Letting Go

by Philip Roth

  Actually June didn’t like him to kiss girls at all. That was what they had been arguing over when her father had thrown his egg. He had said that June didn’t even want him to talk to them, to stand within ten feet of them; June said that wasn’t so, he said it was, she said it wasn’t—and then the two halves of his plate were rattling on the floor and Markie was pointing at the egg sliding into the sink. Looking steadily into her cereal bowl, Cynthia had been able to imagine how it all had happened: on the Griffin’s lawn, where the party had been the night before, her father must have gone up to a girl who was there and kissed her. Cynthia was even able to imagine the girl, in a billowy dress and patent leather sandals like her own new Papagallos … Now whenever her father kissed her, she believed that partly it was to spite June, and she knew that would make June angry at her, make her cross the way her old mother used to be.

  So in the Reganhart household, matters of affectionate display became complicated for a while: first June would kiss Markie, then her father would come over to kiss Cynthia, and Cynthia would have to run out of the room, or up the beach, or to the far end of the garden to get away from him. Which made her father angry with her. For the time being she did not want to be kissed by anyone. She had not, however, pushed Markie from her bunk because June preferred to kiss him, or because she had thought her little brother had himself wanted to kiss her. She had pushed him out because he did not belong there in the first place. He was going to do something to her. She had not had to explain to anybody why she had pushed him, because nobody as yet had asked what had happened. Nobody had scolded her and nobody so far had said what the punishment was to be.

  When she was being driven to the beach in June’s convertible, her stepmother asked her, “Did you see it, Cynthia?”

  “See what?”

  After a moment June said, “See Markie fall.”

  And Cynthia replied, “I was sleeping.” And then she knew that what she had begun to suspect was not—as usually happened—simply what she was beginning to hope for. She knew that she was not to be punished at all. June had taken one hand from the steering wheel and put it on top of Cynthia’s head, gently.

  No one knew what had happened. Only Markie, and he didn’t know either. He couldn’t, for the same reason that he couldn’t have been going to do something to her—he had been sleeping. But of course she didn’t know that anything really had to be done. If it was the right month and a man got into bed with a lady, that was that. Her father had a penis like Markie’s, and she, June, her mother, and Mrs. Griffin all had vaginas. All men had penises. They were what gave you the babies.

  At Barnes Hole, where the beach was touched by an endless silver bay, she decided that she did not even want to get out of the car.

  “Don’t you feel well, dear?” June was asking.

  “I don’t want to go here.” She had a sense of some new power that was hers; but now that she was at the bay, at the brink of a regular day, the familiarity of the landscape and the routine was not the comfort she had been expecting it would be.

  “Where would you prefer to go?” June removed her sunglasses. While she rubbed her eyes Cynthia had to turn away—their redness embarrassed her. “Would you like to visit somebody?”

  “I just don’t want to go here, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Well, how about the ocean beach?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Honey, where would you like to go?”

  “Oh, the ocean beach is okay.”

  She did not look up to see what the effect had been of the little snarl in her voice. But looking down she saw that June’s slender suntanned hand, the one with the pretty blue ring, had curled over hers again. In a moment the car had turned and they were headed for the ocean. The wind blew her hair—a delightful cool feminine feeling—and she could not help herself: she was smiling. It was because she had had to look straight into Markie’s blood that she was receiving so much care and attention; she knew this, but she continued smiling anyway. The truth was that she deserved special attention; the sight of the red blood creeping down the floor boards had nearly turned her stomach. She had cried and become hysterical, and she had screamed and screamed. She remembered now what it was she had screamed: “Markie fell! Markie fell out!”

  And hadn’t he? Well, hadn’t he? If not, then June would be punishing her now instead of rewarding her with kindnesses. If anyone at all had pushed Markie it was God, who had seen that it was a sin for her stupid little brother to get in bed with her when they weren’t married.

  They were driving along the road that led between the trees to Amagansett. “Don’t you like Barnes any more?” June asked.

  “The water’s dirty.”

  “I thought it was so clean—”

  “I don’t like it there! I’m not going there!”

  “Nobody’s making you,” June said, and that, she thought happily, was the case. At the edge of Springs they approached the small grocery store with the gas pump out in front. June pulled the car over and parked by the steps that led up to the store. She went inside to make a phone call, while Cynthia waited in the car and spelled out the sign over the doorway.

  H. Savage—Groceries and Gas

  Barnes Hole Rd, Springs

  It had turned out, of course, that there was no hole at Barnes at all. She had looked for it during the first week of her stay. By herself she had walked the long stretch of beach, and then she had even enlisted Markie, but he was no help because he kept seeing holes, virtual abysses, that weren’t even there. At low tide she went off alone, dragging her legs through the receding waters, but with no luck; at last she had to come back up to the blanket, her nose wet and the ends of her hair damp, and ask June where the hole was. June explained to her that it was only a name given to the place—officially it was called Barnes Landing. But all the ladies continued to smile and she realized that it was something a child wasn’t supposed to know. And she was right—that same afternoon a boy with large ears had let her hang onto his tube with him, and he seemed so helpful she had decided to ask him where the hole was. He had pointed between her legs and then ducked her under the water.

  She looked up the steps. Nobody in the dark store was near enough to see her; all she could make out were June’s white sandals and one hand holding a Kleenex. She slid down into the crevice of the front seat of the convertible. Pushing her bathing suit aside, she put her finger a little way inside herself. So far, no baby.

  Soon June emerged into the sunlight, but her expression was impossible to figure out. She had on dark glasses and was wearing her big straw coolie hat—the one Markie used to like to parade around in—and a blue jumper over the top of her bathing suit. Cynthia thought she looked like a man, but then she came down off the little porch swinging herself like a lady, and got into the car.

  “May I turn the radio on?”

  June nodded and they started away.

  “Is it okay if I listen to music?”

  “That’s fine,” June said.

  Turning all the knobs, she asked, “Did you call the hospital?”

  “I spoke to your father. Markie’s resting—Cynthia, could you tune it down just a little?”

  “Is he unconscious?” She had heard earlier that he was.

  “That just means he’s getting a good rest, Cynthia. It’s the body’s way of making sure we get a good rest.”

  “Will he be all right then?”

  “Of course—” June said. “Cynthia, please lower the radio—”

  “But then I won’t be able to hear it—”

  June did not answer. Cynthia listened to the music, her concentration not so intense that she did not notice the tears moving down June’s cheeks. “Well, when he comes home,” Cynthia said, her hair blowing wonderfully out behind her again, “we’ll have to teach him not to fall out like that any more. He was never very careful. Even my mother will tell you that.”

  Only four other cars were parked at the end of the street leading down
to the ocean beach; it was not yet noon. Cynthia raced around to help June take the blanket and folding chair out of the trunk. From the trough in which the spare tire sat, she un-wedged her pail and shovel, which she had hardly played with all summer. She grabbed Markie’s pail and shovel too, and dragged both pails along the pebbles of the parking area. Then she waited for June to tell her to put Markie’s pail back where it belonged. Instead, her stepmother reached out and smoothed the top of the child’s hair.

  They spread the blanket out where the beach began its slope toward the water. A wave had rolled in a moment before, and the four or five people floundering in the sudsy wake were all laughing and calling to one another. To Cynthia the waves looked large and unfriendly. She carried her pails down to where the sand was wet and started to dig, turning regularly to see what June was doing behind her. A book was open on her stepmother’s lap, though she did not seem to be reading it. She did not seem really to be doing anything.

  When her sand castle had been washed away, she looked back to see that her stepmother was talking with Mr. Siegel. Pretending to hunt for seashells, she cut a zigzag path up toward the blanket. By the time she was close enough to hear, they had stopped saying anything.

  “Hi, Cindy Lou,” Mr. Siegel said.

  She ran to where he knelt in the sand beside June. “We saw your television program the other night, Mr. Siegel,” she said.

  “Well, let’s hear the dark news,” he said. “What’s my rating, friend?” She knew that he was one of the people who liked to pick up Markie all the time. Markie, however, was in the hospital this particular morning.

  “Oh I loved it!”

  “Come on,” he said, “you’re kidding me.” He tossed a handful of sand at her feet. “I understand you’re a skeptic about TV. Your father tells me you’re an intellectual, that you spend your mornings looking through books on Brancusi.”

  “I like TV though,” she said. She had not quite gotten the sense of all he had said to her. “It was really funny when that old grandfather started slicing up that turkey and then it fell right in his lap. Boy, did I begin to laugh—didn’t I, June?”

  June smiled, barely.

  “Hey, does anybody want to go in the water?” Cynthia asked.

  “Water?” said Mr. Siegel. “What water?”

  Cynthia’s laughter was uproarious.

  “Not right now, honey,” June said.

  She knew that Mr. Siegel and June were anxious to resume their conversation, and she knew what they had been talking about. “When are you going to write another program, Mr. Siegel?”

  “Now I know you’re on my side, I’m going to get right home and start one this afternoon.”

  “For me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Wow!”

  “This time two grandfathers and two turkeys!”

  “That’s great!” she said, and she went skipping down to the water. She heard June calling after her, “Be careful—” with the result that she skipped right on down to the edge, as though she hadn’t heard at all. A wave was rising a little way out, and the sight of it unnerved her. But she took a step directly forward, into the sea—and waited. She did not have to wait very long.

  “Cynthia—please—”

  The child turned. She had been able to get June up off the blanket; she had even been able to move her some five or six feet toward the water.

  “Okay,” Cynthia said, and she hopped on one leg up to where her pails lay, and flopped down in the sand beside them.

  “Please, be careful, Cyn, please,” June called, and just at that moment she heard Markie’s head hitting the floor. A little sound came out of her mouth, but then she saw that it hadn’t been Markie’s head at all, only a wave collapsing onto the flat blue surf. It made her think, however. When Markie came out of the hospital he would have to wear a bandage. She decided she would be very generous to him then. She would tie his shoelaces for him and put his toys away without anybody asking.

  Though the hit on the head would probably knock some sense into that kid.

  She spoke these words out loud; when she tried them a second time, they made her giggle. The hit on the head will probably knock some sense into that kid. Boy, that little kid didn’t know anything … What she knew for sure and didn’t need anyone to tell her, was that she was much smarter than her brother. She was an exceptional child—that was what the teachers at her new school said. She had the mentality of a ten-year-old, which made her five years older than Markie. She had reason to be proud of herself. When she was an adult she would be more intelligent than others. They would all have to come to her to ask what the best thing was for them to do.

  Cynthia suddenly felt herself so full of pep, so convinced that life was made for pleasure, her pleasure, that she jumped up and went racing toward her stepmother. Because she had seen Markie’s blood she knew she could finally get June to agree to take her in the water. She wanted to walk right into the ocean holding June’s hand. She left Markie’s pail and shovel where it was and went flying to the blanket—but there was a man walking down the beach in her direction. She was momentarily stilled by the familiarity of his gait. Everything about him was so familiar, though at first she could not think what his name was. It did not take her very long, however, to remember, or to stop being able to forget. But where was Mommy? Mommy had come with him to see Markie in the hospital! Mommy would find out that she had pushed him! Well, she hadn’t—he fell! That’s what he got for committing a sin.

  “June,” she called, “can we go—”

  But Gabe had already seen her. He had come to catch her for her mother. All she could do now was scream and run into her room, but they were not even in the house. They were on the wide beach, under the bright sun, and he was so big that wherever she fled he would find her and bring her back.

  In the second before he removed his sunglasses, she wondered if she might not be mistaken. Then his hand reached out—and yes, oh yes, oh what would happen—

  “Hi, Cynthia. Hello.”

  June looked to see who it was. Cynthia thought of making believe that he was a strange man, for she was not supposed to speak to strange men. But when her mother appeared, it would be evident to everyone that she had been lying—and then they would know for sure that she had pushed her brother.

  “Hello,” Cynthia said.

  “You remember me?”

  “Uh-huh. Gabe.”

  “Well, how are you? You look brown as a berry—you look healthy and grown-up and—”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Where’s your little brother?”

  Cynthia shrugged.

  June was standing. “I’m Mrs. Reganhart.”

  Gabe extended his hand. “I’m Gabe Wallach. How do you do? I’m a friend of Martha Reganhart’s. From Chicago.”

  Now Cynthia looked up to where the cars were parked. She recognized Gabe’s car as soon as she saw it—and inside she could make out the figure of her mother; she was crouching in the back, spying on her. This was not the first time that the child had had occasion to suspect her mother of spying. When she had first arrived at her new school in New York, she had been certain that her teacher, Mrs. Koplin, was actually her mother in disguise. Then one rainy afternoon Mrs. Koplin’s husband had come to pick her up; he had been carrying an umbrella, and Mrs. Koplin had called him Herb, and she had said that before they went home they must stop first at the A&P on Twelfth Street. And when she said that, Cynthia had known that Mrs. Koplin wasn’t her mother after all. Yet she had been so certain … Now, however, she could actually see who the woman was, crouched in the back of the car. Cynthia started to whistle and to look up at the sky and to kick her toes into the sand. She was being watched and she did not intend to do a single thing wrong. If she could manage, she wanted it to seem as though she were having a very good time.

  “—in the hospital—”

  “—how long?”

  “—he’ll be all right, of course—”

&n
bsp; Cynthia turned so that her mother could see only her back. Turning, she saw Markie’s pail bobbling up and down at the water’s edge. It was just about to be washed away, and if it was washed away who would they blame but her! They would blame her, and then they would start asking questions—Fast as she could, she started down the beach, her arms outstretched toward the pail.

  “Cynthia—”

  “Cynthia, what—”

  “Cyn—” Just as she got hold of the handle, somebody grabbed her arm. It was Gabe; behind him stood June, her mouth open, her hand up to her pale cheek.

  “Cynthia—oh Cynthia,” June said, “what are you doing? Never—”

  “Getting Markie’s pail.” She did not know whether it would help any to cry.

  “Oh … Oh, Cynthia, that’s a good girl, that’s fine—oh honey, don’t go near the water alone—not today.” It was June who seemed as though she were about to weep.

  “I won’t,” she said, and she hoped her mother had seen just how much June worried about her and took care of her. They all started up the beach, and while June moved off ahead, Cynthia asked Gabe, “Why doesn’t Mommy come out of the car?”

  He smiled. “Martha’s not in the car, Cynthia. She’s in Chicago.”

  “What’s that?” she said.

  “You mean that, in the back seat? That’s a beach umbrella. That’s my father’s beach umbrella.”

  “Yes?” She took another look. She felt as she had when Mrs. Koplin had called her husband Herb.

  “Martha’s in Chicago,” he said. “She has to work. I’m visiting with my own father in East Hampton. I thought I’d come over and say hello. Your mother wanted me to.”

  “How did you find me?”