A Book of Great Worth Read Online Free PDF Page B

reigned on the Pearlman porch during cocktail hour, or so it seemed to my father. Hillary and Betty often sat together on a wicker sofa, their knees pressed together like schoolgirls, and chattered about what my father thought of as womanly matters: cooking, clothes, the children. My fa ther, who invariably sat in a green Adirondack chair across from them, would sometimes be drawn into these light conversations, though he had little to say. Schmidt preferred to stand, pacing restlessly around the room and offering brief occasional pronouncements on the weather, the state of the crops, politics or, invariably, the growing threat of war in Europe.
    “When it comes,” he liked to predict, “there will be no standing on the sidelines. Will we be with Germany? Or against her? Harry, where will you stand?”
    If Robert Pearlman was present, this was sure to provoke a spirited argument. He was opposed to war, and if there was one, he believed, England and the Americas should stay well clear of it.
    Of more interest to my father than the conversation was the exchange of glances that ricocheted around the cozy room, especially in Robert’s absence. He, of course, could not help but cast fleeting looks of adoration at Hillary, try though he did to keep them furtive. For her part, Mrs. Pearlman usually ignored these looks, but oc casionally she would raise her head and meet his gaze, returning his timid glance with what he was sure was a meaningful one of her own. But meaning what?
    My father also became aware that Betty, cheerful, innocent Betty, was similarly casting glances in his direction, and her manner with him was frequently noth ing short of flirtatious. And it was patently obvious that Schmidt was gazing, as often as he decently could, at the wife of his employer, all the while attempting to di vert attention by running his hand across his smoothly shaven chin. It also gradually became obvious to my father that Schmidt, when not gazing at Hillary, was scowling at him, and that his rancour seemed to grow in direct proportion to the amount of attention that Mrs. Pearlman gave him.
    Years later, when my father would tell this story, he would remark at this point that it was only his youth and inexperience that prevented him from being overwhelmed by the sexual frisson and intrigue darting like dragonflies after mosquitoes beneath the slowly turning fan in the Pearlman porch as, outside, darkness gently fell over the countryside.
    •••
    The stream my father had noticed the first day had been dammed at the end of the meadow, creating a pond where the cows drank, pausing in their endless chewing to dip their dark muzzles deep into the water. The pond was remarkably like the one my father remembered from the family farm in Galicia. There were small fish and eels in the pond, and my father and Benjy became expert at luring them with worms and minnows. As a boy, half a world away, he’d fished with a stick cut from a branch and a string. Now, just a decade later, he and Benjy made use of new rods and tackle that Pearlman had purchased in the city for them. Even Esther enjoyed the fishing, though she couldn’t bear to touch either bait or fish. As the summer progressed, Betty became equally expert at turning the fish into a succession of memorable meals. Even the unpleasant-looking eels, when cooked in a soup with lots of salt and pepper, were made pleasing by her clever hands.
    “What, are we becoming Catholics, fish on Friday?” Robert Pearlman jokingly complained the first time he enjoyed the fruits of these fishing expeditions, and he tousled his son’s hair, causing Benjy to squirm with pleasure. “Harry, you’re supposed to be teaching them Yiddish, not Latin.”
    Later, this joking complaint was picked up by Schmidt, who darkened it into “What, fish again?” and then, “Not fish again!” But, my father noticed, Schmidt always ate every bite.
    As they lounged by the pond in the July heat, their poles by their