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

“That’ll be fine. That’s enough.” He got up with forestalling haste and took the cushion she proffered, went back to the wicker armchair, and snuggled his toes under the velvety cover.

“That’s plenty.”

“You sure? I can’t tell you how guilty I felt about your last cold.”

“Nah.”

“Larry felt that our relationship was no longer the same as it had been, that I no longer loved him, that he was no longer as dear to me as he had been. I no longer gave him the kind of encouragement I once had. He sensed my indifference. He sensed all kinds of changes had taken place between us — all of which was true. And then he asked me point-blank: was I having an affair with Lewlyn?” Edith straightened her back again. “I said I was—”

“Yeah, but—” Ira interrupted impulsively, mechanically. “You said it was over.”

“I said I was — deliberately. I might have added ‘had been,’ but I didn’t.”

“No?” How complex the form of those delicate lips in the face across the room now seemed.

“On the eve of an abortion, I no longer felt like coddling him. Perhaps I was a little hardhearted. But he seemed to have recovered very well from that one incident involving his heart, and it was time he knew the truth. He didn’t own me; he couldn’t possibly own me. I didn’t tell him he’d become too commonplace for words. I did tell him I was pregnant — there was no possibility in the world the child was his. Not the least. And for very obvious reasons. For very obvious reasons.”

Ira’s attention sheered away. There it was again: the cramped synopsis of cat on the wall, and the shriek, and the bunny-hugging—

“Cruel of me to tell him, because he would certainly know as much. I told him I was sure the child was Lewlyn’s. Oh, we had quite a session. I didn’t tell him how much I would rather have the child than go through an abortion. I didn’t want to hurt him any more than I could help. Good heavens, if only there were a man who saw fit to marry me and give the child color of legitimacy—” Her pallor increased, her large brown eyes became protuberant and her countenance resentful.

“I wonder what I would have done if I were a man who loved, or thought I loved, a woman who was pregnant by another man — would I feel enough protectiveness to overcome my jealousy or vanity? I wonder. I think I would. I did as much for a friend once with much less at stake. But I really shouldn’t complain. I was fortunate.”

“Fortunate!” Ira could hear his own Yiddish intonation.

“Larry ranted at me: I was promiscuous, I was loose. I was unfaithful. All sorts of rubbish. Fie on thee, I thought: I told him I was due to have an abortion tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Ira felt the momentary throb of headache, as if he had gulped down too much ice cream. “You mean today?”

“Yes, of course. Just what I expected happened. He was through with me. I didn’t deserve his love.” She found solace in a deep breath. “Thank heavens he won’t be too hurt. He won’t hurt himself. At least, I’m sure of that: the one thing I was so afraid of. What a relief that is!”

Her pallor had increased, ashy; her solemn brown eyes bulged; her shoulders drooped. He wasn’t following her.

“Maybe you shouldn’t talk anymore,” Ira pleaded. “Listen, I’ll stay around till you go to bed. Whatever you want.”

“No, I’d rather forget the pain. Please. If you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, but maybe it’s no good for you.”

“Oh, no. It is. Wait till you hear why: he slammed the door when he left. Larry actually slammed the door. I knew then he had protected his ego. He was safe.”

“Oh.”

Ira turned his chilly feet toward the fire for a second or two. Tongues of flame rising from the blocks of coal inaudibly mulled the thought in warmth and color: so that was how she knew: the guy slammed the door. The guy was sore, so he slammed the door. He slammed the door, so he was safe. The gray rain pattered hard against the window when Ira faced Edith again.

“So he’s through with you?”

“Oh, yes, he’s through.” She spoke with such animated disdain it approached derision. “His undefiled love for me is at an end — poof! But what I’ve been through — what I’m going through this minute — is nothing.”

“You hurt?”

“I hurt like fury.”

“I’m so sorry, Edith.”

She laughed — and wept. Ira sat quietly, wondering what to do next. Pity, he heard a block of coal shift in the basket grate behind him: pity. The fire somehow felt good at his back. Pity was consumed into comfort, oxidized into warmth. Why, let the stricken deer go weep; the hart ungalled play. Yeah, he had willed it all. But what could he do?. . Just sit there, socks drying, woman weeping, Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth, murie sing cuccu . In a little while, the rain would let up a little maybe, but it wouldn’t matter if it didn’t. He couldn’t console her, he couldn’t help her. What it must feel like with your insides scraped — about where would the uterus be in him? Belly-button height, or lower? Imagine it rubbed against a grater, Mom’s riebahsel. Well, he’d get his socks, and see what she said: whether she wanted him there any longer, or wanted to be alone with her suffering.

He got up from the creaking chair and went to the radiator. Her gaze followed him; drearily, she wiped the copious tears on her cheeks with dainty handkerchief. “I bet you hate the sight of everybody who wears pants,” Ira ventured.

“Not quite everybody.” She held the damp ball of handkerchief in her lap. “Are you going out in this?”

“I think I better.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“No, it isn’t that,” he protested the implication of his deserting her. “If you want me to stay — or do something.”

“You’ve borne with me quite long enough.”

“Nah.”

“I’m a little ashamed of myself, as usual. I ought to be able to stand this, without having to weep on your shoulder.”

“It’s all right. Boy, these socks are nice and toasty already.”

“At least one good thing has come out of the whole sorry mess: a harmless end to a long-drawn-out, silly affair. I don’t think you’re likely to see Larry here again very soon.”

“No,” Ira agreed. “I guess not.” Curious, how the past coalesced into a kind of opaque introspection that marked the end. “Could I get you a drink, Edith? Would you like something? I think my socks are pretty dry by now. I could go out to a restaurant.”

“No. Thanks. I’d like some tea. Would you?”

“Yes, sure. How do you make it? I saw you use a teapot. You just put the tea in it? I mean, at home, Mom makes a kind of essence. It’s separate, and you add hot water.” Was his garrulity welcome to her, he wondered: she sat so passively enduring pain. “We have tea when we have meat for supper. If you have coffee, you can’t have milk in it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I only learned here you can drink coffee black. So what do I do?”

“There’s a teaball in the drawer of the kitchenette. I think I ought to stay quiet.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ll find it. I’m the champeen finder of teaballs. Which drawer?”

“Usually, it’s in the one on the left — unless Dorotheena changed it when she cleaned.”

“Then it would have to be on the right. Hmm!” Why did he feel compelled to clown? “My inferences—” he wagged his hand—“nobody can match them. Except when I have to find something. I’ll need hot water, right?”

“Yes.” Was that a wan smile she tried to retain through a troubled shifting of her body? “About half-fill the copper kettle. And no more tea than half in the teaball. I use much less. I like it weak. I’m afraid you’ll have to rummage in the shelf above the sink for the package of tea. Can you find it? I keep it up there with the coffee and the Grape-Nuts.”