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Updated: May 7, 2025
"But that's how I feel toward all the boys, Leon our fighting boys just like flying to them to kiss them each one good-by." "Come over, Gina. You'll be a treat to our mother. I Well, I'm hanged! All the way from Philadelphia!" There was even a sparkle to talk, then, and a letup of pressure. After a while Sarah Kantor looked up at her son, tremulous, but smiling.
Then suddenly, because he could escape no other way, rushed straight back for his dressing-room, bursting in upon a flood of family already there: Isadore Kantor, blue-shaved, aquiline, and already graying at the temples; his five-year-old son, Leon; a soft little pouter-pigeon of a wife, too, enormous of bust, in glittering ear-drops and a wrist watch of diamonds half buried in chubby wrist; Miss Esther Kantor, pink and pretty; Rudolph; Boris, not yet done with growing-pains.
To Leon Kantor, by who knows what symphonic scheme of things, life was a chromatic scale, yielding up to him through throbbing, living nerves of sheep-gut, the sheerest semitones of man's emotions.
In November, honed by the interim of training to even a new leanness, and sailing orders heavy and light in his heart, Lieutenant Kantor, on two day's home-leave, took leave of his home, which can be cruelest when it is tenderest.
"Six thousand dollars in the house to-night, if there was a cent," said Isadore Kantor. "Hand me my violin, please, Esther. I must have scratched it, the way they pushed." "No, son, you didn't. I've already rubbed it up. Sit quiet, darlink!" He was limply white, as if the vitality had flowed out of him. "God! wasn't it tremendous?" "Six thousand, if there was a cent," repeated Isadore Kantor.
Straight in her chair, her great shelf of bust heaving, sat Rosa Kantor, suddenly dry of eye; Isadore Kantor head up. Erect now, and out from the embrace of her daughter, Sarah looked up at her son. "What time do you leave, Leon?" she asked, actually firm of lip. "Any minute, ma. Getting late." This time she pulled her lips to a smile, waggling her forefinger.
Kantor, fairly fat and not yet forty, and at the immemorial task of plumbing a delicately swelling layer-cake with broom-straw, raised her face, reddened and faintly moist. "Isadore, run down and say your papa is out until six. If it's a customer, remember the first asking-price is the two middle figures on the tag, and the last asking-price is the two outside figures.
At slightly after six, Abrahm Kantor returned, leading by a resisting wrist Leon Kantor, his stemlike little legs, hit midship, as it were, by not sufficiently cut-down trousers and so narrow and birdlike of face that his eyes quite obliterated the remaining map of his features, like those of a still wet nestling. All except his ears.
From his place before the white-and-gold mantel, staring steadfastly at the floor tiling, Isadore Kantor turned suddenly, a bit whiter and older at the temples. "I don't get your comedy, Leon." "'Wooden kimono' Leon?" "That's the way the fellows at camp joke about coffins, ma. I didn't mean anything but fun! Great Scott! Can't any one take a joke!" "O God! O God!"
"Let him in, Roody. I'd like to know what good it will do to try to keep him out." In an actual rain of perspiration, his tie slid well under one ear, Abrahm Kantor burst in, mouthing the words before his acute state of strangulation would let them out.
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