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

“Chaim,” Mom began angrily, caught herself. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll no longer fluff his pillows on a Sunday morning.”

“Good. Let the blind one do it.”

Ira contracted within himself. What did it mean? Zaida’s sudden departure. His muttering about his grandchildren — Jesus, had the old boy figured out something? What had Minnie said? He couldn’t abide. . what was going on. . heard Stella. . carrying on with somebody? Oh, hell, how could he guess? He was a smart old guy, though. All because of that superglorious night, hoisted her pink damp melonions on his tergo hook, whammoh, Israel. Ramp, oh, gramp, oh, gold lions of Judah. Jesus, what a night, what a scare — Now, wait a minute, think, think. Crazy coming back with condoms on Mamie’s dollar. . Jew-dough. No, no, no. Wait a minute. Did Zaida suspect? What if he did? Wait a minute! Oh, God!

IX

The fact was the actual event had taken place in the late fall of 1927, had taken place when Ira was in the first semester of his senior year at CCNY. Fact. And he surmised, he had good reason to believe, that if he had aroused Zaida’s suspicions by creeping out of the house in his stockinged feet, under cover of Stella’s tread, he had confirmed those suspicions in a much more prosaic, a much less melodramatic way: Ira had paid Mamie a visit on the Sunday before, and only Zaida and Stella were home. With only Zaida for chaperon, Ira had been a little too eager to get at Stella. He had paid his ritual, preliminary call on Zaida, and then not to lose the opportunity of having Stella almost without company — without Mamie’s presence, or Hannah’s — he had been a bit too abrupt in his leave-taking of his grandfather. Oh, Ira remembered well. Because of what happened after Ira had got his piece (as it would happen, only a run-of-the-mill piece). The old man did something he had never done before: he called Ira into his room again — just as Ira was leaving, walking down the hall toward the apartment door. And what had the old man done? Under pretext, Ira was sure, of reminiscing about his early boyhood, he had given Ira a lecture on how one obtained a wife, according to Judaism. Sitting at the keyboard of his word processor over sixty years later, Ira tried to remember his grandfather’s version. It wasn’t easy: how much sixty years had eroded! But it all seemed to add up to a hint on Zaida’s part that he was on to something. It seemed a hint — until Minnie brought the tidings of Zaida’s departure from Mamie’s. Then it no longer seemed a hint; it was a hint, and a broad one, in fact, a disclosure of the old man’s suspicions about the behavior of his two grandchildren. The more Ira dwelled on the news Minnie had brought, the more worried he became, the more certain he was that Zaida knew what his two grandchildren were up to.

Ira could no longer sit still at home, wondering whether Zaida had told Moe, Moe had told Mamie, whether his sins had caught up with him — or whether (there was a chance after all that Pop was right) the old man had left Mamie’s for altogether different reasons, reasons that had nothing to do with Ira’s shameful pratting of his sixteen-year-old kid cousin. But guilt wouldn’t down, guilt prevailed over hope. The old twist in the psyche, the plane-geometry neurosis Ira dubbed it, chafed within him as the genie of the fable chafed within the vase. No, he had to find out. Walk over to Mamie’s, and find out. Yes — even if Mamie said nothing, Joe said nothing, the one who would certainly know and tell him would be Stella; she’d know. He could feel his mind trapped in disquieting refrain: walk over, find out. Walk over, find out. Tolle lege , the same as Saint Augustine kept hearing — Saint Augustine: same one Zaida talked about. Same night. Tolle lege . Walk over and find out. He probably wouldn’t sleep tonight if he didn’t. Stay awake imagining things. And if he did find out, if it was true that Zaida knew and had told Moe and Mamie, and Joe knew, well, what? Ira could imagine that too. No, wait till tomorrow, late Saturday afternoon, Joe’s day off would be over, Joe would be gone. Find out then. Not have to confront the little guy, Stella’s father, as well as Mamie. But then all day Saturday, study for a test, try to skim Milton, knowing his own goose was cooked, his universal disgrace: Leah Stigman’s ausgestudierteh college boy, Leah’s preen and pride pratting his dumb little cousin. Stella, Stella. Why did his star, his stella , no longer shine over Mt. Morris Park? It was getting dark after all. And of course, Mom would learn of it, Mom, Pop, and now that searching brightness that beamed from her eyes when she returned from shopping Sunday morning, searching his and Minnie’s faces — wow.

Ira got up from the table, went into his cold, dark little bedroom, and got his overcoat. He would just stroll about, all right? he told himself. He didn’t have to go to Mamie’s. He’d just try to think. Maybe he could convince himself there was nothing to the whole thing. Zaida had left Mamie’s. He had a right to leave. His four sons contributed toward his keep; he could spend his room-and-board money anywhere. Pop was right. The old man objected to the girls, the radio, maybe half-grown swains pestered him. Who knew? Sadie had three boys, no girls. Bet that was it. Bet. But if not, if Zaida didn’t say anything, well — he could go on all night debating with himself.

For a moment the waning ivory moon above the gloomy gantries of the New York Central trestle seemed poised like a tusk at Ira as he pattered down the sandstone steps of the stoop to the sidewalk; boar’s tusk aimed at Endymion, he thought, turning left on grubby, cold, dark, deserted 119th Street toward the corner at Park Avenue. Why did he have to think of that, being gored by a waning moon; he didn’t like the image at all, the associations — just showed how uneasy he was. The November night air, the Shabbes air, nipped at the warmth he had just brought from the kitchen, the little warmth stored under his overcoat. He buttoned the garment all the way up. Single-breasted overcoats didn’t retain the heat the way double-breasted coats did, even if they were both made of shoddy wool. He’d know better than to buy a secondhand Chesterfield next time. He had chosen it because Iz was wearing one. It made Iz look slim and ascetic and studious. Well. . Ira plugged hands into pockets. Across the street, the old Jewish couple’s shabby little candy store was closed. It was getting late anyway, and it was Shabbes . The only store open was Biolov’s on the corner of Park Avenue, the resplendent show window featuring an almost life-sized figure of a fisherman in sou’wester oilskins, facing a green amphora and lugging on his back a huge codfish above the legend SCOTT’S EMULSION. Good symbol, the codfish, reminiscent of Shakespeare’s gags about the codpiece. His cod, and the moon goring him because of it.

He had told Mom — and the others — he was going for a walk, although it was almost nine-thirty. They were surprised. But perhaps that was all he was going to do: walk. Everything was still in suspension — he kept going west toward Madison — and would be until. . until who the hell knew. . until he came home again. God, he forgot, until he was keyed up, the slummy — that was all it was: he kept coming back to the same word — the slummy, the dismal streets of East Harlem, as you slanted alone toward the lampposts on Madison. Joe would be there tonight, Jonas. How many times did he have to tell himself that? And — there was something else to take into consideration too, goddamn it — if he called on Mamie tonight, he’d lose his chance to drop in Saturday or Sunday — he couldn’t drop in two days in a row. Looked suspicious. Two days. So no piece of ass, no screw — out of the question tonight — not with Joe there. And he’d lose his chance to get a buck from Mamie too, again because Joe was there — and Mamie wouldn’t handle money on Friday night. No, no, he was nutty to drop in tonight. He was just plain stupid. But grandchildren, the old man had said: grandchildren. The old boy was in his bedroom studying Talmud — or something. No reason to think he’d got an inkling of what was going on in the front room, even though the radio was turned way down. This goddamn business of getting a piece of tail, getting a lay, a piece of hide, pussy, and all the other goddamn names they had for it, Jesus Christ, drove him nuts, yeah, drove him nuts, especially if he knew it could be had, and he didn’t have to resort to ye cousin-handmaiden.