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

“Oh, no, what was the point?”

Balancing her coffee cup, trim, petite, in her brown dress under the open black Japanese kimono, she went back to the couch, sat athwart. “I might have cared to meet her.”

“That’s exactly what I didn’t want to happen.”

“But why?”

“I told you.”

“And I explained to you before that I didn’t expect to see anyone but an adolescent girl — not a mature beauty, nothing of the sort — with very little charm of person, and no sophistication. You already described her to some extent.”

‘I know. And that’s what you would have seen, only more so.”

“Oh, fiddlesticks, Ira! Honestly. Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot all about napkins. I’ll get you one.” She slid off the couch again, more carefully this time. What a pretty figure she had, so feminine, neat, and yet so modest, as if she were bred to deprecate it — something like that: the way she cantered her horse that golden September afternoon in Woodstock, so adeptly, so modestly. And now, a glance at the mirror was all that betrayed awareness, and yet, judging by the angle of her gaze, it was directed at her face. It was her face she cared about. Well, why not? Odd irrelevant wisp of speculation: exchange Stella’s. She was outside the realm of permissible comparison, in a forbidden world—

“Thanks.” Ira took the napkin, and as he watched Edith sit down: “In my house, we don’t have napkins. Only, my father brings home a napkin sometimes from a restaurant, you know? We got two butter knives from the Waldorf Astoria. We’re not kosher, you see? So — well,” he snickered wearily, took a large bite: “Yum!” He chomped: “Gr-r-r.” He sipped, grunted: “Ah.”

He felt an insane impulse to abandon all pretense to seemly behavior, to alienate her entirely, to do any number of idiotic, uncouth things, pick his nose, dig at his ears, scratch his rump, hoist his scrotum. He wasn’t sure why. To fend off what he sensed coming. Or like an insolent tyke, to punish her for having learned what he was, and to build new barriers against her finding out more. Samsonish, Parsifallic, ho-ho, he was weary. He would have paraded any kind of immature caprice, except that he knew she wouldn’t be in the least deceived, in the least fazed. He’d only prove himself all the more a futile ass. Besides. . he had a little pride left, a little stoicism, the recalcitrance of disgrace, maybe, the obduracy of frailty. Or a smidgeon of maturity that dictated that he endure his own failings — and she knew only half the story. So: preserve a scrap of rectitude.

“Did you part friends?” Coffee cup in hand, Edith sat on the edge of the bed, crossed her knees modestly — she was always modest. “My, you eat so fast.”

“I am what’s called in the old country a fresser .”

“A what?”

“A glutton. You must have noticed.”

“I think you’re plain famished — heavens, how can you drink your coffee so hot?”

“I learned that with my mother’s milk. She loves to scald her gullet. I guess it’s kind of fitting.”

“Would you like some more?”

“Yes, I would, thanks.”

She brought the coffee urn over: it had a slender waist and a high arching spout. And as she poured: “I presume you were so late talking the whole thing over.”

“Oh, no.”

“You’re not on good terms.”

“I guess so. That’s not what I meant.” Ira squirmed, scratched, gobbled. “I saw her off on the subway. Is that what you mean?”

“More or less. I’m sure you remember how my pregnancy ended anything I had to do with Lewlyn. That was the last straw: when he showed what a baby he was. Trying to shift the responsibility to Larry or Zvi, as if I didn’t keep track of that sort of thing, or were trying to trap him into marrying me. And bringing Marcia into the picture, turning to that bully for support.”

“I’ll tell you one thing, Edith, I understand the guy, now I’ve been through the same — the same crisis. I’ve been a baby too. And I turned to you for support. And thank God for your generosity too.” He wasn’t sure why he brought the matter up in that form: to steer her away from further questions, and spare him further revelations. He tried to keep his voice level, free of provocation, but with a hint of challenge he hoped might deflect her curiosity. He failed.

“Rubbish,” she said. “You’ve not been a baby at all.”

“No?”

“You’re as different from Lewlyn as day is from night.”

“I am? I must be the night.”

“You’re only beginning to learn who you are. And sooner or later you will. I’ve overtaken everyone I know: Hamb, I know I’ve told you about Shmuel Hamberg, Lewlyn, Zvi, and with Larry there never was any question. In fact, all those who’ve wanted to dear me and darling me. But I already know I’ll never overtake you. You’ll always be ahead of me, young as you are.”

“Yeah? It’s flattering.” He scarcely paused to masticate a mouthful. “But you know something, I think that’s because you’re kind to people, you sympathize with people — me. I might as well tell you: I don’t. I can’t seem to separate anything from the ulterior. What can I do with them? What they say? What can I use it for?”

“That’s the artist,” she said solemnly. “Without that kind of self-centeredness you couldn’t be one. I lack it. I can’t keep from helping people, from responding to their needs: to my parents’ needs. My father, whose health is ruined. My divorced ninny of a sister, because of her child. Lewlyn was a good example. Perhaps if I didn’t, and could devote myself to writing poetry, I might be a better poet. But I’ve always placed other people’s needs ahead of mine.”

“And that’s so important?”

“I worship the artist, as you know. It’s the only religion I have, Ira.”

“All right.” Ira gulped the last of his coffee. He sensed that she wasn’t being strictly logical, was too lenient in his behalf, couldn’t be swayed by anything he said. Answering to the point, but the edge had been taken off his appetite. He smeared the paper napkin across his mouth. “Boy, that was good. All I can say is I’m glad I’m out of it. I never would have lived through it without you.”

She didn’t seem to realize — or chose to ignore — the finality of his tone of voice and his forward-leaning movement. She seemed intent on keeping him there. “You spoke just now of the similarity between yourself and Lewlyn. But consider the differences in your ages, child. Here was a grown man, and a married one too, a former priest seemingly able to dispense comfort to others and all that folderol, acting like a child, turning for comfort to the wife who discarded him, turning to a woman ten years older than he is to reassemble him.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not going to leave?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“You haven’t told me anything.”

“What’ll I tell you? I’m afraid to tell you — no.” He suddenly felt himself swept by a contrary urge: a last resort, a last defense. “All right. When she told me she was okay — after she came out of the business school, and told me she was all through — with her menstrual period.” The words tumbled out. “She said she tried to get the news to me — I already told you.” He gesticulated. “What the hell. Anyway, old Priapus busted forth. I tried to take her to a place for intercourse.”

“I might have known it.”

“Yeah. Well? So now what’s there to say?”

“You’re very dear to me, Ira. There’s everything to say.”

“That’s the trouble. I’ll be a lot less dearer in a minute — I mean if I talk.” He met her profoundly compassionate, large-eyed gaze, her hands lying quietly in her lap. “I took her to Fox’s movie house on 14th — where I worked lugging film. The place has three balconies. It musta been a garlic opera house once. I took her to the middle balcony — that’s an empty one — into the ladies’ toilet. And Jesus, three Negroes came up there after us. They wanted a piece of her, and one of them had a safety razor, another one a knife.”