Melov's Legacy
Page 28
“Get up, kid.”
He crawled against the corner of the entrance. The cop lifted him to his feet.
“I didn’t do nothing.”
“Who’s saying you did?”
“I didn’t do nothing.”
“What’s the matter, kid?”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Who’s fault was it?”
“I was tired.”
“What’d you do?”
“Nothing. I didn’t do nothing.”
“You’re making sense, kid. Where do you live?”
“There.”
“Where, there?”
“There.”
“What’s the matter? Your old man beat you up?”
“No!”
“Your ma?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
“I don’t know.” He was finding it hard to remember.
“Come on. I’ll take you home.”
“No.”
“You know what time it is? After midnight.”
The time meant nothing. He was waiting. He didn’t want to be there when it happened. What? What was going to happen?
“All right, I’ll take you to the station. You want to be locked up in jail?”
“No.”
“Then go home.”
“Okay.”
“You sure you’re going home?”
“Yah.”
The cop let him go. Down the block, Hershy looked back. The cop was following him slowly, swinging his club. He broke into a run. When he turned the corner of the next block the cop was gone. He slowed down to a trot, then to a walk. He didn’t know where to go. He knew he didn’t want to go into the house. He was afraid. It might happen while he was there. What? What might happen while he was there? Something terrible. What? He was less afraid of the dark.
4.
Mr. Pryztalski found him asleep the next morning in the front hallway on his way out to work. Hershy was lifted high in the air and he looked down at Mr. Pryztalski’s small eyes and big mustache.
“You little sonofabitch. You tiny little sonofabitch. Your aunt almost went crazy: I almost went crazy looking for you. You crazy little sonofabitch.”
Mr. Pryztalski lowered him to his feet. Gradually, Hershy’s senses came to him: with it full memory tightened his throat.
“Running off, with your mama in bed with a boy and your papa past the crisis. Oh, you little bastard.”
Mr. Pryztalski lifted him off his feet and carried him into the house.
“Don’t hit him,” he said to Aunt Mascha. “He was crazy. Besides, he’s a man. Never hit a man.”
Hershy found himself alone with Aunt Mascha.
“Yah?” he said. “Is it true?”
“It’s true, thank God.”
“O Jesus Jesus Jesus.”
“The fever went down. The doctor said Pa’s still very sick, but he’ll get well. Your pa, he said, has a will like iron. He wouldn’t let himself go. He’ll get better.”
“And Ma, too?”
“And Ma, too.”
He rushed into his father’s room. He felt his legs cave at the sight of his wasted, bristly face. But his father was better. He didn’t know what to do with himself. His father was better. He was strong like iron. And his mother was better. The whole world was better. He was better, too.
“Well, Hershele?” His father’s voice was weak.
“You all right, Pa?”
“Better. Don’t come too close. I don’t want you to catch my germs.”
“Ma’s better, too.”
“I know.”
“Pa.” He flung his arms around him. “It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t mean it.”
“No, baby.” His father soothed him. “It was my fault. I should have known. But a devil was in me. It wouldn’t even let me lay down when I was so sick. Now that nothing has happened to you, thank God, I’m glad the engine broke. I don’t have to worry about it any more. To hell with it: it’s only a piece of machinery.” He pushed him away gently. “Not too close, Hershel. You’ll catch my germs.”
“You’re not a failure, Pa.”
“No, dearest. How could I possibly be called a failure?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because a piece of machinery broke, because I have no money? With my family and my hands we’ll live again. That’s important. To live again.”
5.
The following day, at the hospital, he saw it for a minute beside his mother. Its eyes were crushed shut, its face raw and red and puckered and old, its hand clenched. It was like a monkey, something primeval, defying all age.
His mother looked exhausted but calm. She was transformed, too. She no longer bulged under the blankets. She looked nice. She looked tender. It was like the baby had given her life back to her, and she could come back to him again.
He felt, looking at her, that he himself had died somewhere and had just been born, with a whole lifetime ahead of him.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1950 by Sam Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2525-6
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