“I’m 10 cents short,” he said, not with embarrassment, with the matter-of-fact directness of a man who had long ago decided that shame was a luxury he couldn’t afford. I can bring it next time. I live two blocks up. Don’t worry about it, Ruth said. I’ll bring it Tuesday, he said firmly. What’s your name? Ruth. I’ll bring it Tuesday, Ruth.
I always pay my debts. In the booth, Newman had already reached for his wallet. Redford’s hand was on his arm. Don’t, Redford said. Newman looked at him. The look contained a full argument. You saw him first. He’s at the counter. I’m closer. Let me. I’ll do it, Redford said quietly. You’ll make it obvious, Newman said, same volume, barely moving his lips.
You’ll walk up there and he’ll know. So will you. No. Newman looked back at the counter at the old man sitting over his empty soup bowl at Ruth waiting patiently. I won’t, he paused. Ruth will. Redford studied his friend for a moment. Then he released his arm. Newman caught Ruth’s eye across the room. He did it with the minimal economy of a man who had spent 30 years communicating across film sets without speaking.
A slight lift of the chin, a look that moved from his own wallet to the counter to the old man, a question posed entirely in silence. Ruth understood it completely. She gave a single tiny nod. Newman put a $5 bill on the edge of the table, folded once. Not ostentatiously, just placed it there. Ruth walked to the register.
She made a small show of looking at the check, then at the register tape, then at the old man. Actually, she said, I think I added this up wrong. The soup’s on special tonight. We do a soup and coffee combination on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It’s 50 cents for both. She opened the register. You’ve got 15 cents coming back. She placed three nickels on the counter.
