Henry Roth - Call It Sleep

“Why?” The momentary satisfaction with himself changed into uneasiness. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll go downstairs with you.”

“No!”

“Why, of course I will. I’m not going to let anyone coop you up here all day. You just point them out to me and I’ll—”

“No, you can’t do that,” he interrupted her desperately. “If you come down and you talk to them, they’ll call me ‘fraid-cat’!”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a cat that’s afraid.”

“Well, aren’t you?” she laughed. “Aren’t you just a little afraid?”

“I wouldn’t be if they weren’t so big.” He tried to deepen the channel of digression. “You ought to see how big they are. And there’s two of them.”

“That’s all the more reason I ought to go down with you.”

“But I don’t want to go down!” Emphatically. “I want to stay here.”

“You’re just pretending.”

“No, I’m not! I’m hungry.”

“I offered you cake and an apple,” she reminded him—“Only a little while ago when I began cleaning.”

“I wasn’t hungry then.”

“Ach!” she scoffed, glancing at the clock. “You’re like those large bright flies in Austria that can fly backwards and forwards or hover in the air as though pinned there. And what will you do after you’re fed — stay here till the Messiah comes?”

“No. I’ll run to the cheder then, and play in the yard and wait for the rabbi.”

“I wonder if you’re telling the truth?”

“I am too.” His injured gaze held steady.

“Well.” She sighed. “What would you like — a jelly omelette?”

“Yum! Yum!”

“Very well then.” She smiled fondly. “As long as I can get you to eat, I feel safe — That’s our only sign.” Her breasts heaved, nostrils dilating suddenly. “But why do I sigh?” And going to the china closet drew out several dishes. “I think washing windows makes me do that. It always reminds me of Brownsville and that window with the scrawls and faces on it. I wonder if they’ve cleaned it yet?” She went to the ice-box. “Is it only a year and a half now since we moved out? It seems further away than five cents will take one.” And she fell silent, cracking the eggs against the edge of the bowl.

— Gee lucky for me I thought. Can fool her any time. She don’t know. So I won’t get that black thing in the box. So who cares!

The gas-stove popped softly under the match. Lifting a frying pan from its hook on the wall, she set it on the grate — but a moment later pushed it to one side as though she had changed her mind, and walked to the street-window.

— Hope he ain’t! Hope he ain’t yet. (His startled thought overtook hers)

“Good!” she exclaimed triumphantly and pulled her head in. “I struck it just right. Sometimes I do believe in premonitions.”

— Aaa! Wish his horse fell or something!

“Now I can feed all both my men,” she laughed. “This is a rare pleasure!” And she hurried back to the ice-box.

He stiffened, ears straining above the rapid beating of eggs. Presently, he heard it, deliberate, hollow, near at hand. The knob turned — The harsh, weather-darkened face.

“I’m prepared for you!” she said cheerfully. “To the second.”

Cheeks distended in a short customary puff, he dropped his cap on the wash-tub, leaned his new whip against it. David glanced toward the stove. His mother had dropped the old broken one between the stove and the wall. His father went to the sink and began washing his hands.

“Tired?” She asked as she poured the golden foam into the hissing skillet.

“No.”

“Jelly omelette and dried peas, will that please you?”

He nodded.

“Is he still out?”

“That’s why I’m late again.” He wiped his hands. “Till tomorrow.”

“Ach! I’ll be so glad when he returns.”

He met her gaze with dark impassive eyes, slumped down into a chair. “How is it the heir is home?” His thin lips twitched, warping the flat cheek.

— Don’t! Don’t tell him! Ow! (But he dared not even look at her imploringly)

“Oh!” she said lightly. “There’s someone after him. One of the bigger boys in the street.”

— Aaa! She went and told him. Hate her!

His father’s incurious gaze turned from her face to David’s like a slow spoke. “Why?”

“Something about money in a cellar. They were all trying to get it up — how I don’t know. But the other — what did you call him?”

“Kushy,” sullenly.

“Yes. This Kushy claimed he pushed him just when he lifted it — the money. Isn’t that the way it goes? Wouldn’t you know the usual childish quarrel?” She bent over the stove. “Only if it’s over money, it’s not so childish, I guess.”

“A cellar?” The hardening of his voice was barely perceptible. “When?”

— Ow! He thinks I told!

“Yesterday, you said, didn’t you, David?” Her back was turned. “You don’t mind if we have the coffee I brewed this morning?”

“Yes,” David’s scared eyes rose to the gloomy pressure of his father’s. “I–I just said yesterday.”

His lean jaw had tightened. Drooping eye-lashes banked his smouldering anger. “What else?”

And though David knew the question was directed at himself—

“Why that’s all!” His mother laughed, as though surprised at her husband’s interest. “Except that I offered to go down into the street with him, since the other had threatened to strike him.” She brought the omelette and coffee pot to the table. “But he refused — said they’d call him — what? — frait-katz.” And surveying the spread. “Have I got everything here I want? Water, yes. Dear God!” She exclaimed as she went to the sink. “Isn’t it time I learned to speak English?”

— Knows it wasn’t! (David steeled himself) Knows it wasn’t yesterday! Knows I lied!

But, “Hmph!” his father grunted, relaxing. “He’s big enough to take care of himself.” There was a strange, veiled look of satisfaction on his face.

“What if they’re bigger than he is, Albert?” Protesting mildly, she set the dewy, glass pitcher on the table. “You know, they—”

“Still,” his father interrupted her, “if they’re too much for you, tell them I’ll take the horsewhip to them if they touch you.” And glancing up at her, began slicing the bread. “Just to scare them.” He added.

“Yes.” She sat down uncertainly. “But there’s no use kindling a feud out of a threat — especially an urchin’s threat.”

He made no reply. And during the interval while food was being passed—

— Took my part. Gee! (Mechanically, David lifted his fork) She told him and he knows I lied and he took my part. What did I — fooled him maybe? Naaa! How he looked at me—

“You know,” his mother tilted her smile meditatively, “it’s almost seven years since I came off that ship, and I’ve never quarreled with anyone yet. I wouldn’t like to start now.”

“It would be miraculous if you did.” His voice was level. “Your life has been as sealed as a nun’s.”

“Not quite so sheltered, Albert.” She looked faintly piqued. “Compared to yours, yes. But pushcart peddlers when I do my marketing — ach! — they deal out words as sharp as mustard-plasters — more than they do onions or carrots.… There’s nothing like a pushcart peddler.”

— Sure he knows. Bet a million. In the wagon he was then. Just when Kushy got up. And she told him it was yesterday. And he wouldn’t say—

“But what I mean is how shall I answer one of these native shrews if she shakes the clapper of her tongue at me in English? Cheh! Cheh! Cheh! They chatter and hiss like a sieve full of ashes.”