THE PATRON
83
he tended to question the meaning of his life during the last two
stops. Perhaps then the proposal teased his consciousness, like an
overfull bladder at night. More likely, though, it had come much
later, when his wife had opened Henrietta's pocketbook to insert a
bill, as was her habit. Color thick on cheek and brow, she had pushed
the paper from his hands as he lay in bed and dropped her bulk
upon the silken coverlet. "A good child, a fine child," she moaned,
"you pour your life out on them-and for what?"
"Who, where?" he had asked. "What boils over now?"
"Where her lipstick should be, where she should keep powder
and a little bag of sachet to give a sweet, clean smell, I find it there."
Fingers opened, where loathesome it curled within her palm, and the
night had pierced him for a moment like a sword. "All right," he
said, staring at the opening in his pajamas, at the flesh bulging grey
and flabby, "you forget Emma Goldman already and the picnics
of the Youth Circle, coming back for the boat with the grass smell
on your dress?" Only then the proposal glowed in his mind and urged
him from the bed to give it shape and beat down the will of his wife,
who came upon him with secret stores of energy and curses that
seemed to bubble from her blood.
Coffee drained unto the bitter grounds, the kitchen could no
longer hold them. Mrs. Fisher hovered in the hall, joggling from
living room to bathroom, using the flush of water to pad the sound
of movement. Once, for all her toe-pinched stealth, Mordecai peered
through: "Please!" he said, and shut the door again.
She went back to the kitchen and began, compulsively, to wash
the sink. "The time they've been in there ... you could give birth."
Mr. Fisher took the bags of garbage into the street and stood for a
moment, holding his head into the cut of the wind, a joyous sob
catching his throat as it had not for more seasons than he knew.
Upstairs now, the phonograph was on again, and lights in pro–
fusion. Mordecai stood in hat and scarf, striding up and back as
Henrietta searched the closet for his gloves. "It is done," he said.
"Not the state, nor the foundations with their soul-sucking blanks, but
you shall be my patron." He slithered into his coat, feeling for the
manila envelope which was always with him. "Let it be Monday
then, when I shall return with a few of my things. Clothes of course"
(he sneered) "will be small problem."
Hand upon the door, he turned. "One more thing. It is a long
