During the next year something came up in a business way that caused
Rosenheim and Abrams to hold long consultations during many evenings.
They nodded together over bits of paper on which there were many
figures. Mrs. Rosenheim felt that they had “something in their
heads” they weren’t telling her about, but, being a dutiful wife—and
knowing her husband, and how useless it would have been—she didn’t
press matters. A few weeks later she found out. E. G. Plotski had died
suddenly, leaving no near relatives except a wife. Abrams had heard
about the case. Mrs. Plotski couldn’t keep up the business alone. If
she couldn’t “sell out,” complete, she was going to give it up and sell
the machinery. She had some cousins in a far-Western place called,
Abrams believed, Iowa, and was desirous of living with them. If Mrs.
Plotski “gave up the business” there was a tremendous loss, it seemed
to Abrams and Rosenheim—for Plotski already had operators, customers,
“good will.” And with their knowledge of the pants business....
It seemed, indeed, a visitation, as if a whole pants business had
descended to them as a direct reward for their long and faithful
work. But Mrs. Plotski had friends, not just in a position to buy the
business, it seemed, but quite capable of giving advice about selling
it. And herein lay the need of much nodding and figuring. Finally it
was settled. Abrams and Rosenheim went to their several banks—it’s
never safe to put all of your savings in one bank, even if it does look
like a fine big one—drew out their saving accounts, for of course they
had no checking accounts, and, after the usual legalities had been
concluded, were the joint partners of The Acme Pants Company, Men’s and
Boys’ Pants.
After they had signed their names, Marcus L. Abrams and Abraham G.
Rosenheim, Rosenheim allowed his stern face to relax into a rather sad
smile.
“Good, eh, Marcus? Here, I’m only ‘over’ seven years and I’m partner
in a business already. Of course, we can expect hard times, but, a
business ain’t anything to be ashamed of.”
The family saw Rosenheim’s new signature and liked it. Irving wrote
it above the letter-box. The G stood for nothing in particular, but
Rosenheim had no middle name and of course he ought to have one. It
was indeed American. The neighbourhood did not notice, it was used to
changes.
Abrams and Rosenheim worked all day and most of the night. They “went
over the books” with great deliberation. They looked into every minute
detail of the business, and wrote numerous letters by hand on the old
Acme Pants Company letterheads that they found in Plotski’s desk. When
this paper was used up they ordered more, retaining the cut of the
building at the top but substituting their names for the name of the
deceased former owner.
They were very happy over their new business, though you would never
have known it by their actions. They always wore long faces.
The factory did well. People liked ready-made pants, it seemed. The two
men hurried around seeking new trade, satisfied with as small a profit
as possible. They bought job lots of woollens from the factories and
did numberless other things to reduce expenses. Rosenheim cut the pants
and Abrams was not too proud to do his share of the menial labour.
Before another year had passed the whole of the third floor loft
belonged to the Acme Pants Company.
Mrs. Rosenheim was proud of her husband. It was mighty fine, these
days, to speak of “my husband’s factory” to those women whose more
unfortunate spouses were forced to exist on mere wages handed them
by their overlords. But even this, in time, stopped satisfying. What
good does it do for your husband to own a factory if you still live in
a tenement in East Seventy-seventh Street? Mrs. Rosenheim knew that
her husband was working hard and was nearly always worried over money
matters, bills to meet, wages to be paid. But, as long as he actually
was a manufacturer, and owner of a business, a payer of wages, it was
unbelievable that they should live in a tenement. Weren’t they as
good as anybody? Several months ago the Abrams had moved. Of course,
with only two boys the expenses were less, but what of that? And the
Moskowskis—now the Mosses—had moved, too. The Rosenheims had been in
the tenement three years and now the neighbourhood was filling up
with terrible people, straight from the Ghetto—or the old country—and
bringing foreign habits with them. It was no place to bring up growing
American children.
It was Yetta who precipitated the moving. Although he petted and
humoured Dorothy, it was his oldest child who was Rosenheim’s
favourite. Now Yetta tried all of her most endearing tricks.
“Papa,” she said, “I’m sixteen. I ought to get out of this
neighbourhood. Ask Mamma. I’m almost a young lady. I want good things—a
fine man like you with a factory shouldn’t keep his children in the
tenements. All of my crowd are gone. I miss them something awful. You
don’t want me to go with the—the ‘greenhorns’ who are moving in around
here, do you?”
Similar arguments managed to convince Rosenheim. Anyhow, one night he
nodded solemnly and consented to move.
“You women will ruin me yet, with all your spending,” he said, but
Yetta, tall though she was, jumped on his lap and kissed his thin cheek.
“None of that,” he said, in assumed brusqueness, as he pushed her away.
“You make a fool of your old Papa, eh? Well, go along and get your fine
flat.”
Mrs. Rosenheim and Yetta, accompanied by Mrs. and Miss Graham, a recent
and becoming transformation of their old friends, the Grabinskis, went
apartment hunting. They decided on the Bronx, new and good enough for
any manufacturer’s family. They had friends there and there were lots
of stores. It was a nice neighbourhood, Yetta thought, with lots of
young people who wore good clothes. She could have a fine time.
No longer were the Rosenheims satisfied with the first apartment shown
them. Yetta and her mother had grown critical. Yetta’s ambitions had
limitations, of course. She didn’t aspire to an elevator apartment or
anything like that—but she didn’t want a tenement. She wanted a big
living-room, for she was approaching the beau age and already was going
to the theatre with MacDougal Abrams and Milton Cohn. They visited
dozens of apartments, examining the kitchens and halls, exclaiming over
the plumbing. Grandma wanted a big kitchen and she ought to have it,
as long as she did most of the cooking. And they had been crowded for
years—Yetta didn’t want any one sleeping in the front room, nor even in
the dining-room. Young girls do get such notions! Mrs. Rosenheim wanted
grand decorations in the lower hall.
After much step-climbing they found their apartment. It was on the
fourth floor, rear, of a walk-up apartment, but the rent was forty
dollars a month and they dared not pay more. Rosenheim looked dour when
the news was broken to him, but, with sad headshaking and remarks about
business being bad, he said they might take it.
The entrance hall of the apartment-house was of marble. The
letter-boxes were of brass and shining. The stairs leading to the
apartment were carpeted. The apartment itself had seven rooms. A few
years before the Rosenheims wouldn’t have believed an apartment could
be so large. Now they all accepted it rather indifferently. Wasn’t
Rosenheim a factory owner? Didn’t some of their friends live just as
grandly? The woodwork was shining oak. The floors glittered blondly.
Mr. and Mrs. Rosenheim had a bedroom all alone, Grandma shared a tiny
cubicle with Dorothy. Yetta and Carrie had their room and there was a
room for the boys. All the rooms had new beds of white enamelled iron,
fantastically twisted and with big brass knobs.
The Rosenheims got rid of most of their old things at a sale before
they left East Seventy-seventh Street. Then Mrs. Rosenheim and Yetta
bought things suitable for the grandeur of their new home at an
instalment house in Sixth Avenue. There was a three-piece parlour set
stained to a red imitation of mahogany. The round table had come with
them, as had the vases. The dining-room boasted a new “set,” a round
table that pulled apart and had four extra leaves and sat on a huge
pedestal, and eight chairs—two with arms, making one for each of them.
There were brand-new rugs, one for each room, most of them in patterns
of birds and beasts and flowers in bright colourings, though the front
room displayed a gay and exciting “Oriental pattern.”
One of the startling changes of the new régime was the name above the
letter-box. A simple and chaste A. G. Rosen was announced in Irving’s
most careful writing. Rosenheim explained that, at the factory, every
one called him Rosen for short and it might make it confusing to keep
the old name. The family hailed Rosen joyfully. Surely they were real
Americans, now.