CHAPTER TWELVE
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 and 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 frightened 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.
“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.”
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 listening. 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.
He dived into the coal shed and scrambled into a corner. Through a chink in the wood he saw his father rush into the room. He backed deeper into the corner, trying to stifle his breath, as he saw the wild bulge of his father’s eyes, the terrible twist of his face, and the tight cords of his neck pull his voice out high above the hissing steam: “Hershel! Hershel!” Then he saw him duck under the shooting cone of steam. It seemed, for a second, that it had blown his body away. Then he saw a hand rise up from the swirls of steam, turning a valve, another valve, another. Suddenly the hissing stopped. In the awful cloudy silence that followed, it was as though the steam had choked everything, even his father. He waited for a sound of his father. Nothing. Only the steam crawling up the coal heap, coming at him with a deadly silence. Then his voice came back to him: “Pa! Pa!” It shattered the rising cloud and he scrambled through it over the coals and came out in the blinding mist not knowing what to do. He called and called, turned and turned, not knowing which way to go. Then his voice and his agonized body broke suddenly as he saw an opening through the steam: at the open door that led out to the alley his father lay crumpled up, with a trickle of blood running over his chin, his mouth sucked in between his sunken cheeks, his eyes staring.
Hershy fell to his knees and ran his hands over his father’s face and chest, beside himself with terror; then he clutched his shirt, begging for a response, and tried to pull him to himself. But his father’s dead weight was too much for him and he slowly slipped from his grasp. He stared at him a long while, a slow numbness creeping down his body, then something in him turned over as he saw the bone in his father’s throat slide up under his chin. He fell on him and smothered his face with kisses. Then his father turned his face slowly toward him. Weakly, very faintly, and as though amazed at the fact, his father said:
“Hershel, I can’t get up.”
A note of fear rose in his voice.
“I can’t get up.”