Philip Roth - Letting Go

“To hear?”

“Yes.”

“And what,” he said, not amused, “does she get to hear?”

“Oh. Discussions. About Henry James. A little Browning.”

“And that excites her?”

“Well, she’s terribly fat.” He did not know what to make of her girlishness or what to do with it. He did not know if she was up to what he began to believe she was up to. “No, look — I was saying, when your eyes fogged over, that you do get the feeling that old James, for all he does know, doesn’t really know what goes on when the bedroom door snaps shut. It seems to me that people live more openly with their passions.”

“More openly than what?”

“Aren’t you following me? Than in James—”

“All people?”

“Well, no, of course not … I suppose I live more openly with mine …”

“Yes?”

“Than you, I suppose — for one.”

“I see.”

“You see still again?”

“I’m never quite sure, Martha.” It was not meant to be a summation of his way of life; she took advantage nevertheless.

“That’s what I mean,” she said. “I’ve done what I’ve felt strongly about.”

“I thought you were going to talk about James this time without being a bitch. I thought, in fact, you were going to talk about James.”

“I’m talking about passions. I’ve gone out on a limb once or twice, is all I said—”

“And now?”

“Right now, or now?”

“Both.”

“I don’t know, Gabe—”

He kissed her; she said, “Let’s not, no,” but he had managed to twist her about and force her backwards. His passion for her was so intense, had so much to do with the alteration he had believed his life to have begun to undergo in the last twenty-four hours, that it overrode his other powers. He could not talk; he could not reason. His weight upon her, he forced his hands onto her body, and she thrust him away. It was all very clumsy … “Please,” she said, “the door is open—”

He went to close the door; when he turned, Martha was standing. He tried to kiss her again. “What do you think you’re doing?” she said.

Compromised by his having been pushed from the bed, compromised further by the adolescent ring to her words, his pride beat once, beat twice, but could not really sustain itself. “Are you going to put me on the spot, Martha? Are you going to make me explain myself?”

“I don’t want to sleep with you.”

“With whom else then?”

“Please, don’t put on that you’ve been cuckolded—”

“Is that what you’d call putting too fine a point on it?”

“I suppose that’s what he means.”

They kissed again. Martha’s feet slowly gave way; they were backed onto the bed, face to face. He held back none of his weight, none of his passion. Then she pulled away; she reached up and caught him with a stiff open palm squarely on the side of the head.

He sat up at the foot of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his face hidden.

“I can’t afford this,” she said, and stood.

“I thought the first thing you might say,” he told her, not quite looking up, “would be apologetic.”

“I take my life more seriously than that.” He heard the faucet begin to run at the other end of the room. He tried not to speak again until he had himself mostly under control, but he could not wait that long.

He asked, “Did you plan on that?”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s the only thing you’re ever overcome with then, my friend — desire. Aside from that you’re a perfectly prudent man.”

His jaw tingled, and his eye too, where a fingernail had nicked it. He pulled himself up. The dampness at the edge of his lash was not a tear, so it must be a drop of blood. On the floor before him was a shoe of his, on its side. He tried to put it on standing up, but finally he had to sit down to manage, and he was humiliated. He went to the closet for his coat, while Martha said nothing.

“You might have sat in your chair, Martha,” he said, “and saved us this. You might not have talked so fetchingly about your passions. You have a long finger, Martha, and you beckon with it. Prudent is not the word to describe you—”

“Why don’t you please go?”

He felt totally dislocated; with his coat on and buttoned he still could not believe in the last three minutes.

Martha was lighting the two candles on the table just to be doing something. “I can’t afford to sleep with you. I hope you at least understand that.”

“You can with him?”

“That’s right.” She spoke stiffly. “I think I can.”

“Even when you were supposedly committed to me?”

She walked to the Christmas tree. “Who are you to talk about commitment?”

“I know, Martha—”

“You don’t know a God damn thing.” Then, caught, she lost control, or gained it. “I’ve had a penchant for jelly-filled men, but I’ve gotten over it. I’ve spent my life associating with the wrong kind of men, one way or the other.”

“You only get in bed with whomever you want—”

“That’s exactly the case—”

“—when you want.”

“Shut up. Please go. You can’t make me feel rotten over something I couldn’t even help. I’ve given up being self-destructive. That’s right, I’m going to bring some order into my life. There’s order in this world, and I’m due for my share of it.”

“I hope you get it.”

“Why shouldn’t someone else aside from you? Why should it be only you who get away unscathed?”

“That’s another virginal opinion, Martha. Nice and narrow.”

“Are you going to tell me about your fine conscience? Those little pains don’t even begin to count. Don’t kid yourself — your conscience and James’s conscience both give me a pain in the ass, if you want the truth.”

“And your own?” he asked viciously.

“Mine’s fine! Sid Jaffe happens to be a fine man. He’s not jelly cither. He’s going to get me my baby back, do you know that? If he has to fly to Paris and get that son of a bitch guillotined, he’s going to get her back here. And then I’m going to have an orderly life — do you hear? Don’t ever try to get me in bed again, you! And don’t worry about my conscience. Worry about your own. I’m not playing it safe. I’m using some sense for once. I’ve let go and let go and let go — I’ve let go plenty. I’ve had a wilder history than you, by a long shot. I’ve got a right to hang on now. Don’t ever get in bed with me again. Ever!”

All he could think to say, as an answer, a defense, was to tell her what had happened that afternoon in Gary. But of course that was no answer. He could say nothing. His hour with Bigoness — after all, what was he going to build it into? That puny little exchange — the humbling of a stupid man — was not enough to elevate his life. He lived a little life, an insignificant life. Puny … Nothing at this point seemed able to give him proportion or dignity. It was not even out of anything so weighty as jealousy that this woman’s intended had not mentioned to her his phone call. What he had done, what he had forced Jaffe to let him do, counted for nothing. He turned to leave, and then — because he was so unwilling, so incredulous — he turned back for a final instant. And what his eyes saw in her eyes — could it be? Uncertainty? She knows she is fooling herself. She is in pain! Now he must take her in his arms! But he could no longer deceive himself with what he wanted to believe were her feelings.

Puny?

Fury! Fury was what he was feeling! He had made plans of his own for the afternoon. The sun was high, the streets clear and brilliant. He had told himself to make plans and he had made them. He had seen a handsome quilt advertised in the Sunday papers — which took care of his present. He would buy it. He had a date for drinks in the Loop at five with the girl he had met at the Harnaps’. She had sounded pleasant and genuine on the phone, and not so assertive this time, he preferred to believe, as eager. He would have dinner with her too. She was assistant to the curator at the Art Institute. Fine. His humiliation was two nights past; it no longer was going to get him down. Nothing was going to get him down … Except that he was so damned angry. He was going to have to miss his penicillin shot too. He drove with no regard for the law — though he had justice on his mind — changing lanes, leaning on his horn, braking sharply, speeding, speeding down to Gary. There were still those applications to mail. He had rushed so, that he’d forgotten again to put them in his pocket. He couldn’t keep everything on his mind, with the result that he sometimes couldn’t keep anything on it.