Philip Roth - Letting Go

“Right. I’ll call then.”

But she became bluer and bluer. “Should I get the map?” I asked. “Do you want just to see how far Springs is from East Hampton—?”

“Let’s sit here and enjoy the view.”

“Because you could come East with me. How does that sound? We’ll stay with my father and Mrs. Silberman. I’m sure they’d like it. I’d like it.”

“I just started work.”

“Delsey wouldn’t mind. Tell him you’re going to visit your children.”

“You don’t even know whether or not Springs is close.”

“The whole stretch of island is only a hundred miles.”

“I’ll be all right. I’ll call tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you call tonight if you want to.”

“Why don’t you let me decide for myself!” She got up and jumped down two levels of rocks until she was standing at the water’s edge, her back to me.

“Whatever you decided,” I called down after her, “you decided for yourself!”

She turned only her head. “Oh did I?”

That was the exchange, brief but to the point.

She made her way back to the blanket later and said, “I’m just having a few bad hours.” She put her hand on mine again. “It’s simply a matter of keeping control.”

“Would you like to have a drink?” I touched her arm, and when she moved toward me willingly, I touched her face. “Would you like to go home and take a shower and get dressed? We’ll go out to dinner someplace where it’s cool—”

“It’s too beautiful now. I want to stay.”

“Whatever you want,” I said.

“Gabe, really, though,” she said in a moment, “if you want to take a little trip … Nobody who doesn’t have to stay in Chicago for a whole summer should be allowed to feel that he must.”

“I don’t want to take a trip!”

“Okay then, it’s just an academic discussion. They’re nice to have too,” she said, but I wasn’t charmed.

Or softened, or forgiving. “Though sometimes you’re able to convince me that a trip wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“Then—”

“Then what?” I demanded.

“Nothing … I didn’t say it, see? The better part of wisdom is to be short on suggestions,” she said, with a cold look on her face.

“Is that directed against me by any chance, that remark? I don’t know that I’ve made any suggestions to you.”

“You’re a suggestion,” she said, flatly.

“I’m terribly sorry about that.”

“You’re not.”

“No, I’m not. I never made any promises.”

“I said you were a suggestion, not a promise.”

“Oh Christ, let’s stop this. Why don’t you come East with me? We’ll go together — that’s right, this is an outright suggestion — and you can see the kids—”

“Right now,” she said, standing and patently ignoring my remarks, “you know what I’d like to do? First, I too would like us to stop being accusative — imperative, whatever it is we are. Two, I’d like to get home and take that shower; and three, I’d like to go out to dinner, some place where we can eat outside.”

“We could drive East in a day.”

“Delsey needs me now.”

“Delsey has a big heart. Tell him why you’re going.”

“I don’t think it would really be a good idea.”

I got up too and put on my shirt. “If that’s what you want.”

As we started toward the car, she said, “But don’t think you can’t go—”

“I don’t.”

At home Martha said she wanted to pin up her hair, and she asked would I take the first shower. When I was finished I stepped onto the bath mat and opened the door an inch to let the steam out. Martha was on the phone, saying to the operator that she had been cut off again. She hung up and the phone rang; she picked it immediately off the receiver. I pushed open the door another few inches.

“Hello — hello, Dick? It’s Martha again. We were cut off. I said we were cut off — we still have a lousy connection.… How are the kids doing? … And Markie? … Are they in, can I talk to them? … I know it’s Saturday … What! … Well, can’t you wake them up? … For Christ’s sake, Dick, I’m their mother — what? … I said I’m their mother , I’m calling long distance.… I know it’s an hour later — will you please wake them up! … Then let them sleep late in the morning— please , this is costing money.… Okay, okay, yes.…” Silence. Then, “Hello — hello, Cynthia? Honey, it’s Mother … Mother —what’s wrong with this connection! Cynthia, baby, can you hear me? Come on, try to wake up. Rub your eyes or something — Mark, is that you? … Speak louder, darling. Speak into the phone … Cynthia, Cynthia, are you still there? Speak into the phone, darlings. Look, how are you? … Did you go swimming today? … I said, Did you go swimming today? Cynthia, let him talk — what? … Cynthia, sweetie, why don’t you write? … Well, ask him for paper.… Of course he’ll give you paper.… Where are all your envelopes I gave you with the address on them? … What? … Who left them where? I can’t hear you if you both talk.… Oh children, stop arguing, please, this is long — what? … Of course, darling, you send it, I’d love to see it.… Stephanie is fine, uh-huh.… Cynthia, please , it doesn’t matter if he hasn’t finished it. You send it anyway. Okay, operator, fine … Cynthia, you write, do you hear me? And watch your brother in the water.… Are you both all right? Do you need anything? … That’s fine.… He’s here, honey. No, dear, no, no.… Goodbye, honey — look, let me talk to your daddy — Mark? Markie? Let me — hello? Is anybody there …?”

She put the phone back on the hook, I turned the knob on the bathroom door and closed it.

While Martha was taking her shower the phone rang again. Later, when she came out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, I said nothing to her about my phone call, just as she had said nothing to me about hers. At first I was secretive out of a feeling that enough had happened for one day. But then sitting in the living room, waiting for her to dress, I wondered if I was not trying to spare Martha the possibility of feeling an ugly, an inappropriate emotion. Given our conversation at the lake and the phone call to Long Island, her response to my news might not be tonight what it would doubtless be in the morning.

It had become warmer all at once, and I sat without my jacket, my feet up on the window sill, watching the storm clouds begin to fill the sky over Fifty-fifth Street. Soon it started to rain and thunder, and grow darker. I sat in the dark with no light until a small lamp was flipped on behind me. I turned; Martha had come into the room, ready for dinner. The light was soft and fell in a flattering way upon the dress she was wearing; I could not remember having seen it before.

“You’re looking beautiful,” I said to her.

She remained standing where she was. “Thank you.”

“A blond girl,” I said, “with a suntan and her hair up—”

“And in a new white sharkskin dress.”

“It’s very lovely.”

“See my shoes?”

“They’re nice. It’s all very lovely.”

“I’ve never worn them before.”

“Maybe we should wait until it stops raining.”

“All right.” She sat down across from me and put her gloves on the little end table.

After a moment I asked, “Would you like a drink?”

But she didn’t seem to have heard. “This is what I wanted,” she said softly.

“Yes,” I said.

“And I like it — do you know that?”

“I thought you did.”