by Sam Ross
“Yes, yes.” His father was irritated.
“What’s the matter? Can’t I even ask a question no more?”
“Go home. You helped me enough. Now go home.”
“Okay.”
He went home angry, promising himself that he’d never come back. But when he saw his father come home with his wet hair and damp clothes and blood-drained face, when he heard him cough at night, and then groan as he stiffly got up in the morning, the lump would rise in his throat again and he would go back the next day.
Sometimes, while out in left field waiting for the play to come to him, he’d suddenly think of his father or mother and miss a ball when it sailed out to him. They were even making a lousy ballplayer out of him.
It was the loneliest summer of his life.
5.
A huge hole developed in the structure of the business over which neither Hershy’s father nor Uncle Irving had any control. During the summer, all of the larger laundries installed mangling and ironing machinery in order to give their customers complete service, from washing to finished work. It left their laundry with only one service to offer; gradually, even the customers they had began to drop away. To plug up this hole, another driver was hired and prices were cut to get more business. But a representative of the Laundry Owners’ Association threatened to put them out of business completely unless prices were maintained. With more expenses added, and less and less money drawn weekly to bring home, and the monthly payments on Uncle Irving’s loan draining their resources, hope for a miracle was slowly squeezed out of them. The only thing that could save them was more money for additional machinery, larger space to house it, and more workers for the new operations. Where could they get it?
The thought of salvaging what they had by selling out occurred to Hershy’s father and Uncle Irving, but neither of them would come to grips with it. Though it was what Hershy’s father wanted, he found himself fighting against it, unable to admit complete failure; once committed to the standards of business, he became their victim without realizing it.
Uncle Hymie, their last resort, simply didn’t have the money. He advised them to sell out or get another partner. Would he be interested in coming in as a partner? they asked. No, he wasn’t interested at all; he had enough troubles of his own. And, while they tried to interest a man with money to come in with them, a payment was missed on Uncle Irving’s loan. It was then that Hershy’s father realized fully that he was driven to his knees; the laundry, with his whole investment in it, could be taken away. Uncle Irving was unable to borrow the money anywhere and finally, after he agreed to sell the business, Hershy’s father borrowed the money from Uncle Hymie. But as people came to the plant, not to buy the business, but to estimate the value of the machinery, it slowly dawned upon Hershy’s father that they couldn’t even sell the laundry. He felt trapped completely. He had nothing. He couldn’t even escape, for the plant wasn’t a job which could be left at will; it still demanded a moral and financial responsibility. It left him utterly helpless, yet he continued to drive himself, hoping beyond hope that perhaps the next day might bring a new turn in events.
6.
With the close of summer, a terrible heat wave moved over the city. Hot winds swept in from the prairies, prematurely withering the leaves and grass, and the cold Hershy’s father had grew worse. He refused to see a doctor: it was nothing, he insisted, a slight cold.
One night, Hershy woke up in a sweat. He heard his father coughing and gagging. He heard him get out of bed and go to the bathroom and turn on the faucet and drink and then climb back into bed.
“Are you going to go to a doctor?” his mother said.
“No.”
“Why are you such a stubborn fool? First I have to drive you with a whip, God forgive me, to go into business; then with a horse, when I see you killing yourself, I can’t drag you out. Why are you so stubborn?”
“What will a doctor tell me? I have a cold, he’ll tell me. That I know.”
“Maybe he’ll give you a medicine to stop the cough.”
“It’ll go away.”
“All summer you’ve been saying that.”
“As soon as it gets cooler it’ll go away. Summer colds are hard to throw off.”
“But maybe it’s more than a cold. When I touch you it feels like you’re burning up.”
“It’s the heat.”
“Maybe, on purpose, you want to stay sick.”
“Don’t talk such nonsense.”
“Who knows? Maybe you want to punish me. Maybe you want to ruin yourself forever. Maybe you want to ruin all of us.”
“Sonya! Stop talking like a fool.”
“What have you got against me, David? Why don’t you go to a doctor and prove you have nothing against me?”
“I haven’t the time. Go to sleep.”
“Time. You’ll have a million years to remain buried, but how much time is there in a life? How much time is there altogether if you try to kill yourself sooner? David, listen to me.”
“Go back to sleep. I’m tired.”
“If something should happen to you what will happen to us?”
“Will you go back to sleep?”
“Remember, you’re not made of iron. You’re only a man.”
His father kept silent. Hershy thought he could detect his mother crying:
“I thought: money comes to money. A little money will bring more money. All one needed to do was go in business and one became a success. Don’t blame me, David. If anything should happen to you, I’d die. Oh, David, what will I do with you?”
There was no answer from his father.
“Oh,” his mother said. “How he’s burning up!”
There was a kind of rattle coming from his father’s throat as he fell into deeper sleep. A wet kind of breathing came from his mother’s sobbing nose and throat, and then she fell asleep. Hershy felt himself carried away and then flung, in his sleep, into a violent storm at sea. A huge wave crashed against the side of the ship he was on and turned it over. Suddenly, he saw his father and mother drowning. He swam over to them and held them up. Slowly, being tossed madly up and down by the waves, his arms got limp and he felt himself begin to sink with his mother and father. Then, just as a wave came up to engulf them, a whale rose from it and ate them alive. They rode in the whale’s belly for days. His mother and father sat helplessly about; it was he who knew just what to do and who kept them alive. He explored all over and found a knife one day, some flints, and driftwood. He cut the meat from the whale’s ribs and built a fire and saved them from starvation. He did not know how long they lived in the great dark belly, but one day when the whale came up for air he heard the roar of surf. He knew they were near shore. He began to tickle the whale with his knife. The whale began to laugh. It opened its mouth so wide when it laughed that they could see the light and the land. He told his mother and father to make a run for it and swim to shore while he tickled the whale. When he saw them dive out he tickled the whale so hard that it heaved him right onto the shore.
He woke up from the impact of hitting the shore and found himself laughing. He wondered if the dream meant anything. In it, he had felt so strong. He knew everything and he was able to do anything. And he had saved his mother and father, even himself. Now, in the dark, he felt small and helpless. He tightened up wishing he could do something. But he knew that he could do nothing. He lay back limp, heavy with helplessness.
CHAPTER TWELVE
1.
The following morning the landlord’s wife called Hershy’s mother to the phone and when she came back she said: “Papa wants you at the laundry right away.”
“Why so early?”
“The engineer didn’t come to work today. Papa needs some help.”
“But I got a ball game this morning. We’re playing the Eagles.”
“The Eagles can wait but Papa can’t.”
“Ah, I never can do what I want no more.”
She prepared a lunch for him a
nd his father and he left for the laundry. Outside, his pals were beginning to practice for their game with the Eagles.
“Hey, Hersh. Where you going?”
“I got to go help my father.”
“You mean you ain’t going to play?”
“No.”
“Aw, show up later.”
“I can’t.”
“Ah, you’re never any fun no more. Ever since your old lady got fat and your old man went in business you’re never any fun no more. Always got to do this, always got to do that.”
“Ah, shut up already.”
He left the street slowly, wishing he could play. Niggy hit a high fly. Lala ran under it and caught it against his chest, then whipped it down to Moishy, who whirled about and whipped it back to Niggy.
“Attaboy, Lala.”
“Right in the old socker, Moishy.”
Niggy batted another one. Lala caught it on the bounce and hurled it back to Niggy. Jesus, said Hershy, and turned the corner wistfully. He boarded a streetcar and, in passing Joey Gans’s restaurant and poolroom, felt like throwing a brick through the window. If it hadn’t been for Joey that day, maybe his father never would have gone into business. Someday, when he grew up, he was going to kill Joey. He felt, in the drag of the wheels against the rails, that he himself was being dragged to the laundry by Joey and Rachel and his mother and Uncle Irving, and that pieces of himself, which he might never be able to find again, were being ripped away. He wished, when he got there, that he’d find the laundry burned down. Then he could rush back and play against the Eagles. Then everything might be like it used to be. Then maybe his father would stop looking like he was going to die.
When he got there his father was in the boiler room shoveling coal into the fire box. His clothes were wet, his breathing heavy, his eyes bloodshot; the flame of the fire highlighted the hollows of his grimy face. Hershy’s self-pity was snuffed out by the sight of his father and he became eager to help.
“Here I am,” he announced.
His father glanced at him and motioned him away.
“What do you want me to do, Pa?”
“Wait a minute.”
Hershy watched the strain of his father’s body as he dug into the coal pile, turned about with the full shovel, and dumped it into the hot fire. The veins stood out on his arms, one vein on his forehead wriggled like a worm, and the top of his head seemed to be yanked downward by the cords of his neck each time he heaved the shovel. He could hardly straighten his back when he finished. Then he doubled up suddenly, wracked by a coughing spell, and began to vomit.
“What’s the matter, Pa?”
“Nothing.”
“You sick?”
“No.”
“Ma said you was sick. I heard her last night.”
“Shut up and come with me.”
“Ma said you should see a doctor.”
“Don’t you nag me, too. I asked you to come and help me, not talk.”
“You don’t have to holler, Pa.”
His father stared at him silently. His pupils were glazed and it seemed as though a blood vessel had burst in the white part of his eyes. A nameless ache rose in Hershy’s throat as he followed him to the washing machines.
“I want you to watch these three washers, Hershel. Can you do it?”
“Sure.”
“Before when you helped me it was fun. Now it’s serious. I need your help. I need it bad.”
“Don’t worry, Pa. I can do it. Watch. I pull this (he touched a lever) and the machine stops. I push it the other way, it goes. I turn this (he pointed to a valve) and whoosh, water comes in. I turn it back, the water stops. I turn this (he pointed to another valve) and I make the steam. See, I know everything.”
“Good. Every ten minutes empty the machines. Then let in clean water and open the steam valve and then throw in the bucket of soap and the bleach. Call me when you need me.”
“Okay, Pa.”
His father left him, came back and worked beside him, left him again. It felt good to be trusted. He felt important. After each operation he called his father to check on him and to show him that we was doing things right. His father patted his head. He felt very close to him. He almost wished he could work with him all the time. Teamwork. You and me, Pa.
It was exciting, too. He turned a valve. The belly-button of the machine opened up and the dirty water drained out. He turned another valve and he could hear the water rush in from the overhead pipes. Another valve: steam cracked through another pipe, popped into the washer, and wet clouds rose. He pulled the lever, slish-slosh, like a big round barrel the washer rolled back and forth, back and forth, the belts swishing and sliding on the shiny wheels, the soapy water spilling out of the pocket holes. Boy, was he strong. Man-mountain Steinmetz, that’s who he was. With a touch. One little touch and he made the water boil, the steam crack, the clouds come out, the machine turn, the gears clank, the belts slap and swish. One little kid, with an iron muscle. Powerhouse Melov, that’s who he was.
“Am I doing good, Pa?”
“Good, Hershel. Good.”
You and me, Pa, he thought. O you and me.
But turning valves and working the levers wasn’t all that he had to do. There were buckets of soap and bleach to carry to the washers. After each wash, which took four operations lasting ten minutes each, he had to empty the pockets and carry the clothes to the ringers and then pick up more bundles to dump into the washers.
Soon the sweat began to pour out of his body and his soggy clothes began to stick to him. His armpits, then his face, then his whole body began to itch. His eyes got bleary and stung from the sweat that streamed off his forehead; even his lips had a salty taste. He couldn’t get enough water to quench his thirst. He drank and drank, and it poured right out of him. The life in his arms and legs seemed to go dead. He could hardly bend over, he could hardly lift a bundle, he could hardly straighten up. He had to grit his teeth and summon all his energy to dump a bucket of soap into a washer.
“Don’t drink so much,” his father warned. “You’ll catch cold.”
“I can’t help it, Pa.”
“It’ll drain your energy.”
“Yah, but I’m thirsty. My throat hurts.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
When? he wondered.
“Maybe you better have something to eat now. Go to the grocery store on the corner and get two bottles of milk.”
“Okay.”
He ran to the store and ran back. Even running was easier. He sat in the alley outside the engine room, ate a sandwich and gulped some chocolate cookies down with a pint of milk. Some small kids came by rummaging through the garbage, hoping to find something of value.
The lucky punks, he thought.
From the distance he could hear a horseshoe striking an iron post. A ringer, he thought. Through a passageway across the alley he saw a gang of guys pass by swinging bathing suits. He shuddered as he felt a blast of heat from the laundry strike his drying skin.
I got to go back, he thought. But he couldn’t get himself to move. He sat on an empty orange crate and began to watch an ant drag a dead fly along the ground. He wondered, as he told himself to go back inside, where an ant got all its strength. Soon he was looking at it without seeing it.
“Hershel.” His father had come into the engine room to fire the boilers. “What’s taking you so long?”
“Nothing, Pa. I just got through eating.”
He stood up stiffly. There was an ache in his muscles. His skin felt very tight.
“Go back in and don’t drink so much.”
“Okay, Pa.”
Sweat began to pour from him again. His skin loosened up quickly, making him feel soggy and itchy all over, and then his throat began to feel as though there was a raw sore in it. He tried to stay away from the fountain, but when he tried to wet his parched lips he tasted the salt of his sweat and got thirstier. He ran to the fountain and, feeling his belly swell, he became frighten
ed as an image of a bloated dead horse formed in his mind. He came back to the machines, finding it harder to reach for the levers and valves. At times the clock he had to watch, with its face and hands blurred by the steam, never seemed to move. Suddenly, the engineer’s grimy face, with his white teeth flashing and his mouth wide in laughter, appeared through the clock. Hershy waved his fist: “You sonofabitch. You dirty dirty sonofabitch.”
“What’s the matter, Hershel?”
“The engineer. Why’d he have to get sick?”
“A man gets sick, that’s all.”
“You’re sick, too, but you’re working.”
“I’m different. I’m a boss.”
“Yah?”
His father moved away from him, went into the delivery room, and came back with more bundles. The sight of them made him feel weaker. The sweat on his body seemed to turn into jagged teeth biting deeper and deeper into him.
“How long do I have to keep on, Pa?”
“Wait, you just got here.”
“Yah? I been here all morning.”
“I’ve been here since five o’clock.”
“I missed the ball game against the Eagles.”
“You’ll play tomorrow.”
“But the game was today, not tomorrow.”
“Save your strength and talk later.”
“And we was going to go swimming in the afternoon. Today’s boys’ day in the park pool.”
“You’ll swim tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s girls’ day.”
“Don’t you want to help me?”
He looked up at his father, at the eyes burning in his sweat-blackened face, at the wet coal dust on his black hair, at his sloping shoulders.
“Yah,” he said.
“All right then.”
A sense of pity welled up in him as he watched his father slosh down the aisle in his boots. He glared at the clock, where he thought he had seen the engineer’s face laugh at him. He swore at the engineer anyway; it made him feel stronger. The clock, however, seemed to mock him. He thought the day would never end. Time stood still in a steaming maze of soap suds, rusty pipes, revolving machinery, screaming belts, whining-swishing-sloshing-clanking sounds, and wet clothes. He moved away from it to the delivery room. His father was sorting the soiled clothes. Then he couldn’t believe his eyes. There were only a dozen bundles left.