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

“And you must remember,” Edith was saying, “your cousin Stella is no child.”

“Yeah, not now. But then, then — when she was only fourteen.”

“Even at fourteen. Young people, girls especially, mature at quite different ages — no matter what the law has to say in the matter. It’s only a rule of thumb. I still hadn’t been sexually awakened in my twenties. It took Wasserman to do that.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure I told you.”

“Yes. In Woodstock. With Larry.”

“Speaking of an utter waste of time!” Her tone of voice and the movement of her head were full of severity. “How could I have been such a ninny?”

The cat perched on top of the stone wall; the cat leaping down to the ground, brushing against her leg under the filigreed white table — the hysterical scream. Prophetic intuition, smarter than the intellect.

“Well.”

There wasn’t much to say: regret: vain synapse between fingernails.

She resumed the didactic. “The thing I wanted you to realize, what you have already surmised from Marcia, was that in other times and places, other cultures, Stella would be considered nubile, marriageable. You needn’t feel as if you had committed a grave offense. You needn’t feel you were vicious. You’re not.”

“No.”

“It’s a lesson. Fortunately not as costly as it might have been. The whole point is, don’t go into these things without a contraceptive of some kind.”

“I did. I thought I did,” Ira defended himself, too spent for vehemence. “I thought the — the thing didn’t work — when she was late, that’s all.” He felt as though they had entered a stage of repetition, of pointlessness. Why had she insisted on his coming to her apartment anyway? He was most ungracious when it came to expressing gratitude. He didn’t know how. It irked, it pained him.

“Would you like some coffee? Or tea?”

He pondered, was about to decline. “All right, coffee,” he conceded. “If it’s not too much trouble. Mind if I go to the bathroom?”

“Oh, no. Go ahead. I’ll make some coffee meanwhile.” He got up from the chair, as she slid off the couch — garter-belt ends winked—

He stopped in the doorway that led to both bathroom and kitchenette. “You were talking about Larry—”

“Yes?” She walked toward him, petite, tender smile glistening from points of olive skin. Her presence, her nearness, gave him pause. He would have wished to ponder with all his strength the contrast: Stella, the Jewish kid with blond hair under cloche, girlish, at best bland, subservient. And Edith, brunette and dainty and knowing and womanly — and a world apart. He could crook his finger at the one, and would shrivel at the other’s tenderness—

“Yes?” Edith repeated.

“Oh, I got thrown off.”

“So I’ve noticed. That’s what makes you so interesting, your withdrawals. And a little maddening. What’s it all about this time?”

“What a day. It starts off with a midterm quiz on Milton. Anyway, I had a long, long confer — I don’t know what you call it — with Larry in the subway. Was that today? Boy, it seems like yesterday.”

“Yes?”

“He wanted to hang on to our friendship. It didn’t matter that his love affair with you was over. He said we were friends before that.”

“There doesn’t seem to be much reason it shouldn’t continue, if you were interested.”

“That was it. I told him I wasn’t. Poor guy. I guess I hurt his feelings.”

She had busied herself in the cubicle of the kitchenette, filled the electric coffee urn. “It’s sometimes impossible not to. Lewlyn trampled on mine — and in not a very honorable way.”

“Yeah. Anyway, I said no. I said something about going my own way. I really don’t know what I meant. Just another way of saying no.”

“I can understand, Ira. Your ways have separated. Just as mine and Larry’s have — if ever they were very close and not an illusion. It can very well be that once, given time, this pseudo-romance begins to fade, we may become good friends again in a different way. If Larry matures.”

The perking of the electric coffee urn became audible, like a prompter to an actor.

“I gotta go,” Ira said.

“Do.” Edith smiled. He went into the bathroom, familiar bathroom, but more in order than usual, towels, tissues, washcloth, because of the late ministrations of the cleaning woman. Boy, you take your cock out to urinate, you think a thousand thoughts. Did anybody ever ask a woman whether urinating had the same effect? It couldn’t, could it? And he wanted to explain so much, but he buttoned his fly.

“Gee.” Aroma of coffee met his nostrils as he came out. “What I wanted to say, and I suppose he felt, I owed him such a debt of gratitude. I mean Larry.”

“Did you think of what he owed you? You provided him with a view of another world he never would have had otherwise. He was always repeating the things you said. These things are never completely one-sided, you know that, Ira. In this case not even remotely. Toast?” Edith asked.

“No,” he began. “Yes. I love toast, but I can eat just bread. You still have raisin bread?”

“It happens that I do. And butter? You sure you don’t want me to toast it? It’ll only take a minute.”

“Yeah.” He adopted a dour front. “But that’s enough. My grandfather always said that anybody who had bread and butter to eat shouldn’t look for more.”

“Did he?”

“Especially raisin bread. Of course, he ate everything else, the old tyrant.”

“I know you don’t take sugar or cream.”

“Well, this time I want everything. Zuleika Dobson got hungry with deep emotion. So this guy Larry has been smashed, like a kid’s paper boat in a curbside brook, you know what I mean? You know, when he asked me to share in my life, and he envisaged, he made all kinds of offers — I don’t remember, because my mind was on Stella, pregnant, all that — he spoke of our different backgrounds, lives together; we could write about it — collaborate, yeah, the thing that kept coming back to my mind — I don’t know whether I ought to tell you. Oh, thanks. That’s toast.”

“Be careful of the raisins.”

“Hot, you mean? Yeah, they are. I wonder why?” He gobbled.

“You think you’re good for another slice or two?”

“Yeah. Thanks, I mean. If it isn’t too much trouble.”

“Oh, no. You were saying?”

“I kept thinking of sitting here — I mean in that basement room — reading T.S. Eliot, while you two — well, you spooned.” She turned from the frustum of the toaster over the gas to look at him, stood quietly gazing.

“Yes?”

“I thought, boy, I’d never share that with you.”

“Is that what you thought of?’

“I mean even through all my troubles, it kept coming back.” He smiled apologetically. “I got my nerve, haven’t I?”

She shook her head. “You are beyond all doubt the strangest, most unusual person I’ve ever met. And I’ve met many, young and old.”

“It wasn’t because I wanted to be.”

“I don’t think you could.” She removed the slice, quickly, with dainty finger. Bearing the plate of toast, she crossed the room so gravely Ira was sure he had said something wrong. He shouldn’t have told her what he thought. The giddiness of the day had slackened everything.

“Thanks. It’s good.” He took the plate from her. “I still haven’t thanked you enough for all the trouble you took, and all the rest I put you through.”

“It really wasn’t very much trouble. Mostly I was concerned about you. Especially not hearing from you all afternoon, as I said.”

“Yeah. I was inconsiderate.”

“She might have come here in any case.”