Call It Sleep (12 page)

“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.

He didn't like his father. He never would like him. He hated him.

The candy store at last. He opened the door, hearing overhead the familiar tinny jangle of the bell. Gnawing a frayed chicken bone the half-grown son of the storekeeper came out of the back.

“Waddayuh want?”

“De Tageblatt.”

The boy lifted a newspaper out of a small pile on the counter, handed it to David, who having taken it, turned to go.

“Where's your money?” demanded the boy impatiently.

“Oh, hea.” David reached up and handed over the dime that he had been clutching in his hand all this time.

Clamping the bone between his teeth the boy made change and returned it, greasy fingers greasing the coins.

He went out, hurried toward the house. Walking was too slow; his mother would be waiting. He began to run. He had only taken a few strides forward when his foot suddenly landed on something that was not pavement. The sound of hollow iron warned him too late—A coal-chute cover. He slipped. With a gasp, he teetered in air, striving, clawing for a moment at a void, and then pitched forward, sprawling in the icy slush. Money and newspaper flew from his hands and now lay scattered in the dark. Frightened, knees and stockings soaked, he pushed himself to his feet, and began wildly looking about for what he had dropped.

He found the newspaper—sopping. Then a penny. More, there was more. He peered frantically in the dark. Another penny. Two cents now. But he had eight before. He plunged his hand here, there into the numbing snow, felt along the rough pavement, retraced, groped. Further ahead! Back! Nothing. Beside the curb maybe! Nothing. He would never find it. Never! He burst into tears, ran toward the house, careless now whether he fell or not. It would be better for him if he fell now, if he were hurt. Sobbing, he entered the hallway. He heard a door open upstairs, and his mother's voice at the top of the stairs.

“Child, I'm here.”

He climbed up.

“What is it? What is it? Why, you're soaked through!” She led him in.

“I lost the money.” He wailed. “I only have two—two cents.”

His father was staring at him angrily, “You've lost it, have you? I had a feeling you would. Paid yourself for your errand, have you?”

“I fell in the snow,” he sobbed.

“It's all right,” said his mother gently, taking the newspaper and the money away from him. “It's all right.”

“All right? Will everything he does be all right always? How long will you tell him that?” His father snatched the paper from her. “Why, it's wringing wet. A handy young man, my son!”

His mother took his coat off. “Come sit near the stove.”

“Indulge him! Indulge him!” her husband muttered wrathfully and flung himself into a chair. “Look at that paper!” He slapped it open on the table. “My way would be a few sound cuffs.”

“He couldn't help it,” she interposed placatingly. “It's very slippery and he fell.”

“Bah! He couldn't help it! That's all I ever hear from you! He has a downright gift for stumbling into every black moment of the year. At night he breaks one's sleep with a squalling about dreams. A little while ago he flings his spoon into his soup. Now—six cents thrown away.” He slapped his hand on the paper. “Two cents ruined. Who can read it! Beware!” he shook a menacing finger at David who cowered against his mother's side. “There's a good beating in store for you! I warn you! It's been gathering for years.”