Henry Roth - Call It Sleep

“Naa!” His stomach shrank.

“Didntcha ever eat ’em?”

“Naa! Jews can’t.”

“Cheez! Jew’s can’t eat nutt’n.” He picked up one of the monsters. “Lucky I ain’ a Jew.”

“No.” David agreed vaguely. But for the first time since he had met Leo, he rejoiced in his own tenets. “Hoddayuh ead?”

“Easy!” Leo snapped off a scarlet claw. “Jist bite into ’em, see?” He did.

“Gee!” David marveled.

“Here’s some bread an’ budder,” Leo offered him a slab. “Yuh c’n eat dat, cantchuh? It’s on’y American bread.”

“Yea.” David eyed it curiously on accepting it. Unlike his own bread, this slice was neither drab-grey nor brown, but dough-pale and soft as paste under the finger tips. Where the crust on the bread his mother bought was stiff and thick as card-board, this had a pliant yielding skin, thin as the thriftiest potato paring or the strip one unwound from a paper lead-pencil. And the butter — he tasted it — salt! He had never eaten salt butter before. However, pulpy and briny though the first mouthful was, there was nothing actually repulsive about it—

“We c’n eat anyt’ing we wants,” Leo informed him sucking at a crushed red pincer. “Anyt’ing wot’s good.”

“Yea?” While he rolled the soggy cud about in his cheek, his eyes had lighted on the picture again, and again were baffled with shadow.

— A man. What? Can’t be.

“An’ I et ev’y kind o’ bread dey is,” Leo continued proudly. “Aitalian bread-sticks, Dutch pummernickel, Jew rye — even watchuh call ’em, matziz — matches—” He snickered. “Dey’re nuttin but big crackers — D’ja ever eat real spigeddi?”

“No, wod’s dat?”

“De wops eat it just like pitaters. An’ boy ain’ it good!” He rubbed his belly. “Could eat a whole pailful by me-self. We usetuh live nex’ door to de Aglorini’s — dey was Aitalian—”

— Like my picture too — in my house — with the flowers. Is something else if you know. Have to know or you can’t see.—

“An’ Lily Aglorini usetuh bring in a big dishful fuh me and de ol’ lady. Dat wuz w’en me ol’ lady give ’em cakes when she woiked in a ressarran’. On’y wot cheese dey put in — Holy Chee! No wonner guineas c’n faht wit’ gollic bombs!”

— A man, for sure now. Has to be. Only his guts are stickin’ out. Burning. Gee what a crazy picture. Even mine ain’t so. But get mad if I ask—

“Wisht me ol’ lady could make real Aitalian spigeddi — Hey!” He demanded abruptly. “Wotcha lookin’ at?”

“N-nott’n!” David dropped guilty eyes. “W’ad’s-” (—Don’t, don’t ask him!) “Gee!” He felt the shooting warmth of his own flush and stopped confusedly. (—Dope! Next time listen!)

“Wot’s wot?” he demanded staring at him with a wide-mouthed, suspended grin.

“A — yea!” Again, as on the roof, he found a convenient switch. “But I don’ know hodda say. My modder, she says it— on’y id’s Jewish.” He grinned deprecatingly.

“Well, say it!” impatiently.

“W’ad’s a orr — a orrghaneest? Dat’s how she says id.”

“A awginis’, yuh mean! Awginis’—Sure! We got one in our choich. He plays a awgin.”

“Yea?”

“Dey looks like pianers, on’y dey w’istles — up on top, see? Got long pipes an’ t’ings. Didtcha know dat?”

“I didn’t know fuh sure — on’y in Jewish.”

“Yea, dat’s wot it is. Anyhow, who wuz talkin’ about choich?”

“Nobody!” With apologetic haste, “Spigeddeh yuh said.”

“Yea!” offendedly.

“D’yuh go skatin’ in de windertime, too?”

“Naw, wadda gink!” Leo struck at the lure. “How c’n yuh go skatin’ in de winter time wit’ snow on’ de groun’? Yuh skate on slyin’ ponds den. Dja ever make one a whole block long?” He expanded again. “We did — me and Patsy McCardy an’ Buster Tuttle — it went all de way from Elevent’ to Stevens Street.”

“Gee!” David relaxed again.

“An’ Lily Aglorini tries to slide on it an’ bang!” The crab shell cut a red arc. “Right on her can! Wow! She went a whole block wit’ her legs stickin’ up innee air.”

— Guts like a chicken, open. And he’s holding them. Whiskers he’s got, or no?

“An’ den de hawse falls on it and de cop trows ashes on it. But didn’ me and Patsy kid de shoit off her ’cause she wuz wearin’ red drawers.”

— Don’t look any more, that’s all!

But Leo had flicked his gaze over his shoulder. “Oh!” He asked in resentful surprise. “Is zat all yuh tryin’ to look at?”

“No I wuzn’ tryin’! Hones’!—”

“Yes, yuh wuz, don’ tell me,” disgustedly. “At’s twicet now yuh wuzn’ even listenin’!”

“I didn’t mean—” He hung his head.

“Well, go on!” The crab crunched under exasperated teeth. “Take a good look at it, will yuh!”

“Kin I?”

“Dat’s w’at its fuh! Course yuh c’n!”

He slid apologetically from the chair, walked over. “Oh, now I see.” He gazed up at it intently. “It ain’ w’at I t’ought.” The man was bearded, but instead of holding his bowels in his hand, he was pointing at his breast in which the red heart was exposed and luminous.

“Wadjuh t’ink it wuz?”

“Couldn’ see good,” evasively.

“Dintcha ever see dat befaw?”

“No.”

“’At’s Jesus an’ de Sacred Heart.”

“Oh! What makes it?”

“Makes wot?”

“He’s all light inside.”

“Well ’at’s ’cause he’s so holy.”

“Oh,” David suddenly understood. “Like him, too!” He stared in facination at the picture. “De man my rabbi told me about — he had it!”

“Had w’a’?” Leo drew abreast of him to look up.

“Dot light over dere!”

“Couldnda had dat,” Leo asserted dogmatically. “Dat’s Christchin light — it’s way bigger. Bigger den Jew light.”

David had turned around to face Leo, but now he stopped, stared at the opposite wall. Directly above his chair all this time the same bearded figure had been hanging. Only this time David recognized him. He was made of flesh-tinted porcelain, and with what looked like a baby’s diaper around his loins, hung from a glazed black cross. “Dat’s him?”

“Sure! Yuh seen him befaw, dintcha?”

“Some place, yea. But I didn’ know he wuz righd over me.” With a feeling of dread he eyed the crucifix. “Oncet I seen him in a ’Talian funeral store. He’s a’ways wit’ nails, ain’t he?”

“Yea.” Leo took another slice of bread.

“But I didn’ know dat wuz a — You ain’ gonna git mad, will yuh if I ast you?”

“Naw!” And a second crab. “Ast me!”

“W’y is dat dish on his head busted over dere?” He pointed to the crucifix. “An it ain’ busted over — hea.” He pointed now to the picture.

“Ha! Ha!” he guffawed through a mouthful of food. “Aintcha de sap, dough! Dat ain’ a dish; dat’s a halo! Dintcha ever see a halo? It’s made ouda light! An dat ain’ a dish, neider,” pointing to the figure on the cross, “dat’s his crown o’ t’orns — sharper’n pins wot de Jews stuck on him.”

“Jews?” David repeated, horrified and incredulous.

“Sure. Jews is de Chris’-killers. Dey put ’im up dere.”

“No?”

“Sure, youse!”

“Gee! W’en?”

“Long ago. T’ousan’s o’ years.”

“Oh!” There was a little comfort in remoteness. “I didn’ know.” A hundred other questions clamored at his tongue, but fearful of further revelations, he stifled them. “Gee! He’s light inside and out, ain’ he?” was all he dared offer.