Philip Roth - Letting Go

“There,” Theresa said, and I pulled up near the end of the block. The house she pointed to still had screens on its windows.

The radio was playing rock and roll, and Theresa asked if she could stay until the record ended. Her head moved with the beat, and when I looked over at her, I saw that her nose tugged up on her lip so that in profile you could see her two front teeth. She did not look as though she could add two and two.

“Who do you like?” she asked. “Frankie Avalon or Fabian?”

“I’m not sure which is which.”

“Well, you were listenin’ to Fabian.”

I said that it seemed to me that he could carry a tune. We sat in the radio’s glow for a moment, and then when the record was over, Theresa began to cry. I turned off the motor.

“Certain songs make you think of certain people,” she said.

“I guess so.”

She blew her nose. “Mr. Wallace?”

“What is it?”

“You been so nice. And kind.”

“Everything will be all right soon,” I said.

“You’re the most polite man I ever met. All that standin’ up and sittin’ down.”

“You’re in an unfortunate predicament.”

“You don’t need to tell me,” she whimpered. “Can you walk me to my door? I think I’m feelin’ funny again.”

She waited this time until I came around to her side and opened the door; it had all become a meaningless parody of decency. At the top of the stoop, she took out her keys and let us in. The hallway had the tomby smell of an unvacuumed place; at the rear we came to another door, which she unlocked. Inside I could see the foot of a bed and, on the linoleum floor, a pair of snappy imitation-leopard slippers.

I said, “Theresa, the next thing will be for Mr. Jaffe—”

But she had turned and was sniffling again, her frame dropped against my own.

I put my hands on her arms. “It’ll be all right. Try to keep control. Mr. Jaffe—”

“Do I see you again?”

“It’s best for you to see the lawyer—”

“Don’t I see you again?”

“If it’s necessary,” I said.

Meekly: “Could you come in and talk to me, Mr. Wallace? I just feel awful.” She stepped inside and pulled a string; the bulb lit up four flowered walls, the bed, a cardboard closet — a hulking thing that reminded me of Fluke — a stained little sink, and a table jammed with soaps and powders. Photographs torn from magazines, all of pudding-faced boys in open-necked shirts, were pinned to the walls.

“What’ll happen about the doctor?” Theresa asked.

“I told you. It’ll all be taken care of.”

Her coat dropped off her, though I had not seen her undo the dollar-sized buttons. She left it where it lay on the floor, and dropped, sighing, onto the bed. The springs sang, and I could not believe in the blind willfulness of my body’s parts. Theresa hit the bed — and my blood responded, as though she were some other woman; as though she were a woman.

“What is it you want to talk about?” I asked.

“I thought there was more you wanted to talk about back in the restaurant.”

“For instance?”

She couldn’t think of anything; not right off. “Suppose it’s twins.”

“That’s nothing to worry about.”

“What d’yuh mean? People have ’em. Ain’t you never seen twins? Twin boys or somethin’?”

“Twins, triplets, or whatever, you have nothing to worry about.”

“Suppose it’s a moron.”

“It’s not going to be a moron,” I said. She seemed to take this as a compliment. “Is there anything more?”

“Well,” she said, “I just thought there was more you wanted to talk about.”

“I don’t think there is.”

“You been a regular gentleman, Mr. Wallace. You don’t see much of that in the North, you know.” Then her eyes filled up again. “You been so polite and nice …?”

“Goodnight, Theresa.”

“Mr. Wallace?”

“What?”

“I ain’t never been this way before. I don’t know if I can do it alone.”

“I’m sure it won’t be as difficult as you imagine.”

“What happens when it starts hurtin’? I’m all alone.”

“But you’re not alone, you see.” “I sure am.”

“I meant to say we’re all trying to help.”

“I’m still alone ,” she said. “It ain’t easy for a girl. I’m always hearin’ people turnin’ my doorknob and all kinds of funny things. There’s always somebody behind me, you know? I don’t like it alone.”

“What is it you’re asking me, Theresa?”

“I don’t know …”

“Are you asking that I stay with you?”

She looked away from me. “I don’t understand.” But then she shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“If you don’t know, don’t provoke.”

“I don’t understand you ,” she said in a mean, Southern drawl.

“I said don’t invite trouble!”

“I don’t understand what you’re shoutin’ for! Who said you got a right to shout at me!”

I took her blouse button out of my pocket and set it on the foot of the bed. “They’ll get in touch with you,” I said, and holding the door open only for myself, I left, unable to believe in my body’s pulsing, unable to believe in my own temptation.

The apartment I returned to was not Martha’s but my own — cold, musty, and unlived-in. I did not even bother to turn on the lights. The shades were drawn, making it black and to my purposes; I sat down in my bent-laminated-wood chair and tried to find sense in the lust that had so recently visited me, in the desire I had not willed, wanted, or satisfied. I contemplated the desire as though it were the act itself … For if in the eyes of the law there is a no man’s land of innocence between the itch and the scratching of it, in the eyes of the citizen himself, who has his own problems, the one may render him just about as culpable as the other. I looked for sense; I looked for cause. I did not remain alone there in my hat and coat trying to be especially hard on myself — hardness or softness had little to do with it. I was, I think, in a state of dread. At bottom I did not feel certain about what I would say or do to the next human being I made contact with. I cannot say for sure whether, in the bedroom of that unfortunate girl, something had been hooked up inside me or disconnected, but what I knew, what I felt rather, was that within that maze of wiring that unites a man’s mind, heart, and genitals, some passage of energies, some movement, vital to my being, had taken place. There are those synapses in us between sense and muscle, between blood and feeling, and at times, without understanding why, one is aware that a connection that has occurred in oneself — or that has failed to occur — has been a pure expression of one’s character. And it is that which can bring on the dread.

Later, my phone rang. It was Martha and she asked me if I wanted to come home.

She said, opening the door, “I’m sorry I had to get you out.”

“I was taking a breather, Martha.”

“You were coming back?”

“I think so.”

“You didn’t know?”

“I didn’t know for sure.”

“If I’d realized that, I wouldn’t have called.”

“You realized,” I told her, “and you called anyway.”

“You might as well come all the way in,” she said, and left me alone at the door; a moment followed in which I might have gone back down the stairs and away. I considered it, and then moved into the apartment. It was as though I had been drawn in by that faint Hawaiian House odor that clung to Martha’s uniform; it was not that I liked the odor particularly, only that I had grown used to it. In the living room she said, “You can even take your coat off.” She sat down beside an ash tray thick with butts. “What were you going to do about all those classy suits?”