In August 1939 I counted the money twice before leaving my room and knew it would not do. My week's wages had been delayed. The man who owed them had opened an empty drawer, shown it to me as though I suspected him of hiding a fortune, and promised payment Monday. Feld expected my last installment that afternoon. I had enough for most of it, provided I ate cheaply until Monday. Ruth could have covered the difference without much trouble. That was the trouble.
Outside, a man was reading news of Buchalter's surrender aloud to another man who kept asking him to begin again. I stopped long enough to hear what was being reported, then continued toward Feld's shop. The public event was larger than anything I carried in my pocket. It did not change the amount I owed. Nor did it explain the small private transactions by which I had got myself into debt. I crossed the street with the other pedestrians when the traffic opened.
Feld was at his desk. The floor had changed over two years: another machine, better lamps, fewer places where a man could hide by pretending to supervise. Ruth had taken responsibility for more of the cutting work, and Esther still disputed a bad arrangement before it became customary. Neither needed my account of the street news. I laid my money on Feld's blotter and told him the shortfall before he counted. He pushed his glasses upward and asked whether I wanted another week.
“Give me until closing,” I said. He looked toward the floor. “There's no need to make a performance.” “I won't.” I gathered the money. At Ruth's bench, she was checking a piece against its pattern. She asked whether I had found work for Monday. I said I was still looking. The easy next sentence would have been a request for an advance, dressed as an ordinary family favor. Instead I asked when the floor closed, and she told me without looking up.
My spare tools were wrapped in an old towel at the lodging. I had kept them against the chance of a steady place where I could leave one set locked away. Some were better than the tools I carried, but keeping the better set would bring less money. I spread both on the bed and selected what I needed to continue earning. The rest I wrapped again. When I lifted the parcel, an empty space showed on the coverlet where the shears had lain.
The first dealer offered less than I needed. He ran his thumb along a handle, found a blemish I knew well, and enlarged it into an argument. I took the parcel back. At the second place, a customer ahead of me wanted a damaged machine made nearly new for almost nothing. I waited while the proprietor tested it. My shirt stuck to my back. I could have gone to Ruth and returned with the whole matter settled before this man finished complaining.
When my turn came, I opened the towel on the counter. The dealer examined the tools without praise. His offer was enough, barely. I asked for a little more and got a shake of the head. For a moment I held the shears instead of surrendering them. They fit my hand better than the pair I would keep. Then I laid them flat. He counted the money, and I counted it again before folding the towel around nothing and putting it in my pocket.
Feld was preparing to leave when I returned. I placed the full balance before him. He checked it against his account, drew a line beneath the figure, and gave me a receipt. It settled only what I owed him; it said nothing about Ruth's unpaid work or whether anybody trusted me. Those matters had required other payments and could not all be counted. I folded the receipt small enough for my wallet. Feld asked if I wanted to sit. I said I had another stop.
Ruth had stayed to prepare the next day's cutting. I told her the debt was paid, then asked whether she had any work for me. She glanced at my tool roll. “Your long shears?” “Sold the spare set.” She considered that, but did not offer to buy them back. There were edges to trim on a small order. She named the rate and said she would check the first pieces before I continued. I accepted. The rate was ordinary, and so was the inspection.
I washed my hands and took the place she indicated. She showed me which allowance to preserve and moved a lamp so I could see the chalk clearly. My first piece passed; the second needed correcting. I corrected it while she waited. Outside, someone called another newspaper headline through the summer noise. Inside, Ruth put the next piece beneath my hand and explained where the cloth had pulled. I listened without anticipating her. Then I bent over the north-window bench and began again as her hired cutter.