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

“No, that’s right.”

“And I brought you a present for your birthday: a turkey pastrami loaf.” She displayed it, a small brick of meat, tightly sealed in plastic.

He thought of an electric slicer, of getting one, but she wouldn’t approve: One more thing in the house, she would say in her equable, sensible fashion. He settled for, “Oh, great! Thanks.”

“I guess we’ll have to throw away those two coupons for Hardee’s two-for-the-price-of-one roast beef sandwiches. Tomorrow is the last day, and we’re having Margaret for company.”

“Do you know McDonald’s is now advertising a thirty-nine-cent hamburger?”

“The competition must be fierce.”

“There’s another thirty-nine-cent hamburger chain that’s just opened in town. You saw it with me the other day.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I wonder what a thirty-nine-cent hamburger looks like?”

“Let’s buy a half-dozen—” he suggested. “Since the McDonald’s place is so near.”

“I’ll probably put all three meat patties in one bun.”

That was why she remained so thin and distinguished in figure: three patties in one bun. And he, plebeian: “Oh, I like my tissue-paper buns. I’m used to eating that way.”

And all this, he reflected — after she was well launched rehearsing a piece at the piano, a familiar piece whose name he would be ashamed to admit he didn’t know — he would find out another time — all this, because he had asked her if she knew where one of his short stories was kept, or stored: She was so methodical, so efficient, all the enviable things he wasn’t. She knew, and faithfully brought him the carton, requiring only that she would have to sit down while she rummaged for the one he wanted: It was a sketch he had done for The New Yorker , and been lucky enough to have it accepted. Done in 1940, and what would he think of it now; would it fit into what he was doing, fit into the structure, or the mood? Forty-five years ago, forty-five years closer to the self-involved, self-indulgent, ill-at-ease, lonesome, moody, aimless scapegrace he was then. . tailored, to be sure, for The New Yorker . Would the piece still contain enough truth in it, fidelity to something he once was, to warrant the work of retyping, of inclusion here?

SOMEBODY ALWAYS GRABS THE PURPLE

Up a flight of stairs, past the vases and the clock outside the adult reading room, past cream walls, oak moldings, oak bookcases, and the Cellini statue of Perseus was the children’s room of the 123rd Street Branch Library. Young Sammy Farber drew a battered library card out of his pocket and went in. He was a thick-set, alert boy, eleven or twelve years old. He flattened his card on the desk and, while he waited for the librarian, gazed about. There were only a few youngsters in the reading room. Two boys in colored jerseys stood whispering at one of the bookcases. On the wall above their heads was a frieze of Grecian urchins blowing trumpets. The librarian approached.

“Teacher,” Sammy began, “I just moved, Teacher. You want to change it — the address?”

The librarian, a spare woman, graying and impassive, with a pince-nez, glanced at this card. “Let me see your hands, Samuel,” she said.

He lifted his hands. She nodded approvingly and turned his card over. It was well stamped. “You’d better have a new one,” she said.

“Can I get it next time, Teacher? I’m in a hurry like.”

“Yes. Where do you live now, Samuel?”

“On 520 East 120th Street.” He watched her cross out the Orchard Street address and begin writing the new one. “Teacher,” he said in a voice so low it was barely audible, “you got here the Purple Fairy Book? ”

“The what?”

“The Purple Fairy Book .” He knuckled his nose sheepishly. “Everybody says I’m too big to read fairy books. My mother calls ’em stories with a bear.”

“Stories with a bear?”

“Yeah, she don’t know English good. You got it?”

“Why, yes. I think it’s on the shelves.”

“Where, Teacher?” He moved instantly toward the aisle.

“Just a moment, Samuel. Here’s your card.” He seized it. “Now I’ll show you where it is.”

Together they crossed the room to a bookcase with a brass plate which said “Fairy Tales.” Sammy knelt down so that he could read the titles more easily. There were not a great many books in the case — a few legends for boys about Arthur and Roland on the top shelf, then a short row of fairy tales arranged according to countries, and finally, on the bottom shelf, a few fairy books arranged by colors: Blue, Blue, Green. Her finger on the titles wavered. Red. . Yellow. . “I’m sorry.”

“Ah!” he said, relaxing. “They grabbed it again.”

“Have you read the others? Have you read the Blue?”

“Yeah, I read the Blue.” He stood up slowly. “I read the Blue and the Green and the Yellow. All the colors. And colors that ain’t even here. I read the Lilac. But somebody always grabs the Purple.”

“I’m pretty sure the Purple Fairy Book hasn’t been borrowed,” the librarian said. “Why don’t you look on the tables? It may be there.”

“I’ll look,” he said. “But I know. Once they grab it, it’s goodbye.”

Nevertheless he went from table to table, picking up abandoned books, scanning their titles, and putting them down again. His round face was the image of forlorn hope. As he neared one of the last tables, he stopped. A boy was sitting there with a stack of books at his elbow, reading with enormous concentration. Sammy walked behind the boy and peered over his shoulder. On one page there was print, on the other a colored illustration, a serene princeling, hand on the hilt of his sword, regarding a gnarled and glowering gnome. The book was bound in purple. Sammy sighed and returned to the librarian.

“I found it, Teacher. It’s over there,” he said, pointing. “He’s got it.”

“I’m sorry, Samuel. That’s the only copy we have.”

“His hands ain’t as clean as mine,” Sammy suggested.

“Oh, I’m sure they are. Why don’t you try something else?” she urged. “Adventure books are very popular with boys.”

“They ain’t popular with him.” Sammy gazed gloomily at the boy. “That’s what they always told me on the East Side — popular, I don’t see what’s so popular about them. If a man finds a treasure in an adventure book, so right away it’s with dollars and cents. Who cares from dollars and cents? I get enough of that in my house.”

“There’s fiction,” she reminded him. “Perhaps you’re the kind of boy who likes reading about grown-ups.”

“Aw, them too!” He tossed his head. “I once read a fiction book, it had in it a hero with eyeglasses? Hih!” His laugh was brief and pitying. “How could heroes be with eyeglasses? That’s like my father.”

The librarian placed her pince-nez a little more securely on her nose. “He may leave it, of course, if you wait,” she said.

“Can I ask him?”

“No. Don’t disturb him.”

“I just want to ask him if he gonna take it or ain’t he. What’s the use I should hang around all day?”

“Very well. But that’s all.”

Sammy walked over to the boy again and said, “Hey, you’re gonna take it, aintcha?”

Like one jarred out of sleep, the boy started, his eyes blank and wide.

“What d’you want to read from that stuff?” Sammy asked. “Fairy tales!” His lips, his eyes, his whole face expressed distaste. “There’s an adventure book here,” he said, picking up the one nearest his hand. “Don’t you like adventure books?”

The boy drew himself up in his seat. “What’re you botherin’ me for?” he said.

“I ain’t botherin’ you. Did you ever read the Blue Fairy Book? That’s the best. That’s a hard one to get.”