“An’ aftuh, so his ear woz makin’ Kling! Kling! Kling! Jos’ like dat! Kling! Kling! Kling! Cauze de fiyuh crecker wen’ bang by his ears! Den he wannid me I sh’ hea’ by him de ears, bod I couldn’ hea’ nottin’. Bot he said id woz! So I—” He stopped, regarded her in perplexity, and then uneasily to David. “Don’ she wan’ I sh’ talk t’ huh in Engklish?”
“I don’ know.” He answered sullenly. His mother’s fixed, unseeing stare, her trembling lips, trembling as if to an inner speech, was anguish enough for him to bear without the added humiliation of having Yussie notice it. “Yuh goin’?” he invited.
“Yeh, opstehs! Yuh wonna comm?”
“No!” Inflexibly.
“Bod I’m on’y gonna ged my noo bow’n’ arrer.” He urged. “Den I’m commin’ donn. My modder t’rew huh cussit away, so dere’s big, long w’ite iyons in id. So I wen’ ’an pulled ’em oud. An’ I’m gonna tie ’em all t’gedder. An’ ooo! is id gonna be strong! Way strong! Yuh wanna waid fuh me till I comm down? I’ll call yuh.”
He hesitated, looked up at his mother. Her breast was heaving slowly, deeply, making a slight moaning creak in her throat. Her eyes, unwinking, round and liquid, swam in the lustre of unshed tears. For a shattering instant a throng of impulses, diverse, fierce, maddening, hurtled against the very core of his being. He wanted to shrink away, to run, to hide, anywhere, under the table, in a corner, in his bedroom, to burst into tears, to scream at her. So many they paralyzed him. He stood quivering, gaping at her, waiting for her to weep. Then suddenly he remembered! Yussie was looking at her! He would know! He would see! He mustn’t! He whirled on him. “You go op, Yussie! G’wan! Horry op! I’ll waid f’yuh in mine house. Den you come down and den I’ll go! Horry op!”
“Yuh wan’ me t’call ye?” Yussie cast a confused glance over his shoulder at David’s mother.
“Yeh! Yeh! So go!” His shame at the other’s knowing was agonizing. “G’wan!” He opened the door.
His mother sniffed sharply. “Are you driving him out, child?” The flat twang of tears thickened her voice. “You mustn’t do that!”
“No! No!” David reverted desperately to Yiddish. “He’s going by himself! I’m not pushing him!”
“Yeh! I’m goin’!” Yussie seconded him hastily. “I’ll call yuh.” He went out.
“What made you part so abruptly?” She sniffed again, pressed her eyelids down, followed the dark margins with thumb and forefinger, and regarded her humid fingertips.
David hung his head, not daring to look at her for fear of weeping. “He’s coming down to call me. And then we’re both going into the street.”
“Oh, are you friends again?” She lifted weary tearstained eyes to the window. “It’s growing dark. You won’t stay out too long, will you? Nor go too far?”
“No.” It was becoming difficult for him to talk against the choking in his throat. “I’ll get my coat.”
He retreated suddenly into his bedroom. In the brief solitude of finding his coat, his whole body began to quiver. But he tensed it, jammed his lips together to keep them still. The spasm passed. He dragged his hat and coat from the bed and returned.
“I must light the gas,” she said without stirring. “Do you want to come here and sit beside me?”
“No! I–I have to put my coat on.” He struggled into it. He mustn’t, he mustn’t go near her.
She shrugged, not at him, but at herself. “This is the way of the years, my son. Each new one shows you both hands this way—” She held out her two closed hands before her. “Here, choose!” And opening them. “And they’re both empty. We do what we can. But the bitter thing is to strive — and save none but yourself.” She rose, went to the stove, lifted the lid and peered down into the glow that stained the wide brow, the flat cheek. “Eat we must though.”
“I’m going, mama.” He had heard the door slam upstairs.
“You won’t be late for supper, beloved?” She replaced the eclipsing lid, half-turned, “Will you?”
“No, mama.” He went out. His whole being felt crushed, worn out, defeated.
Yussie came tripping down out of the upper shadow, and seeing him below, rattled the dim, slender corset-stays.
“Hey, yuh see watta a bow’n’arrer I’ll hev? I got cawd in mine pocket too, so I’ll tie id.” He joined David at the landing, took his arm. “C’mon! So I’ll show yuh how I’ll tie id over hea an’ over hea in de middle. Den I’ll tie id over hea.”
Descending, they neared the cellar door at which when he glanced, David felt a wave not so much of fear as of anger run through him — as though he defied it, as though he had slammed the door within him and locked it.
“An’ we’ll go maybe by de bobber shop, becuz by de bobber shop now is lighd. He a’ways lighds foist. So we c’n see how t’ do it. Yuh commin?”
“Yeh.”
They came out into the frosty blue of early dusk, turned toward the stores, some of which were lit; there were several children before the tailor shop and the barber’s. They trudged toward it, Yussie flexing the sheaf of corset stays.
“Didja ask yuh modder fuh a nickel fuh de Xmas poddy in school?”
“No. I fuhgod.”
“My ticher calls id Xmas, bod de kids call id Chrizmas. I’ds a goyish holiday anyways. Wunst I hanged up a stockin’ in Brooklyn. Bod mine fodder pud in a eggshells wid terlit paper an’ a piece f’om an ol’ kendle. So he leffed w’en he seen me. Id ain’ no Sendy Klaws, didja know?”
“Yeh.”
“How does a prindin’ press look wot hoitshuh fodder?”
“Id’s like a big mechine.”
“Id don’ go boof?”
“No. Id makes like dat calenduh I woz saving.”
“Oh…”
They neared the group. Annie was still among them. David no longer cared.
“Hey!” Yussie seized his arm eagerly. “Dey’s Jujjy de one wod fell w’en yuh pushed him. Yuh wan’ me t’ make yuh glad on him?”
“Yeh.”
“So tell him f’om de p’lice station. He’ll be glad! Tell me too! So yeh?”
“Yeh.”
“Hey Jujjy!” Yussie hailed them. “Hea’s Davy! He wandsuh be glad on yuh. He’s gonna tell yuh aboud de p’lice station! Aintcha, Davy?”
“Yeh.”
BOOK II / The Picture
I
IN FEBRUARY David’s father found the job he wanted — he was to be a milkman. And in order that he might be nearer the stables, they moved a few days later to 9th Street and Avenue D on the lower East Side. For David it was a new and violent world, as different from Brownsville as turmoil from quiet. Here in 9th Street it wasn’t the sun that swamped one as one left the doorway, it was sound — an avalanche of sound. There were countless children, there were countless baby carriages, there were countless mothers. And to the screams, rebukes and bickerings of these, a seemingly endless file of hucksters joined their bawling cries. On Avenue D horse-cars clattered and banged. Avenue D was thronged with beer wagons, garbage carts and coal trucks. There were many automobiles, some blunt and rangy, some with high straw poops, honking. Beyond Avenue D, at the end of a stunted, ruined block that began with shacks and smithies and seltzer bottling works and ended in a junk heap, was the East River on which many boat horns sounded. On 10th Street, the 8th Street Crosstown car ground its way toward the switch.
His own home was different too. They lived on the fourth floor now, the top floor of the house. There was no cellar door, though a door did lead to the yard. The stairs were of stone and one could hear himself climb. The toilets were in the hall. Sometimes the people in them rattled newspapers, sometimes they hummed, sometimes they groaned. That was cheering.