Letting Go

by Philip Roth

  “Do I make myself clear?” asked Levy. “Needs polishing?”

  Korngold plucked at Levy’s sleeve. “Maybe we should enclose a snapshot. Let him see what condition I live in.”

  “Why plead?” Levy reasoned, making a fist. “He should know I mean business. A wrong move and he’s through. You could type it up, adding here and there a comma?” he asked Paul.

  Paul had heard most, but not all, of what the old men had been saying since they had come into his room. He did not have enough strength—given what had happened that day—to attend totally to these two characters. However, as much as they confused him, they touched him, and he was ready to say something helpful when he saw Levy’s hand come to rest again on the lace of Libby’s slip. “I’m not feeling well, Mr. Levy. Maybe you and Mr. Korngold better go out.” Then he smiled, for by choice and breeding he was not rude to elderly people.

  “What?” asked Korngold. “A youngster like you with failing health?”

  “Dummy, he’s got a bad cut.”

  Levy pointed, and Korngold cringed at the sight of the bandage. Levy proceeded to assemble on the tray his cups and saucers. “I’ll leave you a facsimile, Mr. Herz, for when you have the time. That’s all right, not an intrusion?”

  “No,” Paul said, wearily.

  “So I’ll pick it up tomorrow. Don’t feel you gotta rush. The afternoon is fine. You could slip it under the door. I’d appreciate you wouldn’t knock—of an afternoon I take a little siesta.”

  “Me, I can’t even sleep at night,” Korngold put in, holding his forehead. “Up with the birds. Awake all the time with that Nazi. For a radio he’s got a public address hookup. I wouldn’t tell you what he does in the sink—I should turn him in to the public health commission. In his room he’s got shortwave, direct to Berlin.” Korngold pushed back his chair; long and spineless as a sagging candle, he limped from the room. Levy moved after him, and, gesturing with his tray at Korngold’s back, he whispered over his shoulder to Paul, “Senility, a simple case. When the arteries go, you can call it quits.”

  Libby’s face was over his. He heard her asking about his wrist before he was fully alive to the hour and the circumstance. Coming out of sleep was like climbing up a ladder. And for a moment he did not want to climb.

  “I’m home,” Libby said. “What happened?”

  He saw her pale-blue waitress uniform, then her. “I cut my hand at work.”

  “Baby, are you all right?” She moved down beside him on the bed. “The bandage is so big.” She held him, careful of the wrist, and he did not know whether she was on the edge of passion or panic. He was hoping for neither.

  “I’m all right. I was home for the afternoon, that’s all.” He sat up. “I’m fine.”

  She turned on the bedside lamp. “How did it happen?”

  “I don’t know. I was daydreaming.”

  She touched the fingers of his bandaged arm. “Will it be all right? Can you work?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Did you lose this afternoon’s pay?”

  He controlled his temper and said he didn’t know.

  “Didn’t you ask?”

  “No, Libby. I was bleeding. I could have bled to death.” Not happy over his histrionics, he got up and went to the sink to wash his face.

  “I only wanted to know,” she said. “Your typewriter is on the floor.” She rose from the bed. “Mail?”

  “What?”

  She was unfolding the letter Levy had left behind.

  “No,” he said.

  Disappointed, she asked, “What is this?”

  “Mr. Levy wants me to type a letter for him.”

  She let the paper float out of her hands onto the floor. “He dropped his cane again this morning.”

  “Look, Libby, do you want me to say something to him or don’t you?”

  “He’s such a poor old man—” Libby began.

  “Crap, Libby. We’re poorer than he is.”

  “What kind of letter is it?” she asked.

  “He brought a friend over with him. The man with the shakes next door. With the limp. Korngold. Korngold’s son has ruined Korngold’s life. Disappreciation—”

  “Who’s Dr. Smith?”

  “Who?”

  She was holding up the little white piece of paper. “Dr. Thomas Smith. BA 3-3349.”

  “Where was that?”

  “On the table. Who is he?”

  “He bandaged my hand. I have to call him.”

  “Are you all right, sweetheart?” she asked. “Are you very upset?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I mean the other thing. Me.”

  “You are,” he said. “You’re depressed.”

  “I’m not depressed, I’m just nauseous. Is that possible? So soon? I couldn’t eat my lunch.”

  “Maybe you should go to a doctor.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “If you’re feeling nauseous you ought to go to a doctor. You’ve got to eat.”

  “We don’t have to start with doctors already,” she said. “I’m not going to pay anybody five dollars to tell me I should be nauseous.”

  “Then go to a clinic. Go to the City Hospital.”

  The suggestion visibly shocked her. “It’s not necessary.”

  “Lib, you’re going to have to see a doctor eventually. Not doing anything isn’t going to make it not so.”

  “Don’t lecture me, please. I’m quite aware of my condition and what to do about it.”

  Her words confused him—though within the confusion was a strain of relief. “What do you mean?”

  “That you don’t have to run to doctors in the second month. Please, Paul.” She picked up Levy’s letter from the floor; after looking at it for only a second, she buried her head in her arms on the table.

  “Put something over your shoulders, Libby.”

  “I’m all right,” she mumbled.

  “Libby …”

  She answered only with a tired sound.

  “Dr. Smith is an abortionist,” he said.

  Her arms remained crossed on the table, and she raised her head very slowly. She had nothing to say.

  “He does abortions,” Paul said.

  “I see.”

  He got up from the edge of the bed and moved toward her. “You don’t see anything.”

  “I don’t see anything,” she repeated. “You just made me numb, saying that.”

  “I made myself numb.”

  “He bandages hands too?”

  “The doctor at the plant bandaged my hand. I just said that. The plant doctor gave me Smith’s name.”

  She hammered on the table. “I don’t understand.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t understand how people give out names like that! I don’t think I understand what you’re talking about!”

  He decided to say no more; he sat back down on the bed.

  “I said I don’t think I understand everything,” Libby shouted. “Would you please tell me? I’d be interested to know how my condition was bandied about in some doctor’s office.”

  “Nobody bandied anything.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Let’s forget it. I’ve been stupid. I’m sorry.”

  “Let’s not forget it till I know what I’m supposed to forget!”

  “Libby, let’s do forget it.” He did not give in to his impulse to pretend that his wrist was hurting. But Libby fierce, Libby pounding on tables and shouting, made him very uncertain; this was the girl he had married to take care of. Sternly he said, “Forget it.”

  “Maybe I’m interested!” she said, pointing a finger at him. “Maybe I’m interested! All right?”

  “Maybe I’m not.”

  He did not realize that she still had the piece of paper in her hand until he saw it being waved in his face. “Then why did you bring this home? Why did you bring it up in the first place?”

  “The doctor did.”

  “But you bro
ught it home, you wrote it down—”

  “He wrote it down. Calm yourself. He asked me why I was so preoccupied. I told him. He took out a piece of paper and wrote this name down. He gave it to me, and I was in a daze, and I took it—and that’s all.”

  “He didn’t say anything.”

  “Nothing. It was all very … decent.”

  “So then how do you know it’s an abortionist? Why do you come home and even say that?”

  “Because I know. Because it is. He was trying to be kind.”

  At last she sat down beside him, helpless. “Do you think it was kind?”

  “I don’t know.” He pulled her head down into his lap, and ran a finger along the hard bone of her nose. “Stop shouting abortionist around here,” he said. “Levy’s behind every door.”

  “All right.”

  After a few silent minutes, he asked, “What do you think?”

  “How …” She held his hand over her mouth as she spoke. “How much is it? Is it too much?”

  Around the corner from them was a little delicatessen with a neon Star of David in the window, and tile floors, and the usual smells. They ate dinner there often because it was cheap and the counterman was kind, especially to Libby. Jewish store owners were always taking her for a nice Jewish girl and giving her extra portions to fatten her up.

  “What kind of dinner is that?” Solly called from behind the cold-cut slicer. “Consommé and tea, you’ll dwindle away to nothing. We’ll have to give you an anchor for outside in the wind.” He had a concentration camp number on his forearm and had bought the store with Nazi reparation money; the Herzes respected him fiercely.

  “I’m not hungry,” Libby called back to him.

  “You’re not hungry, what’s wrong with a piece of boiled chicken?”

  “No thank you, Solly.”

  “Are you still nauseous?” Paul asked her.

  She nodded and broke a slice of rye bread into small pieces; she touched a crust to her lips, but couldn’t push it any further.

  “Lib, I’m going to call him.”

  “From here?”

  “From the booth. I’ll just call. I’ll inquire.”

  He waited, but she gave him no answer. A couple of teen-age boys came into the store and ordered knishes.

  “Does that seem all right?” Paul asked.

  “… I think so.”

  “That doesn’t sound like conviction, Lib. Should I or shouldn’t I? What do you want me to do?”

  “Whatever you want …” She collected all the little pieces of bread and put them in the ash tray.

  He sat a moment longer and then got up and went to the phone booth. Solly passed him, carrying two bowls of soup. “It’ll get cold,” Solly said. Paul smiled and shut the door of the booth behind him. He looked at the piece of paper but could not read the number. I drank tea with Levy … I kibitz with Solly … At the plant I eat my lunch with Harry Black, LeRoy Holmes …

  If no one knew my face or name—

  “Hurry up,” Solly called as he passed the booth again. Paul turned his back to the store; hunched on a corner of the seat, he dialed. The underwater feeling he had lately experienced returned. He waited until he heard a hello from the other end.

  “Is Dr. Smith in?”

  “He’s eating—” a woman replied. “I said he’s eating.”

  He did not know where to go from there.

  “Hello—is this an emergency?” the woman shouted. “Is this Mr. Motta?”

  “No.”

  “Well, the doctor is eating his dinner. You want him to call you back? Is this Mr. Motta?”

  “No, no. I’m in a booth.”

  “Look, you call when he’s finished eating. You hear me?”

  When he got back to the table, the steam still rose off their bowls of soup. Libby had not disturbed the oily surface with her spoon.

  “Are you sick again?” he asked.

  “Still.”

  “Do you want a soft-boiled egg or something?”

  “What did he say?”

  “He was eating. I didn’t talk to him. Lib, this is a mistake. I think we should go ahead and let what happens happen.”

  She picked up her spoon and stirred the soup at the edge of the dish.

  “Does that make you feel better?” He covered one of her hands with his own.

  “I think so,” she said.

  “All right. Let’s just eat. It’ll get cold.”

  Solly was trying to get their attention from behind the counter. “Go ahead,” he said, pointing to their food, “give it a try.”

  Libby took two spoonfuls. “Who did you talk to, then?” she asked.

  “A woman.”

  “His secretary?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did she sound like?”

  “She sounded all right. She sounded fine. She just said he was eating.”

  “Are you going to call him back?”

  “I thought you didn’t want me to.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I said I wouldn’t, and you said it made you feel better.”

  She dropped her spoon—deliberately, he thought—to the table. “I don’t know what makes me feel better.”

  He looked quickly around: Solly was back in the kitchen joking with the cook. “Don’t raise your voice, will you? Stop clanging your silverware. It’s nobody’s business. How do you feel now? Why don’t you eat your soup?”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “You’ve got to eat something. You can’t work all day and not eat anything. You’ll get sick. Do you want some toast?”

  “Paul, maybe we ought to …”

  “What?”

  “Maybe we ought to talk to somebody.”

  “You want me to call again? I don’t want to pressure you. I don’t want to decide without you.”

  “Well, you have to make up your mind, though, whether you want it or not.”

  “Want the baby or the other?”

  “Want the other … A baby,” she said, “a baby might be a pleasure.”

  “You want it then?”

  “Don’t you? Don’t you think a little baby might be a pleasure for us?”

  “Lib, it’s just now. It’s just how long can we keep being the victims of everything. I’m starting to think there’s some conspiracy going.”

  “A lot of people look forward to having a baby.”

  “I look forward to it too. Don’t accuse me, sweetheart. It’s just not now … Why aren’t you eating?”

  “I told you a hundred times already. I’m nauseous! Don’t you believe me?”

  “You want a baby, Libby, we’ll have a baby.”

  “I don’t want anything you don’t want.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t want it. I’m only saying now. I feel like a snowball being pushed downhill. Things are getting out of hand.”

  “Every day somebody has a baby they hadn’t planned on.”

  “All right then. We’ll just let it ride.”

  “I mean what kind of way is that to have a family? To just let it ride.”

  “Don’t raise your voice, I said.”

  “Well, what kind of way is it?”

  “It’s no way.”

  “Then you want to call him back?”

  “I think maybe we ought to think about it.”

  “We can’t think about it forever,” Libby whined. “If you have a thing like that done it has to be soon.”

  “What are you talking about having it done? I just thought you didn’t want to have it done. I thought now you wanted to have a baby.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “It isn’t that I don’t—”

  Solly rapped with a knuckle on the counter. “What’s a matter, you kids can’t decide what movie? See Ten Commandments—it’s got a beautiful message.”

  “Thanks, Solly, no,” Paul said. “Libby’s got a cold.”

  “How about a piece of boiled chicken?” Solly asked.
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  “No, thank you,” Libby said.

  “Lib,” Paul said, “let’s save this conversation. Let’s talk at home.”

  She agreed. But while eating his stuffed peppers, he couldn’t prevent his mind from working. “If I call, Libby, I’ve got to call from here. I can’t talk from the hall.”

  “Then you’re going to call.”

  “Drink your tea at least.”

  As he pulled back his chair once again, Solly addressed the salami he was slicing: “There’s a kid likes cold food.”

  This time his control was much better; he had no trouble making out the number, and his mouth moved into the mouthpiece at just the moment he wanted it to. His voice was his own when he asked for the doctor.

  “He’s eating,” the woman said. “Didn’t you call before?”

  “This is an emergency. You better let me talk to him.”

  There was no response. Was he supposed to say he was Mr. Motta? “Hello—hello?” he said.

  The voice from the other end was now a man’s. “Doctor Tom speaking.”

  “Dr. Smith?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Doctor, I’m calling about my wife. She’s been having some menstrual trouble. I wondered if you might have a look at her.”

  “Think it’s a matter of structural derangement, do you? Has she been to an osteopath before? Someone suggest to you that the fundamental condition was a lesion?”

  “I don’t understand, Doctor.” The mumbo jumbo was making him perspire. “She’s not menstruating properly. She’s not menstruating on time. We’re a little concerned.”

  “I see.”

  “Dr. Esposito gave me your name.”

  “Maybe you’d better bring her over for a checkup. Give her a once-over.”

  “Do you understand me, Doctor?”

  “Why don’t you get her over here in half an hour, all right?”

  “Just for a checkup though …”

  “I’ll take care of her. What’s your name, son?”

  After he told him—his name and his wife’s too—he could have cut out his tongue.

  On the bus they sat in the last two seats in the back. Paul did all the talking. “We’re not obliged to do anything, Lib. Don’t be glum, please. We’ll let him look at you. The worst it’ll be is a checkup. I want you to make up your own mind. We don’t have to tell him anything, we’re not involved in any way. There’s no reason, though, why we shouldn’t investigate all the possibilities. If it sounds complicated, if there’s anything you don’t like about it, then we forget it. I’m sure it’s a very simple procedure. People go back to work the next day. You could stay at home a week, though—that isn’t what I mean. What I mean is you don’t have to worry, you don’t have to feel that we’re helplessly entangled in anything. You say no and it’s no. We have the name, we have the address—we’ll just go. Most people who want to do it and don’t, don’t because they can’t even find out who to go to. It goes on all the time, Lib. There are probably I don’t know how many every day of the year. People like us, in our circumstances, unprepared for a child. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t at least inquire about a way out. I don’t see why every rotten thing that falls our way has to be accepted. Don’t you agree? You don’t have to say a word, Lib. You don’t have to say a thing. When we come out, you say yes or no, and that’s that. You say no, that’s fine with me. All right? Is that all right?”