Call It Sleep by Henry Roth

Author:Henry Roth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux

BOOK IV

The Rail

I

TRANQUILLY the months had passed. Summer had come and the advanced grade and the glowing, incalculable and unlimned vista of the school vacation—that had remained unlimned. But David felt little disappointment on that score. Let other boys boast of prolonged visits to the seashore or to the mountains or to camps. For him the mere passing of time was a joy. The body was aware of a lyric indolence, a golden lolling within itself. He felt secure at home and in the street—that was all the activity he asked.

It was a day in that season when the sun bolsters a fallen wing with a show of soaring, a day of heat and light. Light so massive stout brick walls could scarcely breast it when it leaned upon them; light that seemed to shiver windows with a single beam; that crashed against the careless eye like rivets. A day when clouds played advocates for pavements, stemming the glare on tenuous bucklers, growing stainless with what they staunched. A day so bright that streets would slacken when shaded momentarily, façade and wall would slump as if relaxing, gather new strength against new kindling. It was late July.

Walking home from the free baths on 6th Street, David, already flushed and perspiring, wished he were back again. It had been cool under the showers. One could slide on one’s belly down the chill, slippery marble aisle for almost a block—at least it looked that long. But the moment one came out into the hot streets, the coolness vanished. Only one’s hair remained damp—and that was the worst part of it—the man at the door always ran his fingers through one’s hair and chased the repeaters from the line.

He trudged on, breathing through his mouth from time to time because the air had grown so hot it seemed to sear the nostrils. Although he had not yet crossed Avenue C, the street was so deserted and the sun so bright, he could see the glint on the brass bannisters before his house. He glanced at the clock in the corner drug store—it pointed to a quarter past nine. Past nine? Where was his father’s milk wagon? Good! He was gone. Despite his feeling of greater security these days, that same sense of relief still cropped up. Good! He didn’t have to think about him now. He could go upstairs now and have his second breakfast—his first before going to the baths had been a glass of milk. After that the day was his. He quickened his step—

What were they doing?

Near the curb, diagonally across Avenue D, squatted a circle of four or five boys, their sharp, eager cries prodding the drugged quiet of the street. One or two he recognized—they lived somewhere on 9th Street. And there was Izzy who went to his cheder. What was it they were all stooping over so intently? As he drew near his house, he saw rise from their midst a languid spiral of smoke, and a moment after, heard exultant cries.

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