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

“I daresay you haven’t been through as many of these things as I have. They’ve left scars, deep ones, and perhaps it’s those very scars that have helped me get over loving. Anyway, I seem to have done that very well.” She folded inward the shoulders of a dress, held it to her as she faced Ira. “Perhaps you’re right.” She studied her reflection in the wall mirror. “I may not be speaking of true love. And yet I don’t think what I’ve been through, certainly not all of it, would be classed as merely encounter.”

“Encounter?” The word made Ira think, or try to, and thinking interfered with talking. Encounter? He worried the word. It was that kind of subtle distinction Larry could handle, could comprehend at once, justly, properly, Larry and his kind, yes, his middle-class kind. Ira couldn’t. Or was it that he had destroyed the true shape of that sort of word? Ira knew what she meant, he thought, but he had to translate it to himself — no, that wasn’t right. He had to let the word resound, not to translate it: resound within himself until it became imbued with a kind of pragmatism. Wasn’t that crazy? He knew that word, and now it was a stranger, or as if displaced. Which was the word, and which the parallax? Encounter. The same word used in a different world, one of the many Ira would have to relearn. And who would understand what he meant? How could he explain it?

“Oh, dear, I’ve forgotten to lay down a sheet of tissue paper. These linen dresses muss so.” She laid the dress down on the bed, where in the basement dusk the pale linen turned putty. She spread tissue paper on the top layer in the suitcase, then picked up the dress again. “I shouldn’t have bragged about being able to do this in my sleep.”

“You were talking,” Ira provided the excuse. . waited until she patted the dress smooth on top of the suitcase. “You heard about Larry?”

“Oh, yes. He was here Friday evening.”

“Oh, he was?” His aim was to say it as if it had no implication. Maybe it didn’t, for all he knew. No more than that scream she had uttered in Woodstock. Nothing ever stayed simple with Ira. “Did he take the bandage off yet?”

“No, poor lad. His ear was still pretty sore. I believe that’s a very, very serious thing — I know people will think I’m overly worried. They always do. But I’ve turned out to be right many times: his losing consciousness for no reason.”

“The doctor didn’t think it meant anything serious.”

“I’m very suspicious of most doctors.” With the last dress disposed of, she sat down on the studio couch. “Very suspicious. Larry’s father died of a heart attack. I presume the doctor knew that too. There’s always the danger. Unusual strain may bring it on, and it happened during examination week. I find that very disturbing. I think it’s a clear sign he may be headed for trouble, poor lad.”

“Yeah, but he wasn’t worried about the exams, though. His courses were easy, you know, arts courses. I don’t say they’re all snap courses, but—” Ira shrugged a shoulder. “Larry does B work — almost without trying. He tosses it off.”

“Well, how about that resort position? You don’t think he was overanxious about succeeding in it? He had already given up trying to write poetry, the thing he seemed at first best fitted to do. Then the stab at sculpture. It didn’t last very long. Again, he didn’t want to work at it. I can’t blame him if he tries different things. But he’s got to learn, none of them can be mastered without hard work, without self-discipline. You can’t substitute personal charm for achievement.”

“No, I know. But I thought he was happy about this: acting and that sort of thing. The stage. Entertainment.”

“That’s how he seemed to me.” Her bosom rose in an involuntary catch of breath. “I’m almost afraid to think about the possible causes. For one thing, they bring the matter so much closer to home.”

As usual, intuition provided an inkling of her meaning, an inkling cruel in its inference as Ira construed it, yet avidly countenanced.

“The last things the doctors take into account are the psychological factors; they’re always looking for physiological ones. I suppose they have to. That’s all most doctors can treat. But I don’t think I need to go the same route they do.” Her dress had large, bronze oblongs strewn against a lighter brown background. Her hands pressed palm to palm in her lap were so tiny, they seemed like a wedge in one of the oblongs. “There’s only one thing to do. Not show my concern. Or overconcern. And to be very careful.”

“You mean you have to be very careful?” It seemed the safest thing to say.

“Yes. I’m afraid so. He may be suffering from an inherent weakness: his heart. But it doesn’t change things very much. I mean, as far as my own responsibility is concerned. Even though nobody can accuse me of it. Possibly Larry’s folks might. Still, I may bear a greater share of the responsibility than I care to admit.”

“You mean responsibility for Larry falling down?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see how.”

“I’m glad you don’t think so.”

“If you’ll excuse me, Edith, I think you’re exaggerating. It was a blood clot. So?”

“I keep reassuring myself that’s all it is — or was. And telling myself I’m being morbid. On the other hand, he was very young when all this began. I gave him all sorts of false hopes. As I said, the effect is beyond any doctor to detect. I can’t wish that the same beautiful lad was in somebody else’s English class, and see what would happen then. Would he have switched from dentistry into English literature — into thinking he had any kind of substantial talent as a writer, as a poet? All of which, unfortunately, I encouraged. In that sense I do bear responsibility. I’m sorry beyond words.” Her tiny fingers laced and unlaced as she spoke.

“Yeah, but there are other people who go through the same thing. Make big decisions that turn out wrong. You might say I did. They don’t get heart failure right away. They don’t even get blood clots.”

She laughed. “Thank goodness you came over.” Her nervous fingers came to rest. “Do you think — in fact — anything will come of his new enthusiasm for the theater?”

“I don’t know,” he hedged. “Larry’s always liked to — well, play a part.”

“And I’ve been foolish enough not to realize that trait from the very start. I’ve encouraged the poor lad to try to reach goals he never, never can reach. And there was Vernon with his homosexual designs to cloud my judgment even further.”

“Yeah.”

“Larry is a dilettante by nature. Perhaps he has to be, that may be how he saves himself. I know you think I’m hipped on the subject. But art does take a sturdy constitution. You notice how stockily Léonie Adams is built. Art does make demands on the body. His efforts to be a poet, or do anything worthwhile in writing, have come to nothing. I think because he loved me he was determined to show that he could live up to my expectations, and he couldn’t. He can’t. So his very love has frustrated the poor lad. The one thing he wanted most was to find meaningful artistic expression, and he’s been unable to. I think the pain has gone much deeper than he’s let anyone know. And now there’s the proof of it.” She paused, regarded Ira with her large, solemn brown eyes so steady within her olive countenance. “There’s proof of what’s happened.”

“Gee, just that one fall? We keep saying the same thing.” Ira tried to avoid looking askance.

“Yes. But I’m sure that’s just the beginning.”

“So how do you know? The doctor didn’t say so.”

“And you know what I think of doctors.”