Joe helped himself to a cigarette from the silver box on his desk. To the clerk he said carelessly: “Call up Mr. Mitchell, and tell him I will see him here at eleven o’clock.”
The door closed; and mother and son were left looking at each other. Joe had the advantage, because the windows were at his back. He experienced no emotion at the sight of his mother. In eight years she had changed very much. That vigorous, peasant’s frame was broken. Her face which had once had the strength of apathy, looked sodden now. Her clothes . . . Ugh! Joe hoped she would not sit down on one of his chairs. She seemed incapable of speaking; and Joe felt no inclination to help her out. It was a settled maxim with him, to make the other party speak first. He lit his cigarette with the greatest deliberation, and holding the lighted match high above the ash receiver, let it flicker down.
Finally she stammered: “I seen the name and the address in a newspaper. . . . I come round to see if it was my Joe Kaplan. . . .”
“Did you tell anybody in this building your name?”
She shook her head. “I do’ want to make no trouble for you, Joe.”
“What do you want?”
“Well, Joe. . . .” Speech failed her. With a falling hand, she indicated herself—then him.
Joe regarded her thoughtfully; whistling between his teeth.
After a silence, she began again. “Well, Joe . . . your fat’er is sick. He’s got the consumption. He’s like to die on me any day. . . .”
“Isn’t that old geezer dead yet?” said Joe.