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

“I have so far.”

“You know that I’ve suffered some rather bad wounds myself in childhood. I’m sure I’ve told you about the violent quarrels between my father, with his heavy drinking, and my weeping Christian Science mother, protesting, weeping — it could all be heard through the house. You can imagine the effect on a child. I seem to have suffered more than either my brother or sister. At least as far as I could tell. I was so sensitive too, Ira. I saw my mother growing more and more unhappy. I actually could tell when a new wrinkle appeared on her face.” Edith pointed to her own. “I suppose my antipathy to sex, my frigidity until well into my twenties, may have been the result of that. It took Wasserman to break through that — practically rape — to awaken me. I told Lewlyn about it. So of course Marcia knows it. She was amused by it all, Lewlyn reported back, skeptical: I could so easily have screamed. Well.” Edith clasped her small hands even closer; she looked off into reminiscence with a kind of fixed disconsolateness. “You had your sister, you had your cousin. I discovered orgasm with one of those hand electric massaging things.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve never told anyone else.”

“I don’t know. Here I am: East Side. Harlem. New York. And you come from way out in Silver City. What do I mean to say? I don’t know. How can you get so — well, you know: dark. I thought only slums, you know, breed that. Way out west it would be all different.”

“It isn’t. It may be much worse.” Her tiny hand traveled over his chest. “Strange, unhappy lad. Let’s put as much of that behind us as we can.”

“All right. How should I begin? As Eliot says.”

“You already have, dark eyes. Now, you go shower. You prefer that to a bath, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. I need to shave too.”

“I have a lady’s safety razor. Will that do?”

“Oh, sure — I’m pretty sure: it’s a Gem, I bet.”

“I think so. It’s on the top shelf in the medicine cabinet.” She stood up from his lap, began smoothing her brown skirt under the sunburst on the black kimono, viewed herself in profile in the mirror over the mantelpiece. “Do you want me to show you?”

“No, no. I know what it looks like. Three guys in Fox’s theater in a vision I once saw.”

“The razor? Heavens, child, are you still thinking of that?”

“Yeah. Trauma, I guess you call it. It’s unbelievable, you know.” He waved his hand in front of him. “That. This. You.” He rubbed the day’s stubble on his chin.

“Please promise you’ll never do that again.”

“Never, never. Something dumber next time. On the other hand, look at the boon they brought me.”

Something about what he said or the way he said it seemed to affect her. She sat down on the edge of the couch and watched him with intent gazelle eyes, so intent, so candid in her tenderness, she immobilized him; he stood uncertain and embarrassed. Nobody should show feelings as deeply as that. . What a hold it had on him. Like Mom. The embryo Edith lost, the abortion she had: good and bad: he had a berth, he heard himself pun. What was bad about it? The intensity. And you couldn’t shake her the way you could Mom, cavalier. She was your equal, and better than your equal: native stock, the Ascendancy, John Synge called it.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asked, as gently as he could. “Maybe I should just wash my hands and go home?”

“Oh, no. I want you to have dinner with me, as soon as you’ve showered — if you don’t mind tearoom food.”

“Tearoom food? I should cavil at tearoom food?”

“And your mother? What will you do about her? Your parents. You have no phone.”

“Min would answer — she’d go down to the drugstore. But they’ll die of fright. I’ve been away before.” He was sure she had something more important in mind.

“Do you think you could love me?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re the most unromantic person I have ever had anything to do with. I often worry that you remind me of my father, but then you don’t drink.” Her smile seemed unable to contend with her seriousness. “But at least you’re honest. Do you think you could learn to love me?”

“I don’t know what it is! Edith — I–I’m ashamed of myself. You know what I am. I began at twelve. That’s all I could think of, that one thing: there was no love.”

“You never had a crush of any kind, on any girl?”

“Once, I think, for a little while. She wore her long underwear under her black stockings. She became an usherette in a movie house later on — looked like she was drumming up trade. Her older brother was shot and killed by a cop when he was running away from a crap game he’d just held up. The younger brother fell through an awning of a German meat and sausage store on Third Avenue I used to stand in front of and drool. I guess he was trying to swipe something. I don’t know why I tell you all this. That’s the nearest I came to love. I guess I was already doing things to my sister. So I can’t tell you. Why should I love you?”

“Because I’ve begun to love you.” Edith stopped shaking her head. “More than a little. More than I can tell you. I know it sounds trite. I want to be loved — and by you.”

“Yeah, but everything with me is ulterior. I told you.”

“That’s only because you’ve seen me so often in other men’s arms.”

“You think so? Maybe. I like you, you know — that’s kind of stupid. I worship you. I think you’re wonderful. What should I say?”

“Nothing. I think you should go take your shower.”

“You sure?” Could anything be more prosaic — could anything seem more portentous.

“I’m quite sure. I’m beginning to feel a few hunger pangs. But are you sure?”

“Of what?” He looked at her in surprise. “I told you what I am. You’re taking all the risks.”

“But I haven’t told you what I am: I can’t stand being tied down. It was what Lewlyn knew, though I suppose I could if I were married. I’ve had affairs.”

“I know.”

“I think very little of the body, Ira, do you understand what I mean?” She smoothed a fold in the black velvet couch cover. “Other than something to be taken care of, be kept in as good physical condition as possible — and mine isn’t very good — very robust — I have no great regard for it.” She paused to note whether he was following her. “I have no great sense of sanctity about, exaggerated holiness about. . ” Again she paused — for emphasis: “But I do have a great curiosity about men. Do I need to be reassured continually that I have some physical attraction for them? I’m sure I do, even though I know I haven’t that kind of sexuality that some women have — Louise Bogan, for example. But it’s mainly my curiosity, Ira. It’s almost compulsive. And I know no way of knowing them better, my dear — not in bed.”

“No?” It seemed the opposite of what he expected her to conclude with; he frowned, probing for a channel in perplexity.

“No. Bed is something to get out of the way. Sex is something to get over with. It’s their minds I want to get at. It’s their minds I find stimulating. It’s their minds that will sometimes set a poem going through my head. When that happens I feel as if I’ve put my body to some use, something really worthwhile.”

“Oh.”

“Can you stand that? I’ve known men who can. No. Only Zvi can. But he’s in California. Can you? Because crazy as I am about you — and it must be evident I am — I’ll only hurt you badly, worse than you are already. Please be honest.”

“Sure. I don’t own you.” Ira chuckled wearily. “I haven’t even begun.” More was on his mind: contraries: a certain kind of relief from obligation: she had been others’, hadn’t been his, wasn’t yet, but precarious possession too: others more. . More mind: snug haven gone glimmering.