Call It Sleep (37 page)

—Gee, didn't see before!

Widened to a swath, a lane, widened.

—Like a ship just went.

A plain, flawless, sheer as foil to the serried margins. His eyes dazzled.

—Fire on the water. White.

His lids grew heavy.

—In the water she said. White. Brighter than day. Whiter. And He was.

Minutes passed while he stared. The brilliance was hypnotic. He could not take his eyes away. His spirit yielded, melted into light. In the molten sheen memories and objects overlapped. Smokestacks fused to palings flickering in silence by. Pale laths grew grey, turned dusky, contracted and in the swimming dimness, he saw sparse teeth that gnawed upon a lip; and ladders on the ground turned into hasty fingers pressing on a thigh and again smokestacks. Straight in air they stood a moment, only to fall on silvered cardboard coruscating brilliance. And he heard the rubbing on a wash-board and the splashing suds, smelled again the acrid soap and a voice speaking words that opened like the bands of a burnished silver accordion—Brighter than day … Brighter … Sin melted into light …

Uh chug chug, ug chug!

—Cucka cucka … Is a chicken …

Uh chug ug ch ch ch—Tew weet!

—No … Can't be …

Ug chug, ug chug, ug—TEW WEET!

What! He started as if out of a dream. A tremor shook him from head to foot so violently that his ears whirred and rang. His eyes bulged, staring. What? Water! Down below! He flung himself back against the mooring post.

Directly in front of him, with only a short space of water intervening, a black tugboat churned its way. In a doorway amidships, his back to the bright brass engine, stood a man in his undershirt, bare, outstretched arms gripping the doorpost on either side. He whistled again, shrill from mobile lips, grinned, spat, and “Wake up, Kid!” his sudden, amused hail rolled over the water, “'fore you throw a belly-w'opper!” Then he poked his dark-blond head inside as though he were speaking to someone behind him.

Terrified, rigid, David watched the tug wallow by. Ages seemed to pass, but in spite of himself he could not move. Twice he sighed and with such depth as though he had been weeping for hours. And with the suddenness of snapping fetters the spell broke, and he stared about him too unsteady to rise. What was it he had seen? He couldn't tell now. It was as though he had seen it in another world, a world that once left could not be recalled. All that he knew about it was that it had been complete and dazzling.

VIII

HE HAD sat there a long time. Steadiness slowly returned to him. The planks of the dock stiffened and grew firm. He rose.

—Funny little lights all gone. Like when you squeeze too hard on a toilet. Better go home.

He approached the end of the dock. Voices, as he neared the cobble, made him look over to the left. Three boys, coming from Eighth Street, climbed nimbly over the snarled chaos of the open junk heap. At the sight of David, they hallooed, leapt down to level ground and raced toward him. All wore caps cocked sideways and sweater, red and green, smeared, torn at the breast and elbows. Two were taller than David, wiry, blue-eyed, upturned noses freckled. The other, dark-skinned and runty, looked older than the rest and carried in his hand a sword made of a thin strip of metal that looked like sheet zinc and a long bolt wired across it near one end. One glance at their tough, hostile faces, smirched by the grime and rust of the junk heap and screwed up into malicious watchfulness was enough. David's eyes darted about for an opening. There was none—except back to the dock. Trapped, he stood still, his frightened gaze wavering from one menacing face to another.

“Wadda yiz doin' on 'at dock?” growled the runty one side-mouthed. The sunlight glanced along the sheet zinc sword as he pointed.

“N—Nottin. I was'n' doin' nott'n. Dey was boats dere.”

“How old 're youse?”

“I'm—I'm eight already.”

“Well, w'y aintchjis in school?”

“Cause id'd, cause—” But something warned him. “Cause I— cause my brudder's god measles.”

“Dot's a lodda bullshit, Pedey.” This from the freckled one. “He's onna hook.”

“Yea. Tell 'at tuh Sweeney.”

“We oughta take yiz tuh a cop,” added the second freckled one.

“Betcha de cop'll tell yuh,” urged David, hoping for no better fate.

“Nah!
We
know,” Pedey scornfully rejected the idea. “W'ere d'yiz live?”

“Dere.” He could see the very windows of his own floor. “Dat house on nint' stritt. My mudders gonna look oud righd away.”

Pedey squinted in the direction David pointed.

“Dat's a sheeney block, Pedey,” prompted the second freckled lieutenant with ominous eagerness.

“Yea. Yer a Jew aintchiz?”

“No I ain'!” he protested hotly. “I ain' nod a Jew!”

“Only sheenies live in dat block!” countered Pedey narrowly.

“I'm a Hungarian. My mudder 'n' fodder's Hungarian. We're de janitors.”

“W'y wuz yuh lookin upstairs?”

“Cause my mudder wuz washin' de floors.”

“Talk Hungarian,” challenged the first lieutenant.

“Sure like dis. Abashishishabababyo tomama wawa. Like dot.”

“Aa, yuh full o' shit!” sneered the second lieutenant angrily. “C'mom, Pedey, let's give 'im 'is lumps.”

“Yea!” the other freckled one urged. “C'mon. He ain' w'ite. Yi! Yi! Yi!” He wagged his palms under his chin.

“Naa!” Pedey nudged his neighbor sharply. “He's awri'. Led 'im alone.” And to David. “Got any dough? We'll match yiz pennies.”

“No, I ain' god nodd'n. Id's all in mine house.” He would have been glad to have the two pennies now if only they would let him go.

“Let's see yer pockets.”

“Hea, I'll show yuh,” he hastily turned them inside out. “Nod even in duh watch pocket.”

“C'mon, Pedey,” urged first lieutenant, advancing.

“Lemme go!” David whimpered, shrinking back.

“Naa! Let 'im alone,” ordered Pedey. “He's awright. Let's show 'im de magic. Waddayah say?”

“Yea! At's right!” The other two seconded him. “C'mon! Yuh wanna see some magic?”

“No-no. I don' wanna.”

“Yuh don'!” Pedey's voice rose fiercely. The others strained at the leash.

“W—wa' kind o' magic?”

“C'mon, we'll show yiz, won' we, Weasel? Over dis way.” His sword pointed across the junk-heap toward Tenth Street. “Where de car tracks is.”

“So wod yuh gonna do?” he held back.

“C'mon we'll show yiz.” They hemmed him in cutting off retreat. “Ah' here's my sword—G'wan take it, fore we—” He thrust it into David's hands. He took it. They moved forward.

At the foot of the junk-heap, the lieutenant named Weasel stopped. “Waid a minute,” he announced, “I godda take a piss.”

“Me too,” said the others halting as well. They unbuttoned. David edged away.

“Lager beer,” chanted Pedey as he tapped forehead, mouth, chest and navel, “comes from here—”

“Ye see,” Weasel pointed triumphantly at the shrinking David. “I tol' yuh he aín' w'ite. W'y don'tchiz piss?”

“Don' wanna. I peed befaw.”

“Aw, hosschit.” He lifted one leg.

“Phuwee!”

With a howl of glee, the other two pounced on him.

“Eli, eli, a bundle of strawr,” they thumped his back. “Farting is against de lawr—”

“Leggo!” Weasel shook them off viciously.

“Well yiz farted—Hey!” Pedey swooped down on David. “Stay here, or yuh'll get a bust on de bugle! C'mon! An' don't try to duck on us.”

With one on either side of him and one behind, David climbed up the junk heap and threaded his way cautiously over the savage iron morraine. Only one hope sustained him—that was to find a man on the other side to run to. Before him the soft, impartial April sunlight spilt over a hill of shattered stoves, splintered wheels, cracked drain pipes, potsherds, marine engines split along cruel and jagged edges. Eagerly, he looked beyond—only the suddenly alien, empty street and the glittering cartracks, branching off at the end.

“Peugh! Wadda stink!” Pedey spat. “Who opened his hole?”

From somewhere in the filth and ruin, the stench of mouldering flesh fouled the nostrils. A dead cat.

“C'mon, hurry up!”

As they neared the street, a rusty wire, tough root of a brutal soil, tripped David who had quickened his pace, and he fell against the sword bending it.

“He pissed in his w'iskers,” guffawed the second lieutenant.

Pedey grinned. Only Weasel kept his features immobile. He seemed to take pride in never laughing.

“Hol' it, yuh dumb bassid,” he barked, “yuh bent it!”

“Waid a secon',” Pedey warned them when they had reached the edge of the junk-heap. “Lemme lay putso.” He slid down, and after a furtive glance toward Avenue D, “Come on! Shake! Nobody's aroun'.”

They followed him.

“Now we're gonna show yiz de magic.”

“Waid'll ye sees it,” Weasel chimed in significantly.

“Yea, better'n movin' pitchiz!”

“Wadda yuh wan' I shul do?” Their growing excitement added to his terror.

“Hurry up an' take dat sword an' go to dem tracks and t'row it in— See like dis. In de middle.”

“I don't wanna go.” He began to weep.

“G'wan yuh blubber-mout'.” Weasel's fist tightened.

“G'wan!” The other lieutenant's face screwed up. “'Fore we kick de piss ouda yiz.”

“G'wan, an' we'll letchiz go,” promised Pedey. “G'wan! Shake!”

“If I jost pud id in?”

“Yea. Like I showed yuh.”

“An' den yuh'll led me go?”

“Sure. G'wan. Id ain' gonna hoitcha. Ye'll see all de movies in de woil! An' vawderville too! G'wan before a car comes.”

“Sure, an' all de angels.”

“G'wan!” Their fists were drawn back.

Imploringly, his eyes darted to the west. The people on Avenue D seemed miles away. The saloon-door in the middle of the block was closed. East. No none! Not a soul! Beyond the tarry rocks of the river-shore, the wind had scattered the silver plain into rippling scales. He was trapped.

“G'wan!” Their faces were cruel, their bodies stiff with expectancy.

He turned toward the tracks. The long dark grooves between each pair looked as harmless as they had always looked. He had stepped over them hundreds of times without a thought. What was there about them now that made the others watch him so? Just drop it, they said, and they would let him go. Just drop it. He edged closer, stood tip-toe on the cobbles. The point of the sheet-zinc sword wavered before him, clicked on the stone as he fumbled, then finding the slot at last, rasped part way down the wide grinning lips like a tongue in an iron mouth. He stepped back. From open fingers, the blade plunged into darkness.

Power!

Like a paw ripping through all the stable fibres of the earth, power, gigantic, fetterless, thudded into day! And light, unleashed, terrific light bellowed out of iron lips. The street quaked and roared, and like a tortured thing, the sheet zinc sword, leapt writhing, fell back, consumed with radiance. Blinded, stunned by the brunt of brilliance, David staggered back. A moment later, he was spurting madly toward Avenue D.

IX

WHEN he looked behind him again, the light was gone, the roaring stilled. Pedey and his mates had fled. At the crossing, several people had stopped and were staring toward the river. Eyes shifted to David as he neared Avenue D, but since no one tried to block his way, he twisted around the corner and fled toward Ninth Street. His father's milk wagon was standing beside the curb. His father was home. He might guess that something had gone wrong. He'd better not go up. He slunk past his house, cut across the street and broke into a run. At the cheder entrance he turned, scurried through the sheltering doorway, and came out into the sunlit and empty yard. The cheder door was closed. He had come far too early. Trembling in every limb, weak with fright, he looked about for a place to rest. The wide wooden doors that covered a cellar sloped gently into the sun. A new, brass padlock gleamed at their seam—too many of the rabbi's pupils had been banging them on their subterranean way into the cheder yard. He dragged himself over, dropped down on one of the wooden wings and shut his eyes. In the red sea of sun-lit eyelids his spirit sickeningly rolled and dipped. Though the planks were warm and the sun was warm, his teeth chattered and he shivered as if an icy gale were blowing. With a groan of anguish, he turned on his side hardly feeling the warm padlock under his cheek. Deep, shaking sobs caught on the snag of his throat. The hot tears crowded through his sealed eyelids, trickled unheeded across his cheek and nostril. He wept silently.

How long he lay there he did not know. But little by little the anguish lifted, his blood thawed, the sobbing calmed. Empty and nerveless, he opened his eyes; the rough-walled familiar houses, the leaning fences, the motley washing, wash-poles, sunlight, the cramped and cluttered patch of blue above him were good. A mottled, yellow cat crept carefully out upon a fire-escape, leapt down behind a fence. Realities warm and palpable. From open windows, the sound of voices, rattling of pots, rush of water in a sink, laughter shearing away loud snatches of familiar speech. It was good. In the veering of the light wind, the odors of cooking, strong and savory, hung and drifted. From somewhere up above a steady chop-chopping began. Meat or fish or perhaps the bitter herbs of the Passover. The limp, vacant body expanded, filled with certainties.

Chop. Chop. The sound was secure. His thoughts took the rhythm of the sound. Something within him chanted. Words flowed out of him of their own accord. Chop. Chop. Showed him, showed. In the river, showed him, showed. Chop. Chop. Showed him, showed. If He wants. Showed him, showed.