“What do you want that for?” she said suspiciously.
“I’m going to the bank,” he said ironically.
“I wanted something to carry my money in.”
But immediately he added roughly: “I’m going on a picnic.”
“Huh?
Hah?
What’s that you say?” said Eliza.
“A picnic?
Who are you going with?
That girl?”
“No,” he said heavily, “with President Wilson, the King of England, and Dr. Doak.
We’re going to have lemonade — I’ve promised to bring the lemons.”
“I’ll vow, boy!” said Eliza fretfully.
“I don’t like it — your running off this way when I need you.
I wanted you to make a deposit for me, and the telephone people will disconnect me if I don’t send them the money today.”
“O mama!
For God’s sake!” he cried annoyed.
“You always need me when I want to go somewhere.
Let them wait!
They can wait a day.”
“It’s overdue,” she said.
“Well, here you are.
I wish I had time to go off on picnics.”
She fished a shoe-box out of a pile of magazines and newspapers that littered the top of a low cupboard.
“Have you got anything to eat?”
“We’ll get it,” he said, and departed.
They went down the hill, and paused at the musty little grocery around the corner on Woodson Street, where they bought crackers, peanut butter, currant jelly, bottled pickles, and a big slice of rich yellow cheese.
The grocer was an old Jew who muttered jargon into a rabbi’s beard as if saying a spell against Dybbuks.
The boy looked closely to see if his hands touched the food.
They were not clean.
On their way up the hill, they stopped for a few minutes at Gant’s.
They found Helen and Ben in the dining-room.
Ben was eating breakfast, bending, as usual, with scowling attention, over his coffee, turning from eggs and bacon almost with disgust.
Helen insisted on contributing boiled eggs and sandwiches to their provision: the two women went back into the kitchen.
Eugene sat at table with Ben, drinking coffee.
“O-oh my God!” Ben said at length, yawning wearily.
He lighted a cigarette.
“How’s the Old Man this morning?”
“He’s all right, I think.
Said he couldn’t eat breakfast.”
“Did he say anything to the boarders?”
“‘You damned scoundrels!
You dirty Mountain Grills!
Whee —!’
That was all.”
Ben snickered quietly.
“Did he hurt your hand?
Let’s see.”
“No.
You can’t see anything.