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

Lewlyn displayed his boarding pass to the uniformed guard. The trio were smilingly waved on. Hanging on to the rail, they climbed the cleated gangway from dock to ship — passing above a lane of murky water to the brightly lit deck. The vessel seemed small for an ocean liner; or was it foreshortened by its illuminated areas? Few passengers were visible, but already the pitch of gaiety peculiar to departure was beginning to come from different directions, as more newcomers boarded the ship. In the group nearest them, a woman in a fur stole smoked a cigarette in a silver cigarette holder, like those of an actress on a stage her eyes glittered in the floodlights. A white-jacketed steward appeared, fizzling club soda on his tray, the White Rock nymph on the bottle clearly visible, recognized from Park & Tilford days. Lewlyn had put his valise down, and he and Edith spoke in low tones to each other, which Ira felt he ought to make all the more private by withdrawing a discreet distance away. He stood near the rail, appreciative of the tangy wind that blew so fresh over the river. But it had an edge too, and made him wish he had just one more garment to cover him, a sweater, a shirt, anything. Maybe Edith had one of Lewlyn’s pajama tops.

As he gazed at the lights of Manhattan twisting toward him across the rippling water like a gimlet, he was relieved to hear Edith say, “I don’t think we ought to wait.”

“I think you’re right,” Lewlyn concurred.

They embraced — eloquently. Lewlyn’s hat was off, his coat open, and nestling close to him, clinging to him with body and with lips, was Edith, her body within the coat, within the encompassing arm that held the hat. It was too embarrassingly beautiful a scene for real life — it was a scene to glimpse — and look away from: a man and woman clasped within a shaft of light.

They parted. And just then a band struck up, and music — a new Cole Porter tune — came wafting from an open door of the nearby saloon.

“Take care of her, won’t you? See that she gets home safely.” Speaking with voice raised above the music, Lewlyn pressed Ira’s hand.

“Oh, sure. Hope you have a good trip.”

Feeling himself wavering inwardly, and yet having to maintain an overt show of firmness, Ira took Edith’s arm and guided her toward the brightly lit gap in the ship’s rails where the uniformed guard, the ship’s sentry, was still standing.

She walked rigidly. They passed others coming up the lighted gangway, and she stumbled against them. Ira increased the firmness of his grip. They stepped onto the solid pier again. Ira looked back. Lewlyn was watching them from the rail, from the height of the deck above them. And it seemed to Ira that Lewlyn shook his head, sympathetically, and with a certain humorous camaraderie. Could it be that he was relieved to see someone else assume the burden? The two waved a last goodbye.

V

Ira supported the blindly unheeding Edith out of the pier, past arriving automobiles and taxis, over the indistinct cobblestones, back to the carbide brightness of the newsstand. She seemed utterly disoriented, abandoned, aimless. He dared not relinquish his hold on her arm. What was happening to her? So forsaken of self he had never seen anyone. With one hand on the banister and the other grasping her arm, he helped her descend the stairs to the change booth. She was mute the entire way; it was only when they stopped before the change booth that she spoke.

“Ira, do you have the fare?”

“Oh, sure.” He still had a good part of the five she had given him. He changed a quarter. Ira piloted the dazed Edith to the turnstile. Two dimes in the slot. And through. And once again, they had very little time to wait before the train pulled into the station. They had evidently left the ship long before its departure, because this time the arriving train discharged far more passengers than the one that had brought the three there. Almost no one was returning yet, and once the various groups of talkative and vivacious newcomers climbed up the stairs, the platform was left deserted.

Ira led Edith through the train doors. They sat down, alone in the big empty car. What should he say to her? Everything he could think of seemed vain, seemed futile and insipid against the impenetrable silence that immured her. “C’mon, train, let’s go,” he finally said aloud, and then because her self-absorption increased his uneasiness, he demanded irritably, “I wonder how long these trains take to turn around?”

Immobile and expressionless, she made no answer. Distraught, if ever anybody was, looking with blank, protrusive eyes from floor to window of the train, from window to the row of straw seats opposite, and hopelessly at the advertising placards overhead.

Minutes passed. A man and woman came aboard, sat down across the way. At last, doors slid to — the longed-for thrust set the train into motion. In seconds, the dingy tube enclosed them, the stupefying roar rose to crescendo, partly welcome this time as vindicating abandonment of all efforts to speak. But not for the couple on the other side of the aisle — the young man, Arrow-collar clean-featured, with ruby stickpin in his tie and a thin, segmented Charlie Chaplin walking stick between his knees; the young woman, pretty in her pearl earrings and light taupe coat, beneath which the tassels of her slate-colored skirt showed — they were leaning toward each other. And as if enjoying the exertion of making themselves understood, they were apparently shouting at each other at the top of their voices, though not a word was audible across the aisle. Ira watched them, fascinated — until his eyes began to smart. Hilarity engulfed the pair as the train slowed down, and they shrieked with laughter when the train stopped. Ira looked at Edith — she seemed completely oblivious. The situation was getting to be serious. What should he do?

He steered her through the open train doors, then from the platform out to the general underground area, his eyes raised, searching for the tiled tunnel that connected the Hudson Tubes to the IRT subway.

“I think—” Frowning uncertainly, Ira hunted for a directional sign overhead. “We go — it’s this way to the IRT, isn’t it? Just a minute, Edith, I’ll ask someone.”

“No. Please. Ira.” She checked him, and bending her head, snapped open her purse. “Please, let’s take a taxi.” She held out another five-dollar bill. “Take it, won’t you?”

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” Like an automaton, she proferred the bill.

He took it from her. Grim, how grim she made him feel, with all the determination and responsibility of being in charge: he had never hailed a cab in his life. “We gotta go upstairs to the street first. All right?” Again he took her arm, and with his other hand on the banister, helped her mount the stairs.

Out of the subway, they emerged into well-lighted, cool, and sparsely peopled 34th Street. There were cabs in evidence cruising by. So he was Larry now, worldly Larry; he was Lewlyn, adult Lewlyn. Resolute and stern, Ira held up his arm, signaled. And at once a checkered yellow cab swerved, tires squealing, to the curb.

“We want to go to 64 Morton Street,” Ira instructed the driver. “Hudson Street’s your best bet. As soon as you can, go downtown on Hudson.”

“I know where it is.”

Ira held the door open for Edith to get in, followed her. The meter flag snapped down, and they were on their way.

And then — with stunning suddenness — she wept! Wept, sobbed: a torrent of tears he would never have believed possible: heartbroken, uncontrollable. They threatened to wrack her asunder. These were not Mom’s tears, filled with old-world imprecations, or even Minnie’s taunting tears of rage. These were tears of such inexhaustible sorrow. God, what to do, how to calm her, quiet her? What would the driver think? For there was no doubt he could hear, though he gave no sign. Anxiety over her state, solicitude over her woe, his helplessness, all assailed Ira at once — immobilized him, at a loss, the victim of a flood. With an effort, he wrenched himself into action: “Edith, please!” he implored. “For God’s sake, try to get hold of yourself. You gotta stop that! Edith!