Henry Roth - Call It Sleep

Where was his father? Behind her the bedroom door was open. No one lay on the bed. Not in. Beatitude flawless.

“You’re still wet!” he giggled suddenly. “Even the floor!”

“Yes. I must mop that dry.” She caught up the wet, dripping twist of her hair in the towel. “Half the tub is on the floor. I vaulted out in such haste. I don’t know why I get so frightened about you — especially if I think you are.” As she spoke, she bent sideways, dipped an arm in the tub to pull the stoppers out. The soapy water sucked and gurgled. Against the window-light, her body showed shadowy outlines, hip and knee lending pink to the yellow. “Did you see many sights on the wagon?”

He shook his head violently.

“No?” Her smile faded. “Why such drooping lips?”

“I hate it! I hate it!” It was all he could do to keep from bursting into tears.

“Why?” She looked at him in surprise. “What happened?”

“Nothing. (— Mustn’t tell. Mustn’t! ) Didn’t like it, that’s all.”

“Timid little heart! I know. But tomorrow you won’t have to go — even if that other man doesn’t return, someone else will take that route.”

“Never?”

“Never, what? Go?”

“Yes.”

“No, never.” She sat down, towel a comical turban about her head. “Come here.”

He smiled diffidently and went to her. “You look funny.”

“Do I?” she chuckled and helped him to her knee. The comfort of being against her breast outstripped the farthest-flung pain. “You don’t like being a milkman?”

“No.”

“Nor a milkman’s helper?”

“No!”

“What would you like to be?”

“I don’t know.”

She laughed. How the ear teased for that rippling, sinuous sound. “This morning in the butcher-shop I heard a woman say that her son was going to be a great doctor. Hmm! I thought, how blessed your life is! And how old is your son, the butcher asked. Seven, she answered. The butcher nearly missed the bone he was chopping. And here you’re eight and still you haven’t told me. But you won’t have to go along with the wagon any more— Want some milk? The new yeast cookies you like?” She rubbed her moist brow against his lips. “With the raisins inside?”

“Awrigh’!” he yielded. “But not now.” The closeness of her body was too rare to be relinquished so soon.

“Awhrri’,” she repeated after him, and so drolly he laughed. “But let me get up.”

“No!”

“But I’ve got to get dressed,” she begged. “This shift is clammier than a well-stone. Yes?” She rose; reluctantly he slid from her knee. “I’ll get you the milk and cookies first.”

He watched her go to the bread-box, open it, draw out several honey-colored cookies, place them on a plate and then take a half-filled quart of milk from the ice-box—

— Wagon! They! Ow!

A shudder ran through him.

— Forget!

She filled a glass, set the cookies and milk on the table.

“You eat them while I dress,” she coaxed. “There are more of both if you want them.” And uncoiling the towel about her head went into the bedroom.

He sat down, munched the raisined crispness slowly, stared eagerly at the bedroom door waiting for her to come out.

“What time is it now, David?” Her voice rose above the rustling of the garments.

He stared up at the clock on the shelf. “It’s ten — eleven minutes after two.”

“ After two?”

“Yes.”

“He’ll get no sleep this afternoon either.”

— He!

“That double collection keeps him — as if he didn’t work hard enough as it is. But he ought to be home soon.”

— Soon! Home!

The mashed lump of food lay inertly in his mouth.

“Do you remember the time you couldn’t tell time?” Her voice went on after a pause. “You told it by whistles. And once you saved calendar leaves — where are they now?”

— He! See him! No! No! Go down! Quick, before he comes!

He gulped down the half-chewed cud, shoved the remainder of the cooky in his pocket and drank the milk down in noisy haste.

— Take another. She’ll ask.

He dropped another cooky into his pocket. “I’m going down stairs, mama.”

“What!” Her voice was surprised.

“Can I?”

“Have you finished so soon?” She came out of the bedroom. Her dress, hovering between round upstretched arms, “How did you—” settled like a cloud about her head, “manage so soon?” sank below throat, armpits, square scalloped, petticoat. His face was radiant. Her eyes searched the table.

“I was hungry.”

“Well,” she lifted the long nape of hair from her neck. “That’s the quickest you’ve ever eaten. Were they good?”

“Yes.” He was already edging toward the door.

“You rush in and rush out as though the coachman wouldn’t wait. But don’t stay too long.”

“No.”

She smoothed down her dress, crouched, kissed him. “What a fitful one you are! Be up before supper?”

“Yes.”

“Take care of yourself in the street, won’t you?”

“Yes.” He opened the door, shut himself into the gloom of the hallway.

— Ain’t so afraid. Funny, forgot. But hurry …

V

IN THE street again, he fled across the gutter to the side shaded now by houses, and began walking west toward Avenue C. His eyes, peering in all directions to catch sight of his father before he himself was seen, spied Izzy dashing out of the cheder hallway. He didn’t want to talk to him. That taunt about the whip still rankled. He flattened against a store window as Izzy hurried east toward Avenue D, but their glances met; Izzy’s sharp eyes recognized him.

“Hey!” His voice had a novel, friendly note in it. “W’y’ntcha say sompt’n? W’ea’s de geng?”

“I didn’ see ’em.” He thawed cautiously.

“C’mon, let’s find ’em.” Izzy briskly took his arm. “Wonner w’ea Kushy is?”

“Dintcha fighd ’im?” He permitted himself to be led.

“Naa! He’s a lodda boloney! D’ja fodder gib yuh wid de w’ip?”

“No! Did he gid de nickel?”

“Naa! Id wuzn’a nickel — jus’ like I tol’ ’im— He wuz mad yaw fodder — oh boy!”

“No, he wuzn’t.” Why did Izzy persist in changing the subject? “W’a wuz id?”

“W’a’? De nickel? Iyin, like I said.”

“Oh!”

“N’ de rebbeh god mad on yuh good.”

“Yea.” Irritably.

“Yuh bedder gib’m poinduhs,” he advised. “He ga’ me a smack onna puss, lousy bassid! An’ he bussid one on Srooly — Bang! He’s dumb. Betcha million dollehs dey’re all on Evenyeh D.”

They rounded the corner— There they all were, sitting on the curb.

“See? I tol’ ye.” Izzy shot ahead, shaking David completely. “Hey, Geng!”

“Hey, Izzy!” they chorused.

“Led a reggiluh guy sid donn, will yuh?”

“Led ’im sid donn!” they ordered, and shoving against each other made room for him beside Kushy.

Stranded, David hesitantly approached and stood up behind them.

“So w’ea wuz yuh?” Kushy asked.

“I went wid my modder.” Izzy basked in their gaze. “An’ we bought shoes — best kind onnuh Eas’ Side. Waid’ll yuh see ’em. Wid buttons ’n’ flat toes — for kickin’ a food-ball. He wanned t’ree dollehs, bod my modder tol’ me I shull say, Peeuh! Wod lousy shoes! So we god ’em fuh two. An’ nen I went tuh cheder.”

“I like bedder poinds,” contention broke out from some point on the line. “Give a bedder kick inna hole!”

“Yea! Ha! Ha!” they chortled, acknowledging the wisdom of the choice.

“Can’t gid yuh foot oud,” countered Izzy calmly. “So wod’s de good?”