Conservation in ContextHome | Newell mural | student mural | history projects | archive | credits | links |
The Waters Underneath
Summer twilight and the dust of a scorching day settling down upon the burning streets. The blood red sun flaming into the horizon. The garbage barge and its load of flies, passing on a river under a twisted sky of steel. The incessant swish and lapping of the murky river against the bridge piles. The steam whistle calling workers from a day of toil. From all sides both loud and shrill, hoo-oot, and then the long drawn-out blast, so long that the ending fades quietly into the twilight. The scraping of weary legs as men file out for home. Men passing down the street canyons, like insects on the earth. Then the steel skeletons silent, like the grave. A crane left hanging for the night with its mouth open and teeth bared. The bleak windows throwing back the light of the setting sun—red, brown, yellow green, green, blue-purple, purple-black. A stray splash of silver or dusty gold on a soot covered chimney. The first shadows on the river, long and soft and vague. The second shadows, black ripples in the water, running clear over to the other bank, creeping up and over walls, chasing down the narrow streets, and sleeping in the dirty alleys. The deep silence of the bridge, the listless shadows upon the pillars, the melancholy lapping underneath to the tune of the drag of weary feet above. The forms and shapes of humans against an evening sky—bent backs, limp limbs, rounded sloping shoulders and heads against their chests. The parade of toil across a rainbow edge of steel. In the narrow streets, putrid water trickles off with a gentle gurgling song. Cans and peels and papers pave the roadway. Humans cluster on the sidewalks. Street cars load on and off. Trucks rumble down the cobble stones and fade off in the shadows of the houses. Men walk wearily down the streets and nod mechanically. Legs climb up the stairs along gas lit walls. People pass in and out of bathrooms in the halls. Bells ring, doors open and slam. Streams of pale yellow light flash out into the halls through open doorways. A soft "Hello" through an open doorway. In the yards a piano peals forth, "The magic spell of night will put me in your arms forever." In one house plates are being put upon a table, water runs from a faucet, spoons clatter and a woman says—You're tired and hungry also, maybe? The baby's crying in the bedroom, so wait a minute and I'll be right back. Oh wasn't it hot today? I can't see how you work in the factory. And with the machines it must be terrible. But eat first, then you'll tell me later. Can't eat bread? You mean you aren't hungry? But how can a person walk around without eating? Sure it's hot, but eat better, you can't work if you don't eat All right, what can I do? Even a little is better than nothing. Yes, the baby is a little better. The doctor says the milk we use is bad. Yes, I told him, but if you were here and seen how angry he was you wouldn't even speak. You know what he asked me? He had the nerve to ask why we raise children; and, tell me, what could you say to that? Maybe soon, Abe, you will get a better job. Ruthy hasn't even got one good pair of shoes, stockings also; but it's lucky it's warm and she doesn't wear any But what will we do when it gets colder? Now she tells me that in high school she needs money for exercise work. I also asked her why she can't do it in plain clothes. But you know, Abe, that this is high school and she does work hard. We should be thankful that our girl is so good. Across the street the Simons girl is already no good. Day and night her mother looks for her. They try to hold her in the house, but I only know how hard it is with these young girls. And how can you hold a girl in the house when every night the boys call her? She graduated with our Ruthy. Oh! the poor mother of that girl. I can just picture how she feels. You know, Abe, I wish when the time comes that we should be able to send her to college. Why, I would even go down on my knees an borrow money from my brother. Where is Ruthy now, you say? She's downstairs by Silvie doing her homework. I told her that you might want to see her, and she promised to come upstairs when you will be eating. Finish first and then we will walk on the bridge, and will stay out later because I can t sleep on the fire-escape anyway. Go wash yourself, you will feel better. Oh, it's so cool on the bridge. Sometimes I just can t see how we would live if we didn't have that bridge." She sighed out these words every day. She was a small woman, a woman broken by work and children, with no outlook and no hope. Her hair, which had once been blonde, was now straw colored because of the wisps of gray spread unevenly throughout. She may have been pretty once with the prettiness which comes from the expression of the face, but even that was buried under the cloak of worry which was wrapped closely around her. Just how she did her work was a mystery to Abe. When he felt despondent, it was enough for him to think of her bringing a new-born into the world every year without ever complaining. He guessed that she had no desire to live. But he could not imagine the saintly look that her eyes contained only yesterday when she stood by the sink with a little brown bottle in her hand. Nor could he have imagined the joy she felt in the coming liberation of her spirit. In the next room the baby screamed lustily, but she heard nothing as she raised the glass to her lips and dwelt with pride upon the happy moments of her life. Then something twitched ever so slightly in her insides, the glass remained at the brink of her mouth and instead of rushing through her insides, a moment later its contents were spilt down the sink. With fresh tears in her eyes she rushed into the bedroom and suckled the infant. Her days were spent in the contemplation of death, but at night she invariably said, "Finish, Abe, and we will walk on the bridge." The little family was passing down the dingy hall into the street. They walked up the street as if in a dream, each one with his eyes straight ahead, absorbed in his thoughts. They did not mingle with the people. The ascent up the bridge is always slow. At the foot, the traffic is heavy and the crossing dangerous. A dreadful blowing of horns and the shrillness of the policeman's whistle pervade the air. The entrance to the bridge is covered by masonry, and as the little family passed under it, they experienced the empty emotion of a sepulchre. The regular shadow of the framework is pierced by the mingled light of moon and street lamp. In the deep shadows young boys and girls carry on whispered conversations. The carriage is wheeled by Ruthy, and following her is the little fellow of five who always finds a wealth of questions to ask. Abe and his wife follow a few yards behind leaning heavily upon each other, feet dragging and minds asleep. When they look down upon the roadway as they stand high up on the bridge they see autos and trucks crawling along on their bellies. They hear their regular droning and slapping of tires. On the streets, the people passing near the walls of the bridge appear like phantoms, and the lights of the cars like catapulted objects. They look down upon it all, very dispassionately, and the height makes them disinterested in the humans darting like raindrops between the speeding machines. Usually the family stops at the center of the bridge. From beneath the bridge they hear the monotonous chugg, chugg of tugs. Every few seconds the steam hoo...oot of the ferry disturbs the quiet. The people passing on foot hardly notice those sitting on the benches. The younger fellows out in search of adventure notice Ruthy as she sits, preoccupied, staring out into space and trying to recall the things she learnt about flowers. "Flowers, how can I even know what they look like when I have never been in a country field? I wonder what it is like to lie down upon a green field and dream about the clouds in the sky? I wonder what a garden looks like?" Her eyes, staring at the lights of the Brooklyn side of the river, saw flowers—hundreds of them arranged in beds along a garden walk. She saw herself walking down the aisles in a purple organdie dress For a moment she could almost feel the material as she lifted it from the ground to escape soil. And then as she saw herself stopping and looking at the flowers, she found herself giving emotion to each color. Purple mellow; red, warm; green, restful; brown, soothing; and then all the colors began running together in and out of each other, and stopped. She stared hard. They were only twinkling yellow lights again. For a moment she looked down at the sleeping infant in the carriage, and she hoped that when she would raise her head again the light would ... but when she raised her head they were still pale and yellow and ever so far away. Abe's wife was staring steadily into the deep of the water. One arm was held outstretched with the fingers pointing down toward the water. The other was supporting her face. She could hear the water rustling and lapping against the piles. In her mind's eye she could feel each black ripple of water as it rolled out toward the sea. She could sense the black depths of the water. She could imagine the soothing denseness of the water. She could guess about the soft ooze at the bottom. Suddenly she felt herself flying off the bridge. She could feel how hard it was to catch one's breath. She felt the chilling coldness of the water, the waters closing over her head. She spied the last ray of light as she sank slowly downwards. She felt the dense thickness of the murk, the ooze as it crept up around her hips. She wondered whether she was being taken to the bosom of the earth or whether the earth was being taken to her bosom. She wondered whether the mud would separate her hair or whether it would be left lying straight and black as in life. She stared straight ahead, it was black. Had she really fulfilled her wish unknowingly—had she missed the opportunity of reconsidering her life and dwelling with joy upon its happy moments? Were her husband and the children anxiously waiting while the police dragged the river for her body? No, she soon heard the auto-horns and the melancholy lapping of the water against the piles, alas, she was still on the bridge and the black ripples still rolled out ominously into the blacker sea. Underneath, as a barge passed, a shanty song was wafted up, "I went down to your bottom, Mother River, and I saw all your pretty children there." That was it. It wasn't river she felt, it was Mother River. Old Mother River, maker of ripples and the lapping of the water against the piles. Abe holding one foot with the torn sole upon the concrete, felt how cold the concrete was. It made him wish that the floors on which he worked were warmer and softer. He could hear the taunts of the foreman, the jeerings of his fellow workers; and worst, the dismal, dirty streets as he went to work. Suddenly all was changed. The floors had been carpeted with plush. There was no foreman, and he saw workmen coming to his office and asking for advice. He could see the smiles of satisfaction upon the faces of his workers as he came to visit them in their homes. His own home was a paradise, educated children and all. He heard a discussion going on in the house, and he was speaking to some friends. "Look here, you can't see the old belts that there used to be around. Well, in my place we hide them in the walls. And there isn't any noise in the place either. There are rest rooms for the workers. There are large airy windows, and the difference when the workers are at work. . . work . . . work . . . " Abe's wife was shaking him from out of his dreams and telling him that it was late—that in the morning he had to go to work—that Ruthy had to go to school. The little family stood up and turned for home. Beside them the elevated rushed by, trucks slapped and droned as they crawled along; and deep down, many hundreds of yards down, Mother River was still lapping against the piles. She was still making the same melancholy rippling in the darkness of her masonry. On her waters a ferry plied back and forth, back and forth again, but she was still waiting for one of her daughters to come home.
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