Call It Sleep

  “This is how wide my brain can stretch,” she said banteringly. “You see? No wider. Would you ask me to pick up a frozen sea with these narrow things? Not even the ice-man could do it.” She dropped the tongs back into the bowl. “The sea to this—”

  “But—” David interrupted, horrified and bewildered. “But when do they wake up, mama?”

  She opened her two palms in a gesture of emptiness. “There is nothing left to waken.”

  “But sometime, mama,” he urged.

  She shook her head.

  “But sometime.”

  “Not here, if anywhere. They say there is a heaven and in heaven they waken. But I myself do not believe it. May God forgive me for telling you this. But it’s all I know. I know only that they are buried in the dark earth and their names last a few more lifetimes on their gravestones.”

  The dark. In the dark earth. Eternal years. It was a terrible revelation. He stared at her fixedly. Picking up a cloth that lay on the washtub, she went to the oven, flipped the door open, drew out a pan. The warmth and odor of new bread entered his being as through a rigid haze of vision. She spread out a napkin near the candlesticks, lifted the bread out of the pan and placed it on the square of linen.

  “I still have the candles to light,” she murmured sitting down, “and my work is done. I don’t know why they made Friday so difficult a day for women.”

  —Dark. In the grave. Eternal years …

  Rain in brief gusts seething at the window … The clock ticked too briskly. No, never. It wasn’t sometime … In the dark.

  Slowly the last belated light raveled into dusk. Across the short space of the kitchen, his mother’s face trembled as if under sea, grew blurred. Flecks, intricate as foam, swirled in the churning dark—

  —Like popcorn blowing in that big window in that big candystore. Blowing and settling. That day. Long ago.

  His gaze followed the aimless flux of light that whirled and flickered in the room, troubling the outline of door and table.

  —Snow it was, grey snow. Tiny bits of paper, floating from the window, that day. Confetti, a boy said. Confetti, he said. They threw it down on those two who were going to be married. The man in the tall, black shiny hat, hurrying. The lady in white laughing, leaning against him, dodging the confetti, winking it out of her eyes. Carriages waiting. Confetti on the step, on the horses. Funny. Then they got inside, both laughing. Confetti. Carriages.

  —Carriages!

  —The same!

  —This afternoon! When the box came out! Carriages.

  —Same!

  —Carriages—!

  “Dear God!” exclaimed his mother. “You startled me! What makes you leap that way in your chair? This is the second time today!”

  “They were the same,” he said in a voice of awe. It was solved now. He saw it clearly. Everything belonged to the same dark. Confetti and coffins.

  “What were the same?”

  “The carriages!”

  “Oh, child!” she cried with amused desperation. “God alone knows what you’re dreaming about now!” She rose from her chair, went over to the wall where the matchbox hung, “I had better light these candles before you see an angel.”

  The match rasped on the sandpaper, flared up, making David aware of how dark it had become.

  One by one she lit the candles. The flame crept tipsily up the wick, steadied, mellowed the steadfast brass below, glowed on each knot of the crisp golden braid of the bread on the napkin. Twilight vanished, the kitchen gleamed. Day that had begun in labor and disquiet, blossomed now in candlelight and sabbath.

  With a little, deprecating laugh, his mother stood before the candles, and bowing her head before them, murmured through the hands she spread before her face the ancient prayer for the Sabbath …

  The hushed hour, the hour of tawny beatitude …

  X

  HIS mother rose, lit the gas lamp. Sudden, blue light condensed the candle flames to irrelevant kernels of yellow. He eyed them sadly, wishing that she hadn’t lit the lamp.

  “They will be coming soon,” she said.

  They! He started in dismay. They were coming! Luter. His father. They! Oh! The lull of peace was over. He could feel dread rising within him like a cloud—as though his mother’s words had been a stone flung on dusty ground. The hush and the joy were leaving him! Why did Luter have to come? David would be ashamed to look at him, could not look at him. Even thinking of Luter made him feel as he felt that day in school when the boy in the next seat picked his nose and rolled the snot between his fingers, then peered round with a vacant grin and wiped it off under the seat. It made his toes curl in disgust. He shouldn’t have seen him, shouldn’t have known.

  “Is Mr. Luter going to come here too?”

  “Of course.” She turned to look at him. “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought—I—I thought maybe he didn’t like the way you cooked.”

  “The way I—? Oh! I see!” She reddened faintly. “I didn’t know you could remember so well.” She looked about as though she had forgotten something and then went up the stairs into the frontroom.

  He stared out of the window into the dark. Rain still beat down. They must be hurrying toward him now in the rain, hurrying because it was raining. If only he could get away before they came, hide till Luter was gone, never come back till Luter had gone away forever. How could he go? He caught his breath. If he ran away now before his mother came back—stole out through the door silently. Like that! Opened the door, crept down the stairs. The cellar! Run by and run away, leaving upstairs an empty kitchen. She would look about, under the table, in the hall; she would call—David! David! Where are you? David! He’d be gone—

  In the frontroom, the sound of a window opening, shutting again. His mother came in, bearing a grey covered pot between her hands. Rain drops on its sides, water in the hollow of the lid.

  “A fearful night.” She emptied the overflowing lid into the sink. “The fish is frozen.”

  Too late now.

  He must stay here now, till the end, till Luter had come and gone. But perhaps his mother was wrong and perhaps Luter wouldn’t come, if only he never came again. Why should he come here again? He was here yesterday and there was nobody home. Don’t come here, his mind whispered to itself again and again. Please, Mr. Luter, don’t come here! Don’t come here any more.

  The minutes passed, and just at that moment when it seemed to David that he had forgotten about Luter, the familiar tread of feet scraped through the hallway below. Voices on the stair! Luter had come. With one look at his mother’s pursed, attentive face, he sidled toward the frontroom, sneaked up the stairs and into the dark. He stood at the window, listening to the sounds behind him. The door was opened. He heard their greetings, Luter’s voice and slow speech. They must be taking their coats off now. If only they would forget about him. If only it were possible. But—

  “Where’s the prayer?” he heard his father ask.

  A pause and his mother’s voice. “He’s in the frontroom I think. David!”

  “Yes, mama.” A wave of anger and frustration shook him.

  “He’s there.”

  Satisfied that he was there, they seemed to forget him for a little while, but again his father and this time with the dangerous accent of annoyance.

  “Well, why doesn’t he come in? David!”

  There could be no more delay. He must go in. Eyes fixed before his feet, he came out of the frontroom, shuffled to his seat and sat down, conscious all the time that the others were gazing at him curiously.

  “What’s the matter with him?” asked his father sharply.

  “I don’t quite know. Perhaps his stomach. He has eaten very little today.”

  “Well, he’ll eat now,” said his father warningly. “You feed him too many trifles.”

  “A doubtful stomach is a sad thing,” said Luter condoningly, and David hated him for his sympathy.

  “Ach,” exclaimed his father
, “it isn’t his stomach, Joe, it’s his palate—jaded with delicacies.”

  His mother set the soup before him. “This will taste good,” she coaxed.

  He dared not refuse, though the very thought of eating sickened him. Steeling himself against the first mouthful, he dipped the spoon into the shimmering red liquid, lifted it to his lips. Instead of reaching his mouth, the spoon reached only his chin, struck against the hollow under his lower lip, scalded it, fell from his nerveless fingers into the plate. A red fountain splashed out in all directions, staining his blouse, staining the white table cloth. With a feeling of terror David watched the crimson splotches on the cloth widen till they met each other.

  His father lowered his spoon angrily into his plate. “Lame as a Turk!” he snapped, rapping the table with his knuckles. “Will you lift your head, or do you want that in the plate too?”

  He raised frightened eyes. Luter glanced at him sidewise, sucking his teeth in wary disapproval.

  “It’s nothing!” exclaimed his mother comfortingly. “That’s what table cloths were made for.”

  “To splash soup on, eh?” retorted her husband sarcastically. “And that’s what shirts were made for too! Very fine. Why not the whole plate while he’s at it.”

  Luter chuckled.

  Without answering, his mother reached over and stroked his brow with her palm. “Go on and eat, child.”

  “What are you doing now,” demanded his father, “sounding his brow for fever? Child! There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the brat, except your pampering him!” He shook his finger at David ominously. “Now you swill your soup like a man, or I’ll ladle you out something else instead.”

  David whimpered, eyed his plate in cowed rebellion.

  “Take heed!”

  “Perhaps he had better not eat,” interposed his mother.

  “Don’t interfere.” And to David, “Are you going to eat?”

  Trembling, and almost on the verge of nausea, David picked up the spoon and forcing himself, ate. The sickening spasm passed.

  Impatiently, his father turned to Luter. “What were you saying, Joe?”

  “I was saying,” said Luter in his slow voice, “that you would have to lock up the place after you left—only one door, you see. The rest I will close before I go.” He reached into his coat pocket and drawing out a ring of keys, detached one. “This one closes it. And I’ll tell you,” he handed the key to David’s father. “I’m putting it down as four hours. The whole job won’t take you more than two—three at most.”

  “I see.”

  “You won’t get the extra this week though. The bookkeeper—”

  “Next week then.”

  Luter cleared his throat. “You’re having one diner less tomorrow evening,” he said to David’s mother.

  “Yes?” she asked in constrained surprise, and turning to David’s father, “Will you be so late, Albert?”

  “Not I.”

  “No, not Albert,” chuckled Luter, “I.”

  David’s heart leaped in secret joy.

  “Then I shan’t prepare dinner for you tomorrow night?”

  “No, I have something to do tomorrow night,” he said vaguely. “Sunday perhaps. No, I’ll tell you. If I’m not here by seven o’clock Sunday, don’t keep the dinner waiting for me.”

  “Very well.”

  “I’ll pay for the week in full anyhow.”

  “If you’re not coming—” she objected.

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter,” said Luter, “that’s settled.” He nodded and picked up his spoon.

  During the rest of the meal, David ate cautiously peering up furtively from time to time to see whether anything he did was displeasing his father. At Luter, he never ventured a glance for fear the very sight of the man would confuse him into further blunders. By the time his mother set the dessert before him, he was already casting about for some way to retreat, some place where he could hide and yet be thought present, or at least, be accounted for. He might feign drowsiness and his mother would put him to bed, but he could not do that now. It was too early. What would he do till then? Where could he escape for a little while? The rooms of the house passed before his mind. The frontroom? His father would say, “What is he doing in there in the dark?” The bedroom? No. His father would say the same thing. Where? The bathroom. Yes! He would sit on the toilet seat. Stay there till he heard some one call, then come out.

  He had eaten the last prune, and was just about to slip from his chair when out of the corner of his eye, he saw Luter’s hand move toward his vest-pocket and draw out his watch.

  “I must go!” He smacked his lips.

  He was going! David could have danced for joy. It was too good to be true!

  “So soon?” asked his mother.

  To David’s surprise, his father laughed, and a moment later Luter joined him as if they shared some secret joke.

  “I’m somewhat late as it is.” Luter pushed his chair back and rose. “But first I must pay you.”

  David stared at his plate, listening. He could think of only one thing—Luter was going, would be gone in another minute. He glanced up. His father had just gone into the bedroom and in the moment of his absence Luter darted quick eyes at his mother. David shivered with revulsion and hastily looked down. Taking the coat which David’s father had just brought out, Luter got into it, and David with all the forces of his mind, tried to hasten the feet that were moving toward the door.

  “Well,” Luter finally said, “a good week to you all. May the prayer,” his hat pointed at David, “recover soon.”

  “Thank you,” said his mother. “Good week.”

  “Lift your head,” snapped his father. David hastily looked up. “Goodnight, Joe, I’ll see you to-morrow. Good luck.” Both men laughed.

  “Good night.” Luter went out.

  With a quiet sigh of relief David uncurled from the tense, inner crouch his body seemed to have assumed, and looking about saw his father gazing at the door. His face had relaxed into a bare smile.

  “He’s looking for trouble,” he said dryly.

  “What do you mean?”

  His father uttered an amused snort. “Didn’t you notice how peculiarly he behaved tonight?”

  “I did—” she hesitated, watching his face inquiringly—“at least—Why?”

  He turned to her; her eyes swerved back to the dishes.

  “Didn’t you notice how embarrassed he was?”

  “No. Well. Perhaps.”

  “Then you don’t notice very much,” he chuckled shortly. “He’s off to a marriage-broker.”

  “Oh!” Her brow cleared.

  “Yes. It’s a secret. You understand? You know nothing about it.”

  “I understand,” she smiled faintly.

  “He’s free as air, and he’s looking for a stone around his neck.”

  “Perhaps he does need a wife,” she reminded him. “I mean I have often heard him say he wanted a home and children.”

  “Ach, children! Fresh grief! It isn’t children he’s looking for, it’s a little money. He wants to open a shop of his own. At least that’s what he says.”

  “I thought you said he was looking for troubles?” she laughed.

  “Certainly! He’s hurrying things too much. If he waited a few more years he’d have enough money of his own to set up a shop—without a wife. Wait! I said to him. Wait! No, he said. I need a thousand. I want a big place four or five presses. But he’ll find out what a Yiddish thousand is. If it melts no further than five hundred the morning after he ducked under the canopy, let none call him unfortunate.” He belched quietly, the adam’s apple on his neck jogging, and then looked around with knit brows as though seeking something.

  “I heard him ask you to close up the shop,” she inquired.

  “Yes, he’s giving me a little overtime. I won’t be home till four or five—perhaps later. Bah!” he burst out impatiently, “The man makes eighteen dollars a week—six more than I do—and he itches to pawn
himself to a wife.” He paused, looked about again—“Where’s The Tageblatt?”

  His wife looked up startled. “The Tageblatt”, she repeated in dismay, “Oh, where are my wits, I’ve forgotten to buy it. The rain! I put it off.”

  He scowled.

  Noisily setting the dishes down in the sink, she wiped her hands on a towel. “I’ll be only a minute.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “My shawl.”

  “What’s the matter with him, hasn’t he feet?”

  “But I can do it so much more quickly.”

  “That’s the whole trouble with you,” he said curtly. “You do everything for him. Let him go down.”

  “But it’s wet out, Albert.”

  His face darkened, “Let him go down,” he repeated. “Is it any wonder he won’t eat. He moulders in the house all day! Get your coat on.” His head jerked sharply. “Shudder when I speak to you.”

  David sprang from his seat, gazed apprehensively at his mother.

  “Oh,” she protested, “why do you—”

  “Be still! Well?”

  “Very well,” she said, annoyed yet resigned, “I’ll get him his coat.”

  She brought his coat out of the bedroom and helped him into it, his father meanwhile standing above them and muttering, as he always did, that he was big enough to fetch and get into his clothes by himself. Uneasily he tried to take his rubbers from her, but she insisted on helping him.

  “It’s two cents,” she gave him a dime. “Here is ten. Ask for The Tageblatt and wait till they give you change.”

  “Eight cents change,” his father admonished. “And don’t forget The Tageblatt.”

  As David went out, his mother trailed behind him into the hall.

  “Are you going down with him too?” his father inquired.

  But without making a reply, she leaned over David and whispered. “Hurry down! I’ll wait!” And aloud as if giving him the last instruction. “The candy store on the corner.”

  David went down as quickly as he could. The cellar door was brown in the gaslight. The raw night air met him at the end of the doorway. He went out. Rain, seen only where it blurred the distant lamps, still fell, seeking his face and the nape of his neck with icy fingers. The candy store window glimmered near the corner. His breath an evanescent plume, he hurried toward it, splashing in hidden puddles, his toes curling down against the rising chill. The streets were frightening, seen in loneliness this way, rain-swept, dark and deserted.