Old Martin called to Cal, “Got a cigarette, young fella?”

Cal stopped and took out his cardboard box of Murads.

“Oh, fancy ones!” Martin said. “I ain’t got a match either.”

Cal lighted the cigarette for him, careful not to set fire to the grizzle around Martin’s mouth.

Martin leaned on the handle of his brush and puffed disconsolately. “Young fellas gets the cream,” he said. “They won’t let me drive it.”

“What?” Cal asked.

“Why, the new sweeper. Ain’t you heard? Where you been, boy?” It was incredible to him that any reasonably informed human did not know about the sweeper. He forgot Cal. Maybe the Bacigalupis would give him a job. They were coining money. Three wagons and a new truck.

Cal turned down Alisal Street, went into the post office, and looked in the glass window of box 632. It was empty. He wandered back home and found Lee up and stuffing a very large turkey.

“Up all night?” Lee asked.

“No. I just went for a walk.”

“Nervous?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t blame you. I would be too. It’s hard to give people things—I guess it’s harder to be given things, though. Seems silly, doesn’t it? Want some coffee?”

“I don’t mind.”

Lee wiped his hands and poured coffee for himself and for Cal. “How do you think Aron looks?”

“All right, I guess.”

“Did you get to talk to him?”

“No,” said Cal. It was easier that way. Lee would want to know what he said. It wasn’t Aron’s day. It was Cal’s day. He had carved this day out for himself and he wanted it. He meant to have it.

Aron came in, his eyes still misty with sleep. “What time do you plan to have dinner, Lee?”

“Oh, I don’t know—three-thirty or four.”

“Could you make it about five?”

“I guess so, if Adam says it’s all right. Why?”

“Well, Abra can’t get here before then. I’ve got a plan I want to put to my father and I want her to be here.”

“I guess that will be all right,” said Lee.

Cal got up quickly and went to his room. He sat at his desk with the student light turned on and he churned with uneasiness and resentment. Without effort, Aron was taking his day away from him. It would turn out to be Aron’s day. Then, suddenly, he was bitterly ashamed. He covered his eyes with his hands and he said, “It’s just jealousy. I’m jealous. That’s what I am. I’m jealous. I don’t want to be jealous.” And he repeated over and over, “Jealous—jealous—jealous,” as though bringing it into the open might destroy it. And having gone this far, he proceeded with his self-punishment. “Why am I giving the money to my father? Is it for his good? No. It’s for my good. Will Hamilton said it—I’m trying to buy him. There’s not one decent thing about it. There’s not one decent thing about me. I sit here wallowing in jealousy of my brother. Why not call things by their names?”