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

It always would hold him, lure his fantasy. Maybe that was the form the Freudian hypothesis about the supposed rivalry of father and son for the mother took. Who the hell knew. Damn. The whole thing was irrelevant anyway, wasn’t it? The relevant insight might be the inherent resentment of the son by the father because of economic reasons. The parent had to support his offspring, as in Ira’s case, had to provide for him a long time before he could expect a return — maybe never get one. Hence the resentment, which Freud translated into sexual rivalry for the mother.

Oh, it was goofy, both views. What about the female child, the daughter? She had to be supported too, until she could contribute her share to the domestic economy of the family, but she contributed early, and wasn’t resented as much — and maybe brought in a fat purchase price at marriage. . They could always drown them, as they did in China. Cut the balls off boy infants, drown the girl infants, sell the boy infants as eunuchs.

The West did neither, of course; neither did Jews. So where did that leave him? With aimless moorings, aimless moonings. One could as easily exploit that selfsame economic resentment of father toward son, and the subsequent sense of guilt on the part of the son toward the father, as the seminal, seminal, yeah, as the seed-need for substantiating that guilt by guilty act, really endowing guilt with justification, as you could by Freudian means. Hail Karl Marx. Maybe the guys in the ’28 alcove had a point with their economic determinism.

The notion elated him: as if he had made a discovery, like — well, say like Copernicus accounting for the motion of the planets, of the solar system, a damned sight better than old man Ptolemy, more simple, more sensible, too, dispensing with all the swarming, silly epicycles.

Extraordinary! In a kind of golden haze compounded of candlelight and rumination, he watched Mom plodding heavily but quietly about the kitchen. From a large paper bag on the washtub utility table she removed the braided kholleh , the appealing Sabbath bread, its ornamental braids on top glistening like sardonyx as she transferred the loaf to a platter. She brought the platter to the dining table near the candlesticks, covered the loaf with a white cloth.

“Everything is becoming so frightfully dear,” she said. “A small bunch of soup greens, five cents, an onion three cents, a piece of chuck meat forty cents a pound.” She went to the stove, lifted the lid on the pot of simmering chicken soup, looked down disapprovingly at the contents. “I cut off all the fat from the hen, but still the broth has a thick layer of it.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I know. He does.”

“Well, I don’t. It’s too damned schmaltzy .”

“I know. I know your American tastes, Ira. Yours and Minnie’s. Do you remember when you once fought over who was to get the heel of Herbst corn bread with chicken schmaltz on it? Chicken schmaltz spread on after it was rubbed with garlic.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind it today, but not in soup. And anyway, try to show up among American people with garlic on your breath.” He chuckled. “Good old knubl ,” reverting to the word in Yiddish. “ Knubl, knubl , toil and trouble.”

“For your sake I’ll skim off as much as I can.” She brought out a large serving spoon and a carving knife from the drawer in the built-in china closet, placed the carving knife on the table, and proceeded to skim the chicken soup. “So why has everything become so frightfully dear?”

“Supply and demand,” Ira said tersely.

“And what does that mean?”

“More buyers, fewer sellers.”

“And yet I see the same pushcart peddlers when I go shopping on Sunday morning on Park Avenue. The pushcarts are heaped with fruit and vegetables. So much. Still, every housewife with her few dollars stands aghast at the high prices. A cabbage, to make stuffed cabbage, a lowly cabbage, four cents a pound. It’s unheard of, Iraleh. I have to ponder every Sunday where best to spend the little money I have. It’s the truth. It takes me longer and longer to shop.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“Why?”

“Why what? That I’ve noticed?”

“No. That everything is so dear.”

“Oh.” Ira scowled. “There must be a shortage somewhere, Mom,” he said testily. “Somebody’s cornered the cabbage market. Or all the Yidlekh are suddenly dying for hullupchehs . Has sour salt gone up too?”

“ Alles! ” Mom said emphatically. “Turn where you will.”

“Damned if I know, Mom. Tell you the truth, I never gave a damn about economics. That’s what they call this subject in college. It has to do with commerce and trade and profits. And of course, money— gelt .”

“I know it. A Jew like you is something not to be believed. A Jew without regard for making money — who hates huckstering, haggling, bargaining — he wriggles like a worm when I go shopping with him for secondhand clothes. Did you ever hear of such a thing? Not to strive for wealth. It’s something rare, rare. How did you lose out? You’re my son. You’re Chaim Stigman’s son. For success in business, my husband would barter his breath. Had he the judgment to match his craving, believe me he’d be a magnate, but he hasn’t. And you care nothing for success. Even Minnie does.”

Mom rested the serving spoon in a dish and came over to the table and sat down again. “Well, where is he? Plague take him. He’s lost himself in some theater.”

She suddenly became spirited and spiteful. “Would he were lost for good. I’d be rid of him. Gotinyoo! ” she invoked. And was interrupted by Ira’s exclamation of warning:

“Mom!”

“Forgive me, zindle . I forgot myself. I forgot our agreement.” And after a short space of silence, “Do you know the rent goes up two dollars a month beginning December?”

“You told me.”

“An Irisher, and for no reason he raises the rent. Talk about Jewish landlords flaying the hide off the tenant. An Irisher. You see? The bleak year take him. He doesn’t do the same? Two dollars, on top of the three he already mulcted from us when he tore out a washtub and knocked a doorway through to the toilet and put in electricity. But to paint these decrepit burrows, to daub the kitchen walls with a fresh coat of that green bile, green slop, he calls paint, condemn him to death before he’ll do it.”

“Yeah?” He forgot himself listening to Mom: who could help but surrender to that contralto richness of feeling in which everything she uttered was steeped?

“And you,” her sorrowful brown eyes searched his face, “do you have a few groats on yourself?”

Ira debated with himself for a few seconds while he returned her steady gaze. The last thing he wanted was a donation from Mom. He knew only too well how much and how often she suffered wringing her paltry allowance from Pop.

“I have a few groats, yes.”

“You have, yes,” she mimicked skeptically.

“I tell you I have!”

“From whence have you? Mamie’s alms were a week ago. You don’t think I know?”

“Aw, Mom. For Christ’s sake!”

“Sinful mother that I am, I mean only if you truly need it. I see you have become a personage. You mingle with higher folk than ever I dreamed you would — than ever you dreamed you would. Isn’t that true? Noo , with empty pockets how can you consort with them — those you’ve told me about? Somehow your destiny is there. I see.” She clasped her hands. “Only speak — I hoard for a Persian lamb coat, you know as well as I do.”

“I don’t need it. Thanks.” Ira nodded in strenuous assurance; less than strenuous Mom wouldn’t believe. “I’ve got almost three dollars in my pocket.”