The Children (9 page)

“What is there to be afraid of, my little one?” she asked in her soft Italian.

Marie wept abundantly.

“You have done nothing, my heart, so what is there to be afraid of?”

Marie told her—in broken words.

“In the cellar?”

“Yes.”

The Italian woman rocked, back and forth, back and forth, nodding her head stiffly, touching the blonde skin with her fingertips.

Marie whispered, “In the hall—I saw the devil.”

No, no.

“I'll never go back there … to the street.”

“Don't you know, my little one, how God cares for children? God will punish the barbarian; but the laughter of children is music in His ears. You are innocent.”

“I saw the devil.”

“No, no. You see, we are in a land of barbarians, my child …”

Marie saw that her mother was crying too; she saw more than that. She saw past the line that separated her world from her mother's. And because she knew that she would go down to the cellar again, she wept with her mother.

FIFTEEN

I
HAVE TOLD YOU A LOT ABOUT THE BLOCK, AND I WILL
tell you some more; but not too much. If I tell you too much, you will not believe; if I call my story The Children, you will raise your brows—because there are no such children in the world. But aren't there? What do you know about children? And what do children know about the other world, where you work—and try to pay your rent? But are the worlds so different? If once all men were what we were then—then have men changed? I don't know. But in the end, after I have told you all about Shomake's fiddle, about what happened to Blackbelly, I will tell you of Ollie, and maybe a little about Thomas Edison.

Y
OU WILL ADMIT
that being a friend of Ollie's is better than being Shomake's friend. I don't have to be afraid any more. But that is not all. Oh no, don't for a moment believe that I, Ishky, am that dull. You see, I know Ollie. Can anybody know Ollie better than I do? Ollie is a fighting machine, but he is not at all the kind of a machine Blackbelly is; he is all nerves and emotion. And in my way, without thinking too much, I decide that I will play on that. Now this is how it all came about.

In the dark coal bin, I know Ollie is thinking. I am thinking, too.…

“Geesus, whatta fight!”

Ollie says, “Duh whole block's lousy wid niggers.”

I agree with Ollie. “Black basteds.”

“We oughta have a gang.” That's what Ollie says, and I know he's not sure of himself. If he were sure of himself, would he confide in me?

“It oughta be yer gang,” I say.

“Dam tootin'.”

“Betcha you could lick anybody,” I say.

“Dam tootin'.”

Now my chance has come, and I go about it very craftily; oh, never fear—I am nobody's fool.

“Yuh gonna lemme in it, Ollie?” I want to know.

“You can' fight.”

“I could makeya schemes, Ollie. I read a lotta books.”

“Lookit duh way Blackbelly almost kilt yuh.”

“Listen, Ollie,” I tell him. “You an' me could have duh biggest gang aroun'. We could kick duh shid oudda any block.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure, Ollie.”

“We gotta git a gang.”

“Yeah.”

Thomas Edison saw Blackbelly and his gang chase Ollie and Ishky down the cellar. He ran across the street, taking refuge in front of the shoe store until the colored boys had gone. Then he crept into the hallway, down into the cellar, and he lay there, listening to Ishky's and Ollie's eager plans. The more they spoke, the more it appealed to him, and finally he could contain himself no longer.

“Hey, Ollie!”

“Geesus, who's dat?”

“Jus'me.”

“It's nuts.”

“Git oudda here, loony!”

“Aw—Ollie.”

“Screw, bughouse.”

“Lemme in duh gang, Ollie. Ollie—”

Simultaneously, Ishky and Ollie fell on him, kicking him and beating him up into the hallway. Tearfully, Thomas Edison fell and stumbled up, fled then into the bright sunlight. Still stumbling, nodding his over-large head from side to side, he made his way down to his house.

The wooden shack where they all lived was always dirty; there were three rooms, in which eight of them lived, Ollie and Thomas Edison, brothers and sisters, mother and father, and the grandmother. Thomas Edison hoped the grandmother would be there, but none of the others.

She sat knitting, a very old woman, a woman so old that she had forgotten the number of her years. She was good for nothing else now—except knitting. All day long she sat knitting.

Thomas Edison crept into the kitchen, blinking like a huge owl, his mouth gaping, the dampness of tears still clinging to his cheeks. He saw his grandmother knitting.

“Hey, Oloman,” he muttered. They all called her that, and if it had meant anything once, they didn't know what it meant now.

“Dirt and filth,” she rumbled, in her broad brogue, “and dirt and filth. Who has been beating you now, poor addlebrain? There's no mercy in them for the wonder God has put on you.”

“Ollie kicked me.”

“A swine's son. Wipe away the tears, poor fool.”

“Awright, Oloman.”

“And sit down by me.”

“Yeah, Oloman.” He sat down next to her, pressing his face to her skirt; and one of her withered hands left her knitting to drop and caress his hair. And all the time she stared straight ahead of her, to a small window where a broad slab of sunlight bit into the room. What an old woman she was, with a fine wrinkled, ancient face! She said:

“Tell me of it, poor fool.”

“Dey kicked me. Whatta sock Ollie gimme, right on duh backa my head. He says, git oudda here, loony.”

“Yes, poor fool.”

He leaned back, staring up at her with his round face, blinking his eyes. He was straining for thought,, for some sort of deep, wondrous thought that he could put into words. But the words came with difficulty.

“Oloman—whattam I loony fer?”

“What?”

“I'm crazy, huh?”

“Poor fool—poor fool, it is God's wish, and nothing; else but that. But I cannot explain that to you. Dirt and filth here, but in the old country it would have been different. You see, God has put His wonderful touch on you.”

“Yeah?”

“You're not understanding me, poor fool.”

“What's God's touch?”

“Madness.”

“Yeah?”

“He has made you mad for His own purpose, and for that reason they will torment you—torment you. Dirt and filth.”

“Goddam em,” he muttered.

“Yes, my child.”

“Some day … I'll kill Ollie.”

“No.”

He stared with implicit faith at the old woman's face, while she nodded and stroked his coarse hair. She nodded, muttered, and told him stories of a land of mountains and trolls. Madness is God's gift. Take heed of, that then, Thomas Edison. Laugh at Ollie. Laugh at Ishky.

“My mother was mad,” the old woman said.

“Yeah?”

“She roamed the bog, screaming to the birds—”

“Yeah?”

“When they torment you too much, poor fool, come back to me, and I will give you comfort, such as I know how.”

“Yeah, Oloman.”

SIXTEEN

W
HEN WE GOT OUT OF THE CELLAR, OLLIE AND I HAD ALL
our plans made for forming the gang, and Ollie was all swelled up with it. We came out onto the stoop, and Ollie strutted back and forth, sticking out his chest.

“Geesus …” he said.

“Yeah, Ollie—oney we gotta git more kids.”

“Yeah.”

I sat down on the stoop, and I was feeling important myself, believe me, and I began to think of whom we could get. I was full of ideas about this and that, wondering what I would do in the first fight. Maybe I would be yellow, and maybe I wouldn't; but, anyway, nobody would beat me up anymore, not with Ollie on my side. Ollie was leaning up against one side of the stoop, rubbing a hand through his yellow hair, when I saw Kipleg.

Kipleg came down the block, half running, half walking. Mornings, Kipleg worked in a grocery, and he had gotten the job because he looked a lot older than his age. He was big, too, a good deal bigger than Ollie or Ishky.

Kipleg lived across the street from Ishky. A peculiar thing about Kipleg—he never went up the stairs to his apartment. He had his own way of going home.

Now Ollie and Ishky watched him. They wanted to call him, to tell him all about the gang, but not for anything would they have attracted his attention until he had gotten into his house. They watched him eagerly.

He came down the block, hitching up his pants. When he saw Ollie, he whistled to him; but he didn't stop. His quick walk lengthened into a run, and then a monkeylike bound placed him on top of his stoop. Whistling, he crouched there.

“Watchim,” Ollie whispered.

“Yeah.”

Kipleg leaped for the low ladder that hung from the fire escape, and the moment he caught it, swinging from it by his hands, his mother put her head out of the window. Kipleg's mother was a large woman, with red hair, and most of the time she was drunk. He had no father; nobody knew anything about his father, whether he had died, or whether he had gone off somewhere. But his mother drank, maybe to forget his father. When she wasn't drunk, she took men into the house. Now she screamed at Kipleg.

“Git offana dere, yuh liddle bum!”

“G'wan,” yelled Kipleg.

“Git off, I say!”

Kipleg swung up his feet, caught them in the ladder, and then hung swaying. Slowly, he raised his body.

“Yuh liddle tramp,” his mother screamed, “cantcha come intuh duh house like a gennleman? Yer duh disgrace of my life.”

“Aw, screw,” Kipleg said. He began to climb up the ladder, sticking out his chest, and hanging back by his hands. When he had crossed the fire escape, come to the window, his mother smacked him soundly. He tried to smack her back, but she caught him by the pants, and drew him through the window, screaming curses at him all the time.

Ollie and Ishky stared fascinated, their mouths wide open. And everyone else on the block stared too, some laughing and delighted. Through the open window came the sounds of the battle between Kipleg and his mother.

“Scum! Oh, dat I shoulda had duh pains of labor fer a liddle tramp like you!”

“Aw, screw, I tol' yuh!”

“Talkin' to yer mudder like dat. Take it!”

“Ohhh, yuh louse!”

“Call me a louse!”

“Lemme go!”

“Dere—dere—dere!”

“Whore!”

“I'll kill ya.”

“Lemme go, d'ya hear! Lemmego, yuh lousy ol' basted! Who d'ya tink yer smackin'?”

Kipleg came out of the window again, this time backwards. He ran across the fire escape to the ladder, and then turned to look at his mother, who was in the window again.

“Scum!” she cried.

But now Kipleg was free, and he hung upon the ladder, screaming at her, and making faces, like a monkey.

“Hey, Kipleg!” Ollie yelled.

Seeing Ollie, he dropped quickly down the ladder, hung a moment, and then dropped to the stoop. Putting his hands in his pockets, ignoring his mother who still screamed from the window, he swaggered across the street.

“Hey, Ollie,” he said.

“Geesus, yuh got duh ol' lady goin' den,” Ollie said admiringly.

“Yeah.”

“Geesus,” Ishky said, because he had to say something.

“Yeah.”

Kipleg sat down on the stoop, glanced at Ishky, and then spat. “I don' like sheeneys,” he said.

“He's awright,” Ollie explained.

“He's yella.”

“Noeeain'.”

Fearfully, Ishky watched, wondering what would be the outcome of this, but Kipleg was in a good mood. Out of his pocket he fished a package of cigarettes, and he offered them first to Ollie and then to Ishky. They all lit up, and they sat upon the edge of the stoop, puffing. It was the first time Ishky had ever tried a cigarette, and he puffed hesitantly. But Ollie and Kipleg inhaled with great calm and delight.