Philip Roth - Letting Go

He did not know whether she could see him, but he felt he could not advance another step without being invited to do so. He leaned his head into the shaft of light, feet in place. “Martha? It’s Gabe … Wallach.”

When she moved to the head of the stairs, he was surprised to find her fully dressed. He had imagined her in a robe; he had even imagined her having a visitor. But all that was missing were her shoes; she wore a white blouse and a narrow red skirt. He waited for her to speak, to move, to turn and walk away.

She said, “Why, hello.”

“Are you busy?”

“No.”

“… I thought you might be free to have a bite with me.”

“I was just eating.”

“Oh, I see.”

He would not have been surprised, really, if that moment his enterprise had fallen through; but neither of them moved.

He asked, “How are you?”

“I’m fine … How are you? ”

“Fine.”

Up in the shadows, she crossed her arms and leaned one shoulder against the wall. He would not believe that she was so blatantly registering impatience. He couldn’t really be sure that she wasn’t standing up there smiling.

“I see you’re an automobile owner,” he said.

“Oh yes.”

“Would you mind very much if I advanced out of the doorway here?”

“If you like—”

“You see, I came to ask if you wanted to have dinner with me.”

“Well, I’ve begun, you see—”

“Oh, I didn’t know.”

“Yes.” Then: “But you’re welcome to come up the stairs.”

“I’d like to,” he said, without advancing.

“Well — why don’t you then.”

“I don’t want to interrupt your dinner.” He started up toward her.

“One doesn’t really think in terms of interrupting a plate full of raw vegetables.” God, she was smiling.

“Well — would you like to go out then?”

“No, no, I like raw vegetables—”

He was beside her. Her hair was pulled back, her lipstick was paler, but that seemed the extent of the change. It had really been only a few months. “How are you?”

“I’m pretty well,” she said. “ You look well.”

“It’s good to see you, Martha.”

“I live just down here.”

She turned away — but the way she had turned.… He heard instantly the openness, the pleading in his last words. He had spoken too softly — not that he could have helped it. His desire to be tender was almost more than he could manage. It seemed to be effecting him as far down as his muscles; the weakness in his fingers was such that he could not even have made a fist, had there been any reason for his wanting to. The sternness Bigoness had been witness to was nowhere to be seen. He followed after her, neither too close nor too far. It was like having endured a long rainy spell; and now, no clouds — and soon, the sun.

At least she was not what he had been dreading as he had rung her bell. Actually he should be feeling energetic, not limp. For down below he had awaited a face hard, grudging, foul, a witch’s face. And what had she been to him in that awkward moment on the stairs but kind? Whose face had he seen but hers? Not until he stepped into her room did it occur to him that her kindness could have arisen out of the simple fact that she was about to marry another man. It cost her nothing to be nice; why fight him any longer? Inside the door, which remained ajar, he looked when he could at her hands. At least it was not the kind of engagement that is spoken of as formal. There were no rings.

He was gripped by shyness. “Well, well,” was what he said.

“May I take your coat?”

“Well — it’s a pleasant little room.”

“Well, it’s a little room.”

“But pleasant …” A blue India print covered a small bed pushed against the far wall; the print hung an even half inch from the floor, all around an even half inch. There were two red throw cushions at the head of the bed. An old oak table was set in the center of the room, two candlesticks upon it; before the chair in which Martha had been sitting was a plate full of raw vegetables: a carrot, some lettuce, a stick of celery, slices of a green pepper. Against the walls were a chest and a washstand, and hanging untilted above the bed was Cynthia’s large circus picture. It was the first object he recognized from the old life. Then the sight of some paperbacks on a bookshelf by the window touched him nearly as much as the picture; they might have been real, palpable human things. The throw cushions on the bed, the little red rug, and the stumps of two lavender candles on the table helped to save the room from austerity. A tissue-thin Chinese shade ballooned over the ceiling bulb, releasing a thin gold light onto the table top. There were three bulbs strung around the tree, fewer than there had seemed to be from outside. He commented on the comfort of the place.

“Oh I suppose so,” she said, not unpleased. “There are six women in the house and only one bath. That’s not entirely comfortable.”

“Do you all share that refrigerator?” He motioned to a big old Westinghouse purring in the hallway.

“Discomfort number two.”

“Still—”

“It’s not too bad, no. Oh there’s an Indian girl, or Pakistani, and she leaves her little footprints on the toilet seat—”

“Yes? Both feet?”

“Both. I think you’re thinking of dogs. Truly, she squats up there … Life is very international here. There’s a silent little Korean girl, and a noisy dyke, and a chesty young thing who’s an assistant associate copywriter on the Near North Side but lives down here for the culture. And there’s a terribly heavy pathetic German girl who types theses for people, and there’s one of those guitar players without make-up, who I believe squats too. And there’s me. I seem to represent the old sturdy bourgeoisie. What do you think of that? May I take your coat?”

“You sound as though you like being the delegate from the middle classes. You sound — you look — at ease, Martha.”

She hung his coat in the closet, and while her back was turned he peeked into it. He found no resemblance to any closet of her past. There were even empty hangers. She seemed — so nice. It turned out she wasn’t at all bad bourgeois. Had he not allowed full play to his morbid imaginings, had he not such a weak-minded sense of causality, he would have come back to her months ago. He would have come back had he not been sure that she no longer had any use for him; he would have come back had it not been for Jaffe’s car parked outside here, and her car parked outside there; he would have come back if his mind had been clearer. At least he was certain she was pleased that he was here now; believing this to be so, he was so excited that for a moment he actually trembled.

“I suppose I am,” Martha said.

“That’s fine.”

Conversation was exhausted.

She reached for the shoebag hanging inside the closet and, hardly raising her knees, stepped into a pair of slippers.

He looked around the room, having seen everything twice already. “I notice,” he said finally, “that you have a car.”

“That seems to have impressed you all right.”

“Well, it’s rather a snappy number. Though your front door doesn’t close all the way, I notice—”

“Oh, but I think that adds dash.”

“Absolutely.”

They both worked a little at grinning. “I just got it back,” she said, sitting down at the table.

“From being fixed?”

“From being stolen. Would you like to sit down? Do you want a carrot? I’m afraid that’s all I can offer. The dyke made free with my leftover salmon. She’s very aggressive about canned foods. Would you like some sherry? There’s a bottle in the closet.”