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

Unaware of the usher’s flashlight descending, the three black youths below seemed to have shaken off theater protocol, buoyant in their mirth, unfazed by fellow patrons — and again they looked up, but this time saw the beam approaching. “It’s nearly now,” Ira warned.

“Where do you wanna go?” She turned plaintive, puerile face.

“Follow me. Another sec.”

“What?”

“Shut up.” Between this and his next word, he caught a flash of rosy Irish face, so reminiscent of that Irish serving girl who with her husky amorous escort descending the sloping path through woods had saved him from his rusty predator long ago. They had saved him, saved him in Fort Tryon Park. Jesus, he spurned the prompting. Save her? Little cocksucker. What the hell, did she think he wasn’t going to get his piece of ass?

“Now! C’mon, c’mon!” And even as he had once docilely complied, she did too, in his power: out into the aisle, and then quickly, while he lifted the heavy muffled links of chain, she ducked, to be prodded under, faltering or not, and up the first dusty carpeted steps. Crouching, he followed.

As down below, the usher’s subdued and subduing voice rose after them: “Hey, you, where d’yuh think you are?”

“Yeah, man,” was uttered with risible abandon. “We just come in, yeah. Sittin’ down.”

“Well, take it easy. There’s others in here. .” But he got away from them that time. Just beat the gleam of the eyeball?

“Go ahead.” He shepherded her up the dust-laden carpeted stairs. And climbed quickly after her — to his backward glance, the movie on the screen of the first balcony disappearing below the tallest black youth, before the second balcony hove into view, utterly deserted, dark and private. They had made it. He pressed her plump, round rump under palm exultantly. “Oh, boy!”

“Ira, here?”

“No, wait a minute.” First harbingers of rekindled furor fired every sense, every second, transformed into accessories rank on rank of dim, empty, raised seats sloping to the antic screen below where spare, sparsely smiling Lindbergh received a medal to silent applause, translated into increased volume of piano accompaniment — private roost above the world, cozy terrain of gloom under shaft of projected cinema, staked out by a couple of red exit lights. Just one little step more, and it couldn’t be beat for utterly seamless, pulsating solitude — almost like the kitchen green walls—

“In here.” He opened the door to the merest glimmer of a flush toilet stool.

“O-oh, it’s so dark, Ira.”

“Waddaye want? Light? Git in.” He shut the door after her. Tomb darkness encased them: mummy-yummies. He felt for the light switch. “Okay, honey bun.” Through dusty bulb, the snapped-on weak, spongy light bound them together in exquisite depravity. “Boy, everything!”

“It’s for ladies.” Her chalky blue eyes behind eyeglasses, so tractable, regarded self in the smudged square mirror above the lavatory, and him beside her, she regarded him. Her amorphous, juvenile countenance below his stubble-shadowed features met his relentless brown eyes behind glasses, she timidly basking in his leer. She didn’t need to be told; she responded to the mere movement of his head, as if his ferocity, compressed by close quarters, was permeating her with his desire, his will, chalky-eyed. And as her bosom began to heave, she set down her Elements of Bookkeeping in the dusty enamel bowl, her green coat over it, and bowed, tugging up skirt, down panties—

“Ah — h!” Maniac bliss at the sight, dropped briefcase on covered toilet bowl, coat in rumpled heap on top. And oh, boy, what bulbs of ass. He unbuttoned fly, “Oh, boy, this is better. Way better.” Sight of her fed the greed of eyes, sight of her whetted, as did feel of her, the greed of hands insatiable of contour. And oh, boy, that face of his, though bespectacled silly, transcendentally gloated in the dusty mirror: carnal guerdon, wow. Little pig, little sow, let me in. The dumb little punk in pleated blue up, dappled ass-rise above cloud of lacy drawers, as she clutched the caked lavatory rim with pudgy hands, thrall to abuse, ecstatic for defilement, obeisant before ravaging, his chattel, chattel to destroy. No wonder guys beat up on ’em, gave ’em the works, left ’em for dead — Jesus, the terrible ultimate mutilate spawned by a whole week’s fear and humiliation bloating consummation, damn her, oh, to plug and throttle in blot of bestial woe-betide — boy, it was a shame to ram it into her, and get it over in a few seconds— And then was heard. . what the hell? — footsteps in no uncertain sound and number. And oh, Jesus, a scared and shrinking pause, two faces staring open-mouthed with alarm at a cobweb trapdoor, while automatic nerveless hands restored garments, picked up briefcase, bookkeeping manual.

“Sh-h!” But his panicky warning failed to avert the footsteps: too late to turn the light off, door-crack light, boxed into light, immovable as a picture in a frame, gripped in concrete, yet breathing — oh, Jesus Christ, the usher! No, the tread was multiple: usher and manager. Bluff it out, plead it out, whine it out. Already on his trembling lips abject imploring, Please, mister, please. Extenuate. He had worked here was why. Never again — grovel, as he did in Stuyvesant. Maybe the guy would be Jewish.

The door opened — to Stella’s short startled “O-o-h!” The three young Negroes seemed to pull the light toward them as they swung the door wide open. Like a net, like a seine, they pulled the light toward them. And happy with their catch, pale eyeballs, polished brown skin, grew lustrous with pleasure. They seemed quite young. And even spindlier in the light, like reeds, but already at least Ira’s height, or taller. Elastic, brown striplings, fourteen years old, fifteen, who knew? None had a coat, but under an array of motley, raveled sweaters wore sweatshirts, gaudy summer sport shirts. One sported a striped knit cap, a second something resembling a beret, the third a sawtooth-brimmed and incised-diamond-crowned gray felt.

“Hey, man,” the tallest greeted with flip of wrist and lilt of shoulder, his voice just above a whisper. “We come up t’see how you doin’.”

“You doin’ all right.” The shortest might be the oldest. He had a small scar across his upper lip. His brown face gleamed amiably; his white-nailed hand lingered on his crotch. “We see you an’ her duck the man. We knew y’all gonna finish it.”

“Ri-ight,” commended the third, his gaze lingering appreciatively on Stella. “How ’bout dat? She friend o’ yo?”

Were they serious? Was he in danger? What course to follow? Demeanor what? Tough-bluff. Sheepish, sharing-prank. Options ripped through the mind; his eyes riveted on three brown, flippant faces; he strove to plumb intentions, adjust actions — all in gnarled seconds. Mostly, it was their conspiratorial, their knowing leering he feared, their feral implications that bound together. Penned in here, cornered, he could let out a yell, an outcry: Stella would follow suit. Then what?

He let instinct take control. “All right, fellers.” He moderated a resolute front with concession of foible. “We just tried to duck away — you’re right.” He tried not to move precipitously toward termination. “You know how it is.” He made to edge Stella toward the open door. “Let’s go, Stella.”

But none of the youth showed the least sign of accommodation, no one made room for him. “You ain’t gone break up de party like dat, man?” the tallest objected. “What about us?”

Time to fence — for all he was worth: “You already have.”

“Aw, no, man, we jes’ join it.”

“You just spoiled it.” His chuckle was staple, nonrecriminatory. “Let’s quit kiddin’, fellers.” He appealed to reason. “Waddaye say?” He again leaned in the direction of passage, which they again blocked.