Philip Roth - Letting Go

“—in the hospital—”

“—how long?”

“—he’ll be all right, of course—”

Cynthia turned so that her mother could see only her back. Turning, she saw Markie’s pail bobbling up and down at the water’s edge. It was just about to be washed away, and if it was washed away who would they blame but her! They would blame her, and then they would start asking questions — Fast as she could, she started down the beach, her arms outstretched toward the pail.

“Cynthia—”

“Cynthia, what— ”

“Cyn—” Just as she got hold of the handle, somebody grabbed her arm. It was Gabe; behind him stood June, her mouth open, her hand up to her pale cheek.

“Cynthia — oh Cynthia,” June said, “what are you doing? Never—”

“Getting Markie’s pail.” She did not know whether it would help any to cry.

“Oh … Oh, Cynthia, that’s a good girl, that’s fine — oh honey, don’t go near the water alone — not today.” It was June who seemed as though she were about to weep.

“I won’t,” she said, and she hoped her mother had seen just how much June worried about her and took care of her. They all started up the beach, and while June moved off ahead, Cynthia asked Gabe, “Why doesn’t Mommy come out of the car?”

He smiled. “Martha’s not in the car, Cynthia. She’s in Chicago.”

“What’s that?” she said.

“You mean that, in the back seat? That’s a beach umbrella. That’s my father’s beach umbrella.”

“Yes?” She took another look. She felt as she had when Mrs. Koplin had called her husband Herb.

“Martha’s in Chicago,” he said. “She has to work. I’m visiting with my own father in East Hampton. I thought I’d come over and say hello. Your mother wanted me to.”

“How did you find me?”

“Oh I just asked anybody on the streets, you know, where Cynthia Reganhart was, and they said you were down here by the ocean.”

“We don’t even usually come here.”

“Then I suppose I was very lucky. I expected to see Mark too.”

“Well, he’s in the hospital.”

“When you see him will you tell him I was here to visit?”

“Okay. He has to learn not to fall out of his bed, that’s all.”

June was standing by the blanket; she had closed her book. “Mr. Wallach,” she said, “could I ask you a favor? Will you be here awhile?”

“A little while, yes—”

“Could you stay a few minutes with Cynthia? Do you mind?”

“No, no, I’d like to—”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Cynthia said.

“No, dear. You stay with Mr. Wallach. All right? I just have to phone.”

But it wasn’t all right! He would start to ask questions, just as her father had. When she answered, he would become angry. Her father, she remembered, had turned red in the face; she had heard him tell June that Martha was irresponsible beyond imagining, that she just had hot pans. Cynthia had wanted to say that hot pans weren’t dangerous so long as you kept the handle in toward the pilot light, but she had not dared say anything. She had, in fact, liked his being angry with Martha, only it frightened her, and that made her think that perhaps she didn’t like it. Finally she had asked June if she had done something to anger her father too; and June had explained. Usually, she said, you slept in bed with somebody after you were married and not before, though different people did, certainly, have different beliefs. June said she wanted it clear to Cynthia that her father was angry with her mother and not for a moment with Cynthia herself. Then she had gone on to say that this was natural too; divorced people often had differing opinions — it was what generally decided them to be divorced and live separately.

Now that Gabe had her alone, she knew that he would ask her questions too. He would ask if she had told. She wanted to go off in the car with June, but June was running up the beach, and Gabe was sitting on the blanket as though he belonged there.

“Well,” he was saying, looking up at her, “how do you like New York, Cynthia? It’s a big city, isn’t it?”

“It’s okay.”

“Are you having a pleasant summer?”

“It’s okay.”

“Well, you really take things in your stride. Just okay?”

She took a quick look down at him. “Uh-huh.” Maybe he wasn’t going to ask if she had told about him and Martha sleeping in the same bed — but then she knew from experience that adults did not always ask what they wanted to know right off.

Gabe was leaning back on his elbows, and he did not say anything more. He seemed to be thinking about himself. He was wearing a blue shirt and white trousers and his feet were bare. She kept wanting to look at his feet, but she was afraid he would catch her.

“Is your father still a dentist?” she asked.

“He still is,” he said. “You remember?”

“You know,” she said, “my mother didn’t take very good care of my teeth.”

“Didn’t she?”

“I had four cavities when I got here.”

“All kids have cavities,” Gabe said. “I used to have cavities, and my father was a dentist, with an office right in our house.”

“Markie didn’t have any,” she said.

“Mark’s too small probably. Little children his age just naturally don’t get cavities. I think Martha took care of your teeth, Cynthia. Didn’t she take you to Dr. Welker?”

She chose not to answer. He would take Martha’s side in anything; they had slept in bed together, so he had to. “Well, it wasn’t funny when they had to start drilling,” she said.

“I’ll bet it wasn’t. Are you all right now? Let me see?”

“I suppose so,” she said. She wouldn’t let him look in her mouth; it was none of his business. “Except where I hurt myself this morning.”

“Where?”

“My elbow. Right here.”

When he leaned over to look, she knew he would see that she hadn’t hurt herself at all; it was Markie who had fallen. He tried to touch her and she jumped. “Oww! Watch it.”

He looked at first as though he was going to be mad at her; then he was bending his own arm up and down from the elbow. “Just move it like this,” he said. “That should make it feel better.”

She bent it up and down once. It did feel better; she felt better.

“Does that help any?” Gabe asked.

“Yes, I think so.” She bent it twice more. “Oh yes,” she said. “Would you like to make a sand castle?”

He looked at his watch. “I don’t think so, Cynthia.”

“Would you like to watch me make one?”

He smiled.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Do you have to go home?”

To this he shrugged. “Cynthia, I really don’t know.”

She did not understand him. Did he or didn’t he? He leaned back again and was no fun. No one was. Except sometimes Markie. She would tickle her brother until he couldn’t hold it in any longer, and then, with that funny look on his face, he would give in and wet his pants — and then he’d start to cry. But he didn’t even get punished for it. June would come in and pick him up and hug him, even though his legs were all wet. Cynthia would sit on the lower bunk and watch until little Mark was promised something or other that would make him stop crying. He liked to be tickled, but when it was over and his pants were changed, he would say that she had made him do it. She wondered if he had come up into her bunk this morning just to be tickled. Well, it wasn’t her fault — he wasn’t supposed to climb that ladder to her bed anyway. If he fell it was his own fault. She didn’t want anybody in her bed with her at all. It was irresponsible. Probably Markie thought he was going to give her a baby because she wasn’t married. That’s what could happen, of course. June said that one of the most important reasons for getting into bed with somebody was to have a baby; that was why her father felt it was only for married people. Otherwise, her father said, it was a damnshame. And a damnshame, she knew, was the same as a sin — and a sin, for example, was leaving hot pans around on which children could burn themselves. It showed no regard for your children, that was for sure.