Philip Roth - Letting Go

He rang again, and again nothing happened. He did not know what to do next. Though in it now, he had only to walk down the stairs and get in the car to be out of it. After all, if the snarl was legal — a matter of signatures, identities — then it was only sensible to leave it to a lawyer to untangle … Only he did not see that he could give up so easily. He would talk to Theresa; when her husband came home, he would talk to him — and that would be that. They were probably no more than nervous. He was probably no more than nervous.

No one seemed to be at home. He tried not to pay any attention to the emotion he felt; however, he could not help but recognize it as relief. He marched three steps forward and twisted the knob of the glass-paned door leading to the inner stairway. When it opened, his heart did not know how to respond; it was no longer entirely clear as to what was in its own interest. It rose and sank simultaneously, like two hearts. He rushed up three landings to Apartment C; without hesitating very long, he knocked. He had only taken time to count the number of milk bottles lined up on the doormat. Six. He heard a creaking, but when no one answered, he decided it was only his weight on the floor boards. He knocked again, then took out his billfold, hunting for a blank scrap of paper, and he came upon a business card of his father’s. Crossing out the printed name and number, he began to phrase a message. He was reminded that he had only eight days in which to buy that present. A child’s cry came faintly through the door.

“Hello?”

The crying had already stopped.

He knocked. “Is anyone home?”

Feet moved. “Hello? Theresa? Mrs. Bigoness?”

He knocked again. “Is any …? Theresa, it’s only Mr. Wallace.” Mispronouncing his own name had its effect — it made sharp the feeling that he had erred in taking this trip upon himself. He should simply have washed his hands of … “Hello?”

Inside something dropped, someone spoke; footsteps crossed the floor. Then the door opened, a crack; a blue-eyed little girl, no more than four or five, stood before him in red pajamas.

“Close it, Melinda — get back—”

The child was looking at him. From behind her came a brief barrage of sobs. Then the man’s voice again.

“Oh hell— Melinda! ”

The little girl turned away and the door eased slowly shut. Gabe reached for the knob, pushed it, and the door went flying backwards into the wall.

“Hey!”

A slender dark man, in need of a shave, was standing over an ironing board, a plastic basket full of wash beside him on a wildly yellow living-room rug. The first thing he noticed — even before he noticed that the man was wearing an apron — was that the fellow was not, as he had imagined he would be, older than himself. “Hey — what’s the matter with you — get out!” The small boy who was crawling on the floor began to wail.

“Are you Mr. Harry Bigoness? My name is—” He could not say Wallace again, though he hadn’t the chance to say anything.

“Just get out of here, that’s all!” Rubbing madly at his chin, plucking at the apron, the man came around from behind the iron. Big mahogany furniture lined all the walls; the panels of a chest before which Bigoness now stood were designed to give the illusion of depth. “Close the door, get out of here, will you!”

The little girl was pulling at her father’s blue work trousers. “I want my sandwich.”

“Mr. Bigoness, I’m representing Sid—”

“Get your hand off my door — don’t you understand?”

“I want my sandwich.”

“—the lawyer who has been in correspondence with you people—”

Not too gently, Bigoness uncurled the little girl’s hand from his leg and advanced upon him. The man’s chest curved in toward its center, but out to beefy shoulders; his arms were ridiculously long. It was his build more than his face that made him look stupid. “Now did I ask you, get your hand—”

“You don’t even know who I am.”

“You woke up that kid—”

“If you’d have answered when I rang—”

“Who do you think you are, invading people—” A crash, then a shattering, then a whimper, came from another part of the house. “ Get , before I call the police!”

“Daddy!” The little girl had disappeared and was calling from behind some door. “My Daddy!”

“Mister, I’ll give you three—”

He might then have turned, stepped back. Bigoness’s face was not very far from his own. “Is your wife home — may I speak—”

“Oh — oh — everything fell! It fell on me! I didn’t—” As the little girl cried in the other room, the small boy on the floor continued to whimper. Bigoness tried to fill his lungs; he rose up on his toes; his head moved. His visitor held fast — and Bigoness broke for another part of the house.

“Oh hell.” His moan was deep, pitiful.

“It just fell,” the little girl was explaining.

“Oh Melinda—”

By the time Bigoness had returned to the living room, with a sponge in one hand, the front door was shut, and Gabe was standing inside, hat in hand. “Mr. Bigoness, I’m here representing Sid Jaffe, the lawyer. He’s been writing to you about this adoption case. He’s written four letters since he received a letter from your wife about a month ago. He’s tried to call you on the phone, but it’s been disconnected—”

“Did I say come in here, you?”

“Haven’t you received Mr. Jaffe’s letters?”

“You’re trespassing on private property that don’t belong to you!”

“He’s sent the letters to this address.”

“Where does he come off sending letters to my address? Where’s he get my address?”

“From the phone book.”

“I never received any letters. I never got ’em, and I don’t want ’em. I’m asking you to go, Mister. I’m asking you nice—”

“Mr. Bigoness, I don’t want anything from you. Is your wife home?”

“My wife’s my business.”

The little girl had returned to the living room. She began asking again for her sandwich. All the while the two men talked, she pulled at her father’s trousers.

“I’ve come down from Chicago—”

“I’m busy—”

“All we would like is for you to sign a paper, and for your wife—”

“I’m busy, she’s busy, we’re all busy! Now—”

“—a consent form, and that’s it. There’s nothing for you—”

“I said three times, Get out! ”

“Will you please listen to me?”

“I want my sandwich.”

“It’s a simple procedure. It’ll take five minutes — perhaps if I speak to Theresa—”

“My wife’s my business.”

“She had a child—”

“I want my sand—”

“I don’t care what she had, she don’t have time to go—”

“I only want a word with the two of you.”

“Listen—”

“I want my sandwich.”

“Bigoness, simply let me—”

“I want my sandwich!” The little girl threw herself upon the floor. “I want to eat!”

Instantly another howl went up. What she had thrown herself upon was her little brother.

“Christ,” groaned the harassed father. “Ohhh—”

Gabe held his words, and Bigoness dropped back on the sofa. “Oh man,” he said, “what are you bothering me, huh? It’s Christmas time, don’t you know that? What are you bothering me about?”

“I only want to talk to you, Mr. Bigoness, and to Mrs. Bigoness.”

Two dark, distrustful eyes took him in, head to toe. “Your name Wallace?” the man asked.

“That’s right.”

Bigoness nodded, his lashes dropping halfway over his eyes. Softly he said, “You son of a bitch.”