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

October was in its third week when in the afternoon’s mail delivery Ira recognized the single letter showing through the scroll in the dented brass letterbox as Edith’s: inside her unmistakable envelope was her typed note, single-spaced as was her wont, helter-skelter, and dashed-off. PLEASE! PLEASE! Her letter appeared almost hysterical. Would he telephone her as soon as he could? She was very much concerned at not hearing from him. She had telephoned the drugstore, Biolov’s, but they told her nobody answered the door. Please, would he call her as soon as he received this. Ira had refused to come along to visit Edith, Larry had told her. She thought she knew why, but not hearing from him so long, she was deeply upset. She had something terribly important she wanted to tell him — and only him.

Ira had sulked awhile. Was that “something important” just an inducement? Was he wrong about Lewlyn? And what if he was wrong? And Lewlyn and Edith had just made shift to while away the time until Lewlyn could marry elsewhere. They played the two-backed beast in the meantime, as Shakespeare called it, expediently and amicably franfreluquied — how did Quarles spell it? So there was still Lewlyn. And there was Larry still. So he would kind of squeeze in between them, if he ever did. Make up a troika . Nah. And he wouldn’t know how to break down the barrier anyway. If he couldn’t when he lay next to her in the same bed, when would he have the gumption? All he had about a career as a writer was just a bunch of hallucinations, his usual muzzy fantasies. Leaving his briefcase on the kitchen table of Mom’s empty kitchen, he tripped lightly down the dingy stairs. Fishing the nickel out of his pocket, he crossed the street, entered Biolov’s, twirled his hand in greeting at Joey Shapiro behind the counter. Joe was the younger son of Mrs. Shapiro on the same floor, and now a longtime Biolov’s unlicensed pharmacy assistant. Ira opened the telephone booth’s folding wooden doors and called Edith’s number.

“Ira, is that you? Heavens, I’m dreadfully sorry about what happened. I didn’t offend you, I hope. I wouldn’t offend you for the world.”

“Oh, no. It’s just a—” He shrugged at the transmitter. “It wasn’t your fault. If I barge in like that.”

“You’re always welcome. You know that. I was hoping you’d be with Larry when he came over. I don’t know how I could have made amends. Or somehow — indicated — I was with Lewlyn.”

“I know. I heard him.”

“You did? One of those utterly meaningless things still continuing. You must have gone away thinking I’m a perfect fool.”

“No. I just figured.”

“I’d made up my mind I wasn’t going to break my heart a second time. And just when I do, wouldn’t you know this silly thing renews — only it’s far from silly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh. Can you come over? I miss not being able to talk to you terribly, Ira.”

“What d’you mean? When?”

“This afternoon, for a few minutes.”

“Today?”

“Yes. Can you? I’ve gotten so dependent on you.”

“Well, if you want me to.”

“Very much.”

“All right. I’m in the street already. I’ll take the subway.”

“You’re a treasure.”

Utterly meaningless. Ira mulled over her words as he directed his purposeful stride toward Lexington Avenue. At the corner of Lexington, he turned right to 116th Street. Less of a walk. What did utterly meaningless signify? It meant that she didn’t expect anything to come of this, what d’you call it? Liaison. That was what it meant. What the hell, he laid Stella every chance he got; he wasn’t going to marry her. It was what he was telling himself a couple of weeks ago — that Surfeit Sunday, he could call it, the way goyim , gentiles, called a certain Tuesday — before Lent? After Lent? No, before Lent, Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday, Schmaltzy Tuesday. And what else? Maundy Thursday. What the hell was Maundy?

How the stores had all proliferated along the avenue, now that there was a subway station on 116th Street. It was just Pop’s bad luck that he had invested in a delicatessen on 116th near Lexington too soon, before the subway was built. He might have prospered afterward.

Ira descended the subway stairs, wedged his jitney into the slot, and bulled through the turnstile to the platform. What he should be thinking about was Edith’s saying meaningless — meaningless what? Meaningless pastime — oh, no, she didn’t say that; she said utterly meaningless. That was it. It could only mean one thing: it was just pastime, just as she had said. Lewlyn was betrothed, fancy word, to the other woman in England. That was what it meant. So the way was open. Wow. He entered the uncrowded downtown train. So he wasn’t wrong. Destiny was destiny. Jesus, how would he do it then? She said he was a treasure. So what should he do? Lie to her? Say he had never done it, but wanted to do it with her. He liked her, dearest person he knew. She was so fond of him too, valued his friendship, she said. So he — he needed, like Lewlyn, like Lewlyn’s Greek idea of intimacy consummating. Ah, hell, he couldn’t. He was sure she would, but he couldn’t. Jesus Christ. Edith pulling up her knees, drawers off, pussy out, bare-ass. He couldn’t. He couldn’t think of her that way. Delicate, refined, Ph.D., professor of English literature, a professor. That was the trouble. .

II

Open-mouthed, aware momentarily that he had lapsed into total unawareness, he listened to Edith.

She had suspected she might be in for trouble, Edith said, when she was four days overdue. She had always been so regular. But now she was certain, after the examination by Dr. Teragan. There could be no doubt about it: she was definitely pregnant. “It’s so strange,” she said. “I feel so blithe, and yet I’m terribly concerned. Abortions are no joke, Ira, and it looks as if I may have to go through one.”

“Why?” he asked numbly.

She had tried everything else, she explained. Everything that might bring on menstruation, chamomile, angelica, even castor oil. Of course, what she was really trying to do was to bring on miscarriage, but nothing had worked. She was lavish with particulars; feminine and arcane, they agitated rather than edified: there might be all sorts of complications from an abortion. Even with the best of them, when one had money enough to have them done by a doctor, they were illegal, and abortionists risked their licenses to perform them. Also because of the pressure on the physician, and the conditions of secrecy under which he performed the operation, sterility might be neglected; hemorrhaging and infections might result, and often did. With lagging and uneasy attention, Ira interrupted only once: that was when she said, “I can imagine how risky these back-alley ones must be.”

“What are back-alley ones?” he asked.

“When they’re done by midwives or other nonprofessionals.” She laughed ruefully. “What women have to go through.” And because the doctor did risk his license, the fee he charged for an abortion was high. And that brought on another round of problems, problems centering on money, or the lack of it, and why: “I can ill afford the expense of an abortion right now,” she said. “It comes at such a dreadful time. I ought to send my sister something for the child’s birthday. Something, now that she’s divorced. Her husband is deliberately delaying alimony. He has plenty of money. He was law partner of Woodrow Wilson’s secretary. But that’s his way of getting back at Leona. And of course, she’s a fool when it comes to managing her affairs. Father is in a terrible fix. He can’t help her. He needs help himself. He’s hardly able to carry on his own law practice. And Mother’s life insurance payments are due.” Still, oddly enough, despite all the difficulties and obligations she enumerated, she was animated in feature and in movement, and she laughed — quite gaily for Edith. “If I could, if it weren’t that kind of a male-dominated world, I’d be tempted to go through with it. I really think I would, for the sake of the sensation of well-being. I don’t imagine it lasts.”