Letting Go

by Philip Roth

  “Then how did you get it back?”

  “Sid called somebody in the department—you remember Sid?—yes, well”—she was no longer so interested in the telling, but pushed hurriedly on to the end—“and some plain-clothes men came around, and then they—well, they called me at the office three days ago and said they’d located it. I drove down in the police car to a depressing little junk yard on the west side, and honestly, the junk dealer, who’d paid something like ten bucks for it, had tears in his eyes when I got in and the policemen towed me away. The battery had been taken out, and for some obscure reason, the little ash tray.”

  “But now you’ve got a battery—”

  “Oh it’s in perfect condition.”

  “One can see that all right.”

  “Oh yes? Wait’ll you see me driving around with my top down and my hair blowing in May. Then you’ll be brimming with envy, and I’ll just shoot by, nose in the cool air.”

  “Yes.”

  She turned back to her slender dinner—ah, slenderizing for somebody, he thought. What was wrong with the way she had always been?

  He waited to see what the effect would be of her gay anecdote. But it had been too gay; it had no effect. He was already beginning to regret having come, though only slightly. “I wouldn’t mind that glass of sherry now,” he said.

  “It’s in the closet, if you want to help yourself.”

  He poured the sherry and set the bottle on the table. He understood what she had told him: Go ahead, pal, get a look at the closet … at the new me. He could not keep his mind out of her mind. He remained standing and walked around the room while Martha continued with her meal. He pushed aside a branch of the tree and looked over the tinsel at their two automobiles on the street. To make the visit inoffensive, he supposed it was now his turn to be jocular. It was his turn to say that he too was getting along just fine. But what he wanted to pour forth was only the truth. His energies, born again this day, were spinning down.

  “I saw you buying this the other night,” he said.

  “The tree?”

  They were not facing one another. “I was on Sixty-third and I happened to see you.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “—smaller than I thought it was.” It was nearly impossible to think of what to say.

  “It’s smaller than I thought it was,” she answered. “I’m afraid it was my money’s worth, however.”

  Without much heart, he laughed. “It’s good sherry,” he said.

  “Are you sure I can’t offer you something? A celery?”

  “Thank you, no.” He came around to the chair facing her; he saw no sense in being anything but serious. “Well, Martha, how are you getting on?” It had not been his intention to sound fatherly, but he could not dissolve his feelings into words; he simply couldn’t find the right tone.

  She shrugged. “I’m getting on.”

  “Are you taking a course still? You said—”

  “As a matter of fact I am.”

  “What in?”

  “Well, Henry James as a matter of fact.” Making her admission, she used her hands in a way that was not very natural to her, or to anyone.

  “How do you like him?”

  She hesitated; then sat on both his eagerness and her embarrassment. “Not very well, I don’t think.”

  If she was going to be offhanded, he would be more offhanded. Tapping his glass, he said, “That’s too bad. I believe I once encouraged you to read some James.”

  “Oh that’s right … Well, his conscience gives me a pain, frankly. Oh—and do you want to know a phrase I’m not too crazy about? To put a fine point on it.’ Do you really like to hear about people going around putting fine points on it? Oh, and the other one—‘She hung fire’—what is that anyway? I hung fire, you hung fire, we hung fire. The girls at my school all hung fire. He writes a little bit like a virgin, don’t you think? I mean I think he has a very virginal mind, to put it mildly.”

  “That strikes me as an extraordinarily virginal remark.”

  “Well,” she said, standing and walking around the table to the door, “you should know that it isn’t.” In the hallway she opened the refrigerator; then back in the room she asked, “Would you like to share my yogurt?”

  “I meant critically virginal.”

  “I asked if you were interested in some yogurt.”

  “I have the sherry, thank you. Martha, it’s no blow to me if you don’t care for James.”

  “I didn’t intend it to be. You asked what I thought, so I told you.”

  “At least we continue to fight our battles,” he said, with a mild display of anger, “on the headiest of planes.”

  She turned, apparently thought one thing, and then said another. “Who’s fighting?”

  “I’m not.”

  Sitting down across from him again, she said, “I’m not either.” She looked at him for a moment. “I’m hanging fire. Have I got it right?”

  “You’re still a semi-cheery girl—”

  “Why shouldn’t I be? There’s nothing for me in gloom, Gabe. I’m getting married, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t … Yes, I did.”

  “Which?”

  “I just did hear about it, that is. Sid told Libby Herz.”

  “Yes? How is she?”

  “The baby will be legally theirs next week.”

  “So Sid said … It seems Theresa was married—”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve heard about it?”

  “Yes.” Dying to say more, he said nothing.

  “Apparently it’s gotten a little complicated.”

  “So I heard,” he said. “When will you be getting married?”

  “We haven’t set a date. There are some other matters.”

  “Of course.”

  Silence.

  “… How is Cynthia?”

  “Are you asking if she’s the other matter?”

  “Well—”

  “Because she is.”

  “How is she?”

  “She’s living in Paris with her father.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Neither did very many of us, till recently.”

  “I see.”

  “Apparently she’s all right, Gabe. I don’t mean to be sounding secretive. We just learned a few weeks ago that Dick’s divorced again. He was going to arrange to keep it a secret from us.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’ll all work out,” Martha said. “You know …”

  “How did you find out?”

  “June Reganhart stopped off here, on her way to Hawaii or some place—to convalesce from him.”

  “And to tell you?”

  “We had lunch together. She wasn’t a bad girl, you know. She wasn’t silly.”

  “I thought she seemed decent.”

  “Too decent for that son of a bitch. He finally hit her too. But she’s a higher class girl than I am. He only had to smack her once. But in front of that poor baby.”

  He thought: she does not mention Markie at all.

  “By the time she grows up,” Martha said, “she’ll have seen quite enough, don’t you think?” She carried her dishes over to the small marble washstand and stood there longer than was necessary to rinse the two plates. Her pose was so familiar—her weight on one leg, her head bowed—and so much did he desire her, so much was his desire to touch her and his desire to blot out the past one single yearning, that he walked to where she stood and put a hand to her hair.

  She told him no. He put his hand down. The stirring within him was not just lust; lust was subsumed within it. He had to undo all that had been done, do what had not been done. He walked off and sat down again behind his glass. She had suffered most; she still suffered most; he would respect what she wanted of him. He would go slow; to go slow and to be immovable were not mutually exclusive. He thought of Cynthia in Paris. He thought of Markie dead. He thought of it squarely.

  “So what happens
with him in Paris?” he asked.

  She turned, as though having recovered herself. “It’ll be worked out. We can only do what we can.”

  “Do you want him to send her back then?”

  She closed her eyes a moment. “Yes. We do.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you? You’ve been saying that since you came in.”

  He could not believe that she really wanted to be callous. But perhaps that was only self-deception on his part. He did not answer.

  “I’m marrying him,” she said, “because I want to.”

  “I can only offer my congratulations.”

  “I’m not asking for your approval.” She brought a glass with her from the sink and sat down opposite him. “How about you pouring me a little sherry?”

  “To the second Mrs. Reganhart,” she said, with feeble witty intentions. “To her recovery in Hawaii. That’s my last duchess hanging on the wall, et cetera.”

  They drank. Then Martha moved across the room, onto the India print, placing a throw pillow between her head and the wall. “And what about you, Gabriel?” she asked. “What are your plans?”

  Apparently she had only gotten up to be more comfortable. Having sparred, were they now going to talk, at last? “Well”—he turned his chair to face her—“I’m leaving Chicago. In May.”

  “Forever?”

  “I think so. I’ve applied for a job in Turkey—a lectureship in Istanbul. And also one in Greece.”

  “You’ve obviously got your heart set on Turkey, I can see.”

  “I’ve got my heart set on leaving, in a way.”

  “Well, to Turkey,” she said, and sipped at her glass. “How is your father?”

  “He’s getting married, you know, next week.”

  “I remember. It’s still going to happen?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “You don’t sound as though you’ve suffered a conversion to Silbermanism. Isn’t that …”

  “I think of it as Fayism myself. No, no conversion.”

  “Why don’t you just fly to the wedding and storm through the church doors and say, ‘No! I, I—’ What’s his name? Ulysses’ son?”

  “Telemachus.”

  “I—well, you get the idea.”

  Of course, he had had the thought himself. “You’re full of literary allusions these days.”

  “I’m the oldest kid in my class. I have to set an example. Oh Gabe—”

  “Yes?”

  “I was only teasing, partially, about Henry James.” Again he felt that she had not said what had first come to her. “I was being, specifically, not to put too fine a point on it, a sort of, what could be called an, though not entirely, aesthetic bitch.” She had her knees up under her; leaning forward she nearly toppled off the bed as she placed her glass on the floor. “I think he makes a lot of sense.”

  “That’s swell. The whole department will be relieved.”

  “Now you’re going to be the bitch?”

  How could he help it? He was imagining her married to Jaffe—and resenting Jaffe too, for not even having mentioned to her his trip to the Bigonesses. Of course, it might be that Jaffe had not spoken with her since the day before … Nevertheless, he still would not tell anyone himself!

  Unfortunately, this time there was no strength to be derived from the decision.

  “—is virginal.”

  “What?”

  “Pull your chair up if you can’t hear.”

  “Yes.” He dragged his chair over to where Martha sat. She was smiling at him.

  “The fat girl who types theses lives next door,” she whispered, “and she puts an empty water glass to the wall. To hear.”

  “To hear?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what,” he said, not amused, “does she get to hear?”

  “Oh. Discussions. About Henry James. A little Browning.”

  “And that excites her?”

  “Well, she’s terribly fat.” He did not know what to make of her girlishness or what to do with it. He did not know if she was up to what he began to believe she was up to. “No, look—I was saying, when your eyes fogged over, that you do get the feeling that old James, for all he does know, doesn’t really know what goes on when the bedroom door snaps shut. It seems to me that people live more openly with their passions.”

  “More openly than what?”

  “Aren’t you following me? Than in James—”

  “All people?”

  “Well, no, of course not … I suppose I live more openly with mine …”

  “Yes?”

  “Than you, I suppose—for one.”

  “I see.”

  “You see still again?”

  “I’m never quite sure, Martha.” It was not meant to be a summation of his way of life; she took advantage nevertheless.

  “That’s what I mean,” she said. “I’ve done what I’ve felt strongly about.”

  “I thought you were going to talk about James this time without being a bitch. I thought, in fact, you were going to talk about James.”

  “I’m talking about passions. I’ve gone out on a limb once or twice, is all I said—”

  “And now?”

  “Right now, or now?”

  “Both.”

  “I don’t know, Gabe—”

  He kissed her; she said, “Let’s not, no,” but he had managed to twist her about and force her backwards. His passion for her was so intense, had so much to do with the alteration he had believed his life to have begun to undergo in the last twenty-four hours, that it overrode his other powers. He could not talk; he could not reason. His weight upon her, he forced his hands onto her body, and she thrust him away. It was all very clumsy … “Please,” she said, “the door is open—”

  He went to close the door; when he turned, Martha was standing. He tried to kiss her again. “What do you think you’re doing?” she said.

  Compromised by his having been pushed from the bed, compromised further by the adolescent ring to her words, his pride beat once, beat twice, but could not really sustain itself. “Are you going to put me on the spot, Martha? Are you going to make me explain myself?”

  “I don’t want to sleep with you.”

  “With whom else then?”

  “Please, don’t put on that you’ve been cuckolded—”

  “Is that what you’d call putting too fine a point on it?”

  “I suppose that’s what he means.”

  They kissed again. Martha’s feet slowly gave way; they were backed onto the bed, face to face. He held back none of his weight, none of his passion. Then she pulled away; she reached up and caught him with a stiff open palm squarely on the side of the head.

  He sat up at the foot of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his face hidden.

  “I can’t afford this,” she said, and stood.

  “I thought the first thing you might say,” he told her, not quite looking up, “would be apologetic.”

  “I take my life more seriously than that.” He heard the faucet begin to run at the other end of the room. He tried not to speak again until he had himself mostly under control, but he could not wait that long.

  He asked, “Did you plan on that?”

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s the only thing you’re ever overcome with then, my friend—desire. Aside from that you’re a perfectly prudent man.”

  His jaw tingled, and his eye too, where a fingernail had nicked it. He pulled himself up. The dampness at the edge of his lash was not a tear, so it must be a drop of blood. On the floor before him was a shoe of his, on its side. He tried to put it on standing up, but finally he had to sit down to manage, and he was humiliated. He went to the closet for his coat, while Martha said nothing.

  “You might have sat in your chair, Martha,” he said, “and saved us this. You might not have talked so fetchingly about your passions. You have a long finger, Martha, and you beckon with it. Prudent is not the word to descri
be you—”

  “Why don’t you please go?”

  He felt totally dislocated; with his coat on and buttoned he still could not believe in the last three minutes.

  Martha was lighting the two candles on the table just to be doing something. “I can’t afford to sleep with you. I hope you at least understand that.”

  “You can with him?”

  “That’s right.” She spoke stiffly. “I think I can.”

  “Even when you were supposedly committed to me?”

  She walked to the Christmas tree. “Who are you to talk about commitment?”

  “I know, Martha—”

  “You don’t know a God damn thing.” Then, caught, she lost control, or gained it. “I’ve had a penchant for jelly-filled men, but I’ve gotten over it. I’ve spent my life associating with the wrong kind of men, one way or the other.”

  “You only get in bed with whomever you want—”

  “That’s exactly the case—”

  “—when you want.”

  “Shut up. Please go. You can’t make me feel rotten over something I couldn’t even help. I’ve given up being self-destructive. That’s right, I’m going to bring some order into my life. There’s order in this world, and I’m due for my share of it.”

  “I hope you get it.”

  “Why shouldn’t someone else aside from you? Why should it be only you who get away unscathed?”

  “That’s another virginal opinion, Martha. Nice and narrow.”

  “Are you going to tell me about your fine conscience? Those little pains don’t even begin to count. Don’t kid yourself—your conscience and James’s conscience both give me a pain in the ass, if you want the truth.”

  “And your own?” he asked viciously.

  “Mine’s fine! Sid Jaffe happens to be a fine man. He’s not jelly cither. He’s going to get me my baby back, do you know that? If he has to fly to Paris and get that son of a bitch guillotined, he’s going to get her back here. And then I’m going to have an orderly life—do you hear? Don’t ever try to get me in bed again, you! And don’t worry about my conscience. Worry about your own. I’m not playing it safe. I’m using some sense for once. I’ve let go and let go and let go—I’ve let go plenty. I’ve had a wilder history than you, by a long shot. I’ve got a right to hang on now. Don’t ever get in bed with me again. Ever!”