“Now, Manny, get all that foolishness out of your head. You’re gonna be through school in no time now and then we’ll get married. My father will furnish an office for you and....”
Yes, he knew that. Her father would furnish an office for him. All East Side fathers did. He had seen it happen again and again. To some of his classmates, too. An office—then he’d have to practise. Marry Etta, practise, make money for her, for his family, for Reba’s dowry, who would in turn be sold to somebody else, a lawyer or dentist perhaps. Was there no way out of it?
There must be! He would be a writer. An author. After all, there must be money in it. So many magazines. And then, perhaps, he would write a book. Would Etta, would his family care how the money came, as long as he gave them enough? He saw his name on a dull-red volume. In golden letters: Emmanuel Wolkowitz.
But why did they want money so much?
“Why do you want money so much, Etta?”
“Well, my Gawd, who don’t? This ain’t living, the way we go on now. Maybe once a week you take me to the movies. Oh, I ain’t complaining, Manny. Only it’s pretty hard. All the other girls at the office have good times. They go to Coney Island, Broadway, they go to cabarets, dances. I’m as good-looking as they are. I got nice clothes. You’re all right, Manny, but gee, it’s long, waiting like this.”
“Oh....”
“You ain’t sore at me, are you, because I told you? It’ll be all right, Manny! You’ll make good. I’ll speak to my father. He’ll come across.”
“Oh....”
He didn’t go near her for the next three or four days.