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

But then came the counterthought: It might very well be that his treatment of Jane before the point of crisis in their relations was reached was such that Jess already felt it needed concealing, and hence the cause of the prolonged lacuna in any meaningful communication between son and parent. Said M: “Is your solicitude about Jane based on your resentment of Jess?” And how could Ira deny that it was a component of his attitude: the sense of desolation at being rejected by the one he loved, rejected, excluded. He had never done that with Mom. To the extent possible, immigrant woman though she was, scarcely acquainted with American mores, to the extent that he could, he had told her of his activities, his experiences, and his reflections on his experiences (not so with Pop; he never had, being the spurned one himself from the outset). And yet — he had to admit to himself — his statement was not altogether true: What agonizing perpetrations he had withheld from Mom, what sordid troughs of deed. So there was an analogy here, a limited one, to be sure, between Jess’s refusal to communicate with his father, and his own with Mom. What if he had said: “Mom, I—” What if he had confessed: “Yes, Mom, I—” No, it was impossible. .

He would never be sure, unless somehow the pertinent record could be uncovered or unless he was willing to go to the trouble of trying to locate it. (The public school record, he was reasonably certain, was still extant; but the record of Park & Tilford’s employees, who knew? Was Park & Tilford still in existence?) He would have to make a stab at it, decide arbitrarily which preceded which, if they didn’t take place more or less simultaneously. At any rate, one thing he could certainly count on: that for awhile the two things that played such important though different parts in shaping his life must have overlapped. Interesting, he reflected, this process of introspective delineation, introspective ordering of autobiographical material; it was something in the nature of a chess game, though he knew very little about chess: a supposition in one direction was blocked by a contradictory recollection.

If he had obtained the after-school job with Park & Tilford before he met Farley H in junior high — and it was there Ira certainly met him — then he must have begun work at Park & Tilford when he was still only thirteen, for he was fourteen at almost the same time the new junior high school classes began, which was February. Were juveniles of that age, under the age of fourteen, allowed by law to be hired to do after-school work by well-established businesses? Ira wasn’t sure. Some research, perhaps only a few phone calls could dispel the uncertainty (and he much preferred to work within well-defined contexts). But what the hell. Again, if he went hitchhiking with Farley of a summer’s day, in his junior high school year, which was his fourteenth, why wasn’t he busy at his duties at Park & Tilford? (On the other hand, the two might have gone hitchhiking on a Sunday, although the memory had the aura of a weekday.)

Amid the welter of conflicting impressions, probably his best assumption was that he had actually been hired by Park & Tilford when he was thirteen much to his present (as well as his past) surprise, had worked there during most of eighth grade, and into part of junior high, when he met Farley. If so, that would entail revising some of what he had previously dealt with — not that he would. So, to begin with, Park & Tilford — and there was one very definite bit of “evidence” to buttress his assumption, a bit of incontrovertible mental memorabilia: He recalled beyond all question that he reported for work that first day at Park & Tilford wearing his “new” blue serge Bar Mitzvah suit. That argued proximity to his thirteenth year, argued in favor of the year 1919 as the date he was hired, of his being in the eighth grade.

V

Pop’s countenance was wreathed with cordiality when Ira came home that Friday afternoon. Pop even called him Ira’leh , the name he reserved for Ira when most pleased with his son — or wanted him to run an errand or do some other favor. Ira looked at Mom for explanation.

“The mailman brought you this after you left for school a second time.”

“After lunch?” Ira reached out for the letter.

“May it augur well,” said Mom.

And Pop in jolly mood: “One of your grandmothers awoke for your sake.”

Ira extracted the letter from the already opened envelope: “Gee, I got a job! Park and Tilford! After school! Yea!”

“ Tockin yea,” said Pop. “Such a goyish , fancy store to admit a Yiddle . Something unheard of.”

“Did they ask you?” said Mom.

“No. But I wrote on the application where it asked religion: Jewish.”

“ Wunderbar! ”

“It must have been Mr. Sullivan then,” Ira said. “He told me where to apply. He’s a bookkeeper after school.”

“Aha,” said Mom. “You see: the goy . They say he’s this, he’s that. A mensh is a mensh, goy or Jew. He took pity on you.”

Which made it all the more likely, Ira meditated, that he had gotten the job in his thirteenth year, while still in eighth grade where Mr. Sullivan was impressed with Ira’s aptitude in English; for had it been the following year when he was in Mr. Sullivan’s bookkeeping class, that crippled and cantankerous worthy, humane though he was, might very well have had his doubts about recommending so dense a scholar as Ira for any kind of job (and he did so again later).

He was to report for work Monday to the Park & Tilford store on 126th Street and Lenox Avenue. Weekdays, his regular hours of employment were from three-thirty in the afternoon until 6:00 P.M. Saturdays, all day, from 8:30 A.M. to closing time at 6:00 P.M. His pay would be five dollars per week.

Oh, it was long, long, long ago. . Mom cautioned him as he dressed with nervous haste in the morning before school, to show respect to everyone, do as he was told with cheerful mien — and try not to get his blue serge suit soiled before reporting for work that afternoon, to all of which he made irritable acknowledgment. And in his best shirt and tie, with an extra nickel for lunch, and with Mom’s blessings, off to Madison Avenue, explaining to schoolmates he met along the route past Mt. Morris Park the reason he was “all dressed up.” And to Mr. Conway, his homeroom teacher as well, just in case the class was kept for misbehavior. They weren’t. And as soon as school was dismissed for the day, away Ira went.

And away he went toward Lenox Avenue, trying to restrain his gait, not break into a trot — and break into a sweat that would mar his holiday nattiness, spoil the impression he was about to make as someone suitable for the cloudy negotiations he would soon be engaged in, as the manager’s right-hand man, or assigned to other financial duties requiring charm and tact and deference. He waited for a minute outside the richly arranged store windows for his excited panting to subside, took a fresh grip of his strap of books, and with the letter in the other hand, he entered the richly aromatic, richly subdued mahogany demesne. The elderly, dignified gentleman in wing-collar and white boutonniere in his lapel, who was stationed behind the tobacco and mineral-water counter, directed Ira to the manager’s desk.

It was in the center of the store, and Ira approached in a haze of anxiety and deference. On a podium, before a rolltop desk surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, sat Mr. Stiles, like a monarch reigning over a dozen clerks in tan jackets busily writing on yellow pads on a long dark counter, in front of which well-dressed patrons were seated on high revolving stools. They were ordering all manner of select comestibles, judging from the glistening array of glass jars on the counter, or the bags of aromatic coffee the clerks were busily removing from under the two showy red and gold electric grinders behind them.