Call It Sleep

by Henry Roth

  “Didntcha know our terlit was inna cella’?” she preceded him down.

  “Yea, but I fuhgod.” He shrank back a moment at the cellar door.

  “Stay close!” she warned.

  He followed warily. The corrupt damp of sunless earth. Her loose shoes scuffed before him into dissolving dark. On either side of him glimmered the dull-grey, once-white-washed cellar bins, smelling of wet coal, rotting wood, varnish, burlap. Only her footsteps guided him now; her body had vanished. The spiny comb of fear serried his cheek and neck and shoulders.

  —It’s all right! All right! Somebody’s with you. But when is she—Ow!

  His groping hands ran into her.

  “Wait a secon’, will yuh?” she whispered irritably.

  They had come mid-way.

  “Stay hea.” A door-knob rattled. He saw a door swing open—A tiny, sickly-grey window, matted with cobwebs, themselves befouled with stringy grime, cast a wan gleam on a filth-streaked flush bowl. In the darkness overhead, the gurgle and suck of a water-box. The dull, flat dank of excrement, stagnant water, decay. “You stay righd hea in de daw!” she said. “An’ don’ go ’way or I’ll moider you—Srooo!” Her sharp breath whistled. She fumbled with the broken seat.

  “Can I stay outside?”

  “No!” Her cry was almost desperate as she plumped down. “Stay in de daw. You c’n look—” The hiss and splash. “Ooh!” Prolonged, relieved. “You ain’ god a sister?”

  “No.” He straddled the threshold.

  “You scared in de cella’?”

  “Yea.”

  “Toin aroun’!”

  “Don’ wanna!”

  “You’re crazy. Boys ain’t supposed t’ be scared.”

  “You tol’ me y’d give anyt’ing?”

  “So waddayuh wan’?” In the vault-like silence the water roared as she flushed the bowl.

  “Yuh god skates?”

  “Skates?” She brushed hastily past him toward the yard-light, “C’mon. We ain’t god no skates.”

  “Yuh ain’? Old ones?”

  “We ain’ god no kind.” They climbed into the new clarity of the yard. “Wadduh t’ink dis is?” her voice grew bolder. “A two-winder kendy staw? An’ if I had ’em I wouldn’ give yuh. Skates cost money.”

  “So yuh ain’ god?” Like a last tug at the clogged pulley of hope. “Even busted ones?”

  “Naaa!” Derisively.

  Despair sapped the spring of his eager tread. Her smudged ankles flickered past him up the stairs.

  “Hey, Polly!” He heard her squeal as she burst into the kitchen, “Hey, Polly—!”

  “Giddaddihea, stinker!” The other’s voice snapped.

  “Yuh know wot he wants?” Esther pointed a mocking finger at him as he entered.

  “W’a?”

  “Skates! Eee! Hee! Hee! Skates he wants!”

  “Skates!” Mirth infected Polly. “Waddaa boob! We ain’ god skates.”

  “An’ now I don’ have to give ’im nott’n!” Esther exulted. “If he wants wot we ain’ got, so—”

  “Aha!” Aunt Bertha’s red head pried into the doorway. “God be praised! Blessed is His holy name!” She cast her eyes up with exaggerated fervor. “You’re both up! And at the same time? Ai, yi, yi! How comes it?”

  The other two grimaced sullenly.

  “And now the kitchen, the filthy botch you left last night! Coarse rumps! Do I have to do everything? When will I get my shopping done?”

  “Aaa! Don’ holler!” Esther’s tart reply.

  “Cholera in your belly!” Aunt Bertha punned promptly. “Hurry up, I say! Coffee’s on the stove.” She glanced behind her. “Come out, David, honey! Come out of that mire.” She pulled her head back hurriedly.

  “Aaa, kiss my axle,” Polly glowered. “You ain’ my modduh!” And snappishly to David. “G’wan, yuh lummox! Gid odda hea!”

  Chagrined, routed, he hurried through the corridor, finding a little relief in escaping from the kitchen.

  “Skates!” Their jeers followed him. “Dopey Benny!”

  He came out into the store. Aunt Bertha, her bulky rear blocking the aisle, her breasts flattened against the counter was stooping over, handing a stick of licorice to a child on the other side.

  “Oy!” She groaned, straightening up as she collected the penny. “Oy!” And to David. “Come here, my light. You don’t know what a help you’ve been to me by getting them out of bed. Have you ever laid eyes on such bedraggled, shameless dawdlers? They’re too lazy to stick a hand in cold water, they are. And I must sweat and smile.” She took him in her arms. “Would you like what I gave that little boy just now—ligvitch? Ha? It’s as black as a harness.”

  “No.” He freed himself. “You haven’t got any skates, have you Aunt Bertha?”

  “Skates? What would I do with skates, child? And in this little dungheap? I can’t sell five-cent pistols or even horns with the red, white and blue, so how could I sell skates? Wouldn’t you rather have ice-cream? It is very good and cold.”

  “No.”

  “A little halvah? Crackers? Come, sit down awhile.”

  “No, I’m going home.”

  “But you just came.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Ach!” she cried impatiently. “Let me look at you awhile—No? Take this penny then,” she reached into her apron. “Buy what I haven’t got.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Bertha.”

  “Come see me again and you’ll have another. Sweet child!” She kissed him. “Greet your mother for me!”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep hale!”

  X

  SPIT someone?

  He glanced up and backward overhead. To the north and south the cogged spindle of the sky was an even stone-grey.

  —Dope! Ain’t spit. Hurry up!

  Umbrellas appeared. The black shopping bags of hurrying housewives took on a dew-sprent glaze. Inside their box-like newstands, obscure dealers tilted up shelves above the papers. As the drizzle thickened the dull façades of houses grew even drabber, the contents of misty shop-windows indeterminate. A dense, soggy dreariness absorbed all things, drained all colors to darkness, melted singleness, muddied division—only the tracks of the horse-cars still glinted in the black gutter as whitely as before. He felt disgusted with himself.

  —Wet on my shirt, hair, gee! Two blocks yet. Giddap!

  Rain had coated sidewalk and gutter with a slimy film. On flattened tread, he jogged cautiously homeward, ducking under awnings when he could, skirting the jutting stoops. Not too drenched, he reached his corner.

  “Run! Run! Sugar baby! Run! Run! Sugar baby!” Sheltered from the downpour, children in the dry covert of hallways relayed the cry—a mocking gauntlet for those who hurried in the rain. There were several such bantams snugly crowing in his own doorway. One or two of the faces belonged to those who had sat on the curb while Kushy had told about the canary. Resentfully, he fixed his eyes before him and ran up the iron stairs of the stoop. He wasn’t going to talk to them at all. But as he was about to enter the hallway one of them stepped in his path—

  “Hey, you’re Davy aintcha?”

  “Yea.” He looked up sullenly. “Waddayuh wan’?”

  “Dey’s a kid lookin’ fuh yuh.”

  “Yea,” another chimed in. “W’it’ skates he had.”

  “Fuh me? A kid w’it’ skates?” His heart bounded with incredulous joy. Sudden warmth gushed through every vein. “Fuh me?”

  “Yea.”

  “Leo? Did he say he wuz Leo?”

  “Leo, yea; futt flaw, sebm futty fi’. He’s a goy.”

  “So wad he wan’?” eagerly.

  “He says comm op righd away.”

  “Me?”

  “Yea, he wuz jost lookin’—”

  But David had already leaped down the stairs and was sprinting through the rain toward Leo’s house. Up the stoop he went, proudly, as though Leo’s call had saturated the fabric of his spirit with a tingling, toughening
glow, as though his being were pursed into a new shape of assurance. Here also children crowded the hallway, but he brushed by them without a word or a moment’s hesitation. He was Leo’s friend! And he climbed the obscure stairs without a wisp of fear. At the top floor, he stopped, looked about—all the shadowy doors were closed.

  “Hey Leo!” he sang out, and the boldness of his own voice surprised him. “Hey Leo, w’ea d’yuh live?”

  He heard an answering voice and almost immediately after, a door splayed out a fan of light.

  “C’mon in.” Leo stepped out.

  “Leo!” David would have hugged him if he dared. “Yuh called me?”

  “Yea, it begun to rain, so I come back. Didn’ wanna get me skates all rusty.”

  “Gee, I’m glad I comm home!” David followed him into the kitchen.

  “I wuz just wipin’ ’em.” Leo sat down on a chair, picked up an oily rag at his feet and began vigorously polishing the various parts.

  “Yuh all alone.” He found a seat against the wall.

  “Sure.”

  “Hoddy yuh ged in yuh house?”

  “W’it’ a key, hodja t’ink?”

  “Gee!” admiringly. “Yuh god a key of yuh own ’n’ ev’y t’ing?”

  “‘Course. See dat shine?” He lifted the gleaming skate.

  “Gee, you know how.”

  “Yuh do dis ev’y day, dey never get rusty on ye.”

  “No. But look w’ad I brung ye, Leo.” Heart leaping with delight he held out the two candies.

  “Gee!” Leo hopped up with alacrity. “W’ot kind?”

  “A emmend an’ pineapple.”

  “Oh, boy! Bot’ of ’em fuh me?”

  “Yea.” He found himself regretting he had not accepted the other tid-bits his aunt had offered him.

  “Yer a nice guy!” Leo set the chocolates on the table. “W’edja git ’em?”

  “Aintcha gonna ead ’em?” He asked eagerly.

  “Naw, I’m savin’ ’em fuh later. I wanna eat sumpt’n else foist.”

  “Oh! My a’nt ga’ me ’em—Gee! I fuhgod tuh tell yuh. She owns a kendy staw.”

  “No kiddin’! W’ea does she live?”

  “Wey down in Kane Stritt. But you c’n go easy—yuh god skates.”

  “Sure let’s go dere sometimes—maybe we c’n cop a whole box of jelly beans. D’ja get any gum drops?”

  “No,” self-reproachfully. “I coulda—Gee!”

  “Dey’re good.” Leo had put down the skates and gone over to the bread box on a shelf beside the sink. “Me fuh sumpt’n t’ eat.” He drew out a loaf of bread. “Want some?”

  “I ain’ so hungry.” He felt suddenly shy. “Id’s oily yed.”

  “Wot of it?” He began undoing the printed waxed-paper about the bread. “I eats w’en I wants tuh.”

  “Awri’.” Leo’s independence was contagious.

  “Got sumpt’n good too,” he promised, going over to the ice-box. “Sumpt’n we don’ have ev’y day.”

  While Leo ferreted among the dishes, David stole blissful glances about him. It gave him a snug, adventurous feeling to be alone in a whole house with someone so resourceful as Leo. There were no parents to interfere, no orders to obey—nothing. Only they two, living in a separate world of their own. Nor were goyish kitchens so different from Jewish ones. Like his own, this too was a cubical room with stove, sink and washtubs flush against the walls. And the walls were green, and the white curtains, hanging from taut strings across the window-frames, sere with too much washing, and the flowered linoleum, scuffed like his own. Both were equally scrubbed and tidy, but where David’s kitchen had a warm tang to its cleanliness, Leo’s had a chill, flat odor of soap. That was all the difference between them, except perhaps for a certain picture in the shadowy corner at the further end of the room—a picture that for all of David’s staring would not take on a reasonable shape because the light was too dim.

  “Is she got a reggiler big canny staw?” Kneeling before the ice-box, Leo had been buttering bread. And now he pushed several objects from a large platter onto a small one. “Ice-cream poller too?” He arose.

  “My aunt? Naa. She god just a—” He broke off, gaped at what Leo had placed on the table. In one of the plates was a stack of buttered bread, but on the other, a heap of strange pink creatures, all legs, claws, bodies—“Wod’s dat?”

  “Dese?” Leo snickered at his surprise. “Don’tcha know wat dis is? Dem’s crabs.”

  “Cre—? Oh, crebs! Dey wuz green-like, w’en I seen ’em in a box on Second Evenyeh—”

  “Yea, but dey a’ways gits red w’en ye berl ’em. Dey’re real good! Gonna eat some?”

  “Naa!” His stomach shrank.

  “Didntcha ever eat ’em?”

  “Naa! Jews can’t.”

  “Cheez! Jew’s can’t eat nutt’n.” He picked up one of the monsters. “Lucky I ain’ a Jew.”

  “No.” David agreed vaguely. But for the first time since he had met Leo, he rejoiced in his own tenets. “Hoddayuh ead?”

  “Easy!” Leo snapped off a scarlet claw. “Jist bite into ’em, see?” He did.

  “Gee!” David marveled.

  “Here’s some bread an’ budder,” Leo offered him a slab. “Yuh c’n eat dat, cantchuh? It’s on’y American bread.”

  “Yea.” David eyed it curiously on accepting it. Unlike his own bread, this slice was neither drab-grey nor brown, but dough-pale and soft as paste under the finger tips. Where the crust on the bread his mother bought was stiff and thick as card-board, this had a pliant yielding skin, thin as the thriftiest potato paring or the strip one unwound from a paper lead-pencil. And the butter—he tasted it—salt! He had never eaten salt butter before. However, pulpy and briny though the first mouthful was, there was nothing actually repulsive about it—

  “We c’n eat anyt’ing we wants,” Leo informed him sucking at a crushed red pincer. “Anyt’ing wot’s good.”

  “Yea?” While he rolled the soggy cud about in his cheek, his eyes had lighted on the picture again, and again were baffled with shadow.

  —A man. What? Can’t be.

  “An’ I et ev’y kind o’ bread dey is,” Leo continued proudly. “Aitalian bread-sticks, Dutch pummernickel, Jew rye—even watchuh call ’em, matziz—matches—” He snickered. “Dey’re nuttin but big crackers—D’ja ever eat real spigeddi?”

  “No, wod’s dat?”

  “De wops eat it just like pitaters. An’ boy ain’ it good!” He rubbed his belly. “Could eat a whole pailful by me-self. We usetuh live nex’ door to de Aglorini’s—dey was Aitalian—”

  —Like my picture too—in my house—with the flowers. Is something else if you know. Have to know or you can’t see.—

  “An’ Lily Aglorini usetuh bring in a big dishful fuh me and de ol’ lady. Dat wuz w’en me ol’ lady give ’em cakes when she woiked in a ressarran’. On’y wot cheese dey put in—Holy Chee! No wonner guineas c’n faht wit’ gollic bombs!”

  —A man, for sure now. Has to be. Only his guts are stickin’ out. Burning. Gee what a crazy picture. Even mine ain’t so. But get mad if I ask—

  “Wisht me ol’ lady could make real Aitalian spigeddi—Hey!” He demanded abruptly. “Wotcha lookin’ at?”

  “N-nott’n!” David dropped guilty eyes. “W’ad’s-” (—Don’t, don’t ask him!) “Gee!” He felt the shooting warmth of his own flush and stopped confusedly. (—Dope! Next time listen!)

  “Wot’s wot?” he demanded staring at him with a wide-mouthed, suspended grin.

  “A—yea!” Again, as on the roof, he found a convenient switch. “But I don’ know hodda say. My modder, she says it— on’y id’s Jewish.” He grinned deprecatingly.

  “Well, say it!” impatiently.

  “W’ad’s a orr—a orrghaneest? Dat’s how she says id.”

  “A awginis’, yuh mean! Awginis’—Sure! We got one in our choich. He plays a awgin.”

  “Yea?”

  “Dey looks like pianers, on’y
dey w’istles—up on top, see? Got long pipes an’ t’ings. Didtcha know dat?”

  “I didn’t know fuh sure—on’y in Jewish.”

  “Yea, dat’s wot it is. Anyhow, who wuz talkin’ about choich?”

  “Nobody!” With apologetic haste, “Spigeddeh yuh said.”

  “Yea!” offendedly.

  “D’yuh go skatin’ in de windertime, too?”

  “Naw, wadda gink!” Leo struck at the lure. “How c’n yuh go skatin’ in de winter time wit’ snow on’ de groun’? Yuh skate on slyin’ ponds den. Dja ever make one a whole block long?” He expanded again. “We did—me and Patsy McCardy an’ Buster Tuttle—it went all de way from Elevent’ to Stevens Street.”

  “Gee!” David relaxed again.

  “An’ Lily Aglorini tries to slide on it an’ bang!” The crab shell cut a red arc. “Right on her can! Wow! She went a whole block wit’ her legs stickin’ up innee air.”

  —Guts like a chicken, open. And he’s holding them. Whiskers he’s got, or no?

  “An’ den de hawse falls on it and de cop trows ashes on it. But didn’ me and Patsy kid de shoit off her ’cause she wuz wearin’ red drawers.”

  —Don’t look any more, that’s all!

  But Leo had flicked his gaze over his shoulder. “Oh!” He asked in resentful surprise. “Is zat all yuh tryin’ to look at?”

  “No I wuzn’ tryin’! Hones’!—”

  “Yes, yuh wuz, don’ tell me,” disgustedly. “At’s twicet now yuh wuzn’ even listenin’!”

  “I didn’t mean—” He hung his head.

  “Well, go on!” The crab crunched under exasperated teeth. “Take a good look at it, will yuh!”

  “Kin I?”

  “Dat’s w’at its fuh! Course yuh c’n!”

  He slid apologetically from the chair, walked over. “Oh, now I see.” He gazed up at it intently. “It ain’ w’at I t’ought.” The man was bearded, but instead of holding his bowels in his hand, he was pointing at his breast in which the red heart was exposed and luminous.

  “Wadjuh t’ink it wuz?”

  “Couldn’ see good,” evasively.

  “Dintcha ever see dat befaw?”

  “No.”

  “’At’s Jesus an’ de Sacred Heart.”