Melov's Legacy

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Melov's Legacy Page 20

by Sam Ross


  Yah? Yah?

  Holy Jesus, guys. Holy, holy, holy.

  They sat or lay on the roofs with their hands folded behind their heads or around their knees, watching the night close in on them, listening to the cats and the rats and the dogs and themselves, feeling a strange bubble work through them. Wandering through the dark star-blistered night, they found themselves ganging closer together, forming a kind of protective society; but in reality they were preparing themselves for a day when one of them would spurt out and become a part of the world of women and then come swaggering back to the collective world of men to say: I know what it’s all about now.

  But Hershy, through all of this, felt as though split in two: one part of him involved; the other, violated and destroyed, cast out. He had a great need to purge himself of what he had seen and a still greater need to be told that it was nothing, it was normal, it was nature, it was a bad dream; but he had no one to talk to, not even his father, for, sensing the humiliation, shame, and heaviness his father felt about Rachel, he avoided mentioning her to the only one who shared his secret. He could hardly look at her without fantastic pictures rising in his mind. And, watching the growth of his mother, he began to look for Rachel’s body to change and to shame him completely. Nothing, however, seemed to happen to her, except that she hardly ever talked. Even Joey, it seemed, had stopped seeing her, had stopped blowing his horn outside the window at night. Still, his sight and memory persisted, kept his lips sealed. But in his silence his ears were probed, his heart agitated, his hands and knees made to quiver. In his silence, locked with the grotesque images of his mind, a hard core of loneliness shut him out from everything. Spring released everyone but flung him into a dungeon of silence and fear: a kind of violence began to rage through him.

  One Saturday, Cyclops began to tell a story. It seemed so much like what Hershy had seen in the park that he stiffened with fright.

  “I seen it. A guy and a girl. I seen it happen.”

  “Who? Where? How? What’d they do? What’d they do?”

  A fire in Hershey began to curl his hands and burn his eyes.

  “I seen them. A guy and a girl. They was big, too.”

  “Yah? Yah?”

  “They was on the grass. Laying on the grass.”

  “Holy. Yah? And then?”

  “The guy kissed her.”

  “Yah? Yah? And then?”

  “He kissed her.”

  “All right, all right, he kissed her. Then what?”

  “He was on top of her, too?”

  “Man, man. And then?”

  “I couldn’t see no more.”

  “Ah, you one-eyed punk. That all?”

  “Then they got up and went away.”

  The fire in Hershy crackled and raged up beyond control. He lunged out and hit Cyclops, the wide arc of his blow crashing against Cyclops’ ear. Cyclops fell down and looked up at him with his mouth open and his face white, rubbing his ear. A crazy desire came over him to kick Cyclops right in the mouth, but before he could do it he was tackled and pinned to the ground by the rest of the guys, and then the fire in him welled out of his eyes and scalded his face. When he was released, finally, he got up silently and walked away.

  That evening, while eating the left-over chicken and soup from the night before, the sight of Rachel began to feed the smoldering fire that was still in him. There was a peculiar pull in his stomach and it brought thick nauseous saliva to his mouth. Glaring at Rachel, he spit at her and yelled: “I hope you die,” then rushed to the bathroom, but got sick on the way, and then retched for a time. His father held his forehead and his mother trembled over him and Rachel kept saying: “What’s the matter with him anyway?” But he thought he was going to die and somehow he didn’t care; he just wanted to lie down and catch his breath and then die.

  Afterward, his mother undressed him and helped him to his daybed, trying both to soothe him and to find out what the matter was, but, getting no answer, she went to the kichen to prepare some tea for him, while Rachel went out to buy a lemon. His father sat beside him and stroked his hair. Hershy finally took a shuddering deep breath.

  “What’s the matter, Hershele?”

  “You know what’s the matter?”

  “Why did you spit on Rachel and then get sick?”

  “You know why. It’s what she did. She made you cry and broke your heart.”

  “But I’m not crying any more and my heart isn’t broken any more.”

  “She made me scared and I hit a kid and almost killed him and now he’ll be mad on me and all the guys’ll be mad on me and I can’t do nothing what all the guys are doing any more.”

  His father stared at him, his head wavering.

  “See?”

  “I see,” his father said.

  “So I hate her.”

  His father shook his head slowly.

  “Don’t you hate her?”

  “No.”

  “But look what she did.”

  “I know. And I wish you could forget it. But you can’t hate something you love. Sometimes you do horrible things to me and Mama, but do we ever hate you for it?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “You disturb us and irritate us and make us angry, yes; that’s part of loving someone; but we never hate you. Anything you’re responsible for you can’t hate. I’m responsible for you. If you killed someone, the blame would be part mine, the fault would be part mine, but I’d never hate you for it, I’d cry for you, I’d cry for myself.”

  A lump formed in Hershy’s throat; his father’s voice seemed to quiver through him.

  “I’m responsible for Rachel, too. If she did wrong, perhaps the fault is mine.”

  It ain’t, Hershy wanted to say. It ain’t, Pa.

  “But if you love somebody enough, they can’t do wrong. They may not always do the right thing, but they can’t do wrong. Someday, perhaps, you will understand. But Rachel is your flesh and blood, and if she became weak it’s up to us to protect her, to make her strong again, and you can’t do that with hate. Anybody can respect the strong. But it takes a strong person to respect the weak. Let’s be strong, Hershel, you and me, and be good to Rachel. Let’s forget the muscles and bones and flesh, and let’s live like giants in the heart and soul. Rachel needs us now more than ever. She is ashamed and has suffered. Let’s not make her suffer any more.”

  “But what if she gets fat and makes a shame on all of us?”

  “She won’t get fat and she won’t shame us.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  “Nobody’ll find out?”

  “Nobody.”

  “It’s a secret then?”

  “Between you and me.”

  “Not even Ma knows?”

  “Nobody knows. Only you and me.”

  His mother and Rachel came in with a glass of tea. He looked away from Rachel, but when she leaned over and kissed the top of his head, a nerve in him quivered; he whirled about and flung his arms around her, and, through the trembling touch of her lips and her warm breasts he felt the throb of her blood flow through him; it was good to be good on everybody.

  Nevertheless, he still couldn’t trust Rachel fully; she might yet shame him and his family and cast them out completely from everybody’s lives. He still felt shaken, and cringed before the images that kept flooding his head of Joey’s huge hairy body and snarling face and Rachel’s full naked body. He still became tight as a fist when anybody looked at Rachel, and he shrank before the eyes of every big guy that looked at him. He still ran every time he saw Joey; tired afterward, everything he had idolized in him felt mangled, left him rocky and unable to stand up. He still felt something hold him back from the guys, though he cried inwardly to become one with them. But he had lost his violent rage. He wanted to be good on everybody, but something held him in check. He strained for some kind of release through Cyclops.

  “I didn’t mean it, Cy.” He put his arm around him but Cyclops shrugged it
off. “Don’t be mad, Cy.”

  He didn’t know how to make Cyclops good on him. He didn’t know what else to say. He fumbled through his pockets and found a wooden whistle his father had made and given him.

  “Here, Cy. Take it, but don’t be mad. Take it, huh?”

  Cyclops looked away from him.

  He didn’t know what else to do. He scrambled through his mind for some stunt that might make him laugh, for some thing he owned which Cyclops really wanted. Feeling condemned, a sudden fear of losing Cyclops and all the guys came over him.

  Out of sheer desperation he tackled him and began wrestling with him, and, as they rolled over and strained against each other, Cyclops got limp and stared upward as Hershy straddled him.

  “You’re not mad no more, Cy?”

  “Ah, you’re full of crap.”

  “But you’re not mad no more?”

  “Ah, let me alone, will you?”

  “Sure, sure, but you’re not mad no more?”

  “No, for Christ sake.”

  “Here.” He shoved the whistle in Cyclops’ pocket, and, looking up for full acceptance at the guys crowded about, got off him. He helped Cyclops to his feet and put his arm around his shoulders. Then the guys began to yell and slap them on the back; the gang was still intact.

  He was released to them almost completely the day Rachel came home so excited she could hardly talk or sit still. She had made good before a theatrical booking agent, whom Joey had introduced her to some time ago, and he had set up a long series of bookings for her. She was going all over the country. She was going to be gone a long time. She was going to dance on a stage all over the country. She was so happy she began to cry.

  The day after she left Hershy skipped out on the springboard street ready to fall in love. He lay down with his pals on the slanting roofs, with the great sky above and the alley below, and let himself go.

  Boy, if I only had a girl.

  What if you did? What would you do?

  Yah. What if I did? What would I do?

  They would know everything, they felt, the very secret of life itself, if they only knew a girl.

  2.

  She suddenly appeared, like the word mirage which she was defining. The regular classroom work was finished, and whenever a few minutes remained until the bell rang, teacher played a game of giving value to words. Mirage was a fifteen-cent word.

  “Mirage,” she was saying, “is something which you think is there, way off in the distance, but it isn’t. Like, a man is dying of thirst in the desert. All of a sudden, because he’s been thinking of water so much, he sees a lake; but it isn’t there, really. Mirage is an illusion.”

  “That’s fine, Emily,” teacher said. “You might call it an optical illusion.”

  Gee, Hershy thought. All the things one word can mean.

  “Ah,” said Cyclops, who turned about on the seat in front of Hershy. “I bet I can get it wholesale, for ten cents.”

  “Ah, you and your wholesale. Shut up. Don’t bother me.”

  He wanted to look at Emily undisturbed.

  There she had sat, without form, all that year. There she had sat: teacher’s pet, a show-ee-off, an irritation. But now he thought: all the words she knew, dollar ones, too. Man, was she rich. Silver and gold, she had in her head.

  There she had sat: a lump, blank, nothing. Now she had straw-colored hair that hung down in soft fluffy curls to the white collar of her middy blouse. There was a nice roundness to her features: nothing bumpy or broken or too long or too hooked: everything was in place, nice, with shiny dark eyes, like his bull’s-eye knick, and a creamy kind of skin.

  Emily Foster.

  He wrote it on a piece of paper, but it didn’t look right. He printed it. It looked just right. He let the sound of her name go through his mind. Some name, he thought. He wondered how somebody got a name like that. It sounded so right.

  Hershel Melov.

  He crossed out Hershel and printed Hershy.

  Hershy Melov.

  The printed name came to him forcefully, as something new, something to contend with. He balanced it against Emily Foster.

  Hershy Melov.

  He listened carefully to the sound of it.

  “Hey,” he whispered to Cyclops. “Say, Hershy Melov.”

  “You crazy or something?”

  “Say it.”

  “All right. Hershy Melov.”

  He listened carefully.

  “Say it again.”

  “Hershy Melov.”

  Yah, he decided, somewhat awed. That was a name. A good name. A peachy name. Boy, was he glad his father changed his name. Melovitz. Yach. Melov. Boy, that was some name.

  He printed it beside Emily Foster. They looked very good to him. He printed: Tinkers to Evers to Chance. That was a good combination, too. Collins to Weaver to Schalk. That was okay, too. Foster to Melov. Wow!

  He wondered where she lived and how he could get to know her. He wondered if he should ask to carry her books home. No, all the guys would see. Should he just follow her? No, all the guys would ask him where he was going. Besides, he might look like a dog. Besides, maybe she lived far. He had to be right home after school and take his father’s supper to the laundry. His ma’d get mad if he didn’t come right home. His pa’d get hungry and wouldn’t be able to work. Suddenly, he got angry at her. Why didn’t she live on his street, right next door? Why did she have to live so far away? But maybe she didn’t live so far away and he could get to know her without being late. But what if it took a long time to get to know her?

  The bell rang in the midst of his confusion. He was in back of the line and she was up forward as they marched out of the room. At the first landing he looked at the statue of an Indian, with his head thrown back and his humble arms stretched out, sitting on a horse. Help me, he pleaded. Oh, Indian, with the sad face, help me. Then an idea came to him just as the class reached the last landing. He broke out of the building yelling as loud as he could, jumping and skipping and scattering everybody about him. He was going mad. He was mad.

  Look out, he was an auto-racer. Look out, look out for that machine gun: tatatatatata. Make room, he was running the hurdles. Whango, the pole vault. Look out, the fly. Watch it, watch the ball. He can’t see. The sun’s in his eyes. He’s blinded. Look out, look out, a beaner. Klunk. Run for home. You’re making it. Slide, Hershy. Sliiiiiiiiiide …

  He slid right in front of Emily, who flung her head to one side and stepped over him as he looked up eagerly for recognition, perhaps a sign of applause, and all the guys laughed. He jumped up and tore her books out of her hands and began running away from her, looking about to see that she followed, and the guys roared. She followed him, yelling and screaming and crying, as he trotted along. He teased her into thinking she could catch him until they were out of sight of their classmates, then he slowed down to a walk.

  “Give me those books,” she said.

  He folded his arm tightly about the books.

  “You give them to me or I’ll report you.”

  He smiled at her.

  “Are you going to hand those books over?”

  His smile broadened.

  “That was some trick, huh?” he said.

  “You hand those books right over to me now.”

  “Boy, it came to me like lightning, that trick.” He doubled over, hugging himself, and laughed out loud.

  She stared at him. A sneer came over her face. “Look at him laugh,” she said. “Horse. Horseteeth. Laughing hyena horseteeth.”

  The description shocked him, choking his laughter.

  “Yah?” he said. He shut his mouth. His teeth suddenly began to feel huge, bulging his mouth way out. He turned his face away.

  “Yah,” she said, knowing she had hurt him, wanting to hurt him more. “You greenie, you.”

  “I ain’t not a greenie. I’m an American. My father’s a citizen and my uncle was killed in the war.”

  “Ho, ho. My great-great-grandfather was
in the Civil War. He was a friend of Abraham Lincoln. And my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was in the Revolution. He was a friend of George Washington. You call yourself an American?”

  “Yah? What’s so American about them? Didn’t they come over on a boat from the old country? If you want to know, the only real Americans is the Indians.”

  “Yah, but you’re still a horseteeth hyena. You’re still a greenie. Don’t you ever wash your teeth?”

  “Sure,” he lied. “Every day.”

  “Some washer, you are.”

  “Yah? If you’re so great, is your father in business?”

  “Certainly, he is. What do you think?”

  “Well, so’s my father. He’s got a big business. That makes your father and my father the same.”

  “That’s what you think. If my father was your father, he’d kill you.”

  “Yah?”

  “Because you’re a nasty …”

  “Yah?”

  “You’re an obnoxious …”

  The word stumped him. Still, he said: “Yah?”

  “You’re impossible.” She stamped her foot on the ground.

  “Why? Because I was doing a trick?”

  “Some trick.”

  “I wanted to carry your books home, but I didn’t know how, and I didn’t want all the guys and girls to know so they should talk. See?”

  “Oh?”

  Suddenly she changed. Her eyes relaxed and she turned away from him and began walking. She held her head high and proud, and she seemed to bounce, like her curly hair, as she stepped along.

  “All right,” she said. “You may carry my books.”

  Hershy stepped beside her and walked along silently. Now that they had nothing to fight about, he didn’t know what to say. He wished she’d start up again.

  “What is your name?”

  “Hershy Melov.”

  She began to titter.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s a funny name.”

  “Yah? It’s as good as yours. It’s as good as Emily Foster any day.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yah.”

  “Then why is it teacher sometimes calls you Herbert.”

 

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