Call It Sleep

  “No!” Sudden fear made him cling to the opposite side of the wagon. “No! I don’t wanna go—no place! Lemme alone!”

  “Gettin’ hot, Augie?”

  The other cackled. “No go, Wally. We gotta get it an’ skin out o’ hea.”

  “Yea,” drawled the other still smiling, and then briskly. “All right, kid, won’t show ’em to yuh dis time— I see yer ol’ man’s got a liddle milk left, ain’ he? Nice and cool, I bet. Well, we’ll buy a couple o’ bottles. He knows us, see—? Clear, Augie?”

  “Shoot!”

  “Jest a couple.” He swept away the ice, calmly uprooted two bottles of milk. “We gid it every day. Tell ’im Hennesy took it. Tree Star Hennesy—he’ll remember.” He passed a bottle to the other. “We pays him reggileh,” he added, slouching off in the direction he, had come. “So long, big boy! Show yuh de gas house sometime.”

  His lips quivering in terror and too dazed even to breathe, David watched them wrap their coats about the bottles, quicken their pace as they neared the corner, wheel round it and vanish.

  He gasped. They had stolen the bottles! He knew it! He knew the moment that man reached over he was going to steal them. What would his father say? You left the wagon! You left the wagon! And after I told you not to. Papa, no! I never left it! I thought you knew them! They said you did. You left the wagon! I didn’t! They came—! His mind seemed to have burst into myriads of razor-edged shards hurtling through his skull. Ow! When he comes! When he looks in! And two missing. Why didn’t you stop them? Why didn’t you tell them to wait till I came? Why didn’t you cry out? I did, papa! I did! I mean—! they said—! The whip—there. He’d take it. Ow!

  His frantic nails dug under his cap, harrowed the scalp beneath, which stung and prickled as though a rash had broken out upon it. A cold sweat sprang out over his face and throat, and his writhing body grew suddenly hollow and agonized. Without desire or strength to still them, he listened to the sick chattering of his teeth. Already feeling the lash on his back, he cowered down and lifted his hands to his face.

  —Ow! Ow! Papa! Papa! Ow! Don’t! I didn’t mean it. They tried to grab me. Push me out … (He tried to flee from himself as he had once done in the darkness behind his palms. Where could he flee to? Where?) Like that time then. In cellar was and ran. In up-and-out pictures ran. In street now, where—? Mama! Make her look. Make how she looks. Her face. Make! MAKE! I want her face. Mama! MAMA! Make her look. (He concentrated, culling dispersion with every force of his will—failed. Tried again, failed. The face would not fuse. His own mother’s face eluded him.) Can’t! I can’t! Oh, mama! Mama! Can’t … (He rocked back and forth). I’ll make believe I’ll go home first. Yes. Like that I’ll get it. All the streets. Rrrrp! Ninth Street. Now up stoop go. Hot is brass bannister. No touch, janitor says. Cold in winter. Hall inside—No! No! Not this one! Not this! Funny! Old hall from way then, Brownsville pushed right in. Old cellar hall. Got it, Ninth Street back. Now keep. Don’t let go. Baby carriages under the stair here. Milk-stink on ’em. Now go. First floor, see the steps, see the toilets. Bloop! Slipped, slipped down. Gee! Baby carriages. She’s waiting. Upstairs. Fourth floor, waiting. Now go! Bing! One, two, three, four— Aaa, shit—slipped! Baby carriages. Milk stink pulls, pulls me back. This time, jump! All the way up! One jump all the way! One, two, go—! Wrong! It’s wrong! Wrong hallway! No! No! No cellar door. Not in my house. Not open! Not open! Like—Like I just smelled. Street open. Street—open-stink, where they’re digging. Aaa! (He ground his teeth in sudden fury) I’m going up! I’m going up anyway! You won’t stop me! YOU WON’T! I’ll hold it! Now! (His fingers pinched his nose till it hurt) Now I’ll go! What—!

  The crunch of heels upon the gravel. Terror! His eyes snapped open. Dwarfed between the huge gas tanks, his father rounded the path. Eyes downcast as always, he hurried, jangling the empty grey bottles in their trays. Louder, louder, nearer, they seemed to clank in David’s heart as well. With every step his father took, the breath in his own body became more labored, more suffocating. At the wagon he paused, lifted sombre eyes to heave the trays on board. Their gaze met. The first tray hung poised a split second before it came to rest.

  “What’s the matter?”

  David began to weep.

  “What’s the matter?” His voice sharpened to a sudden edge. “Speak!”

  “The—the bottles there—” he stammered—“They took them.”

  “What?” He leaned in, swiftly swept the ice aside, looked up again in stormy surprise. “Who took them?”

  He quailed. “T-Two men.”

  “Who? Stop your slobbering!”

  “Two men. A big one and a short one. And they—Hennesy they said. Hennesy.”

  “Hennesy?” He cocked his head, his frown darkening. “Where did they say they worked?”

  “They didn’t say!”

  “Were you on the wagon?” His lips thinned, voice changed pitch in mid-word, the signs of gathering wrath.

  “Yes! I was here! Papa, I was here!” The words gushed, being prepared. “They came and they said you knew them, and I thought you knew them. And they took—”

  “And you let them? Cursed fool!” He slammed the last tray in the wagon, sprang after it. “Which way did they go?”

  “That w-way! Around the corner!”

  “Paid yourself again!” he snarled. “Giddap! Giddap, Billy!” He snatched the whip out of the socket, lashed the horse. Stung, the beast plunged forward. The wheels ground against the curb. “Giddap!” Again the whip. Hooves rang out in a pounding, powerful gallop. The wagon lurched, careened around the corner on creaking axle, empty bottles banging in their boxes. His father, jaws working in fury, eyes blazing, swept the street with one glance. It was empty, sunlit and empty. “Where are they?” he muttered through writhing lips. “Ah, to lay my hands on them!”

  No sign of them anywhere, though he scoured every building and hallway. They were gone. The horse galloped on. But at the very next intersection, two men on the left strolled out of an alley—A glimpse of empty milk bottles in their hands!

  “They?” he snapped eagerly.

  “They!”

  “Aah!” His suppressed cry rattled exultantly in his throat. “Giddap, Billy! Giddap!” He dragged savagely at the left rein. The horse mounted the sidewalk. The wagon heeled over, shifting its cargo with a roar.

  “Cheesit, Augie!” the stocky one yelled out suddenly. “He’s after us!”

  They broke into a clumsy run, the shorter one lagging. The wagon gained. With a hoarse cry of “Let ’im have it, Wally!” the lean one slowed down momentarily, drew back his arm. The heavy bottle arched toward them hung in the sun, shattered like a bomb before the horse. He reared, flung his head sideways, nostrils crimson, wild eyes rolling. A second later, another bottle flew in the air, fell short, smashed on the ground. Again the whip flashed down.

  “Now I’ll get you!” His father gnashed his teeth. “Now I’ll get you!” And David knew they were doomed.

  The charging horse bore down on them. At the corner, with only a few yards between them and the wagon, both men as if by a common impulse, shoved each other in opposite directions. His father turned after the stockier running on the sidewalk. A moment more, the horse was abreast. One yank at the reins and the reins were flung at David. “Hold, you!” Whip in hand, his father leaped from the rolling wagon into the street. The fugitive, trapped before a stable door that wouldn’t open, spun about, crouched savagely at bay.

  “Waddayuh chasin’ me fuh?” His yellow teeth were bared, the round eyes now slits of fear and fury.

  “Hanh!” His father’s snarl was almost like laughter, but the grinding of his teeth creaked like a strong cable stretching. “Yuhv’ll take my milk!”

  “Me? Waddaye shittin’ about? I never seen it.”

  “An’ de bottles you t’rew?” He seemed merely to be toying with the man. David knew the answers didn’t matter. He grew faint, waiting for the end.

  “Yea! I t’rew ’e
m!” The other was blustering savagely. “An de nex’ time watch out who de fuck yer chas—”

  Swish! The hiss of the whip cut off his words; the long, stiff thong curled over his shoulder, whacked!

  “Owoo!” he howled with pain and fury. “Yuh Jew bastard! You hit me?” He flung himself at David’s father, arms thrashing.

  “Hanh!” Again that mad cry of mirth. One long, rigid arm shot out, thrust his kicking, flailing adversary back like a ram—while the whip lashed out in the other. Again! Again it fell! It sickened David watching it. He screamed. Suddenly with a sharp crack the whip snapped. His father flung it aside. And as the other, howling with rage, charged in to tackle, he drew up his fist, clenched it like a sledge, and grunting with the effort, crashed it down on his neck.

  “Uh!” A small, almost infantile groan broke from the man’s open mouth. Then he crumpled, slid down David’s father’s legs and fell sideways to the ground. Once more he stirred, the cap slipping from his head. The vague, sparse strands of his hair sank leisurely to one side as if on a hinge, revealing the splotched yellow scalp. He lay still.

  For a moment longer, David’s father towered above him, rage billowing from him, shimmering in sunlight almost, like an aura; then with a last, fierce glance about the empty streets, scooped up the broken whip, stalked to the wagon, leaped in, and leaning out flogged the horse with the end of the rein. The beast bounded forward. Swiftly they left the street, turned south, mingled with the gathering traffic.

  The minutes passed in horrible silence. Little by little, his father’s dark face grew grey, the fierce blaze in his eyes clouding. In his trembling hands, the reins began to shake out in tiny ripples. His hoarse breath grew louder, rushing through his burred throat in short violent gasps that set his jaw quivering each time as if on springs. In Brownsville was the last time David had seen him look that way. It recalled all the old horror.

  “You!” He said at last, and his words were so harsh and guttural, they barely took form. “False son! You, the cause!”

  His hand moved. Like the fangs of a snake the brass-buckled ends of the reins bit twice into David’s shoulder. He never winced. He hardly even felt them, so frozen with terror he was.

  “Say anything to your mother,” the strangled voice went on, “and I’ll beat you to death! Hear me?”

  “Yes, papa.”

  Amid a crowd of trams and autos, they moved slowly toward Ninth Street.

  IV

  NOT another word had been spoken. The wagon rumbled over the cobbled car-tracks, wheeled around, drew up beside the curb.

  “Get off, dunce!” His father’s voice had cleared, was sharp again; his color was beginning to return. “Now remember what I said—be silent!”

  Mutely, David climbed down the wagon.

  “And don’t get lost!” he flung down at him. “Straight to the cheder!”

  “Yes, papa.” He could feel the stupidity of his own gaze.

  “Unh!” he grunted disgustedly. “Hurry now!” Then he clucked to the horse and the wagon clattered north again.

  With stunned, shuffling gait, David crossed the street, plodded toward the cheder.

  —Mustn’t tell her! Mustn’t tell! Ow!

  How could he contain it! He had but to prolong the wink of his eyes a moment longer and the horrible scenes of that hour flared across his eyelids as on a screen—The ghastly flickering of stolid gas-tanks, cobbles, trenches, distance, the malevolent streets, the black arc of the whip still lingering in air though the whip had landed, the vicious face contorted, and the hand, the hand uplifted. In the meaningless sounds of the street, he could still hear the scuffing of their feet, his father’s grunt, the thud of his fist, the howls of rage and pain. The fearful images would not be shaken, but clung to his mind as though soldered there. Something had happened! Something had happened! Even Ninth Street, his own familiar Ninth Street was warped, haunted by something he could feel; but perceive with no sense. Faces he had seen so many times he scarcely ever glanced at any more were twisted into secret shadows, smeared, flattened, whorled, grotesque grief and smirking never before revealed. The cheder corridor as he passed through it, scribble of chalk glimmering on the wall, linoleum battered into traps, seemed un-level, weird and endless. He caught himself fighting the old fear of hallways; his step suddenly quickened. Saw-toothed, bizarre with inlayed wedges of light and shadow, the cheder yard, grey wash-poles aslant in heavy light, fences leaning, chipped, red walls, walls sodden with sun, the hacked sky. Unreal. The cheder itself, whispers in sudden gloom, knotted figures, cracked benches, the long table, the inane, perpetual drone, fantastic forms, perspectives. Unreal.

  Something, something had happened. He sat dumbly down, watched the others a moment, then turned away. Their bickering and their chatter had lost dimension; nothing was left but a grey and vacuous idiocy, a world bewitched and hollow. It was as though he heard all sounds through a yawn or with water in his ears, as though he saw all things through a tumbler. When would it burst, this globe about his senses?

  If only he had run home first, if only he had told his mother.

  Time dragged on. The cheder filled up. Fortunately for him he had come early—he would read soon, escape. Remotely he heard his name called as if through a wall. He rose, shuffled to the bench as though his will alone were dragging the whole clog of his body, sat down before the table.

  “You look somewhat pale,” the rabbi said quizzically as he flattened out the book, “Do you feel squeamish today? Ha?”

  “No.”

  “Well, why weren’t you waiting your turn on the bench?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “That’s news!” He lifted his brows sarcastically, “Well, begin! Haazinu ha shawmayim veadabairaw.”

  “Haazinu ha shawmayim veadabairaw, vtishma haawretz emri fi.” Whirling among the heavy characters on the page, two bodies grappled and strove—He stumbled.

  “What ails you? You’re somewhat blind today.”

  Without answering, he went on, “Yaarof kamawtawr l-l-likhiy tizol k-k-katal imrawsi.” The letters crowded, parted, deployed—lamp-posts, cobbles, graveled lanes, lanterns on mounds of earth. Whips in air. Time after time he stuttered, halted, corrected himself, went on. The rabbi had begun tapping his pointer slightly as he moved it along.

  “Some little deed you’ve done, today, ha?” He lowered his tilted, bushy face to David’s level, and stared with a suspicious grin into his eyes—Tobacco reek. Sweat. Matted nostrils under red, speck-stippled nose. The moist drab gums of false teeth. Revolting. David drew back.

  “One deed but a good one, no? No?” His voice rose. “Answer! Are you dumb?”

  “No,” sullenly. “Didn’t do anything.”

  “Then why do you read like a plaster golem? Ha? Look at me! Lift the hasps of your eyes.”

  He glanced up at the angry face for a fleeting second, glanced down.

  “Fire strike you!” His thumb shot the leaf over viciously. “Read further!”

  David waited till the page settled and then with all his powers, fixed on the letters. The effort seemed to drain him of every ounce of strength, and even despite his efforts, he halted and floundered frequently. His head sank lower and lower over the book. At last the rabbi slapped him.

  “Go now!” He said acridly, “Enough balking for a day! Enough for a year! And when you leave here,” his thumb and forefinger curled expoundingly, “take yourself home, sit long in the privy and you’ll have a clearer brow.”

  Hardly attending, David slid off the bench.

  “And hear me!” he warned. “Tomorrow and you pray thus, I’ll begin currying.”

  Voices jeered at him as he crossed the cheder. “Smod guy! Cholly ox! Goot fuh yuh, stingy! Strap onnee ass, yuh’ll ged! His fodder’ll give ’im wit’ de w’ip. I seen—”

  He turned. Izzy’s voice sank to a whisper. He hurried through the door. New quoins of light in the cheder yard still patterned the old unreality. At the top of the wooden stairs, t
he long hallway was empty and full of murky shadows. (—Get on your mark! Get se-e-et! Go!—) He raced through it, reached the streetlight with prickling scalp. —(Shittin’ fraid-cat, me! Scared now. Never was. And him—Hate him! Stinky mouth! Hate ’em all! Mama, now! Mama—)

  Already in the shelter of her arms, he began running along the pavement towards his house. (—Hope he ain’t home! Hope, hope he ain’t!)

  He had jogged to within a few yards of his doorway, when a loud confused cry overhead brought him to a halt. He glanced up. With a fat bosom flopping against the ledge of the second floor window a woman was screaming excitedly down at the street. “Beetrice! Beetrice! Horry op!” She craned dangerously out of the window as though she were trying to look into her own doorway. And presently a half-grown girl, pigtails and ribbons flying behind her, came running out. David stared at them in wonder.

  “Where is ’e, Mama?” The girl reached the sidewalk and was screaming up.

  “Dere! Zeh! Look!” The woman shrilled down. “Sebm fawdy six in de red house!”

  “Where? I can’ see!”

  “Dort! Oy! Look! De toiteh fluh!”

  In open mouthed fixity, the girl stared at the house across the street. “Yea!” She squealed. “I see ’im! I see ’im, Mama!”

  “Noo! Catch ’im. Ron! Ron op!”

  A small crowd had gathered, children and grownups. Kushy’s face was among them. “Hey, watsuh maddeh? Zug, vuss is?”

  “He’s dere! He’s dere on dat house!” the girl babbled and pointed.

  “Who?”

  “The kinerry! My modder’s!” And urged by the shrill voice of her mother upstairs, she began running across the street. “He got out from the cage! I’ll give a rewuhd!”

  She had no sooner gone inside when suddenly from a niche on the wall of the same house, a bright yellow bird dove down, fluttered uncertainly, then skimmed across the street and landed on the scroll-work of the house next to David’s. It perched there a moment while the street gaped up at it, and then it flew up to the roof.