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

If Edith was home, he could rest while he visited; if she wasn’t home, he could stretch out on the couch; could relieve his bladder in privacy, though it wasn’t too distended: perspiration had taken care of that. No, it would be better to piss right here in the men’s toilet in the park and be done with it, in case Edith was home. Right. He made his way across the park to the men’s toilet, relieved himself against the slate, holding his hand cupped over his cock, a trick he had learned from an obvious gentleman next to him once, learned it eagerly because he was always a little apprehensive that he didn’t stack up so well against other guys.

He exited — and now what? The walk to the pissoir had brought him a few blocks nearer Edith’s. He felt renewed. What were a few blocks more? She would be transported with mirth when he regaled her with an account of his gastronomic adventures with Leo, whom he had just finished tutoring. He could already hear the peal of her laughter as he described the waning of the bowling ball within him — to the tune of “Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching.”

Three helpings of pasta with lovely little meatballs he had consumed earlier that afternoon, with collateral slices of bread, washed down with dago red wine. “Wow!” he had told Leo as he put down his fork. “Boy, am I ever full. I’m stuffed.”

He was indeed — and more: sated to stupefaction — arms hanging down, stultified. “Hey, Leo, I got to lie down,” Ira had told his friend after they had finished.

“No kiddin’? There’s a sofa in the front room. Or you want to go in my bedroom?”

“No. Just to lie down for a few minutes. I guess I ate too much.”

Leo had led the way. The front-room windows above the sofa looked out on Lexington Avenue. Early-afternoon sunlight, which had warmed the black horsehair of the sofa, had fallen on Ira as he stretched out on top. Lethean Lexington Avenue traffic three stories below, volleys of Italian from the dining room, clink-clank of dishes and utensils being washed in the kitchen — Ira fell into a slumber like a coma. When he awoke, he felt a huge, gross lump of undigested feast inside his stomach that pressed against his abdomen like a bowling ball. He wasn’t sure he’d survive. Panicky, he got to his feet, tottered, plopped back on the sofa again, and sat there, unable even to slump, rubbing the bowling ball in his belly. “Wow!”

Leo had heard him, and had come in, faithful Leo, snub nose and thick lips awry with concern. “Whatsa matter?”

“Ow, I ate too much.” Ira massaged his bloated paunch and lamented. “Jesus, I ate too much.”

“You’re not gonna be sick or nothin’?”

“No. It’s all in there. What a bellyache.”

“You didn’t eat so much. You’re pregnant,” Leo grinned.

“Aw, cut out the shit. Jesus, I hurt.”

“Waddaye wanna do? You wanna lay down some more?”

“No, no. Jesus Christ.”

“You don’t wanna puke, do you? I can get you some o’ my mother’s bakin’ soda.”

“No, no. Don’t say anything.”

“What d’you wanna do?”

“Lay an egg. Wow!”

Leo cackled.

“I’m not kidding.”

“You ain’t?”

“No. Wooh! Did you ever see an aepyornis egg?”

“A who?”

“That’s what I got in my gut. Go to the Museum of Natural History. I gotta walk.”

“Is that where you goin’?”

“No, I’m just going to walk, walk, walk. Get me my hat and jacket, will you? I don’t want them to see me, you know what I mean?”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, I’ll just go in and say goodbye. Get the hat and jacket.” Only the most heroic kind of locomotion could help him in the fix he was in, Ira was sure. “Wow!”

He was grateful to Leo for helping him into the jacket. He grimaced over suppressed groans, and with a smile like a plaster cast on his face, went into the kitchen and thanked Leo’s mother, then into the dining room, where the three cooks were playing cards. He said something about a great fiesta, and now he had to walk it off, and made for the door and the stairs. Leo, who insisted on following Ira down into the street, to make sure he was all right, again offered to accompany him, but Ira shook hands with him at the stoop and waved his pupil away. “Good luck. I’ll see you after the exam. I got to get goin’. Boy,” he grunted. “Thanks. So long.” And he headed downtown.

Ow, bowling ball, bowling ball. Why did he have to do it? He’d have to churn it up, and churn it up, and churn it down to size. Knead it and knead it back again into the dough it was supposed to be. Oh, bastinado it, drub it, rubadubdub it. No hungry generations tread thee down. O-o-o-h. Jumpin’ Jesus, how do you tenderize a bowling ball? Walk. Hoof it, man, hoof it.

He had first wheeled toward Park Avenue, tramped a block west, and there wheeled south. Forget it, if you can at least get by the side of the Grand Central ramp on 102nd Street; look at the blocks of glittery mica schist and gneiss. Watch the afternoon sun glint off the rock as you knead down the rock in your belly. He groaned.

He strode south; and thought of the kid exploring here a seeming thousand years ago, catapulted to Harlem from the Lower East Side just thirteen years ago, a thousand years ago, a geologic age. There were then pirates skulking in that railroad ramp, do you remember? Buccaneers with booty, wassailing with tankards and cutlass. Oh, jolly good ale and old they swigged. Stride, stride. There. It was a little easier, wasn’t it? By the shores o’ Gitchee Goomie, there I sat down and wept, remembering thee, O Zion. Keep goin’.

Heading south, ramp and ground intersect, the best-laid plans, and the best lays too gang aft agley, by-by, ol’ granity pal. O-o-o-h. Median strip, see? Full of grass and flowers and shrubs. Charming, ain’t it, when one was affluent? And resided in sedate townhouses on either side of wide, wide Park Avenue, with a butler or a footman visible through the glass door. Ah, hear ye, magnates, hear ye: how the trains down below rumbled softly through the vents among the marigolds, rumble obsequiously, w-o-o-o. Keep up the footwork, bud. Once more into the breech, O Peristalsis, and yet once more. Marvelous! It’s only a croquet ball now. .

He hadn’t seen Edith since that famous night when he escorted her with Lewlyn to the Hoboken pier, last spring, months ago now. He could have seen her last night, with her old loverboy Larry — but no, this was going to be so much better, total independence. And she liked his independence much better. Now heading west, further refreshed by his lightened load, he left the park and headed for Sixth Avenue under the El.

He could not wait to tell her about the orgy at Leo’s: three cooks, three plates of pasta, two loaves of Italian bread, bumpers of wine — if that wasn’t hilarious, despite the pain.

Quickening his steps, he reached Sixth Avenue in the fine shadow of a late Indian summer, passed under the El, followed familiar diagonal shortcuts to Seventh and Morton. Around the gas station, and under the leaves of sidewalk trees, he reached house number 64, got out the key to the house door — no, no, he’d better ring. He did. No buzzer sounded in return. Then she wasn’t home. Exactly the alternate contingency he had thought of. He could stretch out on that couch — just what his knees prayed for, answer to his knees’ needs — ah, a quarter hour, half hour, and if she came home meanwhile — so what if he fell asleep?

Up the two flights of carpeted stairs, silently ascended. And just to make doubly sure, and be doubly polite, he knocked on the door. . waited. No answer. Okay. He separated her apartment door key from the house door key, groped for the slot, inserted.