On March 4, 1944, the bench shifted beneath a completed order, and I caught the corner before the stacked pieces slid. Ruth had put the bundles there for checking, not storage, but the carrier was late and the floor had filled around us. Esther pulled a wooden wedge from under the leg. It had split along the grain. I held the top level while she looked for a sound replacement. Ruth moved the upper bundle to her shoulder and told us not to lift yet.
We had a delivery to get down the stairs before the next work could begin. The passage was narrowed by two empty packing cases that should already have gone. I asked the nearest worker to help move them, then remembered I was holding the bench. Ruth set her bundle down elsewhere and shifted the cases herself. There was no rebuke in it, which made my impatience more apparent. Esther pushed a new wedge into place. I lowered the corner slowly and tested it with both hands.
A man bringing supplies told us Buchalter had been executed. Someone asked whether it was certain, and he said it was in the news. The date stayed with me: March fourth. I put down the small hammer I had used to seat the wedge. For several breaths the work nearest us stopped. I knew the public ending; I did not know the substance of the official evidence from inside, and my years in private rooms did not give me that knowledge afterward.
Ruth asked whether I wanted to go out for a minute. I said no, then changed my answer. I went to the washroom and ran water over my hands although they were clean enough. In the mirror I looked older than I had expected to feel that morning. I had once wanted a powerful man's attention to quiet every difficulty in my life. The memory brought no explanation of his legal fate. It brought back Bell climbing a stair and my own reasons for seeking an easier answer.
When I returned, Esther was tightening a cord. She asked me to hold the bundle while she drew it through. I did. Neither woman asked for a story about Buchalter, and I offered none. My imagined access to him had never entitled me to speak for him. More important, it did not entitle me to turn this working morning into an account of my importance. Esther tested the knot, Ruth checked the label, and I lifted the first parcel from the repaired corner.
The delivery man arrived as we reached the upper landing. He came up fast, complaining that the street was blocked and that he had other calls. Ruth told him there were four bundles. He tried to squeeze past her into the shop, reaching toward the parcel behind her. I set down my load. My first impulse was to put him against the wall and explain the doorway to him in a language I knew. I kept my hands on the cord instead and waited.
“You'll wait here,” Ruth said. “We bring them out.” He said he could carry two at once. “Then you can take two from the landing.” She pointed to the clear space beside him. He looked toward me, perhaps expecting another arrangement between men. I lifted my parcel when Ruth nodded and placed it where she had indicated. Esther brought the next. With nothing to push through, he stepped back and tested the weight. His hurry remained, but it no longer governed the doorway.
Ruth asked me to take the lower end of the largest bundle. The delivery man took the upper, and together we went down. At the turn he moved too soon. I called for a halt, waited until his foot was secure, then followed his count. There was nothing graceful about us. The bundle rubbed plaster, my knee complained, and somebody below wanted passage. We got it to the street intact. I returned for the last parcel without stopping to give the man advice.
Upstairs, Ruth checked the emptied bench and counted my hours. She paid me what we had agreed. There was another day's work if I wanted it, on the same terms. I said I did. She entered the time she expected me, then closed her book. The key hung from a cord she wore beneath her apron; when she bent for a fallen label, I saw it swing. She had never needed to surrender it for me to be useful here. I wished I had understood that sooner.
Esther opened the north window a little, and cold air stirred the loose pattern paper. I weighted it with a ruler, tested the repaired leg once more, and cleared a place for the next cutting. My debt to Feld was finished. Ruth's earnings were her own. Whatever forgiveness she might offer was still hers to withhold, and I had work without pretending otherwise. She laid out the cloth, told me where to begin, and left me enough room to bring the shears through cleanly.