pink-faced and had a sweet smile and a sparkle in his eyes. He seemed confused but lighthearted, as though he had no idea where he was but trusted it was somewhere nice.

      The son was tall and broad shouldered, but his physique was contradicted by his unhealthy skin tone and his breathlessness. He also had a scraggly beard, but to be fair it was a lot less scraggly than the father’s, and it was also thicker and dark brown. He wore no hat or yarmulke at all, perhaps he is not so religious, I don’t know. A bouquet of daffodils dangled from one hand until he offered them to my mother like he was trying to get rid of a burden. It did not really seem rude, I’m sure it was because of his lack of air and his preoccupation with his father. But whatever his sentiment, it was certainly strange.

      I couldn’t smell the daffodils at all until later in the day because as soon as my mother took them, he took off his coat, and a waft of stale pipe smoke emanated from the fabric. Maybe even from his beard, G-d forbid. The thin strip of exposed skin between his facial hair and his brown eyes was shiny and smooth, but it was a strange color — a blotchy patchwork of turnips and ash.

      We were introduced, Isaac, Rebecca, Rebecca, Isaac, pleased to make your acquaintance, he said. “Make your acquaintance?” I thought. This is the man to whom I’m to be married! Perhaps he was more nervous than I, I thought.

      He led his father into our apartment and to a chair at the table. Mama went to the wash basin to put some water in our one chipped, ceramic vase, and then Isaac asked her for a glass of water for some medicine. At first I think we all assumed it was for his father. But then he fished an ampoule out of his pocket, broke off the tip, poured the liquid into it, stirred the mixture with his pinky, and gulped it all down. My mother was too slow to hide her worry, but when she saw me looking at her, she smiled as though there was nothing of concern at all, and wasn’t Isaac’s display quite endearing.

      After that we quickly assembled around the table and sat sipping tea. Occasionally, we talked about nothing. Eventually, my parents suggested they and Mr. Kalish take a walk in the neighbourhood to discuss some details about the wedding. I assume this was their way of informing him of the postponement, but it was also a rather unsubtle way to leave us together to promote some conversation.

      So there they left me, at the mercy of awkwardness, feeling quite naked but for the meagre protection of a tiny teacup and a long piece of mandelbroyt, quickly vanishing as I gnawed at it instead of my own finger.

      The door latch clicked loudly behind their parents, and all Rebecca could think of was prison bars being locked shut. To hide her face, she brought her cup to her lips and sipped, but to her embarrassment it sounded more like a slurp. To make matters worse, some tea escaped and dribbled down her chin.

      “Excuse me,” she said, and hurried over to the wash basin to get a cloth, her cheeks flushing. She sat down again, but felt his eyes resting on her. She wiped again with the cloth and then leaned down to fuss over the cookies. Their nutty smell, usually a comfort to her, seemed a bit off.

      “Would you like another one?”

      She lifted the plate while still crouched down, wiping at an imaginary spot on the table. He declined her offer, putting his cup down and joining his hands in his lap, looking like he was preparing to leave. She wondered how she could have offended him so easily and so soon, but instead of announcing his departure, he looked about the room and smiled. The greyish walls were almost bare, revealing numerous scratches in the paint and nicks at the plaster, but he looked at them as though he were admiring an art gallery. Surely he was trying to avoid looking at her.

      “Is that your bubbe and zayde?” He pointed to a tiny, pine-framed photograph hanging beside the door to her parents’ bedroom. A man and a woman sat stiffly side by side dressed in dark clothing with startled, almost frightened, expressions on their faces.

      “Yes. On my father’s side. They live in Poland. I understand they know your family there too.”

      “Yes, or so my father tells me. But I don’t remember them.” He scratched at his cheek with his pinky.

      “I didn’t realize you ever met them at all. How old were you when you left?”

      “Seven.”

      “Then I suppose you wouldn’t.”

      “No.”

      He picked up his cup and sipped a little. An amber drop of tea clung to a hair just below his lip. She tried not to look.

      “I understand you live here with a boarder,” he said. “It must be quite cramped.”

      “It is. Her name’s Ida, and we share a bed. I barely get any sleep because she chatters incessantly. But then it’s the same everywhere, isn’t it?”

      “Yes, where we are, too.”

      “I shouldn’t really complain.”

      “No, it’s quite all right. I know what it’s like. We don’t have a boarder, but cousin Sophie takes care of us, and we only have two rooms. So that means I share a bed with my father.”

      “Ugh. As bad as it is with Ida, I can’t