Philip Roth - Letting Go

“And I said I don’t know anything about the father either,” Gabe told her.

Libby looked up at his steely face. “You don’t have to be rude!”

He focused on her a mean, bored expression, while Paul said, “Let’s just conduct this business—”

“Well, I am,” said Libby. “You can’t expect me to jump in. We don’t even know anything about the father.”

“He’s probably a student,” Paul said.

“Oh sure, he’s probably a faculty member,” Gabe said, as though to himself.

Oh the cruel bastard! He had no respect for what she had been through. “Well,” she said to him, “it’s just a matter of establishing something, if you don’t mind.”

“Through an agency,” Gabe said, “you wouldn’t know any more.”

“As a matter of fact we certainly would. They try to match you up, the parents and the infant — coloring, eyes, general—” But she drifted off, for he was not listening.

“Look,” he was saying to Paul, “you do with this whatever you want. May I go now?”

Paul didn’t even look at him; apparently he couldn’t. He shrugged, and it seemed as though he were straw, not flesh, under his coat. “You’ll have to do whatever you think best,” he said.

“Fine,” Gabe said; he started out of the kitchen.

“Well, we have a right to know ,” Libby shouted after him. “It’s our lives. You don’t have to be so huffy about it.”

He turned and leaned in the doorway, one hand on either wall. “Can I go?”

“Well”—she was swallowed up by panic—“we don’t even know anything about her— ”

“Paul knows.”

“Oh — yes?” And now she did not want to hear another word. The mother was a call girl, a dope addict — the mother was Martha Reganhart!

“May I leave now?” Gabe asked.

“Oh go! ” Libby shot back. “If you’re so impatient, go, get out of here — we don’t want to keep you.” She found that her husband was openly staring at her. His eyes, his kind eyes … Oh yes, she had been found out.

“Libby,” Gabe said, “why don’t you use your head—”

“Don’t start insulting us,” she demanded, and now she quickly turned her head and met Paul’s eyes. Why didn’t he protect her? Oh cruel men — cruel heartless self-absorbed bastards!

“Libby,” Gabe said, softening, “I got this information and I thought you might be interested in it. And — and that’s it, that’s all there is to it.”

“Well, isn’t that nice. We’ve just been going through perfect hell trying to adopt a baby, so you needn’t think it terribly generous of you to imagine we might be interested.”

“Oh screw it,” he said, and started down the hall.

Libby rose out of her chair, crying after him, “But we don’t know anything!”

“We know, we know,” Paul reached across with his hand.

“But what do we do?” she cried. She looked at Paul. Would he know what to do? Poor Paul? Poor trampled-on Paul? “Gabe, what do we do?”

She heard him call, “You get in touch with her. You better see her …”

She ran to the hallway; at the end of the apartment she saw just the paleness of his face and his hand on the knob. “No—” she said, “I won’t — I can’t—”

The hand on the knob turned; his feet, thank God, stayed put. “Then Paul sees her,” he said. “When you get everything settled you can get a lawyer, and he’ll take it from there. Maybe it would be best to get a lawyer in right at the beginning. Look, Libby, he knows all this—”

She turned back to her husband. “A lawyer,” she moaned.

Paul was moving toward her with his arms extended; she could no longer read the expression on his face. “It’s all right — we’ll talk about it—”

“We don’t know any lawyers. Lawyers cost a fortune—”

“I’ll take care of it,” Paul said. He took hold of her arms. “We’ll take care of it. We still have the agency. They’ll send somebody soon. Relax, honey, we can wait. If you prefer, if it will make you feel safer, then we’ll wait and work through the agency. I thought you didn’t want to wait, that’s all.”

“Oh no,” she said, “oh no no no,” but she could not tell him anything, not now, not today. “Oh it’s ugly and sordid, and everything’s always the same.”

“Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying! Do you see me crying? I’m just making a statement. Everything’s ugly and sordid! Can’t I say that?”

“Sure.” His hands dropped from her arms.

“Oh Paul—”

“I’m going.” It was Gabe’s voice, faint, almost gone. “I’ll be going now.”

“Go! Just go!” she cried. “That’s it — close the door and go!” But she came charging down upon him. “You just go, damn it. And thank you. Oh yes, don’t think we don’t appreciate everything either. We appreciate every tiny single thing you’ve ever done, Gabe. Oh we kiss your high and mighty ass, Gabe, don’t you forget that. Thank you, thank you for this helpful hint, we thank you a million times. Kind Gabe—” she said, shaking her fist, “so kind he probably went out and impregnated a little eighteen-year-old student, especially for us—”

“Why don’t you watch what you’re saying, Libby.”

“Why? Can’t you stand a little horror in your life? I can. Paul can.” And she thought: I can’t. Paul can’t. Too much already. Now more. Paul will meet the mother, take her to doctors, pay her bills, listen to her sad story, watch her weep. He will remember her face and carry it with him through life. She will be the mother — I’ll be the stepmother. He’ll see her face, her eyes, her hair, her tears— then who will I have!

“—don’t want your appreciation,” Gabe was saying, “so don’t kid yourself about that—”

“Oh but we appreciate so much,” she said. “Don’t you know everybody loves Gabe, all his charm and benevolence? How can any of us help ourselves? All the world loves Gabe, but who does Gabe love? We’re all waiting to hear— who? Oh you’re something, Gabriel, you really are—”

His hands were fists; that big chin of his was leaning out at her. “What is it you want, Libby? What is it you’re after now?”

“Oh, I don’t want anything from you!” She felt Paul’s hands come down on her shoulders.

“Cut it out, Libby, control yourself—” Paul was saying.

But she was flailing her arms, to be free. “Nothing. You do what you want. People don’t tell you what to do—”

“People tell me plenty,” Gabe said. “Too God damn much!”

“Oh do they?”

“Yes!”

“Then let me tell you—” and suddenly her voice had dropped, and it was harsh, deep, pleading. “Let me tell you— don’t make Paul do it! Don’t make Paul see her! Gabe, please, the last thing— ”

“I should never have come here, Libby—”

“It’ll kill us. It’s our baby, not hers. Ours! Please! ”

“Libby” … “Libby—” Both men were calling her name, and in the dim hallway they swooped down around her and lifted her off the floor, where, on her hands and knees, she was begging.

Although Theresa Haug’s pale blue uniform — the same washed-out color as her eyes — swam around her hunched shoulders and permitted a good two inches of air to circulate about her frail upper arm, it had nevertheless already begun to hug her belly. She had been seduced in November; perhaps October — this was yet to be established.

I watched her clear a table and then try to take an order from one booth while she dealt with a complaint about an underdone steak from another across the way. Her helpless confusion was not a pleasant sight, but given my mood and the turnings of my mind, it was almost preferable to having to watch Mark Reganhart inhale his French fried potatoes, the last of which lay on his plate, a squad of broken-backed, tortured soldiers oozing ketchup at every fork wound. All of Markie’s infantile habits, toward which I had felt kind or neutral at other times, had begun to exasperate me in the last few days. I was about to snap at him when I remembered, I am not his father, he is not my son , and turned away.