Letting Go

by Philip Roth

  To make matters worse—to make my Martha brassier—Libby that day was the child saint about to be lifted onto the cross. There was even in her very flat-chestedness something that lent her an ethereal and martyred air. She was buttoned up to her white throat in a pale green cardigan sweater whose sleeves reached nearly into the palms of her hands; and her hands were just small half-closed fists in her lap. Every time a serving dish was passed to Paul he would lean over to ask Libby if she would have some. If she shook her head, he urged half a spoonful on her anyway, whispering words I couldn’t hear into those ears of hers, which stuck poignantly out just where the hair was pulled back above them. If she parted her unpainted lips and consented to be fed, he would croon fine, good and arrange a portion of food for her on her plate. His behavior engaged Martha instantly, and the attention she showed him was almost embarrassing in its openness. After a while she looked to me not so much disgusted—though there was that in it all right—as offended by this demonstration of nutritional billing and cooing.

  I had never seen Paul so solicitous toward his wife, and it would have made me uneasy too, had I not my own private source of uneasiness sitting directly in the center of the table—the roast. When it appeared and I had sunk my knife down into its pink center, a new wave of silence, deeper and more significant, went around the table (granted, this may have been my imagination again). It was as though a particularly gross display of wealth had been flaunted; we were about to dine on some mysterious incarnation of rubies and gold. Then I opened a bottle of Gevrey Chambertin (1951) and with the classy thhhppp of the cork, we were all reminded once again of the superfluity that characterized my particular sojourn on this earth. In short, I felt that Paul and Libby—in different degrees, for different reasons—resented me for Martha’s gaudy voluptuousness and for the meal as well. I told myself that they would never understand my life, and that I shouldn’t allow them to upset me. But then I thought that if all their suspicion and resentment was merely of my own imagining, it was perhaps I myself who would never understand it.

  When the children came in to be appreciated in their clean pajamas, they were introduced to the guests.

  “And this is Cynthia,” I said, “and this is Mark.”

  Markie immediately went for Martha; Cynthia said, “How do you do?”

  “How do you do?” Paul said.

  Libby looked up from her food—in which she had all of a sudden taken an interest—but only for a second. She had already returned to separating something on her plate when she commented, “Aren’t they nice.”

  Martha ignored the remark, though not the person who had made it; she glared at Libby, then, taking a hand of each of her children, said, “Good night, dears.”

  “You going to come kiss us good night?” Mark asked.

  “As soon as dinner is over,” Martha said. “You go off to bed now.”

  “You going to come?” Markie asked me.

  They left, Cynthia turning at the door to say that it had been a pleasure to meet the Herzes; she skipped off, her behind like a little piece of fruit, and nobody at the table seemed charmed. We ate in silence until at last Paul asked Martha how old they were, and she didn’t answer.

  “Cynthia is seven,” I said, “and Mark is—how old, Martha? Four?”

  I passed the information on to Paul. “Four,” I said. “Look, would anyone care for more meat?”

  “No, thank you,” Paul said.

  “How about some wine, Libby?” I asked.

  She shook her head. Paul said, “She can’t drink too much alcohol.”

  Some few minutes later, Paul said, “We’ve had a very tiring day. You’ll have to excuse us.”

  I thought for a moment they were going to get up and leave without even finishing. He was only apologizing, however, for his wife’s silence. I suppose he never felt a need to apologize for his own.

  “That’s all right,” Martha said. “I’m tired myself.”

  “Do you know?” I rushed in. “It’s very interesting about this wine. Now 1951 was supposedly a good year, so I procured—” Procured? Bought, damn it, bought! I babbled on, explaining how I had come to purchase the wine, while Martha began making offerings of food to Libby, calling her Mrs. Herz. Paul sat listening so silently to what I said that I went on and on and on, waiting as it were for some signal from him that I had spoken enough and could stop. But it was like sending one’s voice down a well.

  When we had finally finished the one bottle of wine—which everyone had been sipping parsimoniously—I ran off to the kitchen to get the other. I returned to the living room to find that the Herzes had retired to the sofa and Martha had begun to clear the table.

  “We’ll have coffee over there,” she said, carrying the dishes away.

  I sat down in a sling chair opposite the Herzes. Libby had picked up a book from the sofa.

  “It’s a very funny book,” I said. “Martha reads the children a little every night, and they laugh …”

  Libby set it down. “That must be nice.”

  “Yes,” I said. And I thought, Then why did you come? Why did you accept my invitation? Why won’t you let this be ended!

  Why won’t I?

  The three of us sat facing one another, and the gloom came rolling in. I said, “Excuse me, I better go say good night to the children.”

  In the kitchen Martha was standing over the stove, fiddling with her beads and waiting for the coffee to be ready.

  “Come on,” I whispered. “It’s like a wake in there.”

  “I’ll be in in a minute.”

  I put my hands on her bare arms, and she moved away. “Hurry up, will you?” I said. “Nobody’s willing to say anything. Everyone’s a little stiff.”

  “Oh, just a little.”

  “Why did you have to rush them away from the table?”

  “They weren’t eating anything, what was the difference?”

  “I was going to open another bottle of wine.”

  “They weren’t drinking either.”

  “Well, I’m going to bring in the Armagnac,” I said, “the hell with it.”

  “What!”

  “The Armagnac. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t tell me nothing—what’s the matter now?”

  “That Armagnac happens to date from before I saw your smiling face.”

  “Martha, we’ll all die out there.”

  “So we’ll die. That bottle costs seven bucks. If you wanted some why didn’t you think to buy it this afternoon?”

  “Because you’ve hardly started the bottle that’s here. What’s gotten into you?”

  “Don’t people drink beer any more?”

  “Look, I’ll give you a check for seven dollars! Be quiet!”

  “You and your checks.” She turned back to the coffee. “I saved nickles and dimes, and bought that as a special gift for myself, but the hell with it, just take the stuff and pour—”

  “This is some party! This is marvelous! Are you coming back in there tonight or aren’t you?”

  “I’ll be in,” she mumbled. “Just go ahead.”

  “Well, I’m taking the Armagnac.” And I went back into the living room, choking the bottle around the neck. I poured four glasses of brandy without asking whether anybody wanted some. I sat back with my glass, sipped from it, and said—innocently, absolutely innocently, just in order to say something—“How’s the adoption going?”

  Paul turned immediately to Libby, who turned to him. He said, “I mentioned it to Gabe, you know.” He looked back to me, and I felt no need to apologize; since the beginning of the evening surely it was I who had been the most burdened member of our party. We stared, Paul and I, wordlessly at one another while Libby said, “Oh did you?”

  “I thought he would like to know,” he said.

  Libby looked down into her lap.

  I said, “I think it’s a fine idea, Libby.”

  “What is?” The question came from Martha
, who had entered the room with a trayful of coffee cups. Apparently she had decided to make an effort to be gracious; it was simply the wrong moment to have chosen.

  “Nothing,” I said, leaning back.

  “I’m sorry I interrupted.”

  I saw her face harden, and Paul must have seen it too. “Libby and I are adopting a baby,” he said. “That’s all.”

  “Oh yes?” She looked at Libby, and for the first time since the Herzes’ arrival, she smiled. “A boy or a girl?”

  The question had an astonishing effect upon Libby at first; she seemed frightened, then insulted.

  Paul said, “We don’t know yet. We’re still in the inquiring stage.”

  Martha set down the tray and poured the coffee. Libby looked over to me. “We have to adopt a Jewish baby anyway,” she said.

  “Yes? I didn’t know.”

  “The Catholic orphanages are crawling with kids,” explained Libby in an emotionless voice, “but that doesn’t help us. With the Jewish agencies there’s over a three-year waiting list. Then we’re a mixed marriage as far as anybody’s concerned.”

  “But you converted—” I said.

  Sullenly she said, “So what?”

  I did not press for more information; Martha sat down and the four of us drank our coffee. Paul said, “You see, today we called long distance to New York. Thinking we could work something out with an agency there.” He stopped explaining, and what was left unsaid was clear enough from the look on his face.

  Martha said to him, “That’s too bad.”

  “It’ll work out,” he assured her.

  “Oh sure,” Libby said.

  Some moments later, Libby spoke again. When her mouth opened the words that came out were connected to none that had previously been spoken in the room. Her body was lifeless and her voice vacant, and it seemed that she might say just about anything. This girl had aroused numerous emotions in me in the past, but never before had she made me feel as I did now—afraid. Looking at me again, she said, “Paul was called in to see the Dean today.”

  “Libby—” her husband said.

  “That Spigliano,” she said, “is really going to try to get him fired.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” Paul inclined his head toward his cup after he had spoken, so that his face was in shadows. “I ran into the Dean,” he said softly, “I wasn’t called in anywhere, Libby. I just ran into him.”

  “You said he as much as told you they weren’t happy with you.”

  “Libby’s exaggerating,” Paul said.

  “Mommy!”

  We all looked toward the doorway, where Cynthia stood, rubbing her eyes.

  “What’s the matter, honey?” Martha said, getting up.

  Cynthia’s eyes landed on each of us in turn. “You’re all talking too loud. I can’t sleep.”

  Martha set down her cup. “We’re hardly talking at all,” she said, and chaperoned Cynthia back to her room.

  Libby extended her neck its full length. “Maybe we had better go. I don’t want to wake up anybody who’s trying to sleep.”

  “Libby, Paul—please stay. Let’s not run off. Why don’t we all relax,” I suggested, and went off to the kitchen. The door to the back porch was ajar, and Martha stood in the opening leaning against the wall and looking outside.

  “Martha,” I said, coming up to her and feeling the cold from outside, “what the hell is going on here? I invited them over, you invited them over. Let’s not throw them out. I feel as though I’m in the middle of an earthquake. Let’s all at least try to be civil. Let’s get through this thing like human beings.”

  “I’m all right,” she said.

  “Don’t mind Libby. If it’s any solace to you, she’s really quite miserable.”

  “If it’s any solace to her, so am I. So we’re even.”

  “So am I, damn it! Just control yourself. Turn around, Martha. Tell me what the trouble is.”

  “Married people depress me,” she said, not turning.

  “I thought it was divorced people.”

  “Why don’t you go back into the living room and entertain your friends?”

  And I went, but before I had even sat down again, Libby said to me, “I’ve been saying something ought to be done about that John Spigliano. Somebody should hit him in the jaw.”

  “He’s a pain in the ass, Libby,” I said, making a hopeless gesture, “nobody will argue that. There’s really nobody who can stand him. But you’ve really only got to ignore him.”

  “Suppose,” she said, “you have principles.”

  I smiled. “Still ignore him.”

  “Well,” she said, “maybe you can …”

  I tried now to ignore her. I looked over at her husband, who was leaning back against the sofa, his face marked slightly by a frown. “It isn’t a matter of me, Libby,” I said, “it’s simply the most sensible thing to do.”

  Paul leaned forward. “Oh but, Jesus, the circular symbols in Tom Sawyer.” He looked to Libby, who nodded in agreement. “What incredible horseshit,” said Paul.

  “Of course,” I told him. “I know.”

  “Then,” said Libby, no longer in a flat voice, “why don’t you say something?”

  I was puzzled for a moment, until I imagined again all the conversations that this couple—my old Libby—must have had about me. “Look, Libby, I was through all this last year. I shared your feelings exactly. But the best thing is to ignore Spigliano and do your job.”

  “We certainly didn’t have anybody like him at Reading,” she said.

  “So?” I answered. “That doesn’t prove anything here or there.”

  “It proves something,” she said.

  “Oh hell, Libby, you didn’t have to come here if you didn’t want to. I was led to believe it was so awful in Reading.”

  “Nobody’s blaming you,” Paul said now.

  “Well,” I replied, “isn’t that nice.”

  “Actually, we were probably better off in Reading,” Libby said, “where there weren’t all these phoney and ambitious people.”

  “Well, you could have chosen to stay there.”

  Paul was standing. “Libby’s not feeling well, Gabe—”

  “Oh balls,” I said, standing now myself, “Libby’s never feeling well.”

  “I don’t think there’s any need for that kind of remark,” he said, growing fierce.

  “There’s no need for anything,” I said. “You’ve got some appreciation of generosity—”

  “I told you Libby’s not feeling well—”

  “Well, I’m talking to both of you.”

  Suddenly Martha was in the room. “Could all of you stop shouting! Could my kids get some sleep, please!”

  Libby stood up and faced her. “We’re going, Mrs. Reganhart.”

  “Yes,” Paul said, taking his wife’s elbow. “I think we’d better.”

  I took a walk that night, by myself. I pulled up my collar and went all the way down to the lake, where the waters were behaving like an ocean, breaking onto the dark rock barrier, then rushing out with the sound of violent tugging. I could not distinguish where the black water ended and where the black sky began. What I saw—actually, what I could not see—frightened me, but I hung on as long as I could, looking straight out into it, as though fear might run through me like a cathartic, and leave me a less cautious man. Finally I broke away and dashed across the deserted park and onto the lighted streets. Walking back to Martha’s apartment very slowly, I did not do a great deal of thinking because I could not figure out what to think about.

  The table had been cleared and pushed back to the wall; the coffee cups, brandy glasses, and bottle had all been put away. I turned off the hall light and in the bedroom got into my pajamas, while Martha lay there with her eyes open, smoking. The bedside lamp was on, but her gaze was focused only on the smoke that rose above her head.

  I sat down by the window, pushed back a corner of the
shade, and peered outside. I said, “What a night.”

  Martha only pushed herself up a little, as though my remark had caused her some postural discomfort. Her hair was still down over her shoulders, and from time to time her eyes twittered from the smoke; that was all that moved.

  “It was stupid of me to have chosen to invite those people,” I said. “I should surely have realized what was going to happen beforehand.” She said nothing. “I don’t know why I felt the necessity to extend something that is really quite over. I should never—”

  “Gabe,” she said, “we have to do something about the money situation.”

  I rose, and I paced until I could contain myself.

  “I told you,” I said, “that I’ll pay for that bottle. If you want, I’ll make out a check right now. Or give you cash, if you object so strenuously to my checks.”

  “What about the groceries?”

  “Oh hell!”

  She went on smoking in that contemplative, bitchy, distracted way.

  “What’s come over you?” I asked. “What did I say? We’ve been through all this, over and over it, as a matter of fact. Okay, money is a problem, and I’m willing to work it out. But what is it you want me to do, Martha, pay for everything? Is that what you think will work better? Are you sure about that?”