Finally, I turned and met her gaze. Then there was no need of further words between us. When her eyes looked into mine, she seemed to know the whole story as fully as if I had told it to her. I could never describe the look that came into her face. It was something like the mother-look that I had seen there when she was nursing one of her babies. But it was intensified. She moved toward me, put her arms around my neck, and gazed up into my face.
“Don’t worry, Harve; you’ll find something else soon.”
I think it was the fine instinct of the thoroughbred in my wife that made her now call me “Harve.” It had been a long time since she had called me that. We had grown to be to each other just “Dad” and “Mother.” But the “Harve” brought with it a certain reassurance of youth-an encouragement to the personality that was mine irrespective of my fatherhood; to the me who had been her lover, husband, pal. It sent a thrill through me that braced my spine. I put my arms around her, drew her to me, and laid my face down against hers.
Since then I have learned that the lover always is young.
From this time on my wife and I fell back into the old habit of calling each other “Harve” and “Mattie.”
During the days that followed I missed her more than I could ever tell. But we were both a good deal worried about George, who was pretty sick. I went over to Brooklyn each evening, to see how he was, and to do what things I could to help. The days I put in looking for work. George’s sickness, which was going to be a big expense, added to my feeling that I must find an immediate job.
It happened that Walter was not at home just at this time. He is an electrical engineer, and his company had sent him out in the state to do some work.
I trailed around to printing-offices, little and big. As yet I had made no attempt to find work outside of my own trade, in which I had had a lifetime of training. But nothing offered. A good many printers happened to be looking for jobs at this same time; and the younger man was always given the preference. I had two or three promises from bosses-men whom I had known. But these promises all turned out disappointments.
Then, one night, I was going home after having traveled the rounds all day in Harlem. I was tired and pretty well discouraged. After having paid my next month’s rent and some other small bills, and taken money over to Brooklyn to help out with the expenses of George’s sickness, I had only about ten dollars left in the bank.
By this time I had come to understand that I must look for some kind of work aside from a printing-office. So this day I had made the try for a job in several stores, and other places. But with no success. They had no jobs for men of my years. If I had been a cook, I might have got a place in a Third Avenue restaurant. There seemed to be more demands for cooks than for any other kind of labor.