Philip Roth - Letting Go

“Paul believes then?”

“You don’t understand about marriage. I think that’s something I’ve observed about you, Gabe,” she said sternly.

“Who’s even talking about marriage?”

“You don’t have to believe exactly as your mate does, to be happy.”

He relaxed a little, and sat back; apparently she had not been about to accuse him of anything specific.

“I don’t know what Paul believes,” she said.

Nothing further was said by either of them, and so Libby’s final admission became laden with gravity. Suddenly she rose and left the room; alone, he found himself contemplating the hardest fact of the Herzes’ life: the husband did not make love to the wife. Still …? No sooner did the idea come into his mind than he pushed it right out. He had not been put on this earth to service the deprived, whatever the deprived themselves might think. Whatever he might think! He could not fathom yet his soft heart. It was an affliction! It was not soft at all! He was soft — the heart was hard.

He was having another bad day.

Two of the candles Paul had lit burned out. The two still wavering cast a homey light, domesticating the barren room, hypnotizing its inhabitant. He was brought around again to thinking of himself as a husband and a father.

Libby burst back into the living room. “Chanukah, Gabe, doesn’t even require that you believe in God—” A small black tray, two cups and a coffee pot upon it, was thrust against her body and accentuated what little bosom she had. She stood over him ready to put the tray down. To reach out for her would require little maneuvering on his part; he believed she was aware of this. “It’s the people it commemorates,” she said, peering straight down at him, “what they did and so forth — and though they believed in God, what you’re celebrating is what they did. You can think of it as the Jewish Fourth of July.”

“Oh Libby—”

“Oh Libby what! Libby what! Doesn’t that make any sense to you?” She seemed angry about something; perhaps it was what she was talking about.

“Oh Libby be quiet or you’ll wake up your baby. That’s all,” he said softly.

“Well …” She set the tray down. “You’re not going to win me with charm.”

Silence followed. Libby sat on the sofa, the meaning of what she had said unfolded while they looked at each other’s shoes. They both drank their coffee.

“You can pour yourself more,” she said, “if you want more.”

“I still have some, thank you.”

She asked stiffly, “When will you be going East?”

“Christmas Day. I’m going to fly out that morning.”

“Will it be a big formal wedding?”

“Mostly family and old friends.”

“Paul’s mother is coming to visit us,” she said.

“… He mentioned something about it the other day.”

“I didn’t know …”

“We had a cup of coffee at the Commons.”

“I didn’t know you’d talked.”

“Just a chat.”

After a second of what was clearly indecision, she asked, “Did he tell you how long she’s going to stay?”

He shook his head.

“Well, I suppose he couldn’t,” she said, curling her mouth not quite all the way into a smile, “because we haven’t decided. It’s all a little like walking on eggs. It’s the first time she’s going to be seeing the baby,” she said, waving her arms and nearly tipping the coffee pot, “so it’ll all work out.”

“It should be a thrill for her.”

“That’s what we think. Hope. It’s her only grandchild.”

“When is she coming?”

“She’s taking the train — she doesn’t fly. Oh — Christmas Eve.” She took a sip of coffee and calmed down. “I’m not all stone and mortar, as you can see, about all this. I only think we should have established how long she’ll stay, that’s all. So she knows and we know … in case, you know. It’s all had to be a little feeling-out and careful.”

“I’m sure that everything will work out,” he said dutifully.

“Yes — she wanted to come, after all. I’m simply a little unnerved. Not that I’m what I used to be. I used to be”—she lifted one hand—“impossible. But it’s the adoption that’s gotten to me a little. The combination of things. We’re going to court right after Christmas, so there’s that too. The twenty-ninth — Paul told you that?”

“No.”

Relief — apparently Paul had not told him anything he had not as yet told her. “We sign the paper — and she’s ours. Absolutely ours. Though I can’t imagine her not being ours. You know? If she’s not ours whose can she be? I’m not a total coward, Gabe, no matter what I may seem to people — but you don’t know how thankful I am that we never had to see or know anybody else who was involved. When I think of how kind you and Sid and Martha Reganhart — Sid called before, in fact, and I know it’s something about the court business, and I really was hoping that he wouldn’t tell it to me, because I don’t want to hear. I’m not a coward, but it’s just — Rachel is Rachel.”

“I understand.”

“And he didn’t tell it to me.”

Sid’s accession to her desire made her, of all things, gloomy. Gabe said, “Why should you have to be distracted by legal details anyway? That’s not a mother’s business.”

“Except that I’m so neurotic. Well, I am still — somewhat,” she said, though he had not raised a finger. “I was sure some catastrophe had occurred, and that that was why he wanted to speak to Paul and not me.”

She waited to hear what he would tell her. “That sounds like the old neurosis coming out, all right,” was what he said, moving in his chair.

“I guess I still need someone around to reassure me every fifteen minutes or so — do you mind terribly?”

“Since I’m here, I might just as well reassure you as not.”

“I can pay you off in coffee. Want more?”

“I don’t think so. I’d better go.”

“Don’t. Do wait till Paul comes. We hardly ever see you—” Suddenly she was cheery and full of energy. “I think we should all do something together. I don’t know — go out to dinner. You know those Greek places, where they dance and have the old Greek music — wouldn’t you like to go? I want to, Paul wants to, I think — and why don’t you come? We could go any place really, just have dinner, or go to the ballet when it comes, or the opera. I’ve been clipping things to do out of the Sunday paper all winter long. We have a good baby-sitter I really trust, and we can go if you want to. Any night. It would be fun.”

“It sounds as though it would.”

“You see, Gabe? Everything looks so much better. We’re halfway out of debt; we’ve even paid off most of the co-op loan, which I thought we wouldn’t pay till we were dead, and I’ve gained two whole pounds. I don’t know if it’s noticeable or not, but I have, and the doctor says I’m a veritable Tarzan. And then there’s Rachel — and she’s always there. Isn’t that something? I’m in the kitchen and she’s in the other room, and I’m in the living room, and she’s — well — there. Though sometimes I’m in the kitchen — this is my nuttiness again — and I think, Oh Christ she’s not there. And I zoom into her room, and she is there, tight asleep — or awake and gurgling to herself. I know I swore I’d never be a bore about my baby, but I can’t help it. Really, even Paul’s mother doesn’t unnerve me that much. What can she do? What can anybody do?” Tilting her head, she made herself look a little younger, a little more innocent, than she was. “If I could apologize, Gabe, for that terrible night when I said those awful things to you — I really want to apologize with all my heart.”