The Children (5 page)

But I am not like that. Most of the time I am very happy living, and why shouldn't I be, with all the good things in life? So how did this idea occur to me?

He sat on the roof in the sun, a bundle of not-too-good clothes, with his legs curled way up. He was a Very small boy, with thin legs and thin hands and large brown eyes and freckles, and he began to think again of the magic garden.

Whenever there was nothing else to think of, he could think of the magic garden. He could think of how it would be only a matter of time until he was large enough to climb over the fence, and then—why, the magic garden would be his. But might it not be too late then? One grew up, and if he were to rock back and forth like his mother, then—?

He made a face at the thought of his mother, she was so fat and ugly. He shouldn't hate her; God would not like that. Up in the sun, maybe behind the sun, was God. God knew everything. God would disapprove, if he thought that his mother was ugly. Still, he would never be like his mother.

Downstairs in the yard, it was cool and gray, and the fence that closed in the magic garden cast a long shadow. But there was grass growing from beneath the fence, and that grass gave a faint, fascinating suggestion of what lay in the garden itself.

And now the thought struck him. The roof—what about the roof? But what a little fool he was, never to have thought of that before! Surely, it was plain enough—he had only to look over the back of the roof to see behind the fence, to gaze into the garden. And he had never thought of it before—

“Oh—wunnerful,” he whispered. “Dat's what I shoulda done long ago.”

Rising to his feet, carefully, cautiously, he began to move, trembling a little, he was that excited.

Stalking like a red Indian, he approached the back of the roof, and he looked over. For a moment, he stared, and then he sank back to the roof, shaking, with short, dry sobs.

Because, in the garden, there was nothing but piles of rubbish.

SEVEN

S
O YOU SEE HOW IT WAS WITH ME, THAT I WAS LEFT ALL
alone on the roof, trying to make something out of nothing. I would never be happy again; how could I ever be happy again? How could I be sure that everything in life wouldn't be like this, an illusion that would pass away as soon as you probed into it? Well, the secret garden was gone, Marie was gone; indeed, everything had been taken away from me, and anyway, what was the use of going on?

I heard my mother calling from the window. “Ishky—Ishky, vare are you?”

I tried to bury myself in the hot tar of the roof. So soon, I would have to go down and eat my lunch. I made little balls of the tar, and threw them away from me, watching the way they bounced, and finally stuck to the roof. And then in the middle of my crying, I managed to smile a little—because one of the pellets remained fastened to a clothesline where it had struck, just remained fastened like that. And here I was smiling again. Well, Ishky, you are a little fool, and that's all there is to it.

But I kept on smiling. If the secret garden wasn't behind our yard, then it was somewhere else. Certainly, it was somewhere else.

Someone was coming from the next roof. As soon as he was out of the glare of the sun, I recognized Thomas Edison. I don't know why everyone calls him Thomas Edison, but he is really nothing to be afraid of. He's big and kind of fat—but crazy. Everyone knows that he is crazy, that something is wrong inside of his head. He has a funny dull look on his face, his eyes popping, his mouth open, but I guess that's not his fault, only a part of his being crazy; I guess anyone who is crazy looks a lot like that. Some people say that he is Ollie's brother, but Ollie won't admit it, and with micks you can't be sure who is whose brother. I don't mind him, and sometimes I feel very sorry for him—he not being able to dream and dream, the way I do.

Thomas Edison crossed three roofs, and then he saw Ishky. In the beginning, he, hadn't known what drew him to the roofs. But on the roofs were sunlight and cool winds that blew in from the river, and there was freedom of a sort and nobody to laugh at him. He knew that more than anything else he hated to have people laugh at him.

When he saw Ishky, he halted, eying him warily. Ishky was Ishky, whom he remembered; Ishky was too small to beat him up, and if he had to, he could beat Ishky up. But he wouldn't unless he had to. Why should he beat anyone up when the warm sunshine and the cool air from the river made him feel so contented? Putting a leg over the wall between the roofs, he stared at Ishky, who stared back at him with a curious, even intentness.

“Whaddya lookin' at?” Thomas Edison demanded.

“Nuttin',.”

“Y'are so.”

“No I ain'.”

“Whaddya lookin' den?”

“Jus lookin'.”

Hoisting himself over the wall, he let himself drop down on Ishky's side; then, hands in pockets, he came swaggering toward Ishky, ready to fight or flee, not quite sure even now which he would prefer.

“Hey, Ishky.”

“Hullo.”

“Wanna match pennies?”

“Ain' got none.”

“Betcha yuh got.”

“I swear I ain',” Ishky protested.

“Yer a dirdy liar. Jews allus got money.”

“Awright, search me.”

Pocket after pocket Ishky turned inside out, to show only crumbs and little specks of dirt, and with each revelation Thomas Edison shook his head in disgust. “See,” Ishky said, shaking the crumbs onto the ground. “Dere ain' nuttin' at all, 'cept dirt.”

“Yeah.”

Thomas Edison sat down next to him, finding comradeship of a sort in the fact that Ishky had told the truth. It was nice to have someone who would tell you the truth, and of whom you weren't afraid.

“I ain' scareda yuh,” he told Ishky.

“Yeah.”

Ishky rolled another tar ball, throwing it at the clothesline. But it came nowhere near it. Well, that's the way things were.

“Whaddya doin'?”

“Rollin' tar balls.”

“Dere good tuh eat.”

“Yeah.”

They each rolled a tar ball and chewed on it. Ishky liked the way it stuck to his teeth and the warm sticky taste of it. When he spat, his spittle was hot and black.

“Tar's good,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Good as gum.”

“Yeah.”

“Oney yuh don' dare swalla it.”

“I swalla it,” said Thomas Edison. “I swalla it whenever I wanna. I ain' no dirdy Jew.”

“I ain',” Ishky said.

“Y'are so.”

“I ain',”

“Yer yella t'do anythin' a Jew wouldn' do. Yer yella tuh say, screw duh dirdy Jews.”

“I ain' yella,” Ishky said firmly, but he was wavering. These were terrible words, and he wondered how he could sit there so calmly, listening to such terrible words. Up—way up beyond the sun was God; and if the hand of God were to come down and strike him! But since Thomas Edison was wrong inside—didn't that make everything all right?

“Say it.”

“Awright, awright—I'm goin' tuh say it, am' I? Ain' I gonna say it?”

“Yer yella.”

“Awright, screw duh dirdy Jews—screw duh dirdy Jews. Dere, yuh tought I wouldn'.”

Thomas Edison was impressed. Into even his dim mind this defiance of the great God penetrated. What would happen? But here, nothing was happening.

“Geesus, Ishky,” he said.

“I ain' yella.”

“I din' say yuh was yella, Ishky.”

“Yuh said it.”

“Look—cross my heart, I din', Ishky. Look, duh fader, son, an' hully ghust—lookit dat, Ishky.”

“Awright.”

“You an' me be pals?”

“Awright.”

B
UT HAD
I, Ishky, done right? Why had I denied my God?—for that was what it amounted to. But I knew that I was lonely, and even if he wasn't right in his head, it was better for him to like me than not to like me. You know how that is, how you get tired of all the things in life, the fighting and all of that, and how you want things to be easier.

Now I sit with him in the sun and chew on tar balls. I am not telling all these things for no reason at all; one thing leads to another, and I want you to see how that is, how full of these things life is, how you are happy one moment, and the next?—

“Whaddya gonna do, Ishky?”

He wanted to show him. He had thrown off the Jew, even if only for a moment, and he had assumed some sort of splendor that was better than his rags and his thin body. Thomas Edison looked up to him. He might have considered that it was very little to be worshiped by a subject like that; but Ishky did not consider it at all.

“Wanna play?” he inquired.

“Yeah.”

“Wanna folla duh leader?”

“Awright.”

Ishky led away, bounding over the roof, Thomas Edison following after. Ishky swung on a clothesline, looped his feet, and returned to the roof. He dashed to the edge, straddled it, and gazed at the sidewalk. So far away, with people as big as dolls, no bigger. He wanted to jump. No. Not down there, not down there. But to be big, and let the world look at you, admiring; as if Thomas Edison were the world. Yet why not? But away from the edge—come away from the edge, Ishky, before you tumble over.

“Geesus, Ishky!”

“Tought I was yella, huh?”

“Don' go near duh edge, Ishky.”

“Tought I was yella.”

He tumbled back onto the roof, back on the roof that was strong and solid and enduring. If he had fallen, he would have gone over and over, but he would have had guts. Turning, he raced to the narrow airshaft.

The airshaft in that sort of tenement was no more than six or seven feet wide, with a low wall binding it in. And all the way down, from top to bottom, clotheslines were strung, back and forth, from the roof to the rubbish below.

(Look at the airshaft, Ishky! There is glory in the meanest ways of life, if only you look for it.)

At the airshaft, he paused, glancing at Thomas Edison who came puffing behind him. How foolish he looked, with his poor round face that held no intelligence at all; but he would know glory—he would have to know glory. What was glory without an audience, anyway? Oh, if only Ollie were here now!

“Y'tought I was yella.”

“Whaddya gonna do, Ishky?”

“You ain' got guts t'do what I'll do.”

“Yeah, Ishky?”

“Y'tought I was yalla.”

“Yeah, Ishky—whaddya gonna do?”

“Gonna jump over duh arishaft.”

“Geesus, Ishky.”

“Y'gotta folla.”

“I can' do it, Ishky.”

“Yuh gotta. Or else, yer yella. Yer yella—dat's all.”

He prepared to jump. If he fell—but he must not think of falling. He had to jump—all the way over. God—God! But he had given away his God to Thomas Edison.

(Jump then, Ishky—what are you waiting for?)

“Yuh'll get kilt.”

He ran back, leaped forward, sprang to the wall and out into space. Only then—he didn't know why, but he knew he wouldn't reach the other side. The airshaft was long and narrow, and miles down, and all those miles he would go tumbling and twisting, to be crushed into nothing at all at the bottom. Why had he done it? What was glory, when life was so beautiful in the sun shine?

His foot just touched the opposite wall; then his body was flung back into the airshaft. Thomas Edison saw, and he wailed and screamed, a thin terrible wailing and screaming; for in his clouded mind he understood death better than anyone else of his age would have.

Ishky hit a clothesline; the line held for a moment, then it broke. He was falling until he hit another. But he could think; he could think of the death that was rushing up from the bottom of the shaft.

Like a rubber ball, his body bounded from one line to another, and each line hit him like a thin whiplash. The walls of the shaft reeled dizzily about him. And at the bottom, the rubbish awaited him, piled a good five feet high.

W
HEN
I plunged into the rubbish, it seemed that I, Ishky, was not even hurt. I was cut on one cheek, but that is all. Can there be a God in heaven after all? Can I be alive?

I sit up, and look at the broken clotheslines. How can it be? But I am alive; that is all that matters. I've jumped off the roof, and I am alive. I hear Thomas Edison wailing, but what is that, when I am alive, with only a cut cheek?

(Only—get out of here, Ishky. Windows are opening, and you, have broken their clotheslines. Get out of here quickly.)

EIGHT