Rich Man, Poor Man by Irwin Shaw Page A

preferred to the expression that he was sure would be in his mother’s eyes for the rest of her life if she saw that picture.
    His father was not in the house, Gretchen was at work and Tom never came home until five minutes before supper. Rudolph washed his hands and face and combed his hair. He was going to meet his fate like a gentleman.
    He went downstairs and into the shop. His mother was putting a dozen rolls into a bag for an old woman who smelled like a wet dog. He waited until the old woman had left, then went and kissed his mother.
    ‘How were things at school today?’ she asked, touching his hair.
    ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘The usual. Pa around anywhere?’
    ‘He’s probably down at the river. Why?’ the ‘Why?’ was suspicious. It was unusual for anyone in the family to seek out her husband unnecessarily.
    ‘No reason,’ Rudolph said carelessly.

‘Isn’t there track practice today?’ she probed.
    ‘No.’ Two customers came into the shop, the little bell over the door tinkling, and he didn’t have to lie any more. He waved and went out as his mother was greeting the customers.
    When he was out of sight of the shop he began to walk quickly down towards the river. His father kept his shell in the corner of a ramshackle warehouse on the waterfront and usually spent one or two afternoons a week working on the boat there. Rudolph prayed that this was one of these afternoons.
    When he reached the warehouse he saw his father out in front of it, sandpapering the hull of the one-man shell, which was propped, upside down, on two sawhorses. His father had his sleeves rolled up and was working with great care on the smooth wood. As Rudolph approached, he could see the ropey muscles of his father’s forearms hardening and relaxing with his rhythmic movements. It was a warm day, and even with the wind that came off the river his father was sweating.
    ‘Hi, Pa,’ Rudolph said.
    His father looked up and grunted, then went back to his work. He had bought the shell in a half-ruined condition for practically nothing from a boys’ school nearby that had gone bankrupt. Some river memory of youth and health from his boyhood on the Rhine was behind the purchase and he had reconstructed the shell and varnished it over and over again. It was spotless and the mechanism of the sliding seat gleamed with its coating of oil. After he had gotten out of the hospital in Germany, with one leg almost useless and his big frame gaunt and weak, Jordache had exercised fanatically to recover his strength. His work on the Lake boats had given him the strength of a giant and the gruelling miles he imposed on himself sweeping methodically up and down the river had kept him forbiddingly powerful. With his bad leg he couldn’t catch anybody, but he gave the impression of being able to crush a grown man in those hairy arms.
    ‘Pa …’ Rudolph began, trying to conquer his nervousness. His father had never hit him, but Rudolph had seen him knock Thomas unconscious with one blow of his fist just last year.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ Jordache tested the smoothness of the wood, with broad, spatulate fingers. The back of his hands and fingers were bristling with black hairs.’
    ‘It’s about school,’ Rudolph said.
    ‘You in trouble? You?’ Jordache looked over at his son with genuine surprise.
    ‘Trouble might be too strong a word,’ Rudolph said. ‘A situation has come up.’
    ‘What kind of situation?’
    ‘Well,’ Rudolph said, ‘there’s this French woman who teaches French. I’m in her class. She says she wants to see you this afternoon. Now.’
    ‘Me?’
    ‘Well,’ Rudolph admitted, ‘she said one of my parents.’
    ‘What about your mother?’ Jordache asked. ‘You tell her about this?’
    ‘It’s something I think it’s better she doesn’t know about,’ Rudolph said.
    Jordache looked across the hull of the shell at him speculatively. ‘French,’ he said. ‘I thought that was one of your good