Philip Roth - Letting Go

“All that sun and the water and the peace, and then a man in a fresh batiste shirt and a silk tie waiting for me in the living room so we can go to dinner. Even the rain, even the thunder.”

“We’ll go as soon as it lets up.”

After a while there was a jagged lightning streak across the sky, and a crash, and our one little lamp went out; in the kitchen the refrigerator stopped humming.

“It’ll go on in a minute,” I said.

“I called the kids,” Martha told me.

“Did you?”

I could see only her white dress in the dark and her white shoes. “When you were in the shower,” she said.

“How are they?”

“Markie left all his envelopes in the rest room of a Texaco station. But they sounded fine … Gabe?”

“Yes.”

“I think if you go East you better go alone.”

“You want me to go though?”

“A little time apart,” she said, after a moment, “might not hurt.”

“Will it help?”

“What’s to be helped?”

“You’re the one, I thought, who’d been indicating that we’re at some sort of crisis.”

“I don’t think we are,” she said.

“I didn’t think so either.”

“I told you I liked it. It was an agreeable day. I did laugh.”

The light went on, and Martha stopped speaking; and I was moved, even made lustful in a curious self-contained way, by the cold beauty she radiated.

“You look very voluptuous and healthy in that dress,” I said, “and in control.”

“When we come home we’ll make love. Not now.”

“You’re being very gallant, Martha, and very self-possessed tonight.”

“Oh I know.”

Suddenly she wearied me. “I think the storm’s rather laid a pall on me.”

“Let’s go then,” she said. “I’ll cheer you up. Plus my suntan and my blond hair and my self-possession, I am also a lot of laughs.”

“Theresa Haug had her baby,” I said.

“What?”

“Libby called. Sid called her. She had a baby girl.”

“When did she call?”

“While you were in the shower.”

“And you weren’t going to tell?”

“I thought I’d save it.”

“It sounds as though the news depresses you.”

“It leaves me feeling peculiarly washed-out, Martha.” Which was true; I found myself having something like the reaction I had feared for Martha. I couldn’t understand it.

“Aren’t you happy?” she asked.

“I suppose I am. Libby was very excited. I just feel played out. That’s all.”

“We can sit here a while longer, if you want.”

So we sat there, while outside the storm slowly rolled away. “I suppose,” I said, “I should have a feeling of accomplishment.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Of being unnecessary.”

She did not say anything, and I could not tell if it was clear to her that the strange feeling I had was envy, envy for the Herzes.

“Just old fleeting depression,” I said.

“I understand.”

“This comes,” I hurried to say, “on top of my father’s letter—”

“Yes?”

“—and,” I said, “my overhearing your conversation with the kids.” So my two secrets were out. Why not?

“Oh,” she said. And then, “Well, what was the difference? You were taking a shower. It was as good a time as any.”

“The difference is obviously that you didn’t want me to know that you wanted to call, that you had called. That you had broken down, given in, or however it is you choose to put it.”

“You didn’t want me to know the Herzes had a baby. So we’re even.”

Even, we sat back in our chairs. Until I asked, “How long do you think we’re going to be able to keep this kind of business up?”

“I suppose something will happen some day.”

“I don’t know what.”

She understood. “I don’t care, really, if I never get married, Gabe. I’ve had that. I told you — I like this. Marriage is really quite beside the point. You know that.”

“Do you?”

“I knew it a long time ago. I knew it the day they got on that plane. I probably knew it before then, but that was a very forceful event. I supposed that you knew it too.”

“I suppose I did.”

“I don’t think we should worry about it then,” she said. “It’s still raining a little. Do you still want to make love to me?”

“Not exactly. Not now.” It wasn’t intentionally that I had repeated her words.

“But why don’t you do it anyway?” she said. “I think we should do whatever suits our needs. My needs, all right? I would like to be seduced right now. Undressed slightly against my will, my nice new dress thrown on the floor, and bango. That’ll put a little glow around dinner later.”

“You want me to service you?”

“I wasn’t being cynical. I meant it.”

“That doesn’t make it a hell of a lot less cynical, I shouldn’t think.”

“So I want it all,” she said, musing. “If you’re bothering about yourself, then the best thing is go ahead and really bother. All the way. I walked past the big shoe-bazaar place on Fifty-third yesterday and I bought another pair of sandals. They were nice and they were inexpensive, but that’s not the point. The point is I have a perfectly good pair in the closet and bought these anyway.”

“That doesn’t seem too terribly indulgent.”

“Everything adds up. I’ve still got my debts to pay,” she said. “I am the girl who wants to be serviced. What are you?”

“He who wants to service — at least that’s what I’m left with.”

“Who wants to?”

I did not answer.

“Are you being duplicitous?” she asked. “Do you want to leave me?”

“I want the same things I’ve always wanted, Martha. They just get more and more illusive. I don’t feel myself quite able to pull anything off.”

“You got the Herzes their baby finally. Though that doesn’t satisfy you either, you told me.”

“I didn’t make my feelings clear. It satisfied me, it’s good news. Except,” I confessed, “it left me feeling a little envious.”

That was the truth, and it left me defenseless.

“You’re just a family man at heart,” she said.

“Please don’t be too smart.”

“How can I help it? I could have serviced you , you see, with a ready-made unit.”

“That isn’t quite what I meant, Martha. You didn’t even want that yourself.”

“Nor did you,” she said quickly.

“We influenced one another. Can we leave it at that?”

“Would you like to leave me, Gabe?”

“If I wanted to I would. At least I’d make a stab at it.”

“Would you? I’m a tough cookie, you know.”

“But so am I.”

“I suppose that’s what we’re up against. Two tough cookies like us, each getting his way. The end result will be that one of us will invite the other to take a look out the window, and then give a nice shove forward.”

“Or go nuts. Or hate one another’s guts. There are lots of possibilities.”

“Surely we can just work out some simple way of humiliating one another,” she said. “I’ll screw the janitor or something.”

“I’m not crazy about the turn the conversation is taking.”

“I’m not either.”

“It’s stopped raining.”

“You look very handsome,” she said to me, standing up. “Did I tell you that? Put on your jacket, let me see.”

“Maybe,” I said, while I smoothed out my trousers and buttoned my coat, “if I do get away for a week—”

“Yes.” She opened her purse and looked to see if she had the keys; she always did this, even though I had keys of my own. “Yes, and maybe you’ll come back and everybody will love everybody again.”