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

“I don’t get you.”

“Mama is afraid I’m not pure enough for Zaida. He found out maybe some boy was escorting me, and he touched my breast by accident on purpose.”

“That’s enough,” said Mamie. “May it be no worse.”

“How did you first find out where he went, if nobody was home?” Ira asked.

“I found out,” Stella answered.

“You did?”

“Morris talked to me over the phone. I was the only one home afterward.”

“Oh.” Ira searched her face. She betrayed nothing: blank. He was stewing over nothing. But then again, she was expert at exhibiting only vacuities. Fortunate too, or he would have been compromised more than once. Still, that last Talmudic comment of Zaida’s to his grandson: “By this act.” He watched her leave for the front room. Hell, bored to death over nothing. He stood up.

“Ira, are you leaving so soon?” Joe asked.

“Soon? It’s almost ten o’clock.”

“He’s got such big things on his mind. You don’t know him, Papa. He’s always in a hurry.”

And then turning to Ira, she said, “Girl, when it comes to talk, you’re a regular geyser.”

“You’re a geyser. I’m a girl.”

“ O-o-y! Good night.”

“You didn’t see yet the bargain I made with the radio store for my old one,” Joe said, intercepting Ira’s retreat. “A piece of furniture you’ll never see,” said Joe.

“Well, I’ll take a quick look.”

“When you look once, you’ll look longer.” Joe led the way to the front room. “Na. You ever saw such piece of furniture?” And a piece of furniture it certainly was, a softly crooning cabinet, massive in size, maple in veneer.

“Hey, that’s the biggest I’ve seen yet,” Ira commended.

“Look yet how they painted it,” Joe extolled. “He said they got special Chinamen who were the only ones could do it. Look on how that goes, both whole sides. One sticking out the tongue to the other. No? Dus heist kunst .”

“Art. I should say,” Ira agreed.

“They’re genuine.”

“Not even Zaida could complain,” Stella remarked from the other side of the table.

“What d’ye mean?”

“Does it remind you of any animal or anything?”

“Oh, graven images. Oh, no. What dragons! It’s real lacquer.”

“I told you,” Joe said, gratified. “Turn it up a little. You’ll hear.” Joe matched act with word. “Stay a minute.”

“Oh, yeah.” Ira stood rapt in admiration. “What a radio!” With an opportunity like that, he simply had to wait — transfixed with awe — at least another minute. Joe returned to the kitchen.

Ira stepped swiftly to Stella’s side, bent over, whispered: “Did Zaida — I mean, did he tell Morris anything about us? Did Morris say anything?”

“Us?” Her smooth face, her shallow blue eyes opened in surprise. “Us, what?” She shook her blond head vigorously — for her.

“Oh. Okay.” Disgruntled with himself at final confirmation of the groundlessness of his fears, he was on the point of leaving — then remembered to salvage a little anticipation: “Listen, stay home after they leave Sunday. You hear me?”

“I wanted to ask you something, Ira,” she whispered. “Not now. Sunday.”

He hesitated. “What? Fast.”

“Ira, is it all right if I didn’t get my period for four days?”

He had expected the opposite: that she was having her period; he had prepared an answer. Speechless, his lips and scowl formed the question: “What?”

“Is it all right?” Her features were childishly suppliant, lips slackly open in plea.

“No.” Her very entreaty sent a surge of savagery through him. “It’s not. What the hell’s the matter with you? Four days?”

Sound of conversation in the kitchen had subsided. She nodded.

“You’re sure?” he whispered into her ear.

“Tomorrow’ll be five.”

“Holy bejesus,” he bit off. “I’ll be here Sunday. I’ll find out.”

She smiled, supplicating.

“Some radio,” he said, raising his voice. “You got the best radio in Harlem.” He prepared to go. “I’ll get my coat.” And by dint of teeth and brows alone: “Sunday.” He stabbed his forefinger at her. And prepared a face to meet the faces in the kitchen. “Well, mazel tov, ” he said cheerfully. “I’m glad I came. That’s some radio. Those red dragons around it. Wow!” He picked up his coat and hat from the covered washtub. “Wait till I tell Mom.”

“And don’t forget Sunday she should be here. Twelve o’clock.”

“Oh, no.”

“It cost a good little piece of money, that radio,” said Joe. “I’m a mehvin , no? Value I recognize right away.”

“ Wunderbar! It’s some beauty. Wear it in good health,” Ira joked.

“Wear it without Zaida coming out in his underwear, you should say,” Hannah appended.

“You’re a bright one, all right,” Ira approved.

“I should be on the stage, no?”

“Home talent,” Stella called the front room.

“Oh, shut up.”

“Well.” Ira buttoned up toward leave-taking. “Good night, everybody. Good night, Mamie. I’ll tell Mom.”

“Wait, I have something else to show you.” Diminutive Joe stood up and stretched out his hand. Visible on it, though flesh-colored, a flat round disk was strapped against the palm. “A salissman made a deal with me for a piece of pineapple-cheese pie and a cup of coffee.”

“What is it?”

“Shake hands with me, you’ll find out.”

“It’s not gonna squirt water, is it?”

“Nah, nah. Don’t be afraid. Give a shake.” Ira clasped his uncle’s outstretched hand, squeezed mutually. The device in Joe’s palm emitted a loud, blatant fart. Involuntarily, Ira drew his hand away — to Joe’s beaming chuckle.

“It’s a real fortz, nisht ?”

“Couldn’t be better.”

“If it stank a little, it would be just like my second cousin Meyer, the shnorrer . You remember him, Ira?”

“He always looked like he needed a shave.”

“ Tockin, tockin ,” Mamie corroborated. “With him such a fart would be a trifle. Nothing to disapprove of.”

Hannah giggled. “For once Ira doesn’t look like he’s got something important on his mind.”

X

You dumb sonofabitch, you dumb sonofabitch. Like an animal dragging his trap after him, Ira made through dark 112th Street for the brightly lit store under the streetlamp on the corner of Fifth Avenue. Reaching it, he stopped there, trying to think, could think only of the click of pool balls overhead, sometimes cracking loudly, subdued at others — at the far end of the overhead pool hall, clicking like knitting needles. He moved on, stopped again to watch the big-bosomed woman in white removing the French pastries from show window to refrigerator in the back. It was cold, but he scarcely felt it; nor was he aware of the few passersby, nor throb of low-beam autos rolling along the avenue. Funny only it wasn’t funny: the first thing you thought of was to murder them. Clyde, Clyde, lost his hide. Lucky he had already read An American Tragedy , so he knew better than to act like Clyde. But he didn’t feel that same twist, that same frenzied torsion beyond tolerance, beyond sound return, that had wrenched him so horribly with Minnie, so that even when she told him she was all right he felt he would never wholly recover: the Euclid twist, the fatal snap, the wave of insanity, who would know what he meant? But he had grown wise now, wise guy: blame someone else. What if she didn’t? And what if Mamie finds out something from Zaida?

Oh, shit, he groaned, moved on: think, will you, think. . Four days overdue. Blastula, gastrula, exponential growth. How big was a fetus four days, tomorrow five days old? Big as a bead? Big as a marble?