Call It Sleep

by Henry Roth

  “Whee! Yuh see ’im!” The crowd grew excited. “Oy a fegel! Kent fly so good! Ketch ’im! She’ll give a rewuhd!”

  “My roof!” One of the boys plucked his cap off and dashed for the doorway. “I’ll gid ’im wid my hat!”

  “A-key!” Kushy tore after him. “A rewuhd!”

  “A-key!” A third followed.

  “A-key!” A fourth disappeared inside.

  A few seconds later, the girl with the pig-tails stuck her head out of the window.

  “He flew away!” voices in the crowd bawled up at her. “On de roof across the street!”

  “He flew away, Mama!” she screamed.

  “I saw already,” the answer shot back. “He shull drop dead!”

  Mother and daughter drew their heads in. On the sidewalk necks craned awhile searching the sky. No bird appeared.

  “Dey’ll never get ’im. Naaa!”

  “A nechtige tug!” The small crowd drifted slowly apart.

  —Mama!

  He woke from his revery.

  —Dumb ox, me! Hurry up!

  He ran up the stoop, but at the doorway hesitated, peered in. Again the roots of his hair prickled. He could not bring himself to enter the darkness. All the old fears lurked there again. Why had they returned? Angered to the point of tears at his own cowardice, he paced restlessly back and forth across the stoop, now listening for a sound in the hallway, now peering up and down the street for some familiar face. At last he heard a door slam dully inside as though from an upper floor. He leapt into the hallway, scrambled frantically up the stairs. Between the first and second floors he neared the bulky figure of a woman, squeezed past her and up—still listening to the other’s dwindling footsteps. On the fourth floor, he threw himself breathlessly at the door— It was locked!

  “Mama!” he screamed.

  “You, David?” Her startled voice.

  The enormous relief! “Yes, mama, open it!” The foot he had drawn back to kick at the door in his fury and terror sank again to the floor.

  “Wait!” Her voice had a hurried sound. “I’ll open it in a moment.”

  What was she doing? And as if in answer, he heard a loud splash of water followed by a flurry of tinkling drops. She had been taking a bath in the washtub. She was getting out now. A chair creaked as though she had stepped on it, then the pad of her bare feet on the floor. “Just one little second more,” she implored.

  “Awrigh’” he called to her.

  Silence. Feet moving off, returning. The door opened. And as if the light that widened with it were a wedge, the foggy, tormenting globe about his senses split open and dissolved—hue and contour, sound and scent focused.

  “Mama!”

  “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” She was still barefooted. Her faded yellow bathrobe, darkened by water-stains clung to breast and thigh. “But I hurried as fast as I could.” From glistening brown hair, water still streamed down on the towel across her shoulder. The wonted pallor of smooth throat and face was flushed and beaded with water. “What are you staring at?” She smiled, pulled the bathrobe tighter and shut the door behind him.

  “I didn’t care if I waited.” He smiled with her. He could almost feel his jarred spirit settle softly in its grooves again.

  “But you did storm the door with all the old fury,” she laughed. And pressing her dripping hair against her bosom, she stooped down and kissed him. The warm, faintly soap-scented humidity of her body, ineffably sweet. “I’m so relieved to see you again.”

  Where was his father? Behind her the bedroom door was open. No one lay on the bed. Not in. Beatitude flawless.

  “You’re still wet!” he giggled suddenly. “Even the floor!”

  “Yes. I must mop that dry.” She caught up the wet, dripping twist of her hair in the towel. “Half the tub is on the floor. I vaulted out in such haste. I don’t know why I get so frightened about you—especially if I think you are.” As she spoke, she bent sideways, dipped an arm in the tub to pull the stoppers out. The soapy water sucked and gurgled. Against the window-light, her body showed shadowy outlines, hip and knee lending pink to the yellow. “Did you see many sights on the wagon?”

  He shook his head violently.

  “No?” Her smile faded. “Why such drooping lips?”

  “I hate it! I hate it!” It was all he could do to keep from bursting into tears.

  “Why?” She looked at him in surprise. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. (—Mustn’t tell. Mustn’t!) Didn’t like it, that’s all.”

  “Timid little heart! I know. But tomorrow you won’t have to go—even if that other man doesn’t return, someone else will take that route.”

  “Never?”

  “Never, what? Go?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, never.” She sat down, towel a comical turban about her head. “Come here.”

  He smiled diffidently and went to her. “You look funny.”

  “Do I?” she chuckled and helped him to her knee. The comfort of being against her breast outstripped the farthest-flung pain. “You don’t like being a milkman?”

  “No.”

  “Nor a milkman’s helper?”

  “No!”

  “What would you like to be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She laughed. How the ear teased for that rippling, sinuous sound. “This morning in the butcher-shop I heard a woman say that her son was going to be a great doctor. Hmm! I thought, how blessed your life is! And how old is your son, the butcher asked. Seven, she answered. The butcher nearly missed the bone he was chopping. And here you’re eight and still you haven’t told me. But you won’t have to go along with the wagon any more— Want some milk? The new yeast cookies you like?” She rubbed her moist brow against his lips. “With the raisins inside?”

  “Awrigh’!” he yielded. “But not now.” The closeness of her body was too rare to be relinquished so soon.

  “Awhrri’,” she repeated after him, and so drolly he laughed. “But let me get up.”

  “No!”

  “But I’ve got to get dressed,” she begged. “This shift is clammier than a well-stone. Yes?” She rose; reluctantly he slid from her knee. “I’ll get you the milk and cookies first.”

  He watched her go to the bread-box, open it, draw out several honey-colored cookies, place them on a plate and then take a half-filled quart of milk from the ice-box—

  —Wagon! They! Ow!

  A shudder ran through him.

  —Forget!

  She filled a glass, set the cookies and milk on the table.

  “You eat them while I dress,” she coaxed. “There are more of both if you want them.” And uncoiling the towel about her head went into the bedroom.

  He sat down, munched the raisined crispness slowly, stared eagerly at the bedroom door waiting for her to come out.

  “What time is it now, David?” Her voice rose above the rustling of the garments.

  He stared up at the clock on the shelf. “It’s ten—eleven minutes after two.”

  “After two?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’ll get no sleep this afternoon either.”

  —He!

  “That double collection keeps him—as if he didn’t work hard enough as it is. But he ought to be home soon.”

  —Soon! Home!

  The mashed lump of food lay inertly in his mouth.

  “Do you remember the time you couldn’t tell time?” Her voice went on after a pause. “You told it by whistles. And once you saved calendar leaves—where are they now?”

  —He! See him! No! No! Go down! Quick, before he comes!

  He gulped down the half-chewed cud, shoved the remainder of the cooky in his pocket and drank the milk down in noisy haste.

  —Take another. She’ll ask.

  He dropped another cooky into his pocket. “I’m going down stairs, mama.”

  “What!” Her voice was surprised.

  “Can I?”

  “Ha
ve you finished so soon?” She came out of the bedroom. Her dress, hovering between round upstretched arms, “How did you—” settled like a cloud about her head, “manage so soon?” sank below throat, armpits, square scalloped, petticoat. His face was radiant. Her eyes searched the table.

  “I was hungry.”

  “Well,” she lifted the long nape of hair from her neck. “That’s the quickest you’ve ever eaten. Were they good?”

  “Yes.” He was already edging toward the door.

  “You rush in and rush out as though the coachman wouldn’t wait. But don’t stay too long.”

  “No.”

  She smoothed down her dress, crouched, kissed him. “What a fitful one you are! Be up before supper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take care of yourself in the street, won’t you?”

  “Yes.” He opened the door, shut himself into the gloom of the hallway.

  —Ain’t so afraid. Funny, forgot. But hurry …

  V

  IN THE street again, he fled across the gutter to the side shaded now by houses, and began walking west toward Avenue C. His eyes, peering in all directions to catch sight of his father before he himself was seen, spied Izzy dashing out of the cheder hallway. He didn’t want to talk to him. That taunt about the whip still rankled. He flattened against a store window as Izzy hurried east toward Avenue D, but their glances met; Izzy’s sharp eyes recognized him.

  “Hey!” His voice had a novel, friendly note in it. “W’y’ntcha say sompt’n? W’ea’s de geng?”

  “I didn’ see ’em.” He thawed cautiously.

  “C’mon, let’s find ’em.” Izzy briskly took his arm. “Wonner w’ea Kushy is?”

  “Dintcha fighd ’im?” He permitted himself to be led.

  “Naa! He’s a lodda boloney! D’ja fodder gib yuh wid de w’ip?”

  “No! Did he gid de nickel?”

  “Naa! Id wuzn’a nickel—jus’ like I tol’ ’im— He wuz mad yaw fodder—oh boy!”

  “No, he wuzn’t.” Why did Izzy persist in changing the subject? “W’a wuz id?”

  “W’a’? De nickel? Iyin, like I said.”

  “Oh!”

  “N’ de rebbeh god mad on yuh good.”

  “Yea.” Irritably.

  “Yuh bedder gib’m poinduhs,” he advised. “He ga’ me a smack onna puss, lousy bassid! An’ he bussid one on Srooly—Bang! He’s dumb. Betcha million dollehs dey’re all on Evenyeh D.”

  They rounded the corner— There they all were, sitting on the curb.

  “See? I tol’ ye.” Izzy shot ahead, shaking David completely. “Hey, Geng!”

  “Hey, Izzy!” they chorused.

  “Led a reggiluh guy sid donn, will yuh?”

  “Led ’im sid donn!” they ordered, and shoving against each other made room for him beside Kushy.

  Stranded, David hesitantly approached and stood up behind them.

  “So w’ea wuz yuh?” Kushy asked.

  “I went wid my modder.” Izzy basked in their gaze. “An’ we bought shoes—best kind onnuh Eas’ Side. Waid’ll yuh see ’em. Wid buttons ’n’ flat toes—for kickin’ a food-ball. He wanned t’ree dollehs, bod my modder tol’ me I shull say, Peeuh! Wod lousy shoes! So we god ’em fuh two. An’ nen I went tuh cheder.”

  “I like bedder poinds,” contention broke out from some point on the line. “Give a bedder kick inna hole!”

  “Yea! Ha! Ha!” they chortled, acknowledging the wisdom of the choice.

  “Can’t gid yuh foot oud,” countered Izzy calmly. “So wod’s de good?”

  “I like bedder rubbehs,” another differed—a nonentity this time near the end of the rank. “Kin run beddeh.”

  “Rubbehs! Yuh greenhunn!” Izzy staggered him with sarcasm first and then finished him off with precision, “Sneakiss, dope! Gid nails righd t’rough ’em—righd t’rough de boddem—’Member, Kushy,” he suddenly guffawed, “w’en I tol yuh he said blitz—inna cheder? Rubbehs guzz on shoes, greenhunn!”

  “Aaa! Wiseguy!”

  “W’ea wuz yiz?” Izzy ignored the slur.

  “We?” Kushy paused importantly. “We seen a kinerry.” A select few snickered as if at a veiled jest.

  “W’a kinerry?”

  “G’wan tell ’im,” someone urged.

  “I wuz dere too!” another put in.

  “Waid!” Kushy hastily cautioned them. “My brudder!” And leaning out so he could view both wings, “Hey youz kids, gid odda hea. G’wan!”

  “Naa!” The six year olds at either wing protested.

  “G’wan!” The older ones blustered. “Skidoo!”

  “Street ain’ yours!” stubbornly.

  “Wanna ged a lam onnuh eye?”

  “I’ll tell mama,” one of the juniors threatened.

  “I’ll give yuh now!” Kushy half-rose.

  Sulkily, they slid along the curb a few feet away from the rest.

  “So w’ad kinerry?” from Izzy.

  They drew closer.

  “Yuh know Schloimee Salmonowitz wot lives in sebnfawdee-fi’?”

  “Wad he had de mockee wid de bendij on his head?”

  “Yea!”

  “Yea, he wuz in my cheder. So wot?”

  “So Sadie Salmonowitz came running downstairs ’n’ hollerin’, My modder’s kinerry, my modder’s kinerry flied away! I’ll give a rewuhd!”

  “Yuh god de rewuhd?” Izzy asked eagerly. “How moch?”

  “Waid a second. An’ den we seen ’im on sebn-fawdy-six, across de stritt an’ ziz! He gives a fly back an’ zip! op to duh roof—”

  “My house!” another voice chimed in. “He flew—”

  “Shod op!” Kushy snatched back the thread of his narrative. “Schmeelkee’s house he flew. So we all grabbed our hats an’ runned inna duh hall. Yuh catch ’em wid a hat—like dot!” Without warning he plucked his neighbor’s cap from his head and pitched it spinning into the gutter.

  “Ha-a! Ha-a! He-e! He-e!” Clacking like nine-pins before a heavy bowl of mirth they tumbled about the sidewalk. “He-e! He-e! Ha-a! Ha-a! Ha-a!”

  “Cud id oud, wise guy!” Grinning at the clever prank, the owner rose to retrieve it. Immediately all buttocks crammed together, squeezing him out of his seat. Returned, he flung himself between the packed usurpers and after much scuffing, cursing, butting and pushing, regained, if not his own place, at least one as desirable.

  “So dot’s de joke?” inquired Izzy contemptuously when the new equilibrium was finally restored.

  “Naa!” crowed Kushy and one or two more. “Dat ain’ de joke!”

  “So w’od?”

  “So we runned opstai’s to de roof. An’ Schmeelkee fell on his leg, duh dope—”

  “Wanna see wea I cut?” Schmeelkee’s stocking went down, revealing a newly scabbed skin. “Righd on duh bone!”

  “Den wod?”

  “So wa-a-aid a minid,” drawled Kushy delighted at Izzy’s nettled tone. “So we wen’ op—quiet! We didn’ make no noise cause we didn’ wanna scare de kinerry. An’ we god on de roof, an’ we walked aroun’ an we looked—He musta flied away!”

  “But we seen annudder kinerry!” Schmeelkee boiled over.

  “Woddayuh mean?”

  “Sh!” Kushy looked to see whether the juniors on either wing still kept their distance. “So we snuck ovuh by duh air-sheff—yuh know w’ea is between sebn-fifty-one an’ sebn-fawdy-nine?”

  “Yea.”

  Absorption stilled their fidgeting. All eyes converged on Kushy. David too leaned closer.

  “An’ we all gave a look—An’ yuh know wod we seen? Hee! Hee! We seen a lady washin’ huhself inna washtub! Hee! Hee!”

  —Washtub! (David grew rigid)

  “Wod lady?” Izzy asked.

  “Don’ know. Couldn’t see good huh face.”

  “So wadjuh see?”

  “Ev’yting! Oh, boy! Big tids stickin’ oud in frund!” His descriptive hands, molding the air, dragged other hands along with them as though all were tether
ed to the same excitement. “She was sittin’ in duh wawduh!”

  —She! Mine! Aaa, mine!

  The rush of shame set his cheeks and ears blazing like flame before a bellows, drove blood like a plunger against the roof of his skull. He stood with feet mortised to the spot, knees sagging, quivering.

  “So den?” Izzy spurred.

  “So den, she jomps up an nen we seen ev’yting—!”

  “Big bush under duh belly!” The others jumbled voice with gestures. “Fat ass, we seen! Big—Wuh! Wadda kinerry! Wee! An’ duh hull knish! All de hairs!”

  “Yea? No kiddin’?”

  “Sure!”

  “Didja watch?”

  “No. She gave a look righd ad us.”

  “She didn’ look, I tol’ yuh!”

  “She did!”

  “She didn’!”

  “She did! Wod she jump oud for!”

  “So?”

  “So we run down-stairs—Wee! Wod a kinerry we seen!”

  —Aaa! Lousy son of a bitch! Murder ’em! K-Kick ’em! Kill ’em! G-go ’way’—Yuh gonna cry!

  “W’a fluh—Yee, wish I wuz dere. W’ea! Tell us—Led’s go—”

  Like flying hail against his nakedness their sharp cries stunned and flayed him. Blind with loathing, he reeled away—unnoticed.

  (—Ow! Ow! Don’t let ’em see! Don’t let ’em know. Ow!) The hot tears sprang to his eyes, the more scalding for resistance. He twisted about, yanked his head down, and began running to the corner.

  —Aaa! Mama! Mine it was! Should have kicked ’em, kicked ’em and run. Go back! Kick em! Kick ’em in the belly. G’wan, you coward! Coward! Coward! Coward! Hate ’em! All! All! Everybody! Shouldn’t have gone over. Never go over again! Never talk to them even! Hate ’em! And she—Why did she let them look. Shades, why didn’t she pull them? Ain’t none! Ain’t none! And she let me look at her! Mad at her! Ow! Don’t let ’em see me crying! Cry baby! Cry baby!

  He stumbled blindly across the street, flung himself into the hallway. The obscure stairs. At last he reached his own floor.

  —Scared. Don’t care. Scared before. Scared all the time.

  —Got to stop crying. She’ll ask why. What’ll I say? From the roof they saw you. No, no, don’t say anything—roof they. Roof … Roof? Never was … up there … I wonder?…

  He stared in breathless irresolution from his own doorway to the roof-door overhead. The clean, untrodden flight of stairs that led up, beckoned even as they forbade; temptingly the light swarmed down through the glass of the roof-housing, silent, untenanted light; evoking in his mind and superimposing an image of the snow he had once vaulted into and an image of the light he had once climbed. Here was a better haven than either, a more durable purity. Why had he never thought of it before? He had only to conquer his cowardice, and that solitude and that radiance were his. But quickly, he must go quickly, before someone came out. He mounted the stairs that even underfoot felt differently, as though the unworn mica in them sparkled through the soles—and stopped at the door. Only a catch held it back; it could be lifted. He tugged it with crooked finger. It flew up suddenly—Panic stricken, he watched the heavy door swing away from his hand, squeak leisurely and on reluctant hinges into the sky. (—Down! Run down!) He threw a frightened glance over his shoulder. (—No! Coward! Stay right here! G’wan! G’wan out! It’s light! What’re you scared of?) He lifted a tentative unsteady foot over the high threshold. (—Ow!) The red-painted sheet-iron crackled under his soles with a terrifying report. (—Go back! Run! No! Won’t! G’wan, make a noise! Who cares? G’wan coward!) Breath bound in his lungs, he swung the snickering door back into place. It stayed closed.