Henry Roth - Call It Sleep

“That doesn’t hurt you that much, does it?” asked the interne cheerily. “You’ll be running around to-morrow.”

“Yer better off den I tawt ye’d be, said the policeman behind him. “Cheezis, Doc, I sure figgered he wuz cooked.”

“No. The shock went through the lower part. That’s what saved him. I don’t see why he was out so long anyway. Weak, I guess.”

Behind beating hooves and jangling bell, he felt the ambulance round the corner at Avenue D. The policeman turned to look behind him and then squinted sideways at David’s foot.

“His shoes wuz boined in front. An’ he’s got it up on de ankle.”

“Narrowest part.”

“I see. Dat’ll loin yuh a lesson, kid.” He disengaged one hand from the ambulance wall to wave a severe finger at David. “Next time I’ll lock yiz up. Wot flaw d’yuh live on?”

“T-top flaw.”

“Would have t’be,” he growled disgustedly. “Next time I will lock yiz up — making me woik, an’ takin’ de Doc away from a nice pinocle game. Wot dese goddam kids can’t t’ink of. Geez!”

The ambulance had rounded the second corner and came to a stop. Grinning, the interne leaped down. Stooping over and grunting as he stooped, the policeman lifted him in his arms again and bore him quickly through the new throng that came streaming around the corner. On the stoop, several children recognized him and bawled excitedly, “It’s Davy! It’s Davy!” A woman in the gaslit corridor cradled cheek in palm in terror and backed away. They mounted the stairs, the interne behind them and behind him remnants of the crowd, children of the house, following eagerly at a wary distance, jabbering, calling to him, “Watsa maddeh? Watsa maddeh, Davy?” Doors opened on the landings. Familiar heads poked out. Familiar voices shrilled at others across the hallway. “It’s him! F’om opstehs. Veh de fighd voz!” As they neared the top the policeman had begun breathing heavily, shedding thick hot breath on David’s cheek, grunting, the lines on his scowling, tough, red face deep with exertion.

The top floor. David’s eyes flashed to the transom. It was lit. They were in. What would they say? He moaned again in terror.

“Where is it?” the red face before him puffed.

“Over — over dere!” he quavered weakly.

The door. The arm under his knees slid forward. Beefy knuckles rapped, sought the knob. Before an answer came, the door, nudged forward by his own thighs, swung open.

Before him stood his mother, looking tense and startled, her hand resting on his father’s shoulders, and below, seated, his father, cheek on fist, eyes lifted, sourly glowering, affronted, questioning with taut and whiplike stare. The others were gone. It seemed to David that whole ages passed in the instant they regarded each other frozen in their attitudes. And then just as the policeman began to speak, his mother’s hand flew to her breast, she gasped in horror, her face went agonizingly white, contorted, and she screamed. His father threw his chair back, sprang to his feet. His eyes bulged, his jaw dropped, he blanched.

For the briefest moment David felt a shrill, wild surge of triumph whip within him, triumph that his father stood slack-mouthed, finger-clawing, stooped, and then the room suddenly darkened and revolved. He crumpled inertly against the cradling arms.

“David! David!” His mother’s screams pierced the reeling blur. “David! David! Beloved! What is it? What’s happened?”

“Take it easy, missiz! Take it easy!” He could feel the policeman’s elbow thrust out warding her off. “Give us a chanst, will yuh! He ain’t hoit! He ain’t a bit hoit! Hey Doc!”

The interne had stepped between them and David, staring weakly through the sickening murk before his eyes, saw him pushing her resolutely away. “Now! Now! Don’t get him excited, lady! It’s bad! It’s bad for him! You’re frightening him! Understand? Nicht ver — Schlect! Verstehen sie?”

“David! My child!” Unhearing, she still moaned, frantically, hysterically, one hand reached out to him, the other clutching her hair. “Your foot! What is it, child! What is it darling?”

“Put him down on the bed!” The interne motioned impatiently to the bed-room. “And listen, Mister, will you ask her to stop screaming. There’s nothing to worry about! The child is in no danger! Just weak!”

“Genya!” his father started as if he were jarred. “Genya!” He exclaimed in Yiddish. “Stop it! Stop it! He says nothing’s wrong. Stop it!”

From outside the door, the bolder ones in the crowd of neighbors that jammed the hallway had overflowed into the kitchen and were stationing themselves silently or volubly along the walls. Some as they jabbered pointed accusingly at David’s father and wagged their heads significantly. And as David was borne into the bedroom, he heard one whisper in Yiddish, “A quarrel! They were quarreling to death!” In the utterly welcome half-darkness of the bed-room he was stretched out on the bed. His mother, still moaning, had followed, and behind her his restraining hand upon her shoulder came the interne. Behind them the upright, squirming bodies, pale, contorted faces of neighbors clogged the doorway. A gust of fury made him clench his hands convulsively. Why didn’t they go away? All of them! Why didn’t they stop pointing at him?

“I was just this minute going down!” his mother was wringing her hands and weeping, “Just this minute I was going down to find you! What is it darling? Does it hurt you? Tell me—”

“Aw, Missiz!” the policeman flapped his hands in disgust. “He’s all right. Be reasonable, will yiz! Just a liddle boined, dat’s all. Just a liddle boined. Cantchuh see dere’s nutt’n’ wrong wid ’im!”

She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“Schreckts ach nisht! Schreckts ach nisht!” The chorus of women in the doorway translated raggedly. “Sis im goor nisht geshehen! S’ goor nisht geferlich!”

“Dat’s it, you tell her!” The policeman shouldered his way through the door.

The interne had undressed him, pulled the covers down and tucked him in. The smooth sheets felt cool on his throbbing foot.

“Now!” He straightened, turned decisively to David’s mother. “You can’t help him by crying, lady. If you want to help him go make him some tea. A lot of it.”

“Kein gefahr?” she asked dully, disbelievingly.

“Yes! Yes! That’s right!” he answered impatiently. “Kein gefahr! Now make him some tea.”

“Teh, Mrs. Schearl,” a woman in the doorway came forward. “Geh macht eem teh!”

“Teh?”

“Yes! Teh!” the interne repeated. “Quick! Schnell! Yes?”

She turned numbly. The woman offered to help her. They went out.

“Well, how’s the kid?” the interne grinned down at him. “Feel good?”

“Y-yeh.”

“That’s the boy! You’ll be all right in a little while.”

He turned to leave. A fattish, bare-armed woman stood at his shoulder. David recognized her. She lived on the same floor.

“Ducktuh!” she whispered hurriedly. “Yuh shoulda seen vod a fighd dere vus heyuh!” She contracted, rocked. “Oyyoy! Yoy-u-yoy! Him, dat man, his faddeh, he vus hittin’ eem! Terrible! A terrhible men! En’ dere vus heyuh his cozzins — oder huh cozzins — I don’ know! En’ dey vus fighdingk. Oy-yoy-yoy! Vid scrimms! Vid holleringk! Pwwweeyoy! En’ den dey chessed de boy all oud f’om de house. En den dey chessed de odder two pipples! En’ vee vus listeningk, en’ dis man vos crying. Ah’m khrezzy! Ah’m khrezzy! I dun know vod I do! I dun’ know vod I said! He ses. Ah’m khrezzy! En’ he vus cryingk! Oy!”

“Is that so?” the interne said indifferently.

“Id vus terrhible! Terrhible! En’ Ducktuh,” she patted his arm. “Maybe you could tell me fah vy my liddle Elix dun eat? I give him eggks vid milk vid kulleh gedillehs. En he don’t vonna eat nottingk. Vod sh’d I do?”