The Featherbed. Джон Миллер

      Silence swooped in, exposing the creaking of her chair.

      “Excuse me for a second,” she said; she got up and slammed a fist down on the seat, locking the loose leg into place. When she sat back down, she noticed that Isaac seemed startled, and realized that what she had just done was probably considered unladylike. She decided it best to move the conversation along.

      “I hope you don’t think I’m being rude,” she said, “but may I ask when your mother passed away?”

      “It’s okay to ask. It was four years ago. After that, cousin Sophie came from Poland to be with us.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “Thank you. It’s been hard on my father.”

      “He doesn’t seem so well, if you don’t mind my saying.” She wanted to say neither do you, though at least now his cheeks were flushing a little bit.

      “He hasn’t been the same since she died. He was beginning to get a little confused beforehand, but it’s been worse since then.”

      “It’s lucky your cousin could come, then.”

      “Yes, it is.”

      Rebecca got up to put more cookies on the plate. She thought she would die if the conversation didn’t get more interesting. At least it was moving, but more like a hunchback dragging a lame foot. When she sat down she was aware of Isaac staring at her face again.

      “What is it? Do I have a crumb?”

      “No, no, that’s not it. I was just noticing you’re quite pretty.”

      She felt her neck get hot. “Thank you, but you don’t have to say that.”

      “I know.”

      “These situations ... These arrangements are so outside of our control. It doesn’t really matter what we think, does it?”

      “But it doesn’t hurt when you find a person pleasing.”

      Rebecca turned her face away. She wondered if she should say something about him; it was the polite thing to do, but it didn’t feel right. He wasn’t bad looking, really, but to say he was attractive would seem forced. She picked up the teapot and felt its weight. It was almost full.

      “Should I make more tea?” she said.

      “No, don’t, let’s go for a walk. I want to show you the street I was thinking we could move to when we’re married.”

      “Are you sure? What if our parents come back, shouldn’t we wait?”

      “Don’t worry — we won’t be gone long.”

      “Okay,” she said, removing the tray from the table. Actually she was relieved that they would be getting outdoors. At least walking with him the silences would be less uncomfortable. They wouldn’t have to look at one another.

      Isaac helped her on with her coat, and they left the apartment. When they reached the street, the cold air slapped her face, and the sweet-sickly smell of burning garbage tickled her nostrils. She looked left and right to see who was outside. Thank God she didn’t see Mr. Zussel. Thank God it was the Sabbath and he took the day off. She couldn’t have faced an encounter with him right now, it would surely have involved embarrassing questions and very probably some teasing.

      The street traffic was sparse, but not enough for her liking. People she recognized from the neighbourhood were still returning from services, walking briskly along to get out of the cold as quickly as possible. A family that lived a few buildings down and to whom they had been introduced once at shul nodded at her as they passed, then slowed down and stared as she walked by. It might have been her imagination, but she felt their eyes following her, as if her body, flanked by Isaac’s, were exerting some magnetic pull on their faces.

      The wind picked up as she moved around the corner, intensified by the tunnel effect of the buildings. A cloud of dust picked up, and she squeezed her eyes shut until it passed. It hadn’t rained in a few days, so the usually swamp-like street had dried up, leaving a shifting layer of grime on top of dry, cracked earth. In this state, their boots were temporarily safe from mud and sog, but now the rest of their clothes would acquire a fine, brown coating. A scarf pulled from her pocket and wrapped around her face protected her from the next lashing.

      Isaac pulled a cap out from under his coat. “This is one of mine. Do you like it?”

      She looked it over. It was grey wool, smooth and neatly made, but she could find no features that distinguished it from hundreds of her father’s that she had seen.

      “It’s very nice.”

      “Look at the stitching. Yekl taught me that.”

      She looked at the seam near the brim, but still could not notice anything special. She decided it would be best to steer the conversation elsewhere.

      “You work with him, my father told me. He seems like a good man.”

      “Yes, he’s been very kind. He’s taught me everything I know. He says when he dies I can have his part in the business.”

      “That’s lucky for you.”

      “For us, you mean.”

      “Yes, of course. For us.”

      “I think by that time, I’ll be better at the money part of the business. As opposed to the cap-making part. That’s the part I really like.”

      “The money part?”

      “No the other. The cap-making.”

      “Well it sure is nice to have something you like doing.”

      “It sure is.” He scratched his cheek with his pinky again. “I’m going to night school,” she offered. “That’s what I love to do.”

      “Your father told me you worked in one of the factories.”

      “I do. But that’s just work. When I go to school, that’s when I feel alive.”

      “I know what you mean. It’s like when I make a great cap, when the stitching is absolutely perfect, and the material I’ve chosen is just right... smooth, nice texture, and then someone buys it. It’s the greatest feeling. Pure satisfaction.”

      They walked in silence for about ten minutes, while Rebecca searched desperately for something else to talk about. When they got to Seward Park, Isaac was out of breath again and suggested they sit on a bench for a moment.

      “Are you all right?” she asked. His face was looking sickly again.

      “I’m fine, I just have to be careful not to overexert myself.”

      “Do you mind if I ask what’s wrong? You took some medicine when you arrived at the apartment.”

      “It’s digitalis. For my heart. I have to take it if my heart gets going too much. It slows it down.”

      “It sounds serious.” She didn’t want to pry, but this was the man she was supposed to marry. Would he become an invalid? Would she have to take care of him? Mrs. Bryant, two floors down, had a husband with a bad heart, and haggard would be a kind description of her.

      “It’s not, really. It’s a problem I’ve had since I was a kid.”

      Since he was a kid? What was not serious about that?

      “How old are you now, if you don’t mind my asking?”

      “Twenty-four. Anyway, don’t worry about my heart. I feel fine, mostly. It’s really nothing, I just have to be careful. You won’t have to worry about my health, I promise. We just have to get an apartment on the second or third floor and we’ll be fine. I think the five flights to your place is a bit too much to do every day.”

      His words didn’t inspire much confidence, coming