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

“Hey, Moran, that’s him,” said Farley.

Just being addressed by Farley brought a flush of pleasure to the middle-aged cop’s face. Bits of perceptions, notions, swirled through Ira’s mind: contrast, heavy wool blue uniform, scant track suit; unity of the Irish; pride of the Irish; avuncular admiration — the freedom, the sheer naturalness of the deep-breathing sixteen-year-old victor.

“Hey, why didn’t you come around!” And an instant later, “Come on. Let’s go. I gotta get my sweat suit on.”

“Where?”

“Over to the other end.”

They had been clinging to each other’s hands.

“I can’t go.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t. You know why.”

Farley understood. “Listen.” He jogged in place. “Soon as I can I’ll meet you outside this door. It’s right near Broadway. Okay? I’ll get my medal, and scoot out. Gimme about half an hour. Okay?” He was already trotting toward the starting line.

“Do you want to go back up or do you want to go out now?” the cop asked Ira.

“No, I’ll go out.”

The cop swung open the heavy side door of the Armory, held it open on the sunlit throb of the street, surveyed the outdoors until Ira passed, then swung the door to. Isolated, happy, glowing with reprieve, Ira waited next to the building. Waited. . For all his happiness — the realization grew as the minutes went by — it would never be again the viable friendship it once had been. That was a thing of the past, but still rich with affection, rich with reminiscent bloom. And what joy to see Farley, to see him run and win, to share in his triumph.

And now, there he was! To see him in person come out of a door at the other end of the building, see him and hear him, stride up, blue-eyed, bareheaded, his light voice raised in familiar greeting, small canvas duffel bag hoisted in breezy approach.

“Boy, didn’t I beat it outta there? They wanted me to hang around for more pictures of me and the coach. But I said I couldn’t. I had to skiddoo.”

“Yeah?” Ira could feel the glow of his own happiness.

“Let’s mope home, all right?”

“Oh, sure. That was wonderful. Boy. Watching you.”

“I knew I’d beat him this time.”

“They give you the medal already?” Ira asked. “It’s real gold?”

“Yeah. Wanna see it?”

“Do I?”

Farley opened the bag as they walked, found the small, neatly wrought box among his track togs, opened it, displayed the colored ribbon and the rich gold disk with its raised athletic figure reaching out for a laurel wreath.

“Boy!”

“Nifty, huh? I did it in eleven two.”

“Boy!”

“If I had a start as good as his, I bet I’d do it in eleven flat. Maybe better.”

“Eleven flat! Wow!”

“He gets away in a flash. Like Hardy, that black guy in school who eats hot dogs and ice cream at the same time. Remember him? He got away like a rabbit. But I caught up with him.”

“Yeah.”

“The coach kept me practicing against him. Making me try to catch up with him sooner.”

“Gee, it was wonderful.”

They talked, talked tirelessly, without let, talked whole city blocks behind them, the long crosstown blocks as little noticed in their immersion in each other as the short downtown blocks. They talked about everything, everything that had happened since they separated: school and law office, training and interscholastic meets, hopes, intentions, expectations, two months of news and information tumbling chaotically out of each one’s mouth. Farley had been on the point of moping over to Ira’s house to find him. Why hadn’t he come around? No, he’d never told his parents. “What d’you think I am? I told ’em you had to go to work.”

“Oh. So they don’t know.”

“No. Nobody knows. O’Neil, my coach, knows. Couple of others. Gym teachers. And the guy. I see him every gym period. Marney. He never says anything. Why didn’t you tell me the pen wasn’t yours? You coulda got away with it. Easy.” Farley was so matter-of-fact, casual, forgiving. “All you had to do was say you found it.”

“I know. I know. Don’t I know.”

“What’d old man Osborne say to you?”

“He said everybody would — everybody would hear about it. I had to quit Stuyvesant for my own good.”

“Nah! Nobody even knows, nobody in the class. Nobody ever said anything to me.”

“He said there’d be others—”

“What d’you mean?”

“Other fellas lost fountain pens.”

“Other fellas? You mean—” Farley turned his head in midstride, his blue eyes puzzled. “What the hell got into you, Irey?”

“I don’t know.”

But he did, or thought he did, at least in part, but all of it was too, too snarled now, too unspeakable, yes, not merely the stolen briefcase, stolen fountain pens, straightedges, and protractors. No, too far gone. . driven into the self, remorseless and cruel and incorrigible, his stealing of the fountain pens only part of the forbidden he felt within himself, only part of the corroding evil. Stealing was easily overcome; he might never steal again, never really steal from another person. He had the power of choice. The other was amalgamated, was fused with bodily rapture, with a name never to be named. The other he couldn’t refuse.

Ira and Farley rounded Madison Avenue. And there was the church, and a block south of it, the Hewin Funeral Parlor.

“C’mon in. I’m hungry. What about you?” Farley invited. His lips squirmed. “And thirsty, wow. A sandwich and a glass o’ milk.”

Ira balked. “I better not.”

“I told you I didn’t say anything.”

“No?”

“They don’t know anything about it,” Farley stressed. “My mom’s asked about you lots o’ times. ‘What happened to your Jewish friend who was so quiet and shy?’ She likes you.”

“Yeah? What did she say about the pen?”

“You mean I didn’t have it anymore? I lost it. I’m tellin’ you, Irey. Come on in.”

They went in together, Ira following diffidently through basement gate and hallway, into the kitchen.

“You’re quite a stranger.” Always so joyless-seeming and resigned, nunlike Mrs. Hewin regarded Ira through gold-rimmed eyeglasses. The heavy down above her upper lip curved with her mouth in a rare smile.

“Yes, ma’am. I had to go to work.”

“So Farley told me. But not all the time. You don’t work all the time, do you? You don’t work every day?”

He hadn’t reckoned with quick, unsettling Irish wit. “No, ma’am.” He delved for a plausible reply, unearthed a sorry one, a bedraggled one. “I didn’t think I should — bother Farley. I’m working. He’s going to high school.”

“Oh, pshaw! I’ve yet to see anything like that bother Farley. The only thing I’ve known to bother Farley is that he can’t drive one of the limousines.”

“I can, too,” Farley protested.

“Of course you can. Ever since you were ten.” She turned to Ira. “I was so sorry when Farley told me you had to go to work. I know how much you wanted to go to high school. Do you like the work you’re doing?”

“My job? No. First I worked in a law office. But they fired me already. I was working in a toy warehouse until about a week ago.”

“Oh.” So faintly amused, the heavy down on her upper lip was all the more conspicuous. “Why did they fire you at the law office? Did they think you were too honest to make a good lawyer?”

“No, ma’am. I–I guess I wasn’t smart enough.”

“Tush! Are you ever going back to high school?”

“I’m going at night.”

“You are?” She studied him appreciatively. “I’m glad to hear it. Pity is it takes so long to get a diploma in night school. You’ll be a grown man when you graduate.”