Philip Roth - Letting Go

It had been an education for him, watching her die. It was as though her whole life had been a training for those last three months. Not once, from fear or pain, had she cried out; not once, for all the fatigue that weighed upon her, another pound a day, had she been mean or cross. She had not lost her temper — this impressed him greatly — and even her tears, which curiously were more frequent in the early weeks of the disease than in the last, had seemed more for him than for herself. And then one evening around dinnertime she left him, and it did not really seem that he had learned very much. He cried from fear and pain for a week. One night when Millie came in with his hot milk, which he hoped would be an aid to him in falling asleep, he had had to ask her, the maid, to sit down in the chair beside his bed for a few moments. It was several months before he could sleep with the light off; she died in the early fall and not until winter did there come a morning when he awoke to find the room lit by the gray sun and not by his bed lamp.

Then Gabe had been discharged, and when he had come home, what had his father done but driven him away? He had moaned and leaned, leaned and moaned, and there was Gabe flying off to Iowa, to Chicago! God in Heaven, why had he been so clutchy? If only he had learned a little from her, if only he had been able to remain calm … But that would have been unnatural! At his age he was entitled to his feelings — why should he act happy when he was sad? Why smile each time the boy went out the front door, when each time he wanted to cry? What kind of son was it, anyway, who left his aging father!

All sons. All sons leave their fathers. Of course. He considered himself a student of psychology and he was not naïve about certain facts of life. Just the other day on the beach he had had an interesting discussion about paternal problems with Abe Cole, one of New York’s leading psychoanalysts, who happened to have the house next door to Fay’s. He had told Abe, and four or five others sitting and chatting under their umbrella, that unhappy as he had been when his son had gone off for good, he had known in his heart that a boy does not become a man living in his father’s house. In part it had been to impress Abe with his objectivity and intelligence that he had spoken so, and to impress the others too, Fay’s summer friends, whom he suspected of not thinking so highly of dentists as they did of psychoanalysts. Also he had been trying to impress Fay, which he found himself doing fairly regularly of late. His desire to impress, however, had not led him to be hypocritical; he believed what he said — children grow up and go away. That was one of life’s laws to which he and his son could not expect to be made exceptions. Nevertheless (and this he had not been able to say to Abe, though it was what he had hoped they might get to talk about), there are certain circumstances, are there not? Special predicaments people wind up in that are not of their own choosing and that both child and parent have to recognize and make accommodations for? If only his son, for instance, had had an ounce of patience with him; if only he himself had displayed an ounce of control …

However, what was was. Be philosophic. He would have to work with what he had … Gabe had driven straight through from Chicago in one day and had arrived at eleven-thirty the night before. They had all sat down to have a cup of coffee and a sandwich together, and no real strains had been apparent. Gabe had even said good night to her as he went off to bed, and when they were alone again, Fay had commented on what nice posture the young man had. Well, there was a certain willingness in that remark, wasn’t there? And as for Gabe, he was an intelligent boy, a decent boy — so why then should there be strains? They were three grown people; if they all worked at it a little, they could have a week together that would be a foundation for their future happiness.

He reasoned and he reasoned, and still, when Gabe swam to shore, and Dr. Wallach handed a towel up to him, he found himself unable to relax. He was stiff and ill at ease, fearful of saying the wrong thing, all this in front of his own flesh and blood.

Gabe sat down beside him and they looked out at the sea. He asked if his father had gotten over his chill and Dr. Wallach assured him that he had. This enabled them to look out at the water again. The doctor checked his watch, but they were not due back for breakfast for another half hour. The beach was empty of people as far off as he could see.

“So how’s teaching this year?” Dr. Wallach asked. “Still crazy about it?”

“Oh, I like it all right.”

“Still like the Windy City?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Gabe, rubbing his towel across his shoulders, “I’m getting a little tired of it.”

He could hardly believe his ears. His heart took a long stride forward and met, head-on, the wall of his chest. Through some miracle of the will, he managed not to cry out, “Then come, come, my darling son — come back with me!”

He said instead, “Oh? No kidding.” He was so proud of his self-control that he could have shaken his own hand. He looked — casually — over at his son, and saw upon his face what seemed to be depression. “So,” he began again, “I suppose you won’t be hanging around Chicago very much from now on.”

“I don’t know. I’ve even been thinking of leaving teaching.”

“Something happen?”

“It’s just not quite as satisfying as it was. Maybe I’ll try something else for a while.”

“I see.” He attempted to let more than a second elapse, but couldn’t. “For instance, what? Just speaking off the cuff, you know.”

“Traveling. Maybe living in Europe for a while.”

“Oh. Uh-huh. Interesting …”

They had been speaking with their eyes toward the horizon, but now Gabe turned to the doctor and smiled. The boy had the height and carriage of his mother, but he had the doctor’s long head and stern good looks. There was no doubt that he was the doctor’s son. “But I’m not sure, you see, about anything,” he said.

Dr. Wallach wondered if his own stern eyes looked stern enough; they were not teary, and he most assuredly did not want them to look as though they were. “When would this be?” he asked. “You know, a year, two years—”

“I don’t know … I’m even thinking of resigning. Of not going back, except to get my belongings.”

“Well, this is a surprise.”

“For me too. It only occurred to me about halfway through Pennsylvania yesterday. As I said, I’m not even sure.”

“Well,” the doctor said — casual still — letting some sand drift slowly off his hands, “it just shows — your heart is in the East after all.”

“I didn’t mean to indicate that I’d decided anything—”

“Who said you decided anything? I was just making an observation.” They were silent. Until Dr. Wallach said, “I mean your business is certainly your business. Europe is a beautiful and educational place, there’s no doubt about that. It’s too bad you didn’t feel this way last year”—he was desperate with the desire to sound simply chatty—“when I was going.”

“Yes — well — I thought I’d stay a little longer. I’m not so much thinking of touring as settling down there awhile.”

“Well, sure, you’re single. Live it up. You still like the bachelor life, huh?”

Gabe shrugged. “I’m not planning to marry anybody just yet.”

“Certainly, take your time, look around. Take a walk down Fifth Avenue for yourself. The most beautiful women in the world. Let me put it this way: the Italian girl is a beautiful girl, I’ll grant that, and the French girl is certainly a girl of fine qualities too. And even the English girl has got something about her, very soft skin and so forth, but for nice wholesome all-around good looks, give me an American girl, any day. If I were a young man looking for a wife, I’d look right around here. You don’t even have to go very far from Central Park to find the kind of girl I’m talking about.”