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

“Lewlyn’s luck,” he chuckled.

And in a few minutes, they were at 34th Street, standing up to await the door’s opening. They got off, and with playful, appreciative smile, Lewlyn turned over the valise to Ira’s keeping — and carrying.

It was heavy. And again Ira was impressed with how sinewy Lewlyn must be, enduring and strong his body under those tweeds, what stamina he must have. How many acres did he say you had to grow and harvest wheat for a college education? Did he say ten? The valise was heavy — in either hand. Ira began lagging behind. . wouldn’t betray how much of a strain the valise was. Ahead of him the two lovers walked — really as lovers now, perhaps because so few people were in evidence. Lewlyn’s arm was curved around the back of Edith’s waist. As if it were a movement in a dance, she leaned slightly against the arm encircling her back — and yet at the same time, stepped forward with a determined jauntiness, as if — Ira tried to disassociate the observing mind from the tugging arm — as if her sprightliness were genuine, arose without inner coercion or pretense. She was enjoying the occasion. Brave, wasn’t she, or behaving according to form. Proud. She was, wasn’t she? Ira tried to force his gait a little faster, and then, becoming just a bit out of breath, again allowed himself to lag.

They entered the long, white-tiled tunnel connecting the IRT subway station to the Hudson Tubes terminal. Long, long, white-walled cavern. Laboriously he passed through it, fixed grin on his face. Pale, fateful tiles slowly retreating on either side, on either side unreeling the glossy squares of their faces, yielding to other square faces that prolonged a passage nearly deserted, except for two lovers walking gracefully ahead of him. What did it mean? Did it mean anything? Two lovers about to part, trailed by himself with arms beginning to complain, hauling a burden that was beginning to weigh like a ton.

At last, at last, they reached the change booth and entrance of the stale-drafty platform of the Hudson Tubes.

Again Lewlyn paid their fares, and they entered a waiting and nearly vacant train, and sat down, with Edith between them.

“You’ve done yeoman service, Ira. Thanks.” Lewlyn took charge of the valise. He slid it between his legs. “We’ve made wonderful time, haven’t we?” He leaned forward slightly. “In another five minutes this train will be on its way.”

“Is it a long ride?” Ira asked.

“No, it’s very short — short and rather unpleasant. You ought to have a veil, Edith, against the dust.”

“Have one or take one,” she answered, as if to someone straight ahead.

He chuckled. “It hasn’t come to that, I hope. I’m honestly at a crossroads, Edith. I don’t need to repeat it. You’ll excuse us, Ira?”

“Oh, sure, sure.” Ira withdrew from audience, sat back.

“And I needn’t repeat,” Edith said, “that the basic flaw in the whole idea of uncommitted friendship is the assumption that men and women are the same. Are built the same, feel the same — react similarly. They don’t.”

“We agreed it was a risk we took.”

“But not each risking the same thing. Not each taking the same risk.”

Ira could hear, but didn’t venture to look, didn’t care to. Voice alone, Edith’s stony posture seen out of the corner of his eye, Lewlyn’s reasonable, dry, constrained voice conveyed a gravity understood without a glance, made a glance both impertinent and superfluous. Two, three passengers straggled in. The motorman came through the car bearing the control handle in his gloved hand, glanced at the three as he went by. And no sooner had he gone by than Lewlyn said earnestly: “But nothing has been settled, Edith, nothing has been decided. Whole lifetimes are at stake, your lifetime, mine, yes. Cecilia’s too. You realize that, I’m sure. I must be given a chance to consider choices. It would be absolute folly on my part not to.”

“Which only goes to prove even further how utterly unfair the whole thing is. I haven’t any.”

“You’re sure?”

And now Ira could feel Edith stiffen beside him. “You don’t really mean that, do you?”

“How can I ignore other factors when they exist?”

“Rubbish.”

“Believe me, Edith, this can only lead to recrimination.”

She was silent, with the resolute silence of a refused reply.

“No, really,” Lewlyn urged. “With everything up in the air the way it is.”

Ira could see her head turn toward Lewlyn, but whether in conciliation, in reproof, in appraisal, he couldn’t tell. “It’s a great pity both of us aren’t in the same city,” he heard her say. “I think your protestations would soon be tested. And—” She scratched a small ear.

“And?”

“Forgive me.” Her voice became stony. Unmistakable, the rigidity of her posture, even if unseen. “Forgive me for not going on, dear. Of what use inflicting wounds? All we’re saying would lead to them, as you pointed out. It’s certainly not my intention to, and I won’t. We’re on the eve of parting, aren’t we?”

“Temporary. I assure you, dear. I’m on the eve of departure, that’s all.”

The train doors slid shut. Seconds later, the train jarred into motion and accelerated.

The roar within the closely encompassing tube became deafening. Fetid subterranean gusts swirled through and inside the car; they spun scraps of newspaper, spiraled dust. At the far end, the lady in the blue coat, last person to come in, frowned, tucked her coat more securely beneath her squalid thighs. Ira swallowed hard. Wow! Plunging through the mud of a whole river above you. He saw Lewlyn’s hand move forward, pat Edith’s, saw his lips shape words, only one of which was audible: “ordeal.” She nodded. Did she say, “Quite”? Everything had other meanings, meanings. Quite. Ordeal. Why would she want to do it, anyway? She could have said goodbye right there on Morton Street. Goodbye and good luck. But no. And he was going to see another woman, and make up his mind about her, between her and Edith. So why do you have to go all the way to the ship with him? Why don’t you cross the ocean with him too? Anh, don’t get funny. Or snide. You’ll begin to sound like Mom. Yeah. . Growing late, that was the trouble: eleven o’clock, half past eleven maybe. Past his bedtime, and the dust made you blink. But you never were in love, said Minnie. So what do you know, stupid? Let’s see: twelve o’clock maybe, they would leave the ship. Then all the way back to the apartment: that would be one o’clock. Then to Harlem: two o’clock. Whew, he’d be walking in his sleep.

If only, Ira’s despairing cry ran loud within himself, he didn’t dawdle so, didn’t moan, didn’t temporize. He had been just a bit too timid, and more than a bit. He was, to say the least, amply and fully disgusted with himself. There was so little time. He had overextended himself, overplayed his hand, or whatever cliché fitted the situation. The situation, the story, needed to be resolved, and quickly. He had been too cavalier about his abilities, his ability to cover ground within the limited time he had allotted himself — though it might have been adequate for someone else, younger, brighter, with greater stamina. The novelistic process — and it was a process, not just a form — could only sustain so much. Beyond that, whatever the tolerances of the exact points were, the process would soon become impacted, like an oversized, overloaded engine. It would stop and stall — the way the old engines of a plane became impacted when encountering a flock of starlings beyond the engine’s capacity to digest, and the plane, so low in reverse, would crash, the journey unfulfilled.

The roar did indeed subside. The train slowed down. Surrounding tunnel walls fell back into the wide expanse of station sliding by and coming to rest with the train: Lewlyn stood up, Edith and Ira did likewise, and the other few passengers as well.