by Sam Ross
“Hey, look, Pa. We’re almost finished.”
“Almost.”
“Boy, I thought we’d never get through.”
“Feel better now?”
“Yah.”
The bundles became light. It was still daylight, it was still early. Maybe he could get back to the neighborhood on time and go to the pool and take a swim. He’d swim and swim. He could almost feel the shock of the water upon first jumping in. It revived him. He couldn’t get the bundles to the machines fast enough. He dumped them into the pockets with a vigor he could hardly believe. One more operation, he thought. Four times. Forty minutes. Throw the wash in the ringers. Through. Finished. Forever. He could hardly contain himself. He saw the minute hand on the clock jerk. Move, clock. O move and let me go. It even seemed, as he worked the valves and levers, that he sparked the machinery with an added strength. Move. Faster. Faster. O hurry hurry hurry.…
In the midst of what he thought was the last batch of bundles Uncle Irving arrived with a new load. Everything in him caved as he saw his father and Uncle Irving drag the new bundles into the sorting room, heap upon heap. I quit, he said to himself. I quit, see. He looked up at the clock, but couldn’t see the time, for mingled with the steam and the stinging sweat in his eyes were tears. He tried to wipe them away with the back of his wet hands. The added moisture of his hands bit deeper into his eyes.
“… A regular man,” Uncle Irving was saying.
He looked up and saw Uncle Irving, with his hooked nose and high forehead and smiling lips, in a reddish blur.
“Yah?” he said.
“You’re a good boy, Hershele.”
“Yah? Why don’t your kids come and help?”
“They’re at the beach.”
Uncle Irving seemed to waver over him in a hazier blur and he felt a sharp thump in his chest.
“Yah?”
“Keep it up, Hershele, and maybe I’ll give you a job.”
“You and who else?”
“What are you so angry about?”
“Keep your job. Stick it, see. I’m helping Pa. I ain’t working for you. I’ll never work for you. I’m only helping Pa, see.”
“All right, so you’re helping.”
“I don’t want to help, see. I don’t care if the whole laundry blows up, see. I’m quitting, see.”
“Listen, snotnose. Don’t do me any favors and don’t help and go home right now for all I care. You’re not helping me, you’re helping your papa. I don’t need any help, so my boys are at the beach. Tell your papa your troubles, not me.”
The sharp thump in Hershy’s chest began working like a piston. He clenched his fists, thrust his head forward, and began shouting: “Go fuck yourself. Go fuck yourself.”
Uncle Irving reeled backward. He brought up his hand to strike him.
“Hit me. Hit me. I’d like to see you hit me.”
Uncle Irving turned about and walked to the sorting room.
“Go fuck yourself, fuck yourself, fuck yourself,” he yelled after him. “You yellow bastard.”
He sprang to the valve of a washer and made it overflow as he let the water gush in. He ran to another valve and made another washer overflow. His father rushed over, grabbed his shoulders, and began shaking him. Then his father released him, turned the water off, and came back to him with his jaws quivering in anger.
“What’s the matter with you? Have you gone mad?”
“No.”
“What did you say to Uncle Irving?”
“Nothing.”
“Next time you talk like that to anybody I’ll kill you. With my own hands I’ll kill you.”
“He was teasing me.”
“He was proud of you, your good work. He was grateful to you.”
“He made me mad.”
“And what were you trying to do with the machines?”
“Nothing.”
“You wanted to destroy them.”
“No, Pa.”
“You did.”
“No, Pa. He made me so mad I didn’t know what I was doing. He didn’t have to tell me his kids are at the beach. He didn’t have to tease me.”
“Will you attend to your work now?”
“Yah.”
His father stared at him, shook his head, and began to walk away. His body doubled up suddenly; he reached for a pipe to support himself, and became shaken violently by a coughing spell. Then, straining to straighten himself, he disappeared into the boiler room. Hershy wished with all his might that he had been able to destroy the machines. He watched them spinning back and forth, relentlessly. Nothing, it seemed, could stop them. Nothing could hurt them. A man started them, but once under way, nobody could stop them until the last bundle was done. They were killing his father, yet he made them go; he couldn’t stop them. Now they were killing him.
He had wanted to kill them, but he was stopped. They still went on and he fed them soap and water and clothes. More. More. Slopping over with soapy water, draining them, filling their bellies again, swishing, gurgling, sucking, spouting. More. More.… The new driver came in with another load. His father called him. More bundles dragged to the machines. More bundles, wet and heavier, sopping to the slippery floor, lugged to the ringers. More bundles to the delivery room. Uncle Irving picks them up, takes a nice ride on his horse and wagon in the fresh cool air, stops for a glass of soda water or lemonade, stops to play a fast game of cards, stops to talk to a lady and maybe does funny business with her, his kids at the beach splashing around. More. More.…
“My back hurts, Pa.”
“Soon, soon you’ll go home. Tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, you’ll never remember this day.”
“My throat hurts, too. I can’t swallow, it hurts so much.”
“Take a drink of water.”
“But you said I shouldn’t.”
“If you need it, take it.”
He went to the fountain. He drank and drank. The water seemed to gush right out of him. He could hardly get back to the washers. His father looked at him sadly and then left. He was always going away and coming back, going away and coming back; but he never seemed to be paying attention to the washers any more. He was making him do all the work. He was beat, a weakling, letting him, a kid, do all the work. No wonder he was failing, no wonder he was losing everything. He was finished. Why couldn’t he admit it? Why did he keep on killing himself? All he had to do was say: I quit, see. That’s all. I quit, see. Three little words. And he’d be like he used to be. Why wasn’t he strong enough to say it? Why wasn’t he strong, just plain strong, like Uncle Hymie? He’d be at the beach now. He’d be in the water now, the cool cool cool water. He wouldn’t even try to swim. He’d just let the waves roll him around. So cool. Or he should be out in left field now, running way way back, the ball sailing high in the sky, a spinning dot in the blue blue sky coming down down down.…
Let me go, Pa.
A sharp pain began cutting into his side as he bent over to take the wash out of a machine. He could barely drag it to the ringer. He began looking for his father, but could hardly see in the wet haze. The pain began moving up his chest.
O let me go, Pa.
His father didn’t come back. Maybe he wasn’t coming back. Maybe he had left the laundry, left him alone.
O no, Pa.
He left the washers to look for him. He wasn’t in the office. He wasn’t in the delivery room. He wasn’t in the boiler room. He wasn’t in the stable.
“Pa,” he began to yell. “Pa. Pa. Pa.”
He started running from one place to another and then stopped; his father was shoveling ashes out of the ash pit.
“Where was you, Pa?”
“Here.”
“I mean before, where was you?”
“Maybe I was in the alley.”
“Yah?”
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“Plenty. You’re making me do all the work. You go out in the fresh air and make me do all the work.”
&
nbsp; His father dug the shovel into the ashes and dumped them into a basket.
“Let me go home, Pa.”
“As soon as we finish.”
“When’ll that be?”
“When we finish.”
“But I’m tired, Pa. I hurt all over.”
“You do a little work and you’re tired. What would happen if you really had to work?”
“I’d quit, see.”
“Not if you were a man. A man never quits.”
“No?”
“No.”
“How about you?”
“What about me?”
“You’re making me do all the work. I’m a little kid and you’re making me do all the work.”
He felt trapped in the glare of his father’s eyes.
“You never worked so hard like me,” he said. “Never in your whole life did you work so hard like me.”
“Stop your crying and go back to the washers.”
“If you don’t let me go—” He hesitated.
“Then what? Then what?”
He reached for it in the far recesses of his mind, grasped it fully and pulled it forward, then let it fumble at his throat.
“Then what?”
His whole body strained for balance, and then he let it go.
“I’ll tell everybody about Rachel and Joey Gans. Everybody, everybody, everybody.”
He saw it come, the swift movement, the curled lips baring the thick false teeth, together with the sweat running out of the grimy face and the blood swirling in the eyes, but couldn’t ward off the blow. He seemed to leap up to it and, as the hand struck his head, he fell to the ground, cringing and yelling: “No, Pa. Don’t, Pa.”
“I’ll kill you the next time you say that.”
“No, Pa. I didn’t mean it. I won’t say it. I won’t.”
A wild pain rushed through his body with the impact of his father’s kick against his thighs.
“I’ll kill you the next time you even think about it.”
In a boiling mist he saw his father reach for him. He tried to scramble away; he had never seen his father like that before; but he was lifted off his feet and shaken until he thought his insides were going to tumble out. He clutched at his wrists and tried to kick. Then his shirt ripped and he fell to the ground.
“Now get back to the washers.”
He crawled away slowly, not daring to look away from his father’s tight quivering body. Then he rose to his feet and started back to the washing machines.
“I’ll get even,” he said. “I’ll grow up, I’ll get bigger, I’ll get even.”
He turned about to see if his father had heard and saw him sag to the coal heap and begin to beat the pile helplessly with loose fists as his body became shaken with a great sob.
But he was going to get even, Hershy vowed. As he resumed work he began to plot his revenge. The clanking sound of the gears, reminding him of freight trains clattering over tracks, gave him the perfect idea. Slowly the sound bore down on him, and presently it lifted him out of the laundry and he felt himself land on top of a boxcar. A breeze hit him and he jumped with joy. Air. Wind. He cupped it in his hands and washed his face in it. Man, O man. He felt the shaking of the car and heard the rapid clacking and the roaring engine. Faster, faster, faster. Louder, louder, louder. Farther, farther, farther. Until he was alone, whipped by the wind, free of everything, roaring through vast space, lost from his father forever.
But maybe his father wouldn’t look for him. Maybe he wouldn’t risk his life searching for him. Maybe he’d just let him go, as he had let Rachel go. He had to get another idea. Something that would make his father suffer for the rest of his life. Something terrible. Something now that would get him out of the laundry. Something to get him away from the blinding sweat and aching body and itching skin and sore throat. Something to hurt his father. Something.… Maybe hurt himself. Maybe kill himself. Then his father would see. It’d be his fault. His father’d cry after he was hurt or dead; he’d tear himself to pieces for making him do it. His mother’d kill him. Nobody’d ever talk to him. He’d be alone. Everybody’d spit at him.
He’d do it now. He’d show him. He’d get even. Now.
He saw the leather belt as it slid around the wheel. If he got his arm caught in it, where it crossed in the figure eight, it might lift him to the wheel on top. His father’d see him on top there, unable to get loose, the belt whirling him around and cutting him up, and maybe his father’d get killed trying to rescue him. Or if he got his arm caught in the gears. No. Nobody’d see him. But way up on top. He tried to brace himself.
Make me move. You’re going to be sorry, Pa. O Jesus, make me move. Ma’ll kill you, Pa. God’ll kill you. Make me do it. Make me not be so tired. Make guts in my belly. The whole word’ll kill you, Pa. O make me make me make me.
A hand kept him from moving. He was all set to do it and he was stopped. The hand on his shoulder was his father’s.
“You tired, Hershele?”
He didn’t answer.
“I know it’s hard. But what else am I to do? I don’t know where to turn. I came to the only person in the world I could turn to. Forgive me, sweet son. Forgive me.”
He stepped away from his father’s hand.
“I have something easy for you to do now. You’ll take a rest, sit in a chair. All your hard work is finished. It’ll be easy, you’ll see. Come with me.”
Reluctantly, he followed him to the boiler room.
“I’m pumping water into the boiler. All you have to do is sit there (his father pointed to a chair) and watch that gage. When the needle points here (his father drew a black line over a number on the gage), call me and I’ll turn the water off. All right?”
He sat down sulkily and looked up at the gage.
“Remember to call me when it’s time or something terrible might happen. All right?”
“All right.”
“Remember, something terrible might happen if you don’t call me on time. So watch carefully and rest. Tomorrow you’ll feel proud of the help you gave me. You’ll see.”
His father moved away.
I’ll never see, he told himself. He looked up at the gage. A strange mist seemed to cover it. He could almost see it, but not quite.
Pa!
Something: a hand, claws, clutched his throat.
I can’t see, Pa.
Sure, you can see, he could hear his father saying. It’s only in your mind.
I’m telling you I can’t see. The sweat, I’m blinded.
Sure you can see. You’re only making believe you can’t.
I’m telling you, Pa. I’m telling you. You don’t believe me?
You can see, all right.
All right then, don’t believe me.
Don’t lie. I know you. You want to go home. You want to get away.
Honest, Pa. Honest.
A stinging sensation twitched his face, as though he had been slapped; red whirled out of his eyes.
Now can you see? Can you, can you, can you?
He wasn’t going to answer. His father didn’t have to believe him. Nobody had to believe him. But something terrible was going to happen. Something so terrible there wouldn’t even be a laundry any more. What? What could happen? Something terrible, his father said. What? How terrible?
This was the heart of the plant. That’s what the engineer said. There, the boiler, like a face. The doors on top like cheeks. Below, the hungry red mouth, a dragon’s tongue with fire on it. The jaws seemed to move. Stopped. The throat tightened. Gulp. A hot coal fell into the heap of ashes in the pit below. It startled him and his eyes leaped upward. The gage!
Pa! It’s going up!
Still time. Still time.
Up! It’s going up!
Don’t bother me. I’m busy. How will I ever get anything done if you keep calling me?
But something terrible …
Still time. Still time.
Pa! It’s going up!
Nobody was l
istening. Nobody came. All right, he didn’t care. But something terrible …
Behind the face, the long black body filling with water, the fire making it thirsty, more water, thirstier, the water boiling, parching the body, the more you drink the more you want, thirstier, filling with water. Something terrible … What? Steam. The fire made the water steam. The steam went to the engine. Big wheels. An arm moved the wheels, made the belts slish and slosh. Ssssss. Swish-swush.
It was hot. He felt his face on fire, his throat burn, his eyes heavy, his body slipping, slipping, slipping.
Slide! Slide! Slide!
Safe!
He woke up with a shock.
Pa!
He struggled against the claws on his throat.
It’s going up!
He fought hard against the tight grip.
Something terrible …
Safe at home!
He rose out of a swirl of dust, was lifted by a thousand eager arms, thrown high in the air, landed softly in the net of arms, thrown high high again, carried away by a puff of wind, like a pennant flying, up up up … Over!
Pa! It’s over!
The black line his father drew like a wire pulling at his eyes.
It’s over! Something terrible! Pa! Pa! Pa!
His voice jolted back into the pit of his stomach, stunning him, leaving him gasping for air.
A strange ringing sound in his ears. His voice, screaming, coming back to him in a gurgle.
Like a gasp from his own body, he heard a sucking sound: the engine, laboring through the overflow of water in the boiler, began to suck water instead of steam into the cylinder, and, with the piston unable to compress it, the engine began to rebel. Hershy heard a hollow gurgle, like a fantastic underwater laugh, followed by a pop, like a cork being pulled out of a bottle. Then came a shrill whistle as the piston blew and a deafening crash as it smashed through the wall. For a moment, as the whole plant screeched to a violent stop and in the awful hush that followed, Hershy felt that the whole universe had altered, with everything dead, even himself, with only the wild pounding of his heart alive. Then his heart lifted him to a fearful frenzy and a wave of black terror engulfed him as a pipe broke and the hiss of live steam began to fill the room.