Philip Roth - Letting Go

“Oh that’s right … Well, his conscience gives me a pain, frankly. Oh — and do you want to know a phrase I’m not too crazy about? To put a fine point on it.’ Do you really like to hear about people going around putting fine points on it? Oh, and the other one—‘She hung fire’—what is that anyway? I hung fire, you hung fire, we hung fire. The girls at my school all hung fire. He writes a little bit like a virgin, don’t you think? I mean I think he has a very virginal mind, to put it mildly.”

“That strikes me as an extraordinarily virginal remark.”

“Well,” she said, standing and walking around the table to the door, “you should know that it isn’t.” In the hallway she opened the refrigerator; then back in the room she asked, “Would you like to share my yogurt?”

“I meant critically virginal.”

“I asked if you were interested in some yogurt.”

“I have the sherry, thank you. Martha, it’s no blow to me if you don’t care for James.”

“I didn’t intend it to be. You asked what I thought, so I told you.”

“At least we continue to fight our battles,” he said, with a mild display of anger, “on the headiest of planes.”

She turned, apparently thought one thing, and then said another. “Who’s fighting?”

“I’m not.”

Sitting down across from him again, she said, “I’m not either.” She looked at him for a moment. “I’m hanging fire. Have I got it right?”

“You’re still a semi-cheery girl—”

“Why shouldn’t I be? There’s nothing for me in gloom, Gabe. I’m getting married, you know.”

“No, I didn’t … Yes, I did.”

“Which?”

“I just did hear about it, that is. Sid told Libby Herz.”

“Yes? How is she? ”

“The baby will be legally theirs next week.”

“So Sid said … It seems Theresa was married—”

“Yes.”

“You’ve heard about it?”

“Yes.” Dying to say more, he said nothing.

“Apparently it’s gotten a little complicated.”

“So I heard,” he said. “When will you be getting married?”

“We haven’t set a date. There are some other matters.”

“Of course.”

Silence.

“… How is Cynthia?”

“Are you asking if she’s the other matter?”

“Well—”

“Because she is.”

“How is she?”

“She’s living in Paris with her father.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Neither did very many of us, till recently.”

“I see.”

“Apparently she’s all right, Gabe. I don’t mean to be sounding secretive. We just learned a few weeks ago that Dick’s divorced again. He was going to arrange to keep it a secret from us.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’ll all work out,” Martha said. “You know …”

“How did you find out?”

“June Reganhart stopped off here, on her way to Hawaii or some place — to convalesce from him.”

“And to tell you?”

“We had lunch together. She wasn’t a bad girl, you know. She wasn’t silly.”

“I thought she seemed decent.”

“Too decent for that son of a bitch. He finally hit her too. But she’s a higher class girl than I am. He only had to smack her once. But in front of that poor baby.”

He thought: she does not mention Markie at all.

“By the time she grows up,” Martha said, “she’ll have seen quite enough, don’t you think?” She carried her dishes over to the small marble washstand and stood there longer than was necessary to rinse the two plates. Her pose was so familiar — her weight on one leg, her head bowed — and so much did he desire her, so much was his desire to touch her and his desire to blot out the past one single yearning, that he walked to where she stood and put a hand to her hair.

She told him no. He put his hand down. The stirring within him was not just lust; lust was subsumed within it. He had to undo all that had been done, do what had not been done. He walked off and sat down again behind his glass. She had suffered most; she still suffered most; he would respect what she wanted of him. He would go slow; to go slow and to be immovable were not mutually exclusive. He thought of Cynthia in Paris. He thought of Markie dead. He thought of it squarely.

“So what happens with him in Paris?” he asked.

She turned, as though having recovered herself. “It’ll be worked out. We can only do what we can.”

“Do you want him to send her back then?”

She closed her eyes a moment. “Yes. We do.”

“I see.”

“Do you? You’ve been saying that since you came in.”

He could not believe that she really wanted to be callous. But perhaps that was only self-deception on his part. He did not answer.

“I’m marrying him,” she said, “because I want to.”

“I can only offer my congratulations.”

“I’m not asking for your approval.” She brought a glass with her from the sink and sat down opposite him. “How about you pouring me a little sherry?”

“To the second Mrs. Reganhart,” she said, with feeble witty intentions. “To her recovery in Hawaii. That’s my last duchess hanging on the wall, et cetera.”

They drank. Then Martha moved across the room, onto the India print, placing a throw pillow between her head and the wall. “And what about you, Gabriel?” she asked. “What are your plans?”

Apparently she had only gotten up to be more comfortable. Having sparred, were they now going to talk, at last? “Well”—he turned his chair to face her—“I’m leaving Chicago. In May.”

“Forever?”

“I think so. I’ve applied for a job in Turkey — a lectureship in Istanbul. And also one in Greece.”

“You’ve obviously got your heart set on Turkey, I can see.”

“I’ve got my heart set on leaving, in a way.”

“Well, to Turkey,” she said, and sipped at her glass. “How is your father?”

“He’s getting married, you know, next week.”

“I remember. It’s still going to happen?”

“Oh yes.”

“You don’t sound as though you’ve suffered a conversion to Silbermanism. Isn’t that …”

“I think of it as Fayism myself. No, no conversion.”

“Why don’t you just fly to the wedding and storm through the church doors and say, ‘No! I, I—’ What’s his name? Ulysses’ son?”

“Telemachus.”

“I — well, you get the idea.”

Of course, he had had the thought himself. “You’re full of literary allusions these days.”

“I’m the oldest kid in my class. I have to set an example. Oh Gabe—”

“Yes?”

“I was only teasing, partially, about Henry James.” Again he felt that she had not said what had first come to her. “I was being, specifically, not to put too fine a point on it, a sort of, what could be called an, though not entirely, aesthetic bitch.” She had her knees up under her; leaning forward she nearly toppled off the bed as she placed her glass on the floor. “I think he makes a lot of sense.”

“That’s swell. The whole department will be relieved.”

“Now you’re going to be the bitch?”

How could he help it? He was imagining her married to Jaffe — and resenting Jaffe too, for not even having mentioned to her his trip to the Bigonesses. Of course, it might be that Jaffe had not spoken with her since the day before … Nevertheless, he still would not tell anyone himself!

Unfortunately, this time there was no strength to be derived from the decision.

“—is virginal.”

“What?”

“Pull your chair up if you can’t hear.”

“Yes.” He dragged his chair over to where Martha sat. She was smiling at him.

“The fat girl who types theses lives next door,” she whispered, “and she puts an empty water glass to the wall. To hear.”