Philip Roth - Letting Go

“Daddy! My sandwich— ”

“You want a sandwich, go make it.”

“I can’t reach the peanut butter.”

“Ain’t that too bad.”

“Daddy!”

“Oh man …” His feet swung down; Gabe saw only obstinacy in the thick dark workman’s shoes. Bigoness was heading out of the room. The solemn little girl did not smile with victory; she followed on her father’s heels, whimpering. “I’m the new nigger around here,” Bigoness said.

Alone, he took quick glances around the room — as though Theresa might pop up from behind a chair or emerge from back of the curtains. The decor was Chinese modern — the yellow rug swam with pop-eyed dragons; the walls were papered with rickshaws and coolies and junks. There was nothing that was not immense, no object, no design. The two lamps at either end of the sofa were the size of small people — they were small people, one a yellow woman, the other a yellow man, each in kimono, each with hands up sleeves, each with bulb screwed in top of head. All the upholstery was silky, Oriental; only the TV set made a forthright concession to the Occidental world of Indiana. The room seemed to be expanding and narrowing by the moment. There was no chair in which one could sit without sinking. He instructed himself to remain standing — let Bigoness sit. He felt himself becoming excited. He went over what had to be accomplished; he was excited because he felt that something already had been. He had not fallen back — no matter how close he might have come. What he did counted, not what he thought.

Jaffe had indicated on the phone that if the signing of the consent forms could not be worked out, he might have to take a chance and appear in court without any signatures at all. He would report to the court that the child had been abandoned. The danger, however, was that a social agency of the court might be called into the case at the request of the judge; the adoption could then be delayed for months and months, with any number of complications arising. The social agencies of the courts were not very sophisticated — nor, said Jaffe, were the courts themselves, which frowned upon private adoptions anyway. If it was necessary for him to claim abandonment in court, there might even be religious trouble. The infant had been born in a Catholic hospital of a mother who claimed to be Catholic — if the judge sitting in County Court that day also happened to be Catholic, it might eventually be suggested that the child be turned over to a Catholic adoption agency to be placed in a Catholic family, or, for the meantime, in a Catholic orphanage.

Further, since the court presumed the offspring of a married woman to be the offspring too of her lawful husband, it was quite impossible — Jaffe had explained, countering a suggestion of Gabe’s — to go into court with Theresa alone. Whether the husband was or was not the natural father was inconsequential; the child was simply not his wife’s to give away. He had to sign. Also — it was here that Gabe had stopped listening — there were matters of inheritance, insurance benefits … He had stopped listening because he had begun to wonder how this could be anybody’s business but Jaffe’s … Then Jaffe was saying that he was going to have to start charging the Herzes for his time. Since he would now have to go down to Gary, track down the Bigonesses, talk with them—

Here Gabe had butted in. Jaffe had been thorough till then, but certainly not friendly; he had been clipped and to the point and even impatient. So Gabe had leaped in — he could himself do the tracking down, if that was all right with Jaffe. He could do the initial consulting, if that was okay … “And I’d rather,” he had said, “that you wouldn’t tell the Herzes—”

But he had not bothered to instruct Jaffe not to tell Martha, if he chose to. He had been sure she was in Jaffe’s apartment while the two of them had spoken, while he had informed Jaffe of his willingness and persuaded him finally — how pleasant! — of his usefulness. Waiting for Bigoness to return now, he had a full-blown daydream: he saw himself being reconciled with Martha. He dreamed of stealing her back from Jaffe. He saw himself on the brink of many changes. He was not sorry now that he had come, nor that his trip was a secret from the Herzes. It gave him strength, knowing that he did not want or expect their gratitude.

Bigoness had removed his apron; he was eating a sandwich. He had taken up a leaning position in the door and had the air of someone who has just completed some serious thinking. His beard was blue, as were his eyes, and his part seemed chopped into his hair. His face sloped almost straight back from his nose, as if the brain within was tubular in shape. “Now who is it you represent again, Mr. Wallace?”

“The lawyer who’s written you about this adoption. Sid Jaffe.”

Bigoness thought that over while he chomped away at the sandwich.

“Have you read Mr. Jaffe’s letters?”

No answer.

“I asked if you’ve read Mr. Jaffe’s letters.”

“You know,” Bigoness said, making much of the unhurried ease with which he continued to eat, “I’m in the union, Mister”—he swallowed—“and we got a lawyer too, a pretty smart cookie. So I know what questions I got to answer and I know which ones I don’t have to answer. It’s in the Constitution of this country that I only have to answer what I want. If you want to keep talking, that’s all right with me, you go ahead. I got to eat my sandwich anyway. But don’t try to tell me what I’ve got to answer, and what it says in the Constitution I don’t have to answer if I don’t want to.” Secure in his rights, he ambled over and plunged into the upholstery of a wing chair near the window. Spreading the blinds with two fingers, he looked outside, a new man, a bored man, a defiant man.

“I wonder if I could speak to your wife.”

“You spoke to my wife, buddy.”

“She’s not at home?”

“Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t.”

“Mr. Bigoness,” he began again, “nobody wants anything of you. Or of your wife. Mr. Jaffe has only asked — you know this if you’ve read his letters — he only wants you to come down to the court on the twenty-ninth and sign a consent form saying that you want your child adopted by another family. This was all arranged months back, between Mr. Jaffe and your wife. It’s simply a matter of signing the papers. At the time we didn’t even know she was your wife, you see.”

“Whatever happened months back, I don’t care about neither.”

“Doesn’t your wife care?”

“My wife cares about what I care about. I’ve got nothing to do with any paper-signing.”

“I don’t think you understand what kind of paper it is. It doesn’t make you responsible for the child. Just the opposite, in fact. It will free you of any responsibility at all where this child is concerned.”

“Well, I don’t have no responsibility, Mister. I’ve got kids of my own.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Shit, that ain’t what you said. What do you think I am? Why don’t you go back up to Chicago and tell Mr. Jaffe to sign his own papers? Cause Theresa ain’t signing nothing. I mean her name ain’t even Haug, for crying out loud.”

“She’s obliged to, however.”

“Oh yeah?”

“She’s legally responsible for that child, until she signs a paper which releases her from that responsibility.”

Bigoness tried eating again.

“And so are you,” Gabe said.

“Oh is that so?”

“You’re her husband.”

“I ain’t the father.” He did not seem delighted to have had to make the statement. He mumbled, “Why don’t you go see him.”

“Because he’s not responsible—”