Letting Go

by Philip Roth

  “Oh I just asked anybody on the streets, you know, where Cynthia Reganhart was, and they said you were down here by the ocean.”

  “We don’t even usually come here.”

  “Then I suppose I was very lucky. I expected to see Mark too.”

  “Well, he’s in the hospital.”

  “When you see him will you tell him I was here to visit?”

  “Okay. He has to learn not to fall out of his bed, that’s all.”

  June was standing by the blanket; she had closed her book. “Mr. Wallach,” she said, “could I ask you a favor? Will you be here awhile?”

  “A little while, yes—”

  “Could you stay a few minutes with Cynthia? Do you mind?”

  “No, no, I’d like to—”

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Cynthia said.

  “No, dear. You stay with Mr. Wallach. All right? I just have to phone.”

  But it wasn’t all right! He would start to ask questions, just as her father had. When she answered, he would become angry. Her father, she remembered, had turned red in the face; she had heard him tell June that Martha was irresponsible beyond imagining, that she just had hot pans. Cynthia had wanted to say that hot pans weren’t dangerous so long as you kept the handle in toward the pilot light, but she had not dared say anything. She had, in fact, liked his being angry with Martha, only it frightened her, and that made her think that perhaps she didn’t like it. Finally she had asked June if she had done something to anger her father too; and June had explained. Usually, she said, you slept in bed with somebody after you were married and not before, though different people did, certainly, have different beliefs. June said she wanted it clear to Cynthia that her father was angry with her mother and not for a moment with Cynthia herself. Then she had gone on to say that this was natural too; divorced people often had differing opinions—it was what generally decided them to be divorced and live separately.

  Now that Gabe had her alone, she knew that he would ask her questions too. He would ask if she had told. She wanted to go off in the car with June, but June was running up the beach, and Gabe was sitting on the blanket as though he belonged there.

  “Well,” he was saying, looking up at her, “how do you like New York, Cynthia? It’s a big city, isn’t it?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Are you having a pleasant summer?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Well, you really take things in your stride. Just okay?”

  She took a quick look down at him. “Uh-huh.” Maybe he wasn’t going to ask if she had told about him and Martha sleeping in the same bed—but then she knew from experience that adults did not always ask what they wanted to know right off.

  Gabe was leaning back on his elbows, and he did not say anything more. He seemed to be thinking about himself. He was wearing a blue shirt and white trousers and his feet were bare. She kept wanting to look at his feet, but she was afraid he would catch her.

  “Is your father still a dentist?” she asked.

  “He still is,” he said. “You remember?”

  “You know,” she said, “my mother didn’t take very good care of my teeth.”

  “Didn’t she?”

  “I had four cavities when I got here.”

  “All kids have cavities,” Gabe said. “I used to have cavities, and my father was a dentist, with an office right in our house.”

  “Markie didn’t have any,” she said.

  “Mark’s too small probably. Little children his age just naturally don’t get cavities. I think Martha took care of your teeth, Cynthia. Didn’t she take you to Dr. Welker?”

  She chose not to answer. He would take Martha’s side in anything; they had slept in bed together, so he had to. “Well, it wasn’t funny when they had to start drilling,” she said.

  “I’ll bet it wasn’t. Are you all right now? Let me see?”

  “I suppose so,” she said. She wouldn’t let him look in her mouth; it was none of his business. “Except where I hurt myself this morning.”

  “Where?”

  “My elbow. Right here.”

  When he leaned over to look, she knew he would see that she hadn’t hurt herself at all; it was Markie who had fallen. He tried to touch her and she jumped. “Oww! Watch it.”

  He looked at first as though he was going to be mad at her; then he was bending his own arm up and down from the elbow. “Just move it like this,” he said. “That should make it feel better.”

  She bent it up and down once. It did feel better; she felt better.

  “Does that help any?” Gabe asked.

  “Yes, I think so.” She bent it twice more. “Oh yes,” she said. “Would you like to make a sand castle?”

  He looked at his watch. “I don’t think so, Cynthia.”

  “Would you like to watch me make one?”

  He smiled.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Do you have to go home?”

  To this he shrugged. “Cynthia, I really don’t know.”

  She did not understand him. Did he or didn’t he? He leaned back again and was no fun. No one was. Except sometimes Markie. She would tickle her brother until he couldn’t hold it in any longer, and then, with that funny look on his face, he would give in and wet his pants—and then he’d start to cry. But he didn’t even get punished for it. June would come in and pick him up and hug him, even though his legs were all wet. Cynthia would sit on the lower bunk and watch until little Mark was promised something or other that would make him stop crying. He liked to be tickled, but when it was over and his pants were changed, he would say that she had made him do it. She wondered if he had come up into her bunk this morning just to be tickled. Well, it wasn’t her fault—he wasn’t supposed to climb that ladder to her bed anyway. If he fell it was his own fault. She didn’t want anybody in her bed with her at all. It was irresponsible. Probably Markie thought he was going to give her a baby because she wasn’t married. That’s what could happen, of course. June said that one of the most important reasons for getting into bed with somebody was to have a baby; that was why her father felt it was only for married people. Otherwise, her father said, it was a damnshame. And a damnshame, she knew, was the same as a sin—and a sin, for example, was leaving hot pans around on which children could burn themselves. It showed no regard for your children, that was for sure.

  She turned on her belly and looked up at the parking lot. Yes, it was still a beach umbrella in the back seat. She found herself wondering if June was going to come back—not in a few minutes, but at all. It might be that all the adults were going to make a switch; maybe that was why Gabe was here. Maybe it had all been arranged beforehand, even Markie’s falling out of the bed. June and Markie and her father would go one way, and then she and Gabe would have to move back to Chicago and live with her real mother once again. Then she could get to see Stephanie. And Barbie. That might even be fun. And she wouldn’t have to sleep in a double-decker bed any more, so there’d be no accidents to worry about. She could sleep in her old bed and her mother could read to her from that Charlotte’s Web book. They would get to have dinner at the Hawaiian House, and her mother would bring extra-thick milk shakes to their table because she worked there and knew the cook personally. She could see Blair and Sissy in Hildreth’s. She knew that Sissy was probably going to have a baby from sleeping in bed with Blair; she knew they slept in bed together because one night she had seen them, before her mother had made Sissy move out. If they were all in Chicago then Markie wouldn’t be in the hospital right now. She wondered if Markie would ever stop being unconscious.

  “Markie’s unconscious,” she said.

  “Is he?” She could not tell whether or not he had known.

  “He just lay there, and then I screamed and my dad came. I didn’t see him fall. I was sleeping.”

  “Well,” said Gabe, “he’ll be all right, Cyn. I don’t think you have to worry.”

  “I’m not. I think he was sleeping
anyway. I don’t think he was unconscious. He’s not even supposed to be in my bed anyway, you know.”

  He looked down at the blanket. Didn’t he believe her? “Well, he’s not! Ask anybody!” she said. He would always take her mother’s side against her father, so how could he know anything!

  “I want to go in the water!” She could not think of anything else to say.

  “Yes?”

  “But,” she said wearily, “somebody has to take me, and nobody ever will.” That was a lie; her father took her—but Gabe couldn’t know that either. She waited, but he did not even answer; he always seemed to be thinking about himself.

  Finally he asked, “Would you like me to?”

  “To what?”

  “Take you into the water.”

  “You can’t. You have pants on.”

  “Want to see a trick?” he said, standing.

  “What?”

  He began to unzip his trousers. She couldn’t bear to watch; she wanted to close her eyes, to bury her head in the sand. Oh she didn’t want to see! He was so big and he would have one just like Markie’s, and it would look so awful. But she could not bring herself to close her eyes; she could not even move them away, let alone cover them with sand.

  What she saw was a tan bathing suit. “And now I’m ready to go swimming,” Gabe said. He threw his trousers onto the blanket and reached down and offered her a hand. His legs were all covered with hair, she got a good look at them as he pulled her to her feet.

  “Aren’t you going to take your shirt off?” she asked.

  “Don’t you want to just play at the edge?”

  When he said that, there was a wild pounding in her chest, a surging, something akin to happiness, but more violent and sudden. “Uh-uh,” she said. “I want to go all the way in—if you hold me.”

  “Do you usually do that? It’s getting a little rough.”

  “I do, though. If there’s a grownup.”

  She waited for him to take off his shirt. “Okay,” he said, and when he took her hand and they started down the beach, the sea was so sparkling and blue that there seemed to be no boundary between the affection she felt for those waters and for the companion who walked beside her. Both filled her with delight. She began to wish that Gabe was her father and June was her mother—she especially wanted June to be her mother if she was going to keep touching her hair the way she had all day. Her real mother and father could have Markie, and then everything would be even; no one would be gypped.

  By the time she reached the water’s edge, she was not sure that she wanted to go through with it. Under the waves, which rushed toward her, it would be black and cold. But there were the people, ten or fifteen of them now, being knocked down and swept backwards, and all of them laughing and having a good time. The sunlight on all the wet heads made them look polished.

  “Let’s go out there,” she said. “Okay?” She pointed to where the bathers were.

  “Well, okay—”

  “Can you carry me in? I don’t like the shock.”

  “Of what?”

  “The cold water shock. Carry me?”

  Gabe put his hands under her arms. “Here we go—” and he lifted her up. “Now hold on,” and he began to wade out.

  When he stopped the first time, she said, “Hey, further.”

  “Wow, what a brave girl you are, Cynthia Reganhart.”

  “Come on, further—”

  “Hang on tight.”

  “Okay.”

  “Hang on now—”

  “Oh oh oh—” she yelped into his ear. “Oh—keep going—oh oh look—”

  “Hang on—hang on—” Gabe called.

  “Whooo!” she yelled.

  “Ready, get set—”

  “Heeeeere—”

  “Wheee—”

  She was looking straight up as it came curling over their heads. Gabe squeezed her to him, and she pressed her arms around his neck, and the wave was hanging over them, as though it would never break. She closed her eyes, held her breath, and crash! It came flowing down all over them, and she felt the two of them floating, and then their heads rose above the water, and Gabe’s hair was hanging into his eyes.

  “You look funny!” she shouted.

  “So do you!” They were in water only as high as Gabe’s knees, and the other bathers were rubbing their eyes and some were blowing their noses right into the ocean.

  “I wasn’t even scared,” she said into his ear.

  “Fine. Hang on. There’s another one coming.”

  “This is fun—”

  “Close your mouth, you dope!”

  “Then I can’t taaaalk—” she screamed, and the wave rolled in and over. Gabe held her tight and they came up right through the foam.

  “Whew!” he said. “Are you all right?”

  “Uh-huh.” Gabe was wiping her nose off with a handful of water. Oh she didn’t just like him—she loved him! She wondered when he was going to kiss her.

  “Do you have to go back to Chicago?” she asked.

  “I think so, Cynthia.”

  “Today?”

  “No, not today—”

  “Will you come play with me?”

  “Well, we’ll see—here comes one!”

  “Oh it’s a big—”

  “Hang on tight!”

  “Ooohhh—”

  Oh she was glad Markie was unconscious! Oh what a good time! What a tall tall wave! It teetered over their heads and she pushed her face into Gabe’s neck, and she waited—and then something collided with them. She felt herself and Gabe tumbling, and then Gabe was gone and she was still tumbling, but alone. Her feet were up and her head was down, and the water wouldn’t let her rise. She tried to stand but there was no bottom for her feet. She was rolling, away across the sea, and she swore, oh she swore that she loved everybody. She swore it, but no hand reached down to pick her up. I love Markie Mommy Daddy June Gabe everybody—Please, Markie, I’m sorry—

  Her head was in the sunlight. She had thought that she was way out beyond the buoys, but when she looked up she saw she was almost up on the dry beach. Sand was beneath her hands, and a big fat man was sitting in the water next to her. He was breathing very loud, and when he saw her sitting there, he said, “Some wave, kid, huh?” His belly hung over the top of his suit, and all the time he was getting up he kept saying, “Whew! Whew!” He started up the beach, and then Cynthia saw Gabe running toward her through the low water.

  “Are you all right?” he called. “Cynthia, hey, come here—give me your hand. What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

  “You let me go,” she said.

  “We got knocked into, honey. Come on, give me your hand. Are you all right? What is it—?”

  She allowed herself to be helped up. But she refused to cry. She knew that he had let her go. She started up toward the blanket by herself.

  Then it was dark again and she was in bed. Downstairs Mrs. Griffin was reading a book. Cynthia had not seen her father all day, and a little while ago June had gone off to the hospital too. She had left directly after dinner, when Mrs. Griffin had come to sit with Cynthia. June had said she was only going to kiss Markie good night and then would be back. The drive to the hospital was fourteen miles; for herself Cynthia did not believe that kissing anybody good night was that essential. It was mostly for babies. Gabe had used to kiss her good night in Chicago, and that was because he thought of her as some sort of baby who could be tricked by a kiss; she had never liked that. She had never liked him; now she remembered. He had made her mother unhappy. If it hadn’t been for him, her mother would have married her father again. But he took her mother into the bedroom and closed the door and made her get into bed with him and say she wouldn’t marry Cynthia’s father. Whenever Gabe was nice it was only a trick. Today was a perfect example—he had wanted to get back at her for what she had told her father. He would probably try to get his hands on Markie too, and drown him; she had better warn her little brother about that.


  She leaned her head over the side of the bunk so that it would be upside-down and make Markie laugh. “Hey, Markie—look at me, booo-aaaa!”

  His pillow was puffed up, but he wasn’t there. He was still in the hospital—how could she forget that? His bed had been made for him and the floor had been mopped up too. The sight of his pillow, all ready for his bleeding head, gave her the shivers; it almost made her cry, but she wouldn’t allow it to. It wasn’t her fault that he had fallen. He had no right to get in bed with her. She did not want to marry him. She did not want to marry anybody. When she had a baby she didn’t want to have a strange baby that she didn’t even know; she wanted the baby to be her. Little Cynthia. She would have a lot of regard for her baby. When the baby wanted to cry she would hold it so that it could put its head on her breasts. By then she would have them … She picked up her pillow, doubled it over, and sank her own head down into it. The pillow was a mother … And then she couldn’t help it, she was crying. She was all in a jumble. She missed her mother. She really did. She wanted to see her, to put her head right into her mother’s breasts—and yet two days later, when all the adults had returned to the house from the funeral, Cynthia had her chance and did not even use it. She sat beside June all through the afternoon, and it pleased her that her mother saw when June reached out and smoothed her hair back for her.

  Six

  The Mad Crusader

  1

  If someone had asked Gabe what he had been doing for the last five minutes, he could not have given a satisfactory answer. He couldn’t remember—at least not until he looked around and saw where he was. His faith in his own ability to tell where and what he was about had diminished with the oncoming of winter. It had already begun to diminish in the autumn, when he had returned to Chicago. Of late he was not always very lucid; however, the realization that he wasn’t came to him only in moments when he was. Otherwise he did not fully sense that he was no longer observing and understanding in the ways that he was used to. In the most lucid moments, he could not decide whether that might not be a form of self-improvement. But mostly he was without irony.