Mr. Goldstone said to Samson-Aaron, “You don’t see him often?”
The Uncle shrugged. “He lives in Albany, and I’m here—”
“Then what the devil are you sitting on the other side of the room for? We’ve got two empty places here. Sit down. Sit down, Mrs. Raphaelson. You’ll have dinner with us.”
Samson-Aaron glanced timorously at his son and at Marjorie. “No, ve go back to our own side—I have no tuxedo—”
“Sit down.” It was a command. Marjorie glanced toward her mother, but she had left the dais. “Why—it’s a wonderful idea. Please join us, Uncle—Aunt Dvosha.”
“For Modgerie, anything!” Samson-Aaron fell into a chair beside his son, and planted the bottle firmly before him on the cloth, an explorer’s banner in Arctic snow.
Aunt Dvosha said, “Thank God. We were sitting right next to the radiator. Ninety per cent of t.b. comes from radiator heat.”
The waiter was replacing the grapefruit with chopped chicken liver. Marjorie had never seen chicken liver served like this before: at each place a mound the size of a cantaloupe in a silver-plated bowl of ice. “For pity’s sake, how are we supposed to eat anything after this?”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Goldstone, “you may as well resign yourself to not eating for a week. Lowenstein is fantastic.” She began eating the liver heartily, and so did everyone else except Aunt Dvosha, who sat looking around with a bright smile. Mrs. Goldstone was trying hard not to stare at Aunt Dvosha, but her gaze was repeatedly drawn by the shining eyes, the bobbing yellow feathers across the aunt’s shoulders, and the twinkling rosette of green sequins. Aunt Dvosha caught her eye, and her smile became twice as bright. Mrs. Goldstone said, “You aren’t eating, Mrs. Raphaelson?”
“Chicken liver is concentrated poison,” said Aunt Dvosha pleasantly.
Sandy choked and everyone looked extremely startled. “My aunt is a strict vegetarian,” Marjorie hastily said.
“Oh.” Mrs. Goldstone resumed eating with less gusto.
“That’s interesting,” said Mrs. Connelly. “I have—ah—” She broke off and blinked as Samson-Aaron finished his liver, took Aunt Dvosha’s, and went on eating with hardly a skipped beat of his fork. “We—that is, Mr. Connelly has a brother-in-law who is also a vegetarian—”
Samson-Aaron poured himself a large shot of whiskey and waved the bottle around. “Somebody else?”
The bank manager cleared his throat. “Why, I believe I will, thanks.”
“Me too,” said Mr. Goldstone.
“Leon, there’s all kinds of wine coming—”
“Let it come.” The men drank, with little convivial gestures. Samson-Aaron then ate his soup and the aunt’s. He also ate two portions of tongue in sweet-and-sour sauce, and three of sweetbreads in a pastry crust. He kept pouring whiskey for himself and the other two men, and they kept drinking it despite mutters from their wives. Mrs. Connelly, who was extremely thin and ate very little, was watching the Uncle with morbid fascination. Sandy’s mother was more troubled by Aunt Dvosha. She kept watching the vegetarian out of the corner of her eye. When the sweetbreads were served and she was about to eat them, Aunt Dvosha laid a hand on her arm and Mrs. Goldstone jumped as though pinched. “Excuse me,” said Aunt Dvosha, “but don’t.”
“Pardon me?”
“Excuse me, I know it’s not my business. But you’re an asthenic type. Like me. For an asthenic type to eat a gland—you may as well cut your throat and be done with it.”
“Aunt Dvosha, please!” exclaimed Marjorie. “You have no right to—”
“No, no, it’s most interesting,” said Mrs. Goldstone faintly. “I never thought of sweetbreads as a gland—it’s rather a horrible word, but—”
“Of course it’s a gland. What else is the pancreas but a gland? One huge gland, the biggest gland,” said Aunt Dvosha. “For other types a gland is bad enough, but for you to eat a gland—”
“I believe you’re quite right,” said Mrs. Goldstone, pushing the sweetbreads far away. “I definitely will not eat that gland.—Leon, don’t you think you’ve had enough whiskey?”
Samson-Aaron was refilling the magnate’s glass. Geoffrey laid hold of the bottle. “Papa, go easy for a while—”
“Miltie, it’s a bar-mitzva!” cried Samson-Aaron, twisting the bottle out of his son’s hand.
“By God, you’re right. Here’s to Arnold Morgenstern and his family,” exclaimed Mr. Connelly, who was now quite rosy-faced. He tilted his skullcap rakishly forward and raised his glass. “Jew or Christian, a man’s a man, I say, and Arnold’s as good a man as I know, and I know lots of them. I’m proud to be at this bar-mitzva and here’s to Arnold, and to his wife, and to his fine son and”—he swung his glass toward Marjorie—“to his beautiful and charming daughter, the elegant hostess at our table, by God, and if I were twenty years younger and single I’d propose to her on the spot!”
Mr. Goldstone and Mr. Connelly discovered that they were both golfers; they exchanged one anecdote after another, leaning back and shaking with laughter, in which Samson-Aaron joined with happy bellows.
Aunt Dvosha, meantime, talked across Samson-Aaron to Geoffrey, explaining to him all the characters and incidents in his novel, and urging him to insert something about diet and health in his next book. Geoffrey gnawed his pipe and slumped in his chair, nodding, his eyes dull. Mrs. Connelly and Mrs. Goldstone talked about the problems of charity theatre parties, watching their husbands anxiously as the brown bottle went around.
The headwaiter wheeled up a table bearing four rib roasts sizzling on a steel grill over a spirit flame. An assistant in dazzling white began slicing slabs of rare meat, and another assistant dished out immense baked potatoes and thick brilliant green asparagus.
“Glory be,” said Mrs. Connelly. “Nothing for me, please, nothing. I declare I can’t eat another bite. I’ve never seen anything like this!”
“Give her, give her,” Samson-Aaron said to the waiter, “somebody vill eat it.” He threw Mrs. Connelly a sly wink. She shuddered and smiled.
Mr. and Mrs. Morgenstern came to the table, beaming, arm in arm. “Having enough to eat, folks?” said the father. He glowed at the chorus of gay answers.
The mother said, “Somebody rearranged the seating plan, I see.” Aunt Dvosha fingered her feathers. The Uncle, with a side glance at Marjorie, bent over his plate, eating busily. “Well, it’s only right, after all, a father with his son. I’m sorry the Robisons couldn’t come, lovely people—”
“Couldn’t be any more lovely than the company we’ve got,” declared Mr. Connelly. “Salt of the earth, Mrs. Raphaelson. Great fellow, Mr. Feder.”
“Time of our lives,” said Mr. Goldstone. “Marvelous party. Worth every penny, Morgenstern. Fine boy you’ve got there.”
“You’ve got a fine one there yourself.” Sandy looked embarrassed and adjusted his skullcap.
Mrs. Morgenstern said with a laugh, “Well, we won’t keep you from your food. Come on, Arnold. Hearty appetite, folks. Take care of things, Marjorie,” she added, pressing the girl’s shoulder.
“I’ll do my best, Mother.”
Samson-Aaron, eating faster than usual to avoid Mrs. Morgenstern’s eye, had cleaned his plate. He took Aunt Dvosha’s, which had on it an unusually thick piece of meat and an oversized potato. Mrs. Connelly’s eyes widened. There was silence while everybody attacked the food except the bank manager’s wife, who sat drumming her fingers, staring at the Uncle like a rabbit at oncoming headlights. He heaved a great sigh as he finished Aunt Dvosha’s roast beef and potato; laid down his knife and fork, leaned back, and mopped his brow. He heaved another sigh, picked up his knife and fork, and turned to Mrs. Connelly with his harmless grin. “Vell,” he said, indicating her piled-up plate with his fork, “if you’re sure you don’t vant it, no sense it should go to vaste, so—”
“No, no!” shrieked Mrs. Connelly, recoiling in her chair.
The bank manager said, “Good heavens, Katherine, what’s the matter??
??
“He can’t, he can’t. Don’t let him. It isn’t human.” She passed a fluttering hand over her face.
Samson-Aaron looked at Geoffrey, then at Marjorie in astonishment. “Vot’s the matter, the lady don’t feel good? Vy is that? She didn’t eat so much.”
“She’s another asthenic type,” said Aunt Dvosha. “She ate enough chicken liver to kill an army of asthenics.”
“Kate dear, what is it?” Mr. Connelly seized her hand and patted it.
“Darling, I’m sorry, it’s terribly rude of me, but—” She returned her horrified glance to the Uncle. “Didn’t you see how much Mr. Feder has eaten? It’s incredible. I don’t believe four tigers could have eaten what he has. And now he wants my roast beef. I’m afraid he’ll die, right here. I—it’s unbelievable—”
Samson-Aaron looked at Marjorie, smiling uncertainly. He laid down his knife and fork. “I eat too much? I make a shame for you? Good food, a pity to vaste it—”
“It’s all right, Uncle.” Marjorie turned to Mrs. Connelly and laughed. “Really, we’re so used to the Uncle in the family, nobody thinks anything of it. He’s our champion eater, that’s all.”
“I’ve been envying him his appetite,” said Sandy. “I thought I was an eater, until tonight.”
“It’s about time you stopped, Papa,” said Geoffrey. “You’ve eaten more than enough—even for a bar-mitzva.”
Samson-Aaron turned his palms outward, picked up the bottle, and said to the Irish lady, “Missus, I upset you, I’m sorry. Take a drink, please. You feel better, make me feel better.”
Mrs. Connelly accepted the whiskey, drank it, and did feel better almost at once. She said with a giggle, taking hold of her plate, “I believe I would like to see him eat it, at that.”
She passed the plate to Samson-Aaron, who contemplated the meat without enthusiasm. “I don’t know vy, but I haven’t got the appetite no more—but still—”
“Thank heaven, Papa, let it alone,” said Geoffrey, who had grown very red. “It’s no entertainment for anyone to watch a human boa constrictor in action.”
Samson-Aaron swung his head heavily and regarded his son with mournful eyes. “Vot’s a boa constructor?”
“A snake that can swallow its own weight in one meal,” said Geoffrey, chewing his pipe.
“Miltie darling, that’s your old father, it’s an old story,” said the Uncle, with a placating shrug. “It’s a bar-mitzva after all, no? A man shouldn’t eat because he sits on the fency side?”
Mr. Goldstone emptied his whiskey glass and set it on the table with a thump. “Tell me, Mr. Quill, you got something like that in your book? A son who calls his own father a snake?”
There was a moment’s silence. Geoffrey looked at Mr. Goldstone with a half-smile, holding the pipe awkwardly in his teeth, like a boy of twelve caught smoking. The musicians struck up the tune to which Marjorie and the Uncle had danced that afternoon. She said brightly, “Oh, really, Mr. Goldstone, Geoffrey meant no harm—”
“Let him answer for himself,” said Mr. Goldstone, looking steadily at Geoffrey.
“Vot’s to answer?” said the Uncle. “My son Geoffrey makes a little joke, so vot’s wrong? In our family who doesn’t make jokes vit me? Mr. Goldstone, you should never need nothing from your son, but if you do, he should treat you no vorse than my son. My son is a good son. He calls me a boa constructor, say listen, he could call me much vorse, it still vouldn’t be no lie, you know?” He laughed and picked up the bottle. “Come on, everybody have a drink vit the boa constructor! Listen, it’s a bar-mitzva, isn’t it? The son of Arnold Morgenstern, the big success in the family, ve all proud of him.”
He offered the bottle around, but nobody pushed forward a glass. Geoffrey said, with an anguished twist of the head, “Pa, everybody’s had enough. So have you—put the bottle away—”
Mr. Connelly said, “Why, I’ll join Mr. Feder. He’s right, these things come once in a lifetime.”
Samson-Aaron gratefully filled the bank manager’s glass. “Mr. Connelly, you’re a gentleman. Vit Irishers I alvays got along, God bless them. I’ll tell you something, it’s thanks to an Irisher, nobody else, I could come here tonight, I could see my son, have a good time—”
“An Irishman? Really?” Mr. Connelly said with a little smile. “Who?”
“I should live so. My boss, Mr. Gogarty, an Irisher vit a Jewish heart”—Mr. Goldstone, who was folding his napkin, looked up—”I told him it vas a bar-mitzva, he hired a substitute vatchman from his own pocket, it’s strictly against the rules vare I vork. So here’s to Mr. Gogarty, no? He should live and be vell. You too, Mr. Connelly—”
“Pardon me, Mr. Feder,” said Sandy’s father. “Where do you work?”
“It’s a new job,” said the Uncle, “temporary, for the Christmas rush season, but listen, a job is a job, no? I vork in the downtown storehouse of Lamm’s department store.”
Mr. Goldstone, his mouth an upcurving line of grim amusement, looked at his wife. Mrs. Goldstone raised her eyebrows and glanced from Marjorie to Sandy. The bank manager drank his whiskey and made a great thing of taking cellophane off a cigar. Sandy grinned halfheartedly at Marjorie, who laughed and stammered, “Well, really, that’s—talk about a small world! Isn’t that something? That’s a real joke—”
“Vot’s the joke?” said Samson-Aaron, looking as though he would very much like to laugh if he could.
“You only think that this Mr. Gogarty is your boss,” Marjorie said, trying to keep bubbly amusement in her voice. “Your real boss is sitting right across from you.”
“Vot?”
“He owns Lamm’s,” said the girl, pointing.
Geoffrey Quill blurted to Mr. Goldstone, “You really do? Lamm’s?”
Mr. Goldstone nodded. “You want to write a book about a department store, pay me a visit. Only don’t call me a snake in the book.”
Samson-Aaron stared at Mr. Goldstone, opened his mouth, closed it, and smiled foolishly, showing the black gap in his teeth. He pushed back his chair with a heavy scrape and stood. “Come, Dvosha, ve go to the other side—”
Marjorie said, laying a hand on his arm, “Uncle, don’t be silly—”
“If I know you’re the owner of Lamm’s,” the Uncle said to Mr. Goldstone, “I vouldn’t sit down at the table in the first place. Respect is respect, the boss and the night vatchman don’t eat at the same table.” He pulled at Aunt Dvosha’s hand.
Mr. Goldstone said, “Sit down and don’t embarrass the whole table.” Samson-Aaron, responding like a child, sank back into his chair. The magnate went on more pleasantly, “It’s a family occasion, those things don’t count here. You’re very good company and we’re having a fine time. So forget about it, and—”
He broke off because the young rabbi of the temple was rapping a fork on his glass at the dais. When the room quieted the rabbi led the after-grace. He then made a speech; then another rabbi made a speech; then a third rabbi made a speech; all elaborate and repetitious tributes to the Morgenstern family, ornamented with Biblical and Talmudic allusions, and in the young rabbi’s case with quotations from Aristotle and Santayana. The grandmother on the dais curled up in her chair, asleep. Mr. and Mrs. Morgenstern listened eagerly and proudly. Seth sat slumped on one elbow, listlessly mouthing a banana.
Marjorie could not follow any of the speeches, preoccupied as she was by the restlessness and boredom of the guests at her table. Tears were standing in Sandy’s eyes from swallowing yawns. Mr. Goldstone made no effort to swallow his. Once Marjorie saw him make an impatient sidewise gesture of the head to his wife, who answered with a weary negative shake. The Connellys alone kept up a resolute air of smiling attention.
Worst of all was the effect on Samson-Aaron. The glaze of his glance, the frozen creases of his smile, the viscous settling of his body like warm putty, were ominous. The applause for the third rabbi startled him into looking here and there and clapping wildly. But then the assemblyman began to speak; and his pros
e acted on the Uncle like a rolling cloud of chloroform. Poked from left and right by Aunt Dvosha and his son, he absorbed the blows like a feather bolster, and kept settling. His eyes drooped, his smile faded, his head fell forward on his chest. Samson-Aaron was asleep, and there was obviously nothing anybody could do about it.
Geoffrey said to the others in a strained light tone, “I must apologize for my father. A man of extremes, I’m afraid…”
“A natural man,” said Sandy. “When he eats he eats, when he drinks he drinks, when he sleeps he sleeps. I envy him.”
“I believe you do,” said Mr. Goldstone.
Sandy shrank under the cutting tone and sardonic look of his father. “Well, all I mean—we’d all fall asleep if we dared.”
“Let’s go, Mary, or I will fall asleep,” Mr. Goldstone said. “Marjorie will excuse us, I’m sure—”
“Not while he’s talking, Leon. He’s an assemblyman.”
“So? Don’t I know him? A police-court lawyer, hung around the Democratic Club thirty years. What is that? Let’s go—”
“Be quiet,” said Mrs. Goldstone, with a naked note of authority, and Mr. Goldstone subsided, growling.
When the assemblyman finished, about a quarter of an hour later, Mr. Goldstone jumped up. Dance music started at the same time. “Come on, Mary, Sandy, let’s go.”
The mother rose. Couples were coming out on the dance floor. Sandy said, “I don’t know, Dad—thought maybe I’d stay and have a dance or two—”
“I want you to drive. I don’t see so good at night. You know that.” Mr. Goldstone held out his hand to Marjorie. “You give your mother and father our thanks and excuses, Margie, okay? Lovely party, and you’re a lovely girl—”
“Thank you. Must—must you go?”
Mr. Goldstone’s eyes rested on the sleeping Uncle for a long moment. As through his eyes, Marjorie saw with painful clarity the split seams of the dangling vest, the stains on the blue jacket, the buttons of the striped silk shirt straining over the huge paunch, the gray stubble on the slack chin. “Tell your uncle not to worry about Gogarty, it’s perfectly all right—quite a fellow, your uncle—”