Call It Sleep (21 page)

She had been watching him rigidly. And when he stopped speaking a tremor ran through her. “Did—did the doctor say anything? Will it heal soon?”

He shrugged. “It won't have anything else to do. I can't use it for weeks—at least, that's what he said. It's well munched.”

She groaned.

“They spoke of paying me something for the time I was out. Of their own free will they offered it. I don't know why. But much they'll give me. Tomorrow I see them again and the doct—tomorrow!” He caught his breath loudly. “Tomorrow is Thursday!”

His lips swelled out in hatred, his eyes burned savagely. Both David and his mother stared at him in fascinated terror.

“Curse him and his gifts!” he suddenly snarled. “May he burn with them! God bray him into bits!”

His right elbow moved downward, but the sling checked his hand. With writhing lips, he reached his left hand behind his back, fumbled in the right rear pocket and drew out his black leather pocket-book.

“Curse him!”

He drew out a small slip of white paper, the theatre-pass, crumpled it in grinding fingers to a crackling wad and threw it down on the table.

“Nothing fulfills itself with me! It's all doomed! But what made him give me this? And what made him change? If I only knew! If I only knew!” His left hand drummed on the table.

There was a horrible silence while they stared at the wad of paper on the table. Then his father slipped the bandaged hand free from the sling and began slowly stretching it back and forth to flex the cramped and clicking elbow. His face wore an expression of grim aloofness as though it were not his own hand he was experimenting with but someone else's. On his mother's features horror and pity were written. David gazed from one to the other and finally like theirs his eyes came to rest on the hand that had just settled softly on the table, glimmering and peninsular on the green oilcloth. Minutes seemed to pass in a dull dragging vacancy in which no word was spoken. David looked up. His mother's face was unchanged as though that anguished look were caught in stone. But his father's face had become flushed, relaxed; the deep breath hissed softly at his nostrils. His eyelids had begun to linger at their shutting, opening not in one but in two stages. He spoke. Faint ratchets of effort against drowsiness and fatigue ticked and caught in his voice, thickening it. And as though to himself—

“I'll never go back to work there again. I'll never go back to printing at all. I'm through. Whatever work I do hereafter, it's going to be out doors—alone if I can. But out doors always … I'll not let myself be hemmed in by ink and iron any more. I don't want any foremen for my friends. I don't want anybody. I—I have no fortune with men.”

He sighed harshly, rose and yawned as if he were groaning. The bandaged hand stretched ceilingward, and when he brought it down into the sling again, one eye shut in pain—

“It's as though it were hollow.” He turned toward the front room, eyed David a moment and went up.

“I'll get you a quilt,” she trailed him.

He made no answer and both climbed up the front room stairs.

Sitting in numb silence beside the window, David stared after them, watched them disappear, listened. The bed creaked. In a few moments, he heard his mother's quick tread and then the slither of something dragged from the couch—the quilt. And then the bedroom was closed and he heard only the ticking of the clock. The strange start of dread he had felt when his father's eyes had rested on him still lingered with him. He had seen it before—that look, that flicker of veiled suspicion more frightening than wrath—had seen it almost always the day his father had thrown up a job. Why? What had he done? He didn't know. He didn't even want to know. It frightened him too much. Everything he knew frightened him. Why did he have to be here when his father came home? Why had his mother kept him? Why did he have to know? You had to know everything and suddenly what you knew became something else. You forgot why, but it was something else just the same. Scaring you—

There was a noise in the hallway—the door below. Hurrying feet mounted the stairs, climbed; but as they passed his floor, stopped, descended, approached his door uncertainly. He slid from his chair, listened, opened the door a crack. It was Yussie. His cap, still turned backward, gave his red face an even pudgier look.

“Hey, Davy!” he whispered hesitantly, spying through the partly open door.

“Waddayuh wan'?” Somehow he felt less grieved at Yussie now, even relieved at seeing him. It suddenly occurred to him that it was not Yussie but his sister he disliked so much. Still he wasn't going to appear too friendly. “Wadjuh comm hea fuh?” he inquired morosely.

“Yuh mad on me yed, Davy?” He looked at him with innocent resignation.

“I don' know,” he muttered tentatively. “Yea.”

“So I'll take beck de cry-baby,” he offered placatingly. “I'll never call yuh again, I shuh live so! It wuz all Ennie's fault—she made me.”

“You don' like her?” suspiciously.

“No! I'm mad on her! She's a lousy mut!”

“So comm in.”

Yussie sidled in eagerly, looked around. “Aw!” His lips fell in disappointment. “He ain' hea! Did he go 'way awreddy?”

“My fodder yuh wan'?” He suddenly saw through Yussie's ruse. “So dat's w'y yuh comm hea? Don' make no noise! He's sleepin'.”

“Oh!” And then inquisitively. “Wadda big bendige he had on. I seen it. So wad'd he get id fuh?”

“He god hoided in a printin' press. Dot's w'y. His fingeh. So dey put id on.”

“Yeh? I t'ought maybe—I know sommbody wod he hoided his hand on de Futt f'om Jillai—wid a fiyuh crecker. He had id in his house so he lighded id. Den he wanned t' t'row id oud f om de windeh. So de windeh woz cluz. So he didn' know w'ea he sh't'row id. So bang—!”

“Sh!”

They turned. She had tip-toed so quietly from his father's bedroom that neither of them had heard her. While they watched her silently, she shut the front room door, came down the steps with a slow uncertainty.

“Don't be offended with me, Yussele.” In the blank immobility of her face, a bare mechanical smile stirred her lips. “Go on. Speak further if you like.”

“Yea.” Impatiently Yussie summarized his narrative, nor bothered to switch tongue. “I wuz tellin' him about a fiyuh crecker wod a boy wuz holdin' an' id wen' bang! So aftuh id w'en bang, id hoided him de hand so he had t' pud a bendige on like Misteh Schoil.”

The name seemed to waken her momentarily. She shook her head wearily.

“An' aftuh, so his ear woz makin' Kling! Kling! Kling! Jos' like dat! Kling! Kling! Kling! Cauze de fiyuh crecker wen' bang by his ears! Den he wannid me I sh' hea' by him de ears, bod I couldn' hea' nottin'. Bot he said id woz! So I—” He stopped, regarded her in perplexity, and then uneasily to David. “Don' she wan' I sh' talk t' huh in Engklish?”

“I don' know.” He answered sullenly. His mother's fixed, unseeing stare, her trembling lips, trembling as if to an inner speech, was anguish enough for him to bear without the added humiliation of having Yussie notice it. “Yuh goin'?” he invited.

“Yeh, opstehs! Yuh wonna comm?”

“No!” Inflexibly.

“Bod I'm on'y gonna ged my noo bow'n' arrer.” He urged. “Den I'm commin' donn. My modder t'rew huh cussit away, so dere's big, long w'ite iyons in id. So I wen' 'an pulled 'em oud. An' I'm gonna tie 'em all t'gedder. An' ooo! is id gonna be strong! Way strong! Yuh wanna waid fuh me till I comm down? I'll call yuh.”

He hesitated, looked up at his mother. Her breast was heaving slowly, deeply, making a slight moaning creak in her throat. Her eyes, unwinking, round and liquid, swam in the lustre of unshed tears. For a shattering instant a throng of impulses, diverse, fierce, maddening, hurtled against the very core of his being. He wanted to shrink away, to run, to hide, anywhere, under the table, in a corner, in his bedroom, to burst into tears, to scream at her. So many they paralyzed him. He stood quivering, gaping at her, waiting for her to weep. Then suddenly he remembered! Yussie was looking at her! He would know! He would see! He mustn't! He whirled on him. “You go op, Yussie! G'wan! Horry op! I'll waid f'yuh in mine house. Den you come down and den I'll go! Horry op!”

“Yuh wan' me t'call ye?” Yussie cast a confused glance over his shoulder at David's mother.

“Yeh! Yeh! So go!” His shame at the other's knowing was agonizing. “G'wan!” He opened the door.

His mother sniffed sharply. “Are you driving him out, child?” The flat twang of tears thickened her voice. “You mustn't do that!”

“No! No!” David reverted desperately to Yiddish. “He's going by himself! I'm not pushing him!”

“Yeh! I'm goin'!” Yussie seconded him hastily. “I'll call yuh.” He went out.

“What made you part so abruptly?” She sniffed again, pressed her eyelids down, followed the dark margins with thumb and forefinger, and regarded her humid fingertips.

David hung his head, not daring to look at her for fear of weeping. “He's coming down to call me. And then we're both going into the street.”

“Oh, are you friends again?” She lifted weary tearstained eyes to the window. “It's growing dark. You won't stay out too long, will you? Nor go too far?”

“No.” It was becoming difficult for him to talk against the choking in his throat. “I'll get my coat.”

He retreated suddenly into his bedroom. In the brief solitude of finding his coat, his whole body began to quiver. But he tensed it, jammed his lips together to keep them still. The spasm passed. He dragged his hat and coat from the bed and returned.

“I must light the gas,” she said without stirring. “Do you want to come here and sit beside me?”

“No! I—I have to put my coat on.” He struggled into it. He mustn't, he mustn't go near her.

She shrugged, not at him, but at herself. “This is the way of the years, my son. Each new one shows you both hands this way—” She held out her two closed hands before her. “Here, choose!” And opening them. “And they're both empty. We do what we can. But the bitter thing is to strive—and save none but yourself.” She rose, went to the stove, lifted the lid and peered down into the glow that stained the wide brow, the flat cheek. “Eat we must though.”

“I'm going, mama.” He had heard the door slam upstairs.

“You won't be late for supper, beloved?” She replaced the eclipsing lid, half-turned, “Will you?”

“No, mama.” He went out. His whole being felt crushed, worn out, defeated.

Yussie came tripping down out of the upper shadow, and seeing him below, rattled the dim, slender corset-stays.

“Hey, yuh see watta a bow'n'arrer I'll hev? I got cawd in mine pocket too, so I'll tie id.” He joined David at the landing, took his arm. “C'mon! So I'll show yuh how I'll tie id over hea an' over hea in de middle. Den I'll tie id over hea.”

Descending, they neared the cellar door at which when he glanced, David felt a wave not so much of fear as of anger run through him—as though he defied it, as though he had slammed the door within him and locked it.

“An' we'll go maybe by de bobber shop, becuz by de bobber shop now is lighd. He a'ways lighds foist. So we c'n see how t' do it. Yuh commin?”

“Yeh.”

They came out into the frosty blue of early dusk, turned toward the stores, some of which were lit; there were several children before the tailor shop and the barber's. They trudged toward it, Yussie flexing the sheaf of corset stays.

“Didja ask yuh modder fuh a nickel fuh de Xmas poddy in school?”

“No. I fuhgod.”

“My ticher calls id Xmas, bod de kids call id Chrizmas. I'ds a goyish holiday anyways. Wunst I hanged up a stockin' in Brooklyn. Bod mine fodder pud in a eggshells wid terlit paper an' a piece f'om an ol' kendle. So he leffed w'en he seen me. Id ain' no Sendy Klaws, didja know?”

“Yeh.”

“How does a prindin' press look wot hoitshuh fodder?”

“Id's like a big mechine.”

“Id don' go boof?”

“No. Id makes like dat calenduh I woz saving.”

“Oh…”

They neared the group. Annie was still among them. David no longer cared.

“Hey!” Yussie seized his arm eagerly. “Dey's Jujjy de one wod fell w'en yuh pushed him. Yuh wan' me t' make yuh glad on him?”

“Yeh.”

“So tell him f'om de p'lice station. He'll be glad! Tell me too! So yeh?”

“Yeh.”

“Hey Jujjy!” Yussie hailed them. “Hea's Davy! He wandsuh be glad on yuh. He's gonna tell yuh aboud de p'lice station! Aintcha, Davy?”

“Yeh.”

BOOK II

The Picture

I

IN FEBRUARY David's father found the job he wanted—he was to be a milkman. And in order that he might be nearer the stables, they moved a few days later to 9th Street and Avenue D on the lower East Side. For David it was a new and violent world, as different from Brownsville as turmoil from quiet. Here in 9th Street it wasn't the sun that swamped one as one left the doorway, it was sound—an avalanche of sound. There were countless children, there were countless baby carriages, there were countless mothers. And to the screams, rebukes and bickerings of these, a seemingly endless file of hucksters joined their bawling cries. On Avenue D horse-cars clattered and banged. Avenue D was thronged with beer wagons, garbage carts and coal trucks. There were many automobiles, some blunt and rangy, some with high straw poops, honking. Beyond Avenue D, at the end of a stunted, ruined block that began with shacks and smithies and seltzer bottling works and ended in a junk heap, was the East River on which many boat horns sounded. On 10th Street, the 8th Street Crosstown car ground its way toward the switch.