The Promise Read Online Free Page A

unhappy. “You two got a lucky streak going.” He put two more twenty-dollar bills on top of the radio. “That’s eight bucks a throw now. One more point, you win the radio and eighty bucks.”
    The old man stood behind Michael, watching us curiously.
    “I spent all my money,” I heard Michael say in Hebrew.
    Rachel drew in her breath sharply.
    “Please lend me some money,” Michael asked me quietly.
    A crimson flush spread swiftly across Rachel’s face.
    “It’s only one more point,” Michael said.
    “That’s enough!” Rachel said loudly in Hebrew. She was angry now. She was finally angry. “You may not play any more!”
    “Lend me some money,” Michael said. He put his right hand out to me, palm up. “I’ll pay you back.”
    “You are not to play!” Rachel ordered. “I should not have let you play this long.”
    He ignored her. “Lend me some money, Reuven.”
    Behind Michael, the old man lifted his cane and came toward us to the booth. I thought he wanted to play and I moved aside. Instead he walked past me, raised the drop-leaf attached to the counter, went into the booth, and let the drop-leaf fall behind him. He put the cane on the counter alongside the lacquered board. The cane was made of wood and had a curved handle and a metal tip. The pitchman stepped back. The old man stood behind the counter and put his hands on the board.
    He seemed an aged duplicate of the pitchman. He had sparse gray hair and dark eyes set in deep sockets. His cheekbones were more pronounced than those of the pitchman, the cheeks hollower, the skin sallow on his face, dry and papery on his hands, and like wrinkled cloth on his neck. He wore a white long-sleeved silk shirt, sharply pressed trousers, a red bow tie, and a red vest.
    Standing side by side inside the small booth, the two of them looked to be father and son.
    The old man peered at me out of his deep-socketed eyes and tapped a long, thin finger against the lacquered board.
    “I am the owner,” he announced.
    His voice was hoarse, almost hollow, as if burned out from shouting into the noise of too many carnival nights.
    He looked at me a moment longer. Then he looked at Rachel.
    “This is your wife?” he said, turning to me and indicating Rachel.
    I saw Rachel blush fiercely. Michael was watching him carefully, his eyes narrow, his face expressionless.
    “No,” I said.
    “Your girl friend?” the old man asked.
    I nodded.
    “You are fortunate. A beautiful girl.” He smiled then, showing two rows of uneven, tobacco-stained teeth. He peered at me intently. “Young man,” he said, smiling and tapping a finger against the lacquered board, “you have a friend here.” He pointed to himself. “You understand? You have a friend here. Go ahead. Schmeiss!” His hand struck the counter with a light, slapping sound.
    I stared at him in amazement and disbelief. The tension of the game was suddenly gone. I felt it drain swiftly out of me and it was suddenly gone and I had to restrain myself to keep from laughing aloud with joy. “Schmeiss” means to strike, to hit. It is a Yiddish word borrowed from German.
    “Schmeiss,” the old man said again, smiling paternally. “I am telling you you are in good hands here.” Then he said in Yiddish, “Do not worry yourselves. Everything will be good.” And he winked his right eye and nodded his head.
    I saw Rachel’s face flood with relief. But Michael continued to regard him narrowly, his eyes strangely suspicious.
    A moist night wind blew along the asphalt road, carrying the odors of hot popcorn and broiling meat. I heard the roar of the roller coaster and turned and saw a car hurtle down a grade, then move slowly up a steep incline and disappear over the crest. A man laden with prizes bumped heavily into Rachel, almost knocking her down. Clutching his prizes, he muttered an apology and went on up the road. I heard a gong and the crack of a rifle and shouts, and then the roller coaster again, racing downward in