The Children (6 page)

A
LL I KNOW IS THAT I MUST GET AWAY AND HIDE. SUDUDENLY
, I have plunged off a roof, and all the peace of a summer day is shattered. Why did I do it? What on earth could ever have prompted Ishky to do a thing like that?

And, strangest of all things, I am alive and not hurt too much.

Thomas Edison is screaming on the roof. (Be quiet, fat fool—it is I who fell off, not you!) And windows are opening. A quick tumble through an open cellar window, and I am out of the airshaft and into the black cellar. But still, I plainly hear the shouts and the screams. I look up slyly. Yes, a woman is leaning out of the window and screaming; what is she screaming about?

It comes to me like this—as if someone is saying: Oh, Ishky, you have done a terrible thing. You have tried to die. In fact, you have died. You are dead. You see, you, Ishky—

Who is dead? If I pinch myself, see how it hurts. But the cellar is so black, especially here in the coal bin where I have crawled. When I hold my hand in front of my face, I can't see it. Then maybe I am dead. Who knows? It is so black here that one cannot be very sure whether he is alive or dead.

What I don't understand and never will be able to understand, is how, so soon after a terrible thing, I am acting as if it had never happened at all. I mean jumping off the roof; for I am not thinking of that any more, except that my face and body hurt a little. I am thinking of how it would be if Marie was here in the cellar with me.

P
RETENDING
, I say: “You see, Marie, my dear, that it is really much nicer to be down here with me than with Ollie.”

Marie says: “Yes—true. Now I wonder why that should be?”

I say: “I could tell you that, Marie, my dear.”

She says: “You are so wonderful, Ishky. How is it I never knew before? Yes, do tell me.”

I say: “You see, my darling Marie, I am a person of splendid dreams and fancies, who will be a king, or at least a millionaire some day. And who is Ollie?—”

She says: “Of course, I have always loved you.”

I say: “Yes, I know.”

She says: “Won't you kiss me, Ishky?”

I say: “Here in the cellar?”

She says: “It doesn't matter—so long as you kiss me, Ishky.”

A
ND IN
the middle of all that, I heard someone screaming, “Ishky—Ishky—Ishky—Gott!”

Can it be my mother's voice? I hear, in Yiddish, “Oh, God of Gods, what have you done with my son? Where is he, my jewel, my precious one, my beloved? What have you done with him, after the halfwit threw him from the roof? Oh, Ishky, my child, where are your?”

“Quiet—quiet, and we will find him.”

“To solace me with his broken body. God!”

“Maybe he is not dead.”

“My man will destroy me! Where is my jewel?”

And all through this, I am hiding in the coal bin. Should I come out? But my mother will only beat me; I am quite certain that she will beat me. Then what shall I do—hide here in the coal for the rest of my life? But that's quite out of the question.

What then to do, when I can hear her crying, “Where are you, my heart?”

Someone says, “Maybe it was not he who fell off the roof.”

And someone else, “I saw the body drop, like a bundle of clothes.”

And my mother, “No—he is dead. I know he's dead.”

What a little fiend I am to remain here in the coal!

The big red-faced, red-armed, red-eyed woman saw him emerge from the cellar stairs. She was standing in the hall, sobbing, when he came sheepishly and shamefully out of the cellar. Literally, he was black; his face was black, his clothes and his arms were black. He stood at the top of the cellar steps, looking at her.

“Oh, my heart, my love,” she cried.

“I fell offana duh roof.”

“God has preserved thee!”

“Gonna hit me?”

“No, no, my child.”

She folded him into her large red arms, pressing her face against his dirty face, sobbing and shaking against him. His life now was more than the world had ever given her before, like having labor pains all over, and she sat on the steps rocking him back and forth. Had she been cruel? Then she would make up for it in one way or another.

“Thy face is cut …”

“Yeah—dat's where I fell.”

“Yes, yes, I will make it better, my little one. You will see how thine mother will heal thy face.”

New life now for her and her man. How could she have said to him, when he came from his work, that his son was dead?

She took him upstairs, and in the little kitchen, she washed his face and hands. A piece of plaster brought the cut together, and when she could finally smile, she saw his full lips tremble into a smile, too.

“You will never go to the roof again,” she said.

“Naw.” And then he added, “I'm hungry.”

“God forgive me,” she said in her rapid Yiddish, “I am starving the breath of my life. What will you have, my child?”

“I dunno.”

“Some eggs—some milk and cake and bread?”

“Awright.”

Still panting, she went to the stove, and Ishky sighed with relief. He had not been beaten, which only went, to show that it never paid to worry. Things came out all right, somehow. But, still, she was very hot and, uncomfortable in her love. A mother like Marie would be better, like Marie grown up, with yellow hair and blue eyes. If he only had such a mother—

“Eat, my pride.”

“Awright.”

“The food is good to one who has come back from the dead?”

“Yeah.”

“You are hungry—with all your fear?”

“Yeah.”

“Then eat and eat, my little one, until there is not a shred of food left on your plate.”

“Awright:”

“Poor, hurt, tiny one.”

He gulped his food down. He wanted to be out. He wanted to go downstairs, to tell Marie what a wonderful thing he had done.

I
WONDER
just how much one thing is related to another. If I had not fallen from the roof, would I have ever had Marie?

Now I am happy and tired; I have escaped a beating. And outside the sun is still shining. I have only to gulp down my food to be out there in the sunshine.

NINE

M
ARIE, TOSSING HER HEAD, FLINGING HER YELLOW HAIR
from side to side, paraded back and forth in front of her house. Now and then, she stopped to regard an outthrust leg, cocking her head from one side to another, and her movement was full of instinctive coquetry and grace. Oh, she knew what she was about, and she said to herself that if Ishky were going to be such a fool—well, she would waste only a minute or two more upon him.

Ishky sat on his stoop, rolling an immie from one hand to another, watching it flash and sparkle as it twisted through the air. If Ishky had an accomplishment, it was the ability to concentrate upon one thing to the exclusion of all else—apparently. And now, to the rest of the world, it seemed that he was concentrating all his powers upon the immie. There was nothing else but the immie, which, for all of him, might he one of the rarest of jewels. Did anyone think otherwise?

Thomas Edison came toward him cautiously, with a good deal of awe. Thomas Edison rolled his moon face and looked at the immie.

“Hey, Ishky.”

Immie from hand to hand—immie from hand to hand.

“Hey, Ishky!”

Marie said to herself, “Huh, anyone could do it. Jumping off a roof! As if there were anything to that!”

“Hey Ishky.”

Ishky thought, “Marie is across the street. Then is she watching me? But who else, if not me? Will she come over here?”

“Hey, Ishky!”

He glanced up. “Whaddya wan'?”

“You ain' saw?”

“Naw, I ain' saw.”

“Wasya hurt?”

“Gotta liddle cut.”

“Geesus!”

“Yeah.”

Thomas Edison stood there hesitatingly, and Ishky went on rolling his immie from hand to hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Marie had stopped her walking. She was staring at him now. Did that mean she would come over?

“C'n I sit by yuh, Ishky?”

“Yeah.”

Thomas Edison sat down by him, still staring at the immie. The more he stared, the more magic there appeared to be in the immie; and he hoped Ishky would not chase him away.

And now Marie, facing gingerly toward Ishky, stepped into the gutter. Slowly, she came toward Ishky, ruffling out her dress. Ah, how beautiful she was—all everlasting and wonderful beauty. That is what Ishky thought.

“Aw, Ishky!” she cried.

He glanced up at her, glanced down quickly then at his immie, and with that Marie felt herself burning up inside.

“Dirdy liddle louse—sittin' wid a halfwit!” she screamed.

Ishky paid no attention, but Thomas Edison screamed back, “Go screw, youh wop!”

“Lousy mick!”

“Go screw!”

“Stinkin' lousy” mick!”

Thomas Edison rose to his feet. He hated girls. They were like roaches and bedbugs, put in the world for no other purpose than that of creating misery, and most of their jabs were directed at him. He knew that he was a halfwit, and most of the time he accepted the fate with a good deal of complacency. Sometimes, he was even proud of it. But girls never made him proud of it.

Now he knew what he would do with her. He would smear her clean dress with mud from the gutter, and he would smear the mud on her face too. And he would laugh while she screamed and clawed.

She stood waiting for him. “Lousy mick!”

“Yuh'd better run.”

“Doncha touch me.”

Then Ishky put a stop to what might have followed. “Ledda alone,” he commanded.

“Geesus, Ishky, lookit duh way she cussedya.”

“Ledda alone.”

“Awright.”

“An' git oudda here.”

“Yuh said I could sit by yuh.”

“Well, I don' wancha tuh now. G'wan an' git oudda here.”

Mournfully, Thomas Edison walked away. Another time he would have threatened battle. But Ishky had jumped off the roof—so what was the use of threatening battle?

And Ishky went on playing with his immie, wondering how far he could go with this new power. Power was everything, power and glory. Now Marie was looking at him. Well, she must know that he had jumped off the roof.

She walked toward him, until she stood just above him, and he could see how she stood there, swinging one leg back and forth. Life went on with power and glory, and the hot sun made him warm and comfortable. If he touched the leg, what would she do?

“Hey, Ishky.”

“Hullo,” he said.

The leg swung back and forth; it paused, stopped; then it began to swing again.

“I din' mean what I calledya.”

“Dincha?”

“Cross my heart, I din', Ishky.”

“Howda I know?”

“Look. Ishky, I'm gonna cross my heart. Lookit dat, Ishky. I crosst my heart.”

“Awright.”

“Y' believe me if I cross my heart, doncha, Ishky?”

“Yeah.”

With a dainty but calculated motion, she sat down next to him, tossing her hair. Now he pocketed his immie, looked at her, and for a moment their eyes held. He saw that her eyes were blue as the sky, and he felt a great rush of gladness in his love for her. Time would pass, but he, Ishky, would love her until the end of time.

“Howdya jump offana duh roof?” she wanted to know.

“Jus' jumped.”

“Jus' like dat?”

“Yeah, jus' like dat.”

“My goonnus,” she said admiringly.

“Yeah, it wasn' nuttin'.”

“It was too. Betcha nobody eke coulda done it. It was awful brave.”

“Yeah?”

“Betcha Ollie wouldna done it.”

“Maybe.”

“Anyway, Ollie's jus' talk.”

His heart throbbing, he leaned toward her. Did she mean what she said, or was she playing with him?

“Marie?”

“Yeah?”

“Whoya like better, me or Ollie?”

She cocked her head, tossed it, and smiled saucily. She looked at him out of the corners of her eyes, leaning just the least bit toward him; and then, abruptly, she shook her head.

“Who?”

“I dunno.”

“Sureya do.”

“Yer nicer'n Ollie.”

TEN