Philip Roth - Letting Go

“Martha Lee said you was the doctor—”

“No, I don’t think she did. There must have been a little confusion. She must have said that I’d tell you about a doctor.”

Her mouth became so thin a line that I could hardly see it. “Who are you? ”

“I’m a friend,” I repeated, “of the people who are interested in the adoption. Look, you don’t have to worry about a thing. I’m just an intermediary, a go-between, you see. I’ll answer any questions you have, and so forth. Is that okay? Really now, you don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“ I’m not worried,” she said, pathetically.

“That’s fine.”

“I thought you was the doctor. See, I just have to get to a doctor.”

“Of course …”

“ ’Cause I’m from Shelby County — Kentucky?” she said. “And I know, you see, all this snowin’ and the bad weather and all—?”

“Yes?”

“I know it’s just”—she flushed—“affected my monthlies. A few warm days and I’ll be myself again.”

“Miss Haug, haven’t you been to a doctor yet? Didn’t a doctor tell you you were pregnant?”

“He weren’t no specialist. Just a plain old doctor.”

“Well, these people,” I said, “are quite willing for you to see an obstetrician as soon as you like.”

She seemed angry. “What people?”

“The people who want to adopt your baby.”

“What am I supposed to do about that?”

I made believe I hadn’t heard. “They’re very decent people, I assure you. They’re very anxious to give this baby a home. I’m sure they’ll give it a good home, and all that it needs.”

I could see that everything I had been saying was entirely beside the point as far as she was concerned. Nevertheless I went on. “The father—”

Here she came alive. “Oh he don’t care!”

“He does,” I said.

“Look, he ain’t got nothin’ to do with it!” It was her first display of passion and I realized that we were talking about two different people.

“Is this person in Chicago?” I asked.

“If you don’t mind?” she said. “I’m not interested in talking about this person.”

“You don’t think he’s interested in the child then?”

“I don’t know—” she said, “I hardly know him.”

I tried to accept that, blank-faced.

“You see,” she said, leaning forward so as to whisper, “I keep, well, throwin’ up — and well, now I’m really wonderin’ if it couldn’t be some kind of appendix condition. In the stomach?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think it would be appendix.”

“You’re no doctor,” she said.

“That’s right. But neither are you.”

“That don’t mean nothin’. I had an aunt — my aunt? and she lived in our house, and she had an appendix, real bad? And all she was doin’ was throwin’ up left and right.”

“That may be. How old was she?”

“She’s my aunt—” Aunt had two syllables. “Seventy.”

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty, next month.”

“Well,” I said, “there are a lot of physical conditions that can make a person nausequs. Appendicitis is certainly one, so is food poisoning—”

“I don’t think I got that,” she said, shaking her head.

“Pregnant women often become nauseous too, you know.”

After a moment, in a small voice, she asked, “You think I’m goin’ to have a baby?”

“I’m no doctor, Theresa, but I think so.”

“Oh boy …” She rested her forehead in her hands.

“But you knew that, didn’t you?”

She blurted out, “Well, what about me? What about when I quit work? What happens to me?”

“What do you mean, what happens?”

“I have to live, I have to rest. Gee whiz, mister— money. ”

“Theresa, calm down. You have to understand that I’m only an acquaintance of the family. So I can’t tell you much about money. They’ll … look, I’m going to give you the name of a lawyer, Mr. Jaffe—”

“I can’t pay no lawyer. Oh boy,” she cried. “I need a doctor. Now Martha Lee told me—”

“You’ve got to calm yourself. You don’t have to pay anybody anything.”

“I paid somebody a hundred dollars already. And I don’t know where he is at all.”

“Who?”

“He was goin’ to get me a doctor …”

“You can’t find him now?”

She shook her head.

“That’s too bad,” I said.

She widened her eyes. “That’s awful. ”

“Look now, you don’t have to worry about anything like that. You won’t pay anything. The lawyer arranges the necessary papers so that it’s all legal. You simply have to grant permission to the couple so that they can adopt your baby. The baby. The lawyer will speak to you about the arrangements. His name is Sidney Jaffe. He’s right here in Chicago, so there’s no trouble or expense—”

“He’s a Jew?” she asked, a twang in the last word.

“I think he is.”

“Uh-oh.”

“What’s the matter?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It just makes me sort a nervous.”

“Well, don’t be.”

“Mister?”

“My name is Wallach. Gabriel Wallach.”

“I want to go to a Catholic hospital, mister. With the sisters. I ain’t goin’ by no Jewish hospital, you better tell that to that lawyer.”

“I will.”

“I want to go by the sisters, you understand now? There was a boy, back home? And he got hit by a car, and he was just alayin’ there in the road? And then they take him in the ambulance to the Jewish hospital — and they set all his bones and everything, and they gave him ether and all stuff like that, so he was knocked out good, and then counta he was a boy, they made a Jew out of him.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You know,” she said, “what they do to ’em.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Oh mister …” she cried, and she put her head right down on the table and let the giggles sweep in and conquer her. It took awhile, but finally she sat up and told me, “That’s what they say anyway. He was a nigger, so must be. You ever been to Shelby County?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s my home.”

“Theresa, are you a Catholic?”

“I gotta right to be anythin’ I want,” she said sharply. “This here is a free country.”

“I was only curious. I didn’t think there were many Catholics in Kentucky.”

“Well, you’re wrong!” she shot back. “You must be thinkin’ of Republicans.”

I said I supposed I was.

“At least you’re a Catholic, somebody takes care of you, I’ll tell you. I want to go by the sisters. Now you got to tell that lawyer — I don’t want no Jewish hospital!”

“I’ll tell him. I don’t think there’ll be any difficulty. Now Theresa”—I took a breath—“could I ask you when—”

Suddenly she was blowing out air, as though she’d just finished a race. “I don’t think I feel too good. I think maybe, maybe I ought to go right on home.”

“Well, if you’re not well, sure—”

“I’m just a little tired out.”

“Of course.”

“Do you know where the train is?”

“You don’t have to take the train. I’ll—”

“I think maybe—” But then she wasn’t thinking anything; she ran off to the lady’s room.

As I was driving her to Gary, Theresa said to me, “I think I need some gum.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any.”

“Can’t we stop?”

“I suppose so.”

“See that diner up there? Could we stop there?”

I pulled off the road and onto the gravel parking area around the diner. I wondered if the girl was going to be sick again and quickly got out of the car and came around to open her door. Inside I saw Theresa running a comb through her orange hair and twisting the rear-view mirror to get a look at herself.