Henry Roth - Mercy of a Rude Stream - The Complete Novels

He hitched his football shoes over his shoulder. Boy, they were dandies, with a hard toe for getting off a good punt, and cleats that clawed the ground for abrupt stops and shifts. He stretched his hand out to turn the doorknob, then remembered — just as Mom was opening the kitchen window to get the milk bottle out of the window box cooler. Maybe spending an extra minute regaling her might cheer her up. And at the same time, he’d gain Mom’s congratulation for his cleverness and his good mazel by relating briefly the encounter with the ex-fellow conductor cheated by the bus company of his hundred dollars.

“ Azoy? ” Mom paused with hand on the bedroom doorknob, smiling as he sharpened the point of the anecdote: that this guy was the worst goniff in the place. “One moment. Mineleh, I’ll get the milk.”

Mom laughed when he finished his account. But Minnie never lifted her head. Boy, she was still sore. Or was it more than he thought? Something significant? Mom lingered while Ira lingered, and Ira lingered because Minnie’s frown was threatening and impenetrable.

“So why don’tcha go?” Minnie invited disagreeably.

“Whatsa matter with you?” Ira answered in kind.

“ Kinderlekh ,” Mom admonished. “What for? Akh. At once you begin to feud.” She laughed in spite of herself. “I’ll fetch a bit of health, Mineleh.” She blinked in the direction of the chopped onions in the wooden bowl on the washtub. “I’ll clear my eyes by leaning out of the window and watching my shining son leave.” She made for the bedroom and, trailing her inveterate sigh, shut the door behind her.

Must be some reason Minnie glowered so. Ira waited, waited for the most favorable interval: between the sound of Mom’s heavy tread and the estimated time for her to reach the front-room window. “Whatsa matter?” Blunt inquiry was safe. He heard the front-room window open.

“Shut up. Nothing.”

“I gotta go. What? Just because that once?”

Sidelong, her eyeglass-darkened girlish features scowled in contempt, her girlish voice fraught with resentment. “No. Who cares about that? I didn’t get my period yet. I’m three days late.”

Let the ceiling fall, the house cave in on him, for him that would be no fearful dread — compared to this, to which all he could say — dazedly — was: “You didn’t?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Whatta you mean I’m sure?”

“Jesus.” In stunned silence he stood; the whole world plunged to smithereens about him. “I gotta go. Mom’s by the window.”

“So go ahead. You wanted to know. I told you. Maybe I shouldn’t.” Suddenly she didn’t sound mean at all, no, but surprisingly, almost solicitously, deeply troubled. “Go ahead. It’s nothing.”

“Gee, I hope not. You been late like that before?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s nothing, I told you.”

“Three days?”

“Go ahead. Mom’ll be wondering why she doesn’t see you.”

“All right. Jesus.” He went out into the hall. With dragging step to the landing, with spiritless tread down the stairs, his football shoes an unwelcome burden over his shoulder. Out of the house doorway, down stone stoop, he forced an unwilling countenance into dissembling. Hard as hell to writhe adamant visage from its grim set, as if pressing against opposing steel springs, forcing recalcitrant wedges to prop up fear-stricken features into a blithe mask that looked up from the sidewalk, looked up at Mom’s fleshy, fond face looking down, saying in Yiddish, “Have a good run. Only don’t forget supper. The sire will be home.”

“Yeah, I know. It gets dark anyway, Mom — before.” He raised his voice, but could scarcely lift his eyes to her projecting face more than once. “I’ll be home, Mom. Don’t worry. All right?”

“ Oy, s’iz git kalt .” The window overhead slid with slight thud to its sill.

“Oh, Jesus. On the sidewalk, and in the street, the kids, a few pedestrians, and across the street, just then climbing the stoop of one of the twin red-brick tenements where Davey Baer and his family still lived, was Mrs. McIntyre, dos tseyndl , Mom dubbed her, in charity, not derision, the little fang, because Mrs. McIntyre had only one front tooth; so prominent when she smiled. And she loved Mom, as so many of the neighborhood goyish women did, despite her faltering English. Mrs. McIntyre literally beamed, brightened, with pleasure when she talked with Mom, as if talking to Mom were a joy, an honor. But oh, Mom, what your son’s got himself into. Or did you, Mom? A noble woman, Zaida called her. So don’t blame her. Only yourself. Boyoboy. He drove himself to stride with enforced alacrity toward the everlasting trestle on Park Avenue.

Everlasting trestle. Everlasting shadow under it. . often agreeable, relished in hot weather, not now. Into shadow under overarching steel; and out of shadow into abating light of afternoon. . crossing to the west curb, hoofing toward Madison Avenue, each step more dispirited. Right here, in midblock, Collingway had accosted him. Yeah, lucky bastard, yeah. The goy gave him a gitoik , Pop would have said: the evil eye. Keyn ayin-horeh , Ira should have said to himself: avert the evil eye. Been superstitious like Pop. Mazel . Jesus Christ, how lucky he thought he was. Boy, he would rather have lost that hundred bucks. . a hundred times over, if he had it to lose, than be in this fix. A hundred, hundred, hundred times over. Ten thousand, ten thousand, ten thousand times over. So Pop would have torn him into little bits, when he came home without the security.

But what was that to this? Three days late, she said. Three days! She said it was nothing. So don’t worry — if she said it was nothing, so it was nothing. Jesus, he shouldn’t have washed that condom. Washed it and reused it. Been a cheapskate, like Pop. Oh, no, Jesus no. And it looked all right afterward, dried, turned inside out, rolled up, looked as good as that first time, when she said it was so wonderful. Maybe it split. Maybe that’s why he felt something different when he came. Oh, Jesus, warmer, delightful, moister all of a sudden. Maybe that was why he came so soon. A dillar, a dollar, a ten-o’clock scholar. .

Why had he met Pearl, gone to Theodora? His luck. All right, don’t be like Pop. Luck. Brains. Why didn’t he keep on going to Theodora? He knew the address, how to get there, and how much. And it was safe. And no trouble, nothing happened. He just said goodbye, walked back to the subway. Two stations downtown and good old 116th Street. And he could have bought his own condoms next time, instead of hers: the extra quarter could have bought two. So he knew the ropes now; why didn’t he go? Because he was a cheapskate, like Pop. Why did he have to hump his sister? Because he got started doing it. Then why didn’t he do it the way he used to do it before? Sandwiched it, the way it tickled her, the way that wouldn’t let him go in. He never worried when he used to do it that way. Oh, shut up, shut up, shut up. Oh, if it ever—

He reached Madison Avenue, turned toward 120th and the corner of Mt. Morris Park. Oh, Jesus. He didn’t want to play football. Association, or any kind. You gotta. Forget it. You gotta forget, you gotta forget, you gotta forget this morning, you gotta forget, you gotta forget today. Taps. No, no, dummy, that wasn’t taps; that was reveille. March on. March on. Sing the Marseillaise .

Ahead of him in the brown, bare playground in the park he could see and hear the cry and chase of a touch football game. Boy, to be like them. Shut up. Grab a bench and get your cleats on. It’s nothing, she said.

“Hey, fellas. How about a game?” he called as soon as he passed through the 120th Street entrance.