Henry Roth - Call It Sleep

He whimpered.

A man, paunched, slow-footed, his bulky body rolling on baggy unbending knees drew near. Opposite David, he turned a slow head toward the light, palmed a strange, corrupt-purple splotch on his jowls, pinched his under lip and lumbered on.

— With the whip. The busted one. Here he hit too. Him like from wagon. And I gave it. Won’t bust no more. If he — Don’t let him! Don’t let him! Run in! Bedroom! Hold door. Tight! Don’t let go! Aunt Bertha! Uncle! You too! Hold it! Fast! Don’t let him hit her! Hold it! Ow! Mama! Stop! Stop, papa! Please! Ow! Look! Is — dark — dark yet. Dark.

Beside him on the ground floor of the same house where he sat concealed, a window squawked, whirred open. And a man’s voice in sing-song harangue:

“Aaa, dawn be a wise-guy! Hooz tuckin’ f’om vinnin’! A dollar ’n’ sexty fife gestern! A thuler ’n’ sompt’n’ —ova hadee cends — Sonday! An’ Monday night in back f’om Hymen’s taileh-shop, rummy, tuh sevendy. Oy, yuh sh’d die. An’ I sez if yuh ken give a good dill, Abe, yuh sheoll dill in jail auraddy! An’ if I luz again, a fire sol dich bald urtreffen!” The voice retreated.

— If it lights, so what? What’ll I do? He’ll ask me. What’ll I do? What? What? Papa, nothing. I wanted … I wanted. What? The — The — on the floor. Beads. Fell out — pocket. What for you—? Ow! Papa, I don’t know What? Why? He’ll look. He’ll say. Ball. Ball I wanted Ball? He’ll say — ball? Yes. Ball. In my head. Ow! I can’t tell. Must! In my head seen. Was. In the corner. By milk-stink baby carriages. White. Wasn’t scared. What? What? What? Yes. Wasn’t scared. How I seen one once, when — When? Sword in the fire. Tenth Street. Ask the rabbi. Sword. In the crack light and he laughed. When I read that he — Fire. Light. When I read. Always scared till then — and they made me. Goyim by river. And They — So had. So lost. Wanted back, Papa! Papa! Wanted back. And he said yes. Leo. Like inside-outside guts burning. And he said would. Come out of box. Said God on — Wait, Papa! Papa! Don’t hit! Don’t! Ow! Didn’t want a big one, only twentier. Littler even. Only nickel-big. Down under fished — like when — Ow! That’s why, Papa! That’s why! Didn’t — Ow! Ain’t! Ain’t! Ain’t lit yet! What’ll I do? Ain’t lit yet!

They had gathered across the street before the house beside the barber shop on the corner, boys, nimble, nervous and shrill. And one stood threateningly on the stoop while the rest crouched tensely on the curb—

“Wolf, are yuh ready?”

“I’m geddin’ ouda bed!”

“Wolf, are yuh ready?”

“I’m goin’ t’ de sink!”

“Wolf, are yuh ready?”

“I’m washin’ op mine face—”

With precious, mincing gait, two women approached, scanning with dead caressing flutter the dead faces of the men who passed them. Their cheeks in the vitriolic glare of the photography-shop window were flinty yet sagging; green light glazed the velvet powder, scummed the hectic rouge, livid over lurid. One, the nearest, swelling her bosom to the figment strand she lifted from it, sent a glancing beam at David from casual polished, putrescent eyes. They sauntered on trailing a languid wake of flesh and perfume, redolent for all the ten foot gap between them, emphasizing by denying their corruption.

— Milk — stink here too. Where? Cans, because. Milk — stink big cans. What’s that — there by — cellar? What? Sword it — No! Don’t care! Don’t care! Mama! Mama!

“Wolf are yuh ready?”

“I’m putt’n’ on my shoes—”

— If she runs, runs away. Don’t look for me. Can’t see. If she — like she said. Never see her again. Take me, mama! Don’t run away! Mama! Here I am, Mama! By cans I’m hiding! By store! Dark yet — is dark. Dark always! She went already. Didn’t look! Don’t want to find me! Never! Never! She went! She went! Ow! Look someplace else! Look! Look someplace! Sword by cans! No, ain’t. Forgot! He forgot. Store-spoon, milk-spoon. Why! Ow! Mama! Mama! Ain’t light! Never! Never!

“Wolf, are yuh ready?”

“I’m pudd’n on my drawz—”

“No fair! Hey, yuh pud on de drawz a’reddy!”

“Awri’! So I’m pudd’n’ on my shoit!”

“Wolf, are—”

The clatter of a horse-car drowned them out. And from the window beside him loud and sudden laughter—

“A bluff, ha? Nisht by Mudjkih! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ven ’Erry says a full-house is a full—”

— If it was—! If it was a sword. So what? You’re scared. Ain’t not! You’re scared! I ain’t! I ain’t! I ain’t! Yes, you know because it ain’t. Double dare me? Double dare me? You know it ain’t? Could! Even if it ain’t a sword, could go in the crack. Where it splashes, hold cup like where you held sword. You’re scared. Triple dare me? Somebody’ll see. Let ’em! Don’t care! Can’t get it out. Anyway. Cans too heavy — Can too. Empty. I triple dare you? Wait! Aaaa, knew you was scared. Wait! Three waits! No more! No more! Only three waits. No more! (He was muttering aloud now) “Yuh gonna lighd winder? Winder! Winder! Yuh gonna lighd winder?”

“Wolf, are yuh ready?”

“I’m tieingk op mine shoe-laces!”

— Winder, secon’ chance! Yuh gonna lighd winder? I’ll go! I’ll go! Winder! Mama! Mama! I’ll go!

He had risen to his feet. Once more his anguished eyes beseeched the window, and then a fit of horrible rage convulsed him and he writhed and beat the wall beside him. Seconds passed. The fit left him and he tasted the salt blood on his bitten lip and peered with a new, strange feeling of craftiness up and down the greenish street.

Humanity. On feet, on crutches, in carts and cars. The ice-vendor. The waffle-wagon. Human voices, motion, seething, throbbing, bawling, honking horns and whistling. Troubling the far clusters of street lamps, setting store-lights guttering with their passing bodies like a wind. He shuddered, looked near at hand. Across the street, the wolf was crouching, ready to spring; the boys that baited him, twitched warily, giggled nervously at each cry. In the photography-shop, the enlarged pictures of age gazed out at him, mummified and horrible. From wall and sidewalk, lamplight and mercury vapor had crowded the gloaming into night; above the streets the hollow cobalt air dissolved heaven’s difference with the roof tops. No one was watching him.

In hatred this time, in challenge, his eyes stabbed the window. Dark. He defied it.

Stealthily, he sidled to the nearest milk-can, took hold of the cover and handle. Under his palms, the metal was cold, the heavy can unwieldy, a shifting steely glimmer under his eyes. He leaned against it — harder. It budged, sounded hollow. Again he braced himself, thrust—

Clank!

Wedged between the shoulder of the can and the cellar grill, the long, grey, milk-dipper clattered to the ground. He stooped to pick it up—

“Tadam, padam, pam! Thew! Thew! He had to get under, get out and get under—” With a jaunty, swaggering stride and nasal hum and toothy whistle, a tall, square-shouldered man drew abreast. “To fix up his little machine!” Between cap and black shirt, frosty green-blue eyes winked down at David, turned away, and passing, left their chill fire lingering in the air. “Pam! Pam! Prra! To fix up his little machine!”

The coast was clear now. Across the street, the children were shrieking with excitement. David picked up the dipper, crept out of the store entrance, and with the scoop of the dipper under his armpit, long, flat handle in his hand, he slunk quickly toward Tenth Street—

“Wolf are yuh ready!” their voices pursued him.

“I’m co-o-o-o-omin’—down — duh — st-o-o-op!”

— Goin’! I’m goin’, winder! Winder! Winder! I’m goin’!