by Philip Roth
“I don’t have to lie to mine either, Roy, if that’s what you mean.”
“But you are.”
“Because I want to!”
“Why?”
“Oh, why won’t you be a man about this! Why are you acting this way!”
“But you’re the one who’s hiding the simple fact that would make them all understand the whole thing!”
“Roy, do you honestly believe they will all love and adore me when they hear that I’m going to have a baby?”
“They’d understand is all I’m saying.”
“But only two people have to understand—you and me.”
“Well, maybe that’s all you think … with your family.”
“And what’s wrong with my family that isn’t with yours, Roy? Look, you, if you don’t want to marry me,” she said, “because someone has begun to tell you that I’m not good enough for you, well, believe me, you don’t have to.”
A moment passed. And another.
“But I do want to,” he said at last.
“Roy, I think you really don’t.” She buried her head in her hands. “That’s the truth, isn’t it? ‘Trust me, trust me’—and that’s the real truth.”
“Well … no … Well, you certainly haven’t been acting these last few days like the kind of person someone would like living in the same house with particularly I’ll tell you that … Suddenly you’re so—”
“So what? Lower class?”
“No,” he said. “No. Cold.”
“Oh, am I?”
“Well, sort of, recently, yes, as a matter of fact.”
“And what else am I?”
“Well, all kidding aside, Lucy, you’re just acting so angry.”
“You might be a little angry too, if you had agreed beforehand with someone—”
“But I don’t mean normal angry!”
“What?”
“Well—practically crazy!”
“You honestly think because I’m angry I’m insane?”
“I didn’t say I did. I didn’t say insane.”
“Who did say it then?”
“No one.”
“Who?”
“No one!”
“Maybe,” she said after a moment, “you make me insane, Roy Bassart.”
“Then why do you want to marry me so much?”
“I don’t want to!”
“Oh, then don’t do me the favor, you know.”
“I don’t think I will,” she said. “Because that’s really what it would be.”
“Oh, sure. And what will you do instead? Marry somebody else?”
“Do you know something, you? I’ve been getting rid of you since July, Roy. Since the day you took this room because it had a long bed in it, you—you baby!”
“Well, you sure are a slow worker, I’ll say that for you.”
“I’m not slow! I have sympathy for you! I felt sorry for you.”
“Oh, sure.”
“I was afraid you’d give up photography if I hurt your little feelings. But I was going to do it, Roy—on Thanksgiving Day of all days, and I would have, too, if I didn’t have to marry you instead.”
“Oh, don’t feel you have to, you know.”
“I thought when you collapsed, at least you’d be in Liberty Center, where you could go eat your Hydrox cookies.”
“Well, don’t worry about my crying, if I can put in my two cents. I don’t cry that easy, for one thing. And as for Hydrox cookies, that’s irrelevant to anything. I don’t even know what it’s supposed to mean, in fact. Besides,” he said, “if you wanted to drop somebody, don’t worry, you’d drop him. You wouldn’t bother too much about their crying either.”
“No?”
“… Because you don’t have emotions like other people.”
“Don’t I? And who said that?”
“Lucy? Are you crying?”
“Oh, no. I don’t have emotions like other people. I’m a piece of pure stone.”
“You are crying.” He came over to the bed, where she was stretched out, her face still in her hands. “Don’t. Please, I didn’t mean it. Really.”
“Roy,” she said, “who said I was insane to you? Who said I didn’t have emotions?”
“Ordinary emotions. Nobody.”
“Who was it, Roy? Your Uncle Julian?”
“No. Nobody.”
“And you believed him.”
“I didn’t. He didn’t say it!”
“But I could tell you about him too! Tell you plenty. The way your Uncle Julian looks at me! How he kissed me at your party!”
“This summer, you mean? But that was a joke. You kissed him back. Lucy, what are you even saying?”
“I’m saying that you’re blind! You’re blind to how awful people are! How rotten and hateful they are! They tell you I’m lower class and don’t have ordinary emotions, and you believe them!”
“I don’t!”
“And all on the basis of what? Why, Roy? Say it!”
“Say what?”
“My father! But I didn’t put him in jail, Roy!”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“He put himself there! That was years ago, and it’s over, and I am not beneath you or them, or anyone!”
The door opened; the light went on over their heads.
In the doorway stood the widow from whom Roy rented his room: Mrs. Blodgett, a thin, nervous and alert woman with a little coin-slot mouth and a great capacity for expressing disapproval by merely reducing the thing in size. She did not speak right off; she did not have to.
“Well, just how did you get in here?” Roy asked, as though he were the one who was outraged. He had moved instantly between Lucy and the landlady. “Well, how, Mrs. Blodgett?”
“With a key, Mr. Bassart. How did she is a better question. Stand up, you hussy.”
“Roy,” whispered Lucy. But he continued to hide her behind him.
“I said get up from that bed,” said Mrs. Blodgett. “And get out.”
But Roy was intent upon making his point. “You’re not supposed to use a key in another person’s door, for one thing, you know.”
“Don’t tell me the things I’m not supposed to do, Mr. Bassart. I thought you were an Army veteran, or so you said.”
“But—”
“But what, sir? But you don’t know the rules of this house, is that what you’re going to have the gall to tell me?”
“You don’t understand,” said Roy.
“Understand what?”
“Well, if you’d calm down, I’ll tell you.”
“You just tell me, whether I’m calmed down or not, which I happen to be anyway. I’ve had others like you, Mr. Bassart. One in 1937, and another right on his heels in 1938. They look all right, but the looks is about the whole of it. Underneath they’re all the same.” Her mouth became invisible. “Crooked,” she said.
“But this is different,” said Roy. “She’s my fiancée.”
“Who is? You just let her out, so I can see her.”
“Roy,” Lucy pleaded. “Move.”
At last he did, smiling all the while. “This is Mrs. Blodgett, my landlady, who I mentioned to you. Mrs. Blodgett”—he rubbed his hands together, as though he had been awaiting this pleasure for a long time—“this is my fiancée. Lucy.”
“Lucy what?”
Lucy stood, her skirt finally covering her knees.
“Why were the lights off and all that shouting?” asked Mrs. Blodgett.
“Shouting?” said Roy, looking around. “We were listening to music. You know I love music, Mrs. Blodgett.”
Mrs. Blodgett looked at him in such a way as to openly admit to skepticism.
“The radio,” he said. “We just turned it off. That was the noise, I guess. We just drove down from home. We were resting. Our eyes. That’s how come the lights were dim.”
“Off,” said the tiny mouth, disappearing.
“Anyway,” said Roy, “there’s my suitcase. We did just get b
ack.”
“Who gave you permission, young man, to bring girls into my house against the rules? This is a dwelling place. I told you that when you first arrived, did I not?”
“Well, as I said, we just drove down. And I thought since she was my fiancée, you wouldn’t mind if we rested.” He smiled. “Against the rules.” No answer. “Since we’re getting married.”
“When?”
“Christmas,” he announced.
“Is that so?”
Lucy was the one being asked.
“It’s the truth, Mrs. Blodgett,” said Roy. “That’s why we came down late from home. Making plans,” he said with another big smile; then he turned somber and penitent. “I may have broken a rule about bringing Lucy in here, and if I did, I’m sorry.”
“There are no ifs about it,” said Mrs. Blodgett. “Not that I can see.”
“Well then, I’m sorry then.”
“Lucy what?” asked the landlady. “What’s your last name, you?”
“Nelson.”
“And where are you from?”
“The women’s college.”
“And is this true? Are you marrying him, or are you just some girl?”
“I’m marrying him.”
Roy raised his hands. “See?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Blodgett, “she could be lying. That’s not unheard of.”
“Does she look like a liar?” asked Roy, putting his hands in his pockets and shuffling over toward Lucy. “With this face? Come on, Mrs. Blodgett,” he said winningly. “She’s the girl next door. Actually, she practically is, you know.”
The landlady did not smile back. “I had a boy in 1945 who had a fiancée. But he came to me, Mr. Bassart—”
“Yes?”
“—and told me his plans. And then brought the young lady around on a Sunday to be properly introduced.”
“A Sunday. Well, that’s a good idea, all right.”
“Let me finish, please. We then arranged that she might come here to visit until ten in the evening. I did not even have to make it clear that the door to the room was to be left open. He understood that much.”
“I see,” said Roy with considerable interest.
“Miss Nelson, I am not a close-minded person, but where I have my rules I am strict. This happens to be my dwelling place, and not some fly-by-night person’s hotel. Without rules it would go to rack and ruin inside of a month. Maybe you’ll understand how that happens when you’re older. I certainly hope you do, for your sake.”
“Oh, we understand now,” said Roy.
“Don’t ever try to trick me again, Mr. Bassart.”
“Oh, now that I know the ten o’clock setup—”
“And I know your name, young lady. Lucy Nelson. S-o-n or s-e-n?”
“S-o-n.”
“And I know the dean over at your school. Miss Pardee, correct? Dean of Students.”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t you ever try to trick me either.”
She started for the door.
“So then,” said Roy, following her, “at least we’re all squared away, anyway.”
When Mrs. Blodgett turned to show him what she thought of that last remark, Roy smiled. “I mean, we’re all forgiven and everything, right? I know innocence of the law is no—”
“You are not innocent, Mr. Bassart. My back was turned. You are guilty as sin.”
“Well, I suppose in a manner of speaking …” And he shrugged. “Now the rules, Mrs. Blodgett—just so I’m sure I’ve got them straight.”
“So long, sir, as the door is left open—”
“Oh, absolutely, wide open.”
“So long as she is out of here at ten o’clock—”
“Oh, out she’ll be,” said Roy, laughing.
“So long as there is no shouting—”
“That was music, Mrs. Blodgett, really—”
“And so long, Mr. Bassart, as there is a marriage, Christmas Day.”
For a moment he looked dumfounded. Marriage? “Oh, sure. Good day, don’t you think? Christmas?”
Mrs. Blodgett went out, leaving the door ajar.
“Bye,” said Roy, and waited until he heard the door to the back parlor being closed before he fell into a chair. “Wow.”
“Then we are getting married,” said Lucy.
“Shhhhh!”—rising up out of the chair. “Will you—yes,” he said all at once, for the parlor door had opened, and Mrs. Blodgett was headed back to the stairs. “Mom and Dad feel—oh, hi, Mrs. Blodgett.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “Have a nice sleep now.”
“It is nine forty-eight, Mr. Bassart.”
Roy looked at his watch. “Right you are, Mrs. Blodgett. Thanks for reminding me. Just finishing up talking over our plans. Night, now.”
She started up the stairs, her anger not much abated, it seemed.
“Roy—” Lucy began, but in two steps he was at her side; one hand he pressed to the back of her head, the other to her mouth.
“So,” he said loudly, “Mom and Dad felt that for the most part your suggestion—”
Her eyes stared wildly at him, until the bedroom door could be heard closing overhead. He took his wet hand from her lips.
“Don’t you ever—ever—” she said, so enraged that she could hardly speak, “do that again!”
“Oh, golly,” he said, and threw himself backward onto his bed. “I’m actually going off my rocker with you! What do you expect, when she was on the stairs, Lucy?”
“I expect—!”
“Shhhhh!” He shot up on the bed. “We’re getting married!” he whispered hoarsely. “So shut up.”
She was suddenly and completely baffled. She was getting married. “When?”
“Christmas! Okay? Now will you stop?”
“And your family?”
“Well, what about them?”
“You have to tell them.”
“I will, I will. But just lay off for a while.”
“Roy … it has to be now.”
“Now?” he said.
“Yes!”
“But my mother is in bed, and quiet down!” After a moment he said, “Well, she is. I’m not lying. She goes to bed at nine and gets up at five-thirty. Don’t ask me why. That’s how she does it, Lucy, and how she’s always done it, and there’s nothing I can do to change her at this stage of the game. Well, that’s the truth. And furthermore, Lucy, I have had it for tonight, really.”
“But you must make this official. You just can’t keep me living this way. It’s a nightmare!”
“But I’ll make it official when I think it should be!”
“Roy, suppose she calls Dean Pardee! I don’t want to be thrown out of school! I don’t need that in my one life, too.”
“Well,” he said, smacking the sides of his head, “I don’t want to be thrown out either, you know. Why else do you think I told her what I did?”
“Then it is a lie and you don’t mean it again!”
“It’s not! I do! I always have!”
“Roy Bassart, call your parents, or I’ll do something!”
He jumped out of the bed. “No!”
“Keep your hands away from my mouth, Roy!”
“Don’t scream, for God’s sakes! That’s stupid!”
“But I am pregnant with a human baby!” she cried. “I’m going to have your baby, Roy! And you won’t even do your duty!”
“I will! I am!”
“When?”
“Now! Okay? Now! But don’t scream, Lucy, don’t throw a stupid fit!”
“Then call!”
“But,” he said, “what I told Mrs. Blodgett—I had to.”
“Roy!”
“Okay,” and he ran from the room.
In a few minutes he returned, paler than she had ever seen him. Where the hair was clipped short at his neck, she could see his white skin. “I did it,” he said.
And she believed him. Even his wrists and hands were white.
“I did it,” he mumbled. �
��And I told you, didn’t I? I told you she’d be sleeping. I told you he’d have to wake her up and get her out of bed. Well, didn’t I? I wasn’t lying! And I wouldn’t be thrown out of school. Why did I say that! I’d only be thrown out of this room—and what difference does that make anyway? Nobody else cares about my self-respect anyway, so why should I worry about it? He doesn’t worry about it! She doesn’t worry about it! And you—you were going to scream! My self-respect, oh, the heck with that, all you want to do is scream and confuse people. That’s your way, Lucy—to confuse people. Everybody’s way. Confuse Roy—why not? Who’s he, anyway? But that’s over! Because I’m not confused, Lucy, and from here on out that’s the way things are going to be. We’re getting married, you hear me—on Christmas Day. And if that doesn’t suit people, then the day after—but that’s it!”
The door opened upstairs. “Mr. Bassart, there is that shouting again! That is not music, that is clear shouting, and it will not be tolerated!”
Roy stuck his head out into the hallway. “No, no, just saying good night to Lucy here, Mrs. Blodgett—finishing up the old wedding plans.”
“Say it then! Don’t shout it! This is a dwelling place!” She slammed her door shut.
Lucy was crying.
“Now what are the tears for?” he asked. “Huh? Now what hundred thousand things did I do wrong? Really, you know, maybe I’ve had just about enough complaining and criticizing of me, you know—from you included, too. So maybe you ought to stop, you know. Maybe you ought to have a little consideration for all I’ve been through, and just stop, damn it!”
“Oh,” she said, “I’ll stop, Roy. Until you change your mind again—!”
“Oh, brother, I’ll make that bargain. Gladly.”
Whereupon, to his surprise, she threw open the window, and out of anger, or spite, or habit left the room as she had entered it. Roy rushed into the hallway to the front door. Noisily he opened it—“Good night,” he called. “Good night, Lucy”—and noisily he closed it, so that upstairs Mrs. Blodgett would continue to believe that everything was really on the up-and-up, even if a little too loud.
Tuesday, Aunt Irene for lunch at the Hotel Thomas Kean.
Wednesday, his mother and father for dinner at The Song of Norway.
Thursday, Uncle Julian, a drink in the taproom of the Kean, lasting from five in the afternoon until nine in the evening.
