If Mrs. Goldstein had wanted the last salmon at Fishel’s Fish Market she should have spoken up and claimed it. Instead, she bit her fingernail with indecisive vigor and cautiously adumbrated a years worth of dinner meals. The salmon wouldn’t stay fresh forever. It’s watery, bulging eyes would turn dry and sunken. It’s wet and shiny body would soon wrinkle and become dull.

Mr. Fishel rocked back and forth on his heels and wrung his hands together, one, two, three times. With each tick of the clock on the wall his smile stretched thin, like soup made to accommodate company.

A list of errands pushed my short steps to the narrow counter. “I’ll take the salmon.”

“You will not.” Mrs. Goldstein crowded against me and stomped her foot. “I’ve decided I must have it for tonight’s supper. We’ve invited rabbi Cohen and his wife, and he is quite fond of salmon.”

“You should’ve spoken up sooner. My Jacob is also quite fond of salmon, and I’m going to grill it for his birthday dinner tonight.” Purse on the counter, elbows flared, I fastened serious determination into place.

The smug streaks against the front of the glass case from the smack of Mrs. Goldstein’s small hand tainted the approach of the Sabbath for the clean shop. “I was in a quandary as to how to prepare the fish. It is a little small, but stuffed with cornbread dressing and topped with bay shrimp and hollandaise sauce it would easily feed four. I must have the salmon.”

Mr. Fishel cradled the fish like a baby and turned from Mrs. Goldstein, to me, then back to Mrs. Goldstein. “If you please Mrs. Horwitz, I have a nice piece of fresh halibut.” He studied me with hopeful eyes.

I stood firm. “I want the salmon, and I’ll take a half a pound of bay shrimp too.”

“Oh!” The rise and fall of Mrs. Goldstein’s foot shook her knot of hair. “First you steal my fish from under my nose. Now, you steal my recipe.”

“Please, Mrs. Goldstein, for you I have a nice piece of halibut. I’ll throw in a half a pound of bay shrimp, no charge.” Mr. Fishel wiped at the migration of sweat across his brow.

“Your halibut is too dry.”

“Please double wrap my salmon. I have a few more stops to make.” I thumped my money onto the counter.

A growl rumbled behind Mrs. Goldstein’s thin stretched lips.

Mr. Fishel’s son burst through the swinging backroom with a big, beautiful tuna. My Jacob adores tuna. I could see the great fish baked to perfection, dressed in parsley from my garden, laying on my best blue china platter, and adorned with fancy cut lemon wedges. A swift glance at Mrs. Goldstein found her eyes shone as bright as the dead tuna.

“How much for that . . . ”

“I’ll take it.” Mrs. Goldstein nodded with finality.

“Good. Then I’ll take the tuna.” I shoved the wrapped salmon at Mrs. Goldstein.

“I claimed the tuna.” Mrs. Goldstein pushed the salmon back to me. She dove into her purse and plucked out a handful of bills.

“Mr. Goldstein lets you carry that much money?” A jealous knot rode up my throat.

“He’s not a tight man. He carries trust in his heart, not in a metal lockbox.” If Mrs. Goldstein shoved her nose any higher in the air she’d rub it raw on the tin ceiling.

“Mr. Fishel, I’ll take the salmon and the tuna.” I dug deeper into my purse. “My Jacob has a healthy appetite.”

“Mr. Horwitz would be healthier if he learned to restrain his appetite instead of eating for two. Maybe he should go back to school and learn to count, or is the good Lord blessing him with the miracle of a child?”

Mr. Fishel and his son shook the small butcher shop with laughter. “That . . . Mrs. Goldstein . . . would be . . . a fine miracle.” The slap Mr. Fishel applied to his son’s back induced louder howls.

“You are here to take money, not to take sides.” My cold stare hit the bull’s-eye and halted his cackle.

“Please, Mrs. Horwitz, you take the salmon and let Mrs. Goldstein have the tuna. It is too nice a day to argue over dead fish. I’ll also throw in a half a pound of bay shrimp. Is that not fair?”

“I will pay for the shrimp, and the salmon, and the tuna. How do you expect to run a successful business if you give everything away?”

“Then I shall flip a coin.” Mr. Fishel dug a thick hand into his pants pocket.

I gasped. “Mr. Fishel! How would it look to see two women gambling?”

“No worse than seeing two women arguing.” His throaty laughter erupted again.

“Men are so uncivilized.” Mrs. Goldstein stuffed her money back into her purse. “Come, Anna. Let us find a good piece of beef at Lippman’s Meat Market.”

I clutched my money and nodded good day to Mr. Fishel. Together, Mrs. Goldstein and I marched out the door. “My Jacob loves a thick rolled roast.” I stole a sideways glance at Mrs. Goldstein.

“I believe rolled roast is rabbi Cohen’s utmost favorite.” Mrs. Goldstein lead the way. Perseverance anchored her features.

I pushed ahead gulping great breaths of tenacious spirit and left Mrs. Goldstein to consider another option for dinner.