Wallace Markfield
THE PATRO N
On the seventh Friday, Mr. Fisher made his proposal
to
Mordecai Karp who lay upon the mohair couch in the parlor, listening
sternly to a late Beethoven quartet as Mr. Fisher's daughter, Henri–
etta, plaited the sidelocks grown over-long about the young man's
ears.
"Mordecai," said Mr. Fisher, cupping hands across the curve
of belly, "in another house, with another father, there would be
questions now." He turned to Henrietta. "Stop a minute while your
father talks. "I was saying that some families would not be happy
with the situation. You can see it yourself, you are an intelligent boy.
My daughter is more than the age for children ..." Henrietta
sniggered, and Mordecai frowned, rubbing his temple, where one
great vein stood out like a small bicep. "The point is," Mr. Fisher
continued, "we have wondered over something, these last two Fridays
that you come for dinner."
"Superb dinners, too," Mordecai said, half-smiling to Mrs.
Fisher, who was clearing the dishes from the coffee table. "Better
each time, believe me."
"I want you should hear it," Mr. Fisher hesitated, "the proposal
we have."
"Please!" Mordecai cried, rigid now. "No matter how tender,
I will not be trapped by a piece of boneless brisket. Go, go call him
now, Marvin the dental surgeon,
I'll
bet his number is close at hand.
He will give Henrietta more happiness than a young writer who is
obscure, who receives as yet only small notes from the ice-bellied lady
editors and-yes, I am not ashamed-has even learned to fashion
two meals from a can of browned rice."
In
anguish, Mrs. Fisher's head rocked back and forth. "Tell me,
how two meals?"
