IV
Tracks
The rumpetybump rumpetybump spaced out, slackened; bumpers banged all down the train. The man dropped off the rods. He couldnt move for stiffness. It was pitchblack. Very slowly he crawled out, hoisted himself to his knees, to his feet until he leaned panting against the freightcar. His body was not his own; his muscles were smashed wood, his bones were twisted rods. A lantern burst his eyes.
“Get outa here quick yous. Company detectives is beatin through de yards.”
“Say feller, is this New York?”
“You’re goddam right it is. Juss foller my lantern; you kin git out along de waterfront.”
His feet could barely stumble through the long gleaming v’s and crisscrossed lines of tracks, he tripped and fell over a bundle of signal rods. At last he was sitting on the edge of a wharf with his head in his hands. The water made a soothing noise against the piles like the lapping of a dog. He took a newspaper out of his pocket and unwrapped a hunk of bread and a slice of gristly meat. He ate them dry, chewing and chewing before he could get any moisture in his mouth. Then he got unsteadily to his feet, brushed the crumbs off his knees, and looked about him. Southward beyond the tracks the murky sky was drenched with orange glow.
“The Gay White Way,” he said aloud in a croaking voice. “The Gay White Way.”
Through the rainstriped window Jimmy Herf was watching the umbrellas bob in the slowly swirling traffic that flowed up Broadway. There was a knock at the door; “Come in,” said Jimmy and turned back to the window when he saw that the waiter wasn’t Pat. The waiter switched on the light. Jimmy saw him reflected in the windowpane, a lean spikyhaired man holding aloft in one hand the dinnertray on which the silver covers were grouped like domes. Breathing hard the waiter advanced into the room dragging a folding stand after him with his free hand. He jerked open the stand, set the tray on it and laid a cloth on the round table. A greasy pantry smell came from him. Jimmy waited till he’d gone to turn round. Then he walked about the table tipping up the silver covers; soup with little green things in it, roast lamb, mashed potatoes, mashed turnips, spinach, no dessert either.
“Muddy.” “Yes deary,” the voice wailed frailly through the folding doors.
“Dinner’s ready mother dear.”
“You begin darling boy, I’ll be right in. …”
“But I dont want to begin without you mother.”
He walked round the table straightening knives and forks. He put a napkin over his arm. The head waiter at Delmonico’s was arranging the table for Graustark and the Blind King of Bohemia and Prince Henry the Navigator and …
“Mother who d’you want to be Mary Queen of Scots or Lady Jane Grey?”
“But they both had their heads chopped off honey. … I dont want to have my head chopped off.” Mother had on her salmoncolored teagown. When she opened the folding doors a wilted smell of cologne and medicines seeped out of the bedroom, trailed after her long lacefringed sleeves. She had put a little too much powder on her face, but her hair, her lovely brown hair was done beautifully. They sat down opposite one another; she set a plate of soup in front of him, lifting it between two long blueveined hands.
He ate the soup that was watery and not hot enough. “Oh I forgot the croutons, honey.”
“Muddy … mother why arent you eating your soup?”
“I dont seem to like it much this evening. I couldn’t think what to order tonight my head ached so. It doesn’t matter.”
“Would you rather be Cleopatra? She had a wonderful appetite and ate everything that was put before her like a good little girl.”
“Even pearls. … She put a pearl in a glass of vinegar and drank it down. …” Her voice trembled. She stretched out her hand to him across the table; he patted her hand manfully and smiled. “Only you and me Jimmy boy. … Honey you’ll always love your mother wont you?”
“What’s the matter muddy dear?”
“Oh nothing; I feel strange this evening. … Oh I’m so tired of never really feeling well.”
“But after you’ve had your operation. …”
“Oh yes after I’ve had my operation. … Deary there’s a paper of fresh butter on the windowledge in the bathroom. … I’ll put some on these turnips if you fetch it for me. … I’m afraid I’ll have to complain about the food again. This lamb’s not all it should be; I hope it wont make us sick.”
Jimmy ran through the folding doors and his mother’s room into the little passage that smelled of mothballs and silky bits of clothing littered on a chair; the red rubber tubing of a douche swung in his face as he opened the bathroom door; the whiff of medicines made his ribs contract with misery. He pushed up the window at the end of the tub. The ledge was gritty and feathery specks of soot covered the plate turned up over the butter. He stood a moment staring down the airshaft, breathing through his mouth to keep from smelling the coalgas that rose from the furnaces. Below him a maid in a white cap leaned out of a window and talked to one of the furnacemen who stood looking up at her with his bare grimy arms crossed over his chest. Jimmy strained his ears to hear what they were saying; to be dirty and handle coal all day and have grease in your hair and up to your armpits.
“Jimmee!”
“Coming mother.” Blushing he slammed down the window and walked back to the sittingroom, slowly so that the red would have time to fade
