Marjorie Morningstar (17 page)

“Chicken liver is concentrated poison,” said Aunt Dvosha pleasantly.

Sandy choked and everyone looked extremely startled. “My aunt is a strict vegetarian,”
Marjorie hastily said.

“Oh.” Mrs. Goldstone resumed eating with less gusto.

“That’s interesting,” said Mrs. Connelly. “I have—ah—” She broke off and blinked as
Samson-Aaron finished his liver, took Aunt Dvosha’s, and went on eating with hardly
a skipped beat of his fork. “We—that is, Mr. Connelly has a brother-in-law who is
also a vegetarian—”

Samson-Aaron poured himself a large shot of whiskey and waved the bottle around. “Somebody
else?”

The bank manager cleared his throat. “Why, I believe I will, thanks.”

“Me too,” said Mr. Goldstone.

“Leon, there’s all kinds of wine coming—”

“Let it come.” The men drank, with little convivial gestures. Samson-Aaron then ate
his soup and the aunt’s. He also ate two portions of tongue in sweet-and-sour sauce,
and three of sweetbreads in a pastry crust. He kept pouring whiskey for himself and
the other two men, and they kept drinking it despite mutters from their wives. Mrs.
Connelly, who was extremely thin and ate very little, was watching the Uncle with
morbid fascination. Sandy’s mother was more troubled by Aunt Dvosha. She kept watching
the vegetarian out of the corner of her eye. When the sweetbreads were served and
she was about to eat them, Aunt Dvosha laid a hand on her arm and Mrs. Goldstone jumped
as though pinched. “Excuse me,” said Aunt Dvosha, “but don’t.”

“Pardon me?”

“Excuse me, I know it’s not my business. But you’re an asthenic type. Like me. For
an asthenic type to eat a gland—you may as well cut your throat and be done with it.”

“Aunt Dvosha,
please!
” exclaimed Marjorie. “You have no right to—”

“No, no, it’s most interesting,” said Mrs. Goldstone faintly. “I never thought of
sweetbreads as a gland—it’s rather a horrible word, but—”

“Of course it’s a gland. What else is the pancreas but a gland? One huge gland, the
biggest gland,” said Aunt Dvosha. “For other types a gland is bad enough, but for
you to eat a gland—”

“I believe you’re quite right,” said Mrs. Goldstone, pushing the sweetbreads far away.
“I definitely will not eat that gland.—Leon, don’t you think you’ve had enough whiskey?”

Samson-Aaron was refilling the magnate’s glass. Geoffrey laid hold of the bottle.
“Papa, go easy for a while—”

“Miltie, it’s a bar-mitzva!” cried Samson-Aaron, twisting the bottle out of his son’s
hand.

“By God, you’re right. Here’s to Arnold Morgenstern and his family,” exclaimed Mr.
Connelly, who was now quite rosy-faced. He tilted his skullcap rakishly forward and
raised his glass. “Jew or Christian, a man’s a man, I say, and Arnold’s as good a
man as I know, and I know lots of them. I’m proud to be at this bar-mitzva and here’s
to Arnold, and to his wife, and to his fine son and”—he swung his glass toward Marjorie—“to
his beautiful and charming daughter, the elegant hostess at our table, by God, and
if I were twenty years younger and single I’d propose to her on the spot!”

Mr. Goldstone and Mr. Connelly discovered that they were both golfers; they exchanged
one anecdote after another, leaning back and shaking with laughter, in which Samson-Aaron
joined with happy bellows.

Aunt Dvosha, meantime, talked across Samson-Aaron to Geoffrey, explaining to him all
the characters and incidents in his novel, and urging him to insert something about
diet and health in his next book. Geoffrey gnawed his pipe and slumped in his chair,
nodding, his eyes dull. Mrs. Connelly and Mrs. Goldstone talked about the problems
of charity theatre parties, watching their husbands anxiously as the brown bottle
went around.

The headwaiter wheeled up a table bearing four rib roasts sizzling on a steel grill
over a spirit flame. An assistant in dazzling white began slicing slabs of rare meat,
and another assistant dished out immense baked potatoes and thick brilliant green
asparagus.

“Glory be,” said Mrs. Connelly. “Nothing for me, please, nothing. I declare I can’t
eat another bite. I’ve never seen anything like this!”

“Give her, give her,” Samson-Aaron said to the waiter, “somebody vill eat it.” He
threw Mrs. Connelly a sly wink. She shuddered and smiled.

Mr. and Mrs. Morgenstern came to the table, beaming, arm in arm. “Having enough to
eat, folks?” said the father. He glowed at the chorus of gay answers.

The mother said, “Somebody rearranged the seating plan, I see.” Aunt Dvosha fingered
her feathers. The Uncle, with a side glance at Marjorie, bent over his plate, eating
busily. “Well, it’s only right, after all, a father with his son. I’m sorry the Robisons
couldn’t come, lovely people—”

“Couldn’t be any more lovely than the company we’ve got,” declared Mr. Connelly. “Salt
of the earth, Mrs. Raphaelson. Great fellow, Mr. Feder.”

“Time of our lives,” said Mr. Goldstone. “Marvelous party. Worth every penny, Morgenstern.
Fine boy you’ve got there.”

“You’ve got a fine one there yourself.” Sandy looked embarrassed and adjusted his
skullcap.

Mrs. Morgenstern said with a laugh, “Well, we won’t keep you from your food. Come
on, Arnold. Hearty appetite, folks. Take care of things, Marjorie,” she added, pressing
the girl’s shoulder.

“I’ll do my best, Mother.”

Samson-Aaron, eating faster than usual to avoid Mrs. Morgenstern’s eye, had cleaned
his plate. He took Aunt Dvosha’s, which had on it an unusually thick piece of meat
and an oversized potato. Mrs. Connelly’s eyes widened. There was silence while everybody
attacked the food except the bank manager’s wife, who sat drumming her fingers, staring
at the Uncle like a rabbit at oncoming headlights. He heaved a great sigh as he finished
Aunt Dvosha’s roast beef and potato; laid down his knife and fork, leaned back, and
mopped his brow. He heaved another sigh, picked up his knife and fork, and turned
to Mrs. Connelly with his harmless grin. “Vell,” he said, indicating her piled-up
plate with his fork, “if you’re sure you don’t vant it, no sense it should go to vaste,
so—”

“No, no!” shrieked Mrs. Connelly, recoiling in her chair.

The bank manager said, “Good heavens, Katherine, what’s the matter?”

“He can’t, he can’t. Don’t let him. It isn’t human.” She passed a fluttering hand
over her face.

Samson-Aaron looked at Geoffrey, then at Marjorie in astonishment. “Vot’s the matter,
the lady don’t feel good? Vy is that? She didn’t eat so much.”

“She’s another asthenic type,” said Aunt Dvosha. “She ate enough chicken liver to
kill an army of asthenics.”

“Kate dear, what is it?” Mr. Connelly seized her hand and patted it.

“Darling, I’m sorry, it’s terribly rude of me, but—” She returned her horrified glance
to the Uncle. “Didn’t you see how much Mr. Feder has eaten? It’s incredible. I don’t
believe four tigers could have eaten what he has. And now he wants my roast beef.
I’m afraid he’ll die, right here. I—it’s unbelievable—”

Samson-Aaron looked at Marjorie, smiling uncertainly. He laid down his knife and fork.
“I eat too much? I make a shame for you? Good food, a pity to vaste it—”

“It’s all right, Uncle.” Marjorie turned to Mrs. Connelly and laughed. “Really, we’re
so used to the Uncle in the family, nobody thinks anything of it. He’s our champion
eater, that’s all.”

“I’ve been envying him his appetite,” said Sandy. “I thought I was an eater, until
tonight.”

“It’s about time you stopped, Papa,” said Geoffrey. “You’ve eaten more than enough—even
for a bar-mitzva.”

Samson-Aaron turned his palms outward, picked up the bottle, and said to the Irish
lady, “Missus, I upset you, I’m sorry. Take a drink, please. You feel better, make
me feel better.”

Mrs. Connelly accepted the whiskey, drank it, and did feel better almost at once.
She said with a giggle, taking hold of her plate, “I believe I would like to see him
eat it, at that.”

She passed the plate to Samson-Aaron, who contemplated the meat without enthusiasm.
“I don’t know vy, but I haven’t got the appetite no more—but still—”

“Thank heaven, Papa, let it alone,” said Geoffrey, who had grown very red. “It’s no
entertainment for anyone to watch a human boa constrictor in action.”

Samson-Aaron swung his head heavily and regarded his son with mournful eyes. “Vot’s
a boa constructor?”

“A snake that can swallow its own weight in one meal,” said Geoffrey, chewing his
pipe.

“Miltie darling, that’s your old father, it’s an old story,” said the Uncle, with
a placating shrug. “It’s a bar-mitzva after all, no? A man shouldn’t eat because he
sits on the fency side?”

Mr. Goldstone emptied his whiskey glass and set it on the table with a thump. “Tell
me, Mr. Quill, you got something like that in your book? A son who calls his own father
a snake?”

There was a moment’s silence. Geoffrey looked at Mr. Goldstone with a half-smile,
holding the pipe awkwardly in his teeth, like a boy of twelve caught smoking. The
musicians struck up the tune to which Marjorie and the Uncle had danced that afternoon.
She said brightly, “Oh, really, Mr. Goldstone, Geoffrey meant no harm—”

“Let him answer for himself,” said Mr. Goldstone, looking steadily at Geoffrey.

“Vot’s to answer?” said the Uncle. “My son Geoffrey makes a little joke, so vot’s
wrong? In our family who doesn’t make jokes vit me? Mr. Goldstone, you should never
need nothing from your son, but if you do, he should treat you no vorse than my son.
My son is a good son. He calls me a boa constructor, say listen, he could call me
much vorse, it still vouldn’t be no lie, you know?” He laughed and picked up the bottle.
“Come on, everybody have a drink vit the boa constructor! Listen, it’s a bar-mitzva,
isn’t it? The son of Arnold Morgenstern, the big success in the family, ve all proud
of him.”

He offered the bottle around, but nobody pushed forward a glass. Geoffrey said, with
an anguished twist of the head, “Pa, everybody’s had enough. So have you—put the bottle
away—”

Mr. Connelly said, “Why, I’ll join Mr. Feder. He’s right, these things come once in
a lifetime.”

Samson-Aaron gratefully filled the bank manager’s glass. “Mr. Connelly, you’re a gentleman.
Vit Irishers I alvays got along, God bless them. I’ll tell you something, it’s thanks
to an Irisher, nobody else, I could come here tonight, I could see my son, have a
good time—”

“An Irishman? Really?” Mr. Connelly said with a little smile. “Who?”

“I should live so. My boss, Mr. Gogarty, an Irisher vit a Jewish heart”—Mr. Goldstone,
who was folding his napkin, looked up—”I told him it vas a bar-mitzva, he hired a
substitute vatchman from his own pocket, it’s strictly against the rules vare I vork.
So here’s to Mr. Gogarty, no? He should live and be vell. You too, Mr. Connelly—”

“Pardon me, Mr. Feder,” said Sandy’s father. “Where do you work?”

“It’s a new job,” said the Uncle, “temporary, for the Christmas rush season, but listen,
a job is a job, no? I vork in the downtown storehouse of Lamm’s department store.”

Mr. Goldstone, his mouth an upcurving line of grim amusement, looked at his wife.
Mrs. Goldstone raised her eyebrows and glanced from Marjorie to Sandy. The bank manager
drank his whiskey and made a great thing of taking cellophane off a cigar. Sandy grinned
halfheartedly at Marjorie, who laughed and stammered, “Well, really, that’s—talk about
a small world! Isn’t that something? That’s a real joke—”

“Vot’s the joke?” said Samson-Aaron, looking as though he would very much like to
laugh if he could.

“You only think that this Mr. Gogarty is your boss,” Marjorie said, trying to keep
bubbly amusement in her voice. “Your real boss is sitting right across from you.”

“Vot?”

“He owns Lamm’s,” said the girl, pointing.

Geoffrey Quill blurted to Mr. Goldstone, “You really do?
Lamm’s?
”

Mr. Goldstone nodded. “You want to write a book about a department store, pay me a
visit. Only don’t call me a snake in the book.”

Samson-Aaron stared at Mr. Goldstone, opened his mouth, closed it, and smiled foolishly,
showing the black gap in his teeth. He pushed back his chair with a heavy scrape and
stood. “Come, Dvosha, ve go to the other side—”

Marjorie said, laying a hand on his arm, “Uncle, don’t be silly—”

“If I know you’re the owner of Lamm’s,” the Uncle said to Mr. Goldstone, “I vouldn’t
sit down at the table in the first place. Respect is respect, the boss and the night
vatchman don’t eat at the same table.” He pulled at Aunt Dvosha’s hand.

Mr. Goldstone said, “Sit down and don’t embarrass the whole table.” Samson-Aaron,
responding like a child, sank back into his chair. The magnate went on more pleasantly,
“It’s a family occasion, those things don’t count here. You’re very good company and
we’re having a fine time. So forget about it, and—”

He broke off because the young rabbi of the temple was rapping a fork on his glass
at the dais. When the room quieted the rabbi led the after-grace. He then made a speech;
then another rabbi made a speech; then a third rabbi made a speech; all elaborate
and repetitious tributes to the Morgenstern family, ornamented with Biblical and Talmudic
allusions, and in the young rabbi’s case with quotations from Aristotle and Santayana.
The grandmother on the dais curled up in her chair, asleep. Mr. and Mrs. Morgenstern
listened eagerly and proudly. Seth sat slumped on one elbow, listlessly mouthing a
banana.

Marjorie could not follow any of the speeches, preoccupied as she was by the restlessness
and boredom of the guests at her table. Tears were standing in Sandy’s eyes from swallowing
yawns. Mr. Goldstone made no effort to swallow his. Once Marjorie saw him make an
impatient sidewise gesture of the head to his wife, who answered with a weary negative
shake. The Connellys alone kept up a resolute air of smiling attention.

Worst of all was the effect on Samson-Aaron. The glaze of his glance, the frozen creases
of his smile, the viscous settling of his body like warm putty, were ominous. The
applause for the third rabbi startled him into looking here and there and clapping
wildly. But then the assemblyman began to speak; and his prose acted on the Uncle
like a rolling cloud of chloroform. Poked from left and right by Aunt Dvosha and his
son, he absorbed the blows like a feather bolster, and kept settling. His eyes drooped,
his smile faded, his head fell forward on his chest. Samson-Aaron was asleep, and
there was obviously nothing anybody could do about it.