Philip Roth - Letting Go

There was a glow in the sky, a dusty red light thrown up from the mills in Gary; directly above our heads a neon sign gave off a steady buzzing. All it said was EAT. I held the door of the diner open for her and the only verb to describe her movement then is sashay. She sashayed on through.

Inside, the counterman said, “Look who’s here,” but did not unfold his hairy arms. He was leaning against the sandwich counter, a fellow with a brow like a bumper. “If it ain’t Miss Dixie Belle,” he said.

“How are you, Fluke?” Her tone astonished me; she’d become patronizing.

“We heard you was dead,” he answered.

“Well I ain’t.”

“No kiddin’,” Fluke said.

“No — no kiddin’!” She tossed her head, then let it whirl all the way around so that she was looking over at me, where I hung back by the door. I smiled. Theresa smiled back. It was like seeing a balloon deflated — and then the next moment seeing it full of air.

Fluke, however, did not seem to expect anything else from Theresa but this display of verve and wit. He did not appear to be too crazy about her, but exhibited the deference, at any rate, that one gives to people who are always on their toes. With a less benign look in his undersized eyes, he looked at me. It was obvious that he took a particular dislike to my clothes.

“What can we do for you, Tessie?”

“I’d like some Blackjack,” she said, “if you don’t mind.”

“Oh I don’t mind.”

“ Don’t you?”

“You’re sump’n, Dixie,” Fluke said, and with a groan — the groan of a man who totes around more thick dull tissue than the rest of us — Fluke raised himself off the sandwich bar and went toward the cash register.

“Five cents,” he said when he came back with the gum.

Theresa took the pack and turned to me.

“Oh yes,” I said, coming forward. I could not find any change in my pockets and had to give Fluke a dollar from my billfold. He didn’t like the billfold any more than the coat and hat. He put my change on the counter, mostly nickels.

“Here,” Theresa said to me, and handed me a stick of gum.

“Thanks,” I said.

“It’s your nickel,” she said, significantly. Then to Fluke, “You don’t look like you’re workin’ too hard.”

“There’s a recession startin’. Don’t you read the papers?”

“I read plenty of papers,” she retorted.

“Oh yeah?” said Fluke, and looked my way again as though I had introduced her to the pernicious habit.

“I read the Tribune ,” Theresa said. “I read the Sun-Times , and I read the Chicago Maroon , which you probably ain’t even heard of down here.” The last named was the University student newspaper.

“You’re a big reader,” Fluke said.

We stood knee-deep in the wake of that exchange for several minutes. Theresa unpeeled her stick of gum, and we all paid undue attention to the operation.

Fluke said, “Where you workin’?”

It was the question she’d been waiting for. “No diner, I’ll tell you that.”

“Yeah?” said Fluke, shutting his eyes. “Where you workin’? You workin’ even?”

“In Chicago,” said Theresa. “The Hawaiian House.”

“Big deal,” Fluke said.

“At least the customers wash their hands,” Theresa informed him, “after they come out of the john.”

She must have had him there, for it took him a while to regroup his troops. “You’re workin’ up by that school,” he said, “you better watch out or the Comm-uh-nists’ll get you.”

“So what am I supposed to do about that?” She tossed her shoulders and her coat fell open.

Fluke whistled. “Still the fashion horse, huh?”

“I do all right.”

“It’s gonna cost some guy a fortune just keepin’ you in underwear.”

“That’s not funny — that’s plain dirt.” She turned away, and I put my hat back on.

“At least, at least”—Fluke couldn’t keep a straight face for this one—“at least I didn’t say ‘panties,’ did I?”

“That’s not funny any more, Fluke,” she said. “You don’t know where to stop, that’s your trouble.” She came over and took my arm.

“Yeah?” Fluke said. “I oughta wash my mouth out with Mr. Clean.”

I opened the door — Theresa was waiting for me to. Fluke called, “Watch out for those Reds, Dixie, before they kidnap you back to Russia.”

She turned just her head, and that with disdain. “It so happens that people up there ain’t people down here.”

“You got it, kid, you got it,” said Fluke mysteriously. “Take it easy, Tessie. Take it easy, sport.”

Sport was me; Theresa had already swept out when I looked back to discover that Fluke had become a well-wisher; he raised a hand, and made a circle with his thumb and index-finger. Then he winked.

As I stepped out under the EAT sign, Theresa barged back across my path. She shouted in through the open doorway, “You can tell Dewey he can go straight to hell!”

When we were back in the car, driving south, Theresa offered me a nickel.

“That’s all right,” I said, and she put the nickel away.

She asked, “Can we turn the radio on?”

“Yes.”

“Are you mad?” she asked.

“No.”

“He’s just got a dirty mind. Fluke ain’t even his real name. He’s just a Polock.”

“I understand.”

She turned on the radio. “Which you like better?” She mentioned the names of two Chicago disc jockeys.

“Whichever you want,” I said.

She tuned her station in with care and patience, fiddling with the tone as well as the volume. Then, with the music pounding, she said, “See — I used to work there.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It’s not very nice down there,” she told me.

We drove on toward the outskirts of Gary where Theresa lived. As we approached, the red in the sky grew more intense, and we could see two pilot flames burning stiff above their towers.

Theresa was singing along with the record.

“Earth angel, earth angel ,

Will you be mi-ine?

Earth angel, earth angel ,

Will you be mi-ine?

“You better give me directions from here on,” I said, interrupting.

“Down by the next light you turn right.” She went back to her singing. The disc jockey was shortly telling all us guys and gals driving home in our cars, or sitting in our living rooms, or just moping around the house missing that special someone, where to buy a used car. Then he put on a new record, the words of which were equally familiar to my companion.

“I take it you feel better,” I said.

Her head was back on the seat. “I appreciate all you’re doin’, Mr. Wallace. Are you Martha Lee’s steady?”

To save wear and tear, I said, “No, just a friend.”

“Look—” she said, “you — you’re not the fella who’s goin’ to adopt my baby?”

“I’m not. If I was I would have told you.”

She considered what I had said a moment. “You better turn left now,” she mumbled.

Making the turn, I said, “I told you, I’m the intermediary.”

“Well, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it!”

“I didn’t think you’d meant anything by it.”

“You’re not mad, are you?”

“Look, I’m not ‘mad’ about anything.”

“Turn left and down the block,” she said, in a voice suddenly full of disappointment.

The street — endless tiny front yards and high brick stoops — must have looked no less bleak in the daylight than at night. Trains often pass through miles of just such streets and houses upon entering and leaving our great cities. In the gutter were five or six Christmas trees still waiting for the garbage man.