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

She was talking, alternately berating Marcia for the ruin she had wrought in Edith’s chances of marrying Lewlyn, and Lewlyn for his weakness in listening to the wife who had cast him off, railing even at Cecilia, her artfully winsome letters — of a spinster ten years Lewlyn’s senior, desperate to snare him. And to none of it could Ira make any reply. What could he say? Any more than the mirror her eyes sought from time to time could answer. He could sit soberly and listen with pained attention — or half listen — and often understand only half of what we heard.

“I’ve had such rotten luck with men,” she kept repeating. “Yes, I’ve had any number who deared me and darlinged me, but they were either impossible, like Shmuel, or Larry, young and impossible, or Silver City grown-ups, deadly bores, reminiscing till you could scream. Or Boris — I can’t stand him physically, even though I have had to. I think I ought to go jump in a lake.”

“Oh, now, Edith. Gee.”

“That insufferable Tinklepaugh I married so he could finish his doctoral at Berkeley. Oh, dear. My fat cousin Ralph in New Jersey, auto parts salesman, courting me. Wasserman, committing just plain rape. Only that Mexican boy years ago — of course, there was no possibility there, but he was so gentle and tender. And now the only man with whom a marriage would have worked.”

What a strange way of putting it: a marriage would have worked. What had he said to Larry once about his sisters’ marriages? He had translated into English the Yiddish expression gitten shiddekh . And been reproved for it. What subtle distinctions: a marriage would have worked. “But there are others,” he ventured.

“I just don’t have that kind of feminine attraction. The sexual appeal of someone like Louise Bogan that men find so arresting.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” That was the best he could say to her — at this hour of the night. Jesus, at this hour of the night he’d be apt to say anything: if she were someone else, someone Jewish, he’d flare up, rudely, agree with her sarcastically, put an end to her lachrymose self-decrying. But it wouldn’t be true. Even grief-darkened as her features were, and limp with fatigue her body, she was still so girlishly attractive. But hell, it would be even more ludicrous if he waxed enthusiastic about her sex appeal: praised her Elizabethan features, her protrusive brown eyes, the bun of hair at the back of her head, her ankles, her tiny feet, her hourglass waist. Christ, look at the clock, clock over the arched mantelpiece. She’s suffering, sure, suffering, but it’s getting past one-thirty. The very number made his eyelids tacky.

“You know what time it is, Edith? It’s nearly two o’clock.”

“It is? Is it as late as that?”

“Yeah. I think you should go to bed.”

“I won’t be able to sleep.”

“Oh, sure you will. Two o’clock? Boy, I can hardly keep my own eyes open.”

She remained inert, brooding — and distant. “I’ve imposed on you dreadfully. I’m so dreadfully sorry, Ira.”

“I know. But you’re tired. All right?” He got to his feet, aware of his own unsteadiness. “Lemme give you a hand.”

She pushed herself forward on the couch as he approached, tottered slightly when she arose, held his arm a moment, and let go. “I’ll be all right, Ira. Heavens. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

“You know I—” He brushed away bleariness. “If I wasn’t so tired, I’d tell you what I mean: I got a chance to see something that I never could have seen otherwise.”

“I think I know what you mean. Scarcely repayment, though. My carrying on — as if I didn’t deserve what was coming to me — for deluding myself so.”

“No, that wasn’t — that was only part of it. There was everything else.”

She shook her head. “You’re incredible. Someone as young as you to feel that way. Who else would bear with such a fool?” Slow large eyelids covered her eyes. “It’s time I put an end to this nonsense. Time I went to bed. You’re right.”

“Maybe I better stay tonight.”

Her eyes opened wide, scanning his face. “Oh, I’ll be all right. I promise. I’ll go to bed.”

“No, I mean I’d like to stay.” He diluted his boldness, scrambled motives. “It’s so late. Just to lie down on the edge of the bed.”

“By all means. Of course you can stay, Ira. I just wish I had another bed.”

“It’s all right. Just so I can lie down.”

“I had no idea. I’ll be out of the bathroom in a few minutes. I’ll put out a towel for you. I’m sure you’ll want a facecloth too?”

“Huh? Yeah, thanks.” A facecloth? He had only learned lately what it was.

She got her bathrobe, nightgown, and bedroom slippers out of the closet and disappeared behind the bathroom door. He heard the toilet flush, faucet splash. He sat down to wait.

Boom. Was he ever overwrought, exhausted with excitement? The late hour had begun to toll its knell. Not a word spoken, but silence itself resounding. There it went again. Boom. No, it was thought itself reverberating, a word formed at the throat that was never uttered. Tired. Such rending emotion, shattering of sedate surfaces. But you saw it before, he told himself wearily: in Woodstock. The cat. Her hysteria. Would you marry her? You’re Lewlyn. All those dimples, smiles, charms, shapeliness, neat ankles, accomplishments, scholarship, degrees? Would you? Only because the steel frames of his eyeglasses intercepted vision did he realize he was shaking his head. . So what was wrong? Wrong-ong-ong-o-ong. What had he tried to figure out once? She was acting in her own tragedy. She was sorrowing for herself, the heroine. Could it be he was right? He was right, yeah, he was right. That’s how she was. Sorrowing for herself, the heroine. She had lost the only man, she said, with whom a marriage would have worked. So. . he had willed it. He had willed that everyone else would be eliminated. And they were. And there was nobody else. . You’re crazy. . But if there was nobody else. . You’re crazy. . But if there was nobody else, and that’s what you willed, from the deepest inside, see? That’s what would happen, and so now that’s what he would have to do. If he weren’t so goddamn shy, if he weren’t so goddamn guilty-shy, he could tell already what would happen, right now, tonight, or this morning, or what the hell time it was: five after two. He was twenty-one years old. How old was she? He had come all the way from Galitzia, and she all the way from New Mexico. Shixal , Mom called it, shixal , fate, shixal with a shiksa .

The ivory-colored neckline of her nightgown showing under the scattered brown checks of her bathrobe, she came out of the bathroom, tried to smile: “It’s your turn. You’ll find a fresh towel on the door hook. I’m sorry about the facecloth. I couldn’t find a better one.”

Ira gaped at her, and still openmouthed, pushed himself to his feet against the creaking wicker. “What’s that on your face?” Between loose braids, a pale, waxy layer covered all her features. “That.” He pointed.

“Oh. Cold cream. My skin is so very dry.”

“Oh. Cold cream. So when do you wash?”

“Before I put it on.”

“Oh. So do you wipe it off afterward?”

“In a few minutes. Doesn’t your sister use it?”

“I never saw it on her before. Excuse me. I didn’t know.” He removed his jacket. “I’ll go now.” He made for the bathroom.

Jesus, you’re dumb, he removed his tie, Jesus Christ, you’re dumb, he opened his collar, tucked it under. Larry must have seen it, must have known; his older sister used it. But Minnie never did. Why the hell was it, in Woodstock he never saw it? Hey, maybe he better take the shirt off. Yeah. He stank like a — like a polecat under the armpits. What the hell was a polecat? He removed his glasses. Soap up, yeah. Get that Hudson Tube dirt off your puss, boyoboy. And no shave, either. That’s the facecloth? Hey, it ain’t a bad idea: a shmatta made out of a piece of towel. Soap up heavy for now. Tomorrow, get in that bathtub or shower. And don’t forget, button up fly. Dry-dry-dry. Keep on pants and socks, right? Jacket too? Jesus, it’s really getting chilly. Stretch out on the edge of the bed. Boy, can’t wait. He put on his glasses, retracted his shirt collar. He hoped he looked all right.