He was already on his way, envisaging finding her in an ideal place to talk, to learn how lucky he was. The smirk of wicked conniving he felt on his face reminded him of Death’s ghoulish grin in Paradise Lost when he heard of the multitude of souls that would be his to devour once Satan exited Hell. “I had not thought Death had undone so many,” said Eliot in The Waste Land, quoting Dante. Only trouble was there was no place in the library — hell, her monthlies wouldn’t bother him. He strode on, trying to imagine some coign, retreat, where he could lead her, as once he had led her down to the glary basement of Max’s new home on the occasion of the infant’s bris. Jesus, there wasn’t a single place in Harlem — except the Park, Central Park. Why of course. If she was okay, why of course. There would be light enough — and dark enough: around the lake, up the paved path above the granite outcrop, among the grove of trees where he had wandered (with Psyche my soul), and sipped of that rill — ugh — when Baba and Zaida came to America. How could he be such a dope to drink that water of Central Park’s rocks and rills? That was the place to lay her. Against a tree, in the shade, in the glade, it wasn’t too cold — if only she had had her monthlies — he strode doggedly to the inner beat: had her monthlies, had her monthlies.
The American flag hung above the entrance. How standard the exterior of public libraries, always a gray wall in which large windows were set, and how standard the interior, the checkout counter, the shelves, oak tables under incandescents. Where? He sidled past the counter, looked avidly about. That table. No. Not there. Aisles of bookcases? No. He made careful search. Nothing doing. No sign of her. So maybe that was her way of tricking Mamie, her ruse to get out of the house and meet a guy. He hadn’t encountered her on his way there, that was sure. Nuts. He was wrong. If she was having her period. . No, there were too many factors to contend with, yes, no, maybe. She had probably left while he was on the way, and she would be home now.
Should he call again? The first drugstore. And once more he gave the operator Mamie’s number, and once more Hannah answered. No, Stella wasn’t home. “Who is this?” Hannah’s voice had more than curiosity in it, as though she were striving to identify something familiar. Another minute of talking, and she’d probably recognize his voice — even through the muffle over the mouthpiece. It was only in the theater they could carry on that charade indefinitely. That meant he hardly dared telephone again.
“Tell her it’s a friend. When’s her school over t’morrer?” he tried to growl with gritty, hardly intelligible voice.
“Stella’s business school? Like always. Three o’clock. Who’s this?”
Ira immediately hung up the receiver.
What a fiasco! Glowering, he left the drugstore, his hopes shriveling. Hell, this was probably her seventh, eighth, no, seventh day without menstruating. What was he dreaming of? He was out of luck. Might as well face the truth, meet her in front of the business school Wednesday, brace himself for the ignominy of taking her to Edith’s — of exhibiting her before Edith! Oh, Jesus, that simpering wad o’ lascivious lard. Oy. One glance at her and Edith would be appalled at the fake he was.
That evening Minnie was absent at supper, a calm supper, at long last. She was attending evening class at CCNY, but she came home so promptly afterward, Ira couldn’t help but think she did so out of solicitude for him. Confirmed — he was sure he was right by the anxious way she eyed him, so obviously expressed was her concern that he could have snarled at her, except he knew doing so would be completely baffling to Pop and Mom — or worse, excite their curiosity, their surmise, maybe questions. He managed to keep his scowl averted and his mouth shut. All he could see was a hopelessly intricate skein, an untidy web within a small household, like those sooty webs the spiders tended in the crannies across the air shaft, to which every soiled strand and particle adhered, a web composed of every grubby thread of his soiled worries. Not until Mom and Pop went to bed did Minnie, lingering, get a chance to ask, to whisper the question he had been trying to evade:
“It’s still the same?”
“Yeah.” He felt himself squirm.
“My poor brother.”
Her sympathy he dismissed with a brusque flap of his hand. But she was not stopped by the gesture. “You need any money?” she persisted.
“I told you. I got somebody to help me.”
“So then you don’t have to worry so much if you got somebody to help you.” She had a way of frowning her compassion so that lines formed on her brow, and dark wreaths on her cheek, that threw her countenance into shadow. “If you got that professor to help you, what more can you want? Don’t worry so much,” Minnie entreated. “If you — I mean she — she wants to spend the money, and she knows where to go, you can’t do any more. Another few days, Ira,” she stressed, and came over to whisper her encouragement in lower breath. “You’ll be all right.”
Wednesday morning, lived through somehow, lived through on a plateau of numb anxiety that couldn’t go any higher. Morning passed in a monotonous pall of crisis. A stuporous early class in economics. He saw Larry for a second day in a row, Larry genial, only the least aware of how irritating to Ira his coaxing had been the previous day. Larry’s every new entreaty to Ira, “Spend Thanxy,” “Spend the night,” seemed to grate, to plane the edge, to near Ira closer to fissure. Every little extra thing seemed too much. Who the hell cared about Thanxy? He finally snapped at Larry: “Why don’tcha invite Iven, for Christ’s sake?”
Larry hadn’t taken offense; merely laughed. “Okay, let’s have Iven over too.”
Ira had made no reply, sullenly engrossed in his fingernails.
“I can see you’ve got things on your mind,” Larry said earnestly. “Maybe I can help.”
“Yeah.” Was it to ease the strain that he allowed all sorts of obscene images to dwell in his mind? — Larry backscuttling Stella, laying Minnie for good measure, for auld lang syne. He was heavier-hung than Ira. What a picture. Especially with Stella, younger, more salacious. And Ira the bystander, extracting the erotic. Would he have to pull off when they came, or would he come just watching? His mind was steeped in foulness, pickled in it. “I should have been a pair of ragged claws,” he quoted.
Larry thought the quote amusing. “All right, I’ll meet you for the subway ride. Okay?”
“I got an appointment.”
“When?”
“About three.” He never could think fast enough to lie, lie in a way that left no openings.
“Oh, that’ll leave you plenty o’ time.”
“I was going to cut ed, anyway.”
“What is it, next period? What for?”
“Yeah,” Ira said hopelessly. “It’ll only mean a trip to the dean.”