Philip Roth - Letting Go

He went to bed earlier than he should have, with the result that he slept badly. His head ached all through the night. The doctor had assured him that he would not expire in his sleep; the doctor was a humorous man who took minor ailments lightly. Of course, Gabe had only raised the question lightly — he did not really expect to die. Nevertheless, for long stretches he did not sleep because he would not allow himself to. It was as though his illness might overpower him were he not awake to protect himself. But dozing, he had dreams of struggle and loss, dreams of falling. He was wrestling with Bigoness over a pit alive with monsters. They rolled and rolled, arms locked about one another, and then they fell, onto Bigoness’s rug.

He awoke. The room was dark. He set his mind a task. He tried to figure out the amount of money that would have been appropriate — safe — wise — binding— right —to have promised Harry Bigoness.

Gabe :

We will be at the Cape Cod Room ( splurge! our sixth anniversary! ) of the Hotel Drake ( AM 3-4582 ) from 7–8:30. At Surf Theater ( AM 4-9724 ) till 10:20. Meet train at LaSalle St. Station 10:45. Home by 11:15 thereabouts. Be charming to Mrs. Herz when we bring her home. Very charming. I am nervous — but have not been so expectant in years. Oh brave new world and so on. If Rachel wakes up ( she will ), expect you to read to her. Bottle may help .

L .

On her way out she handed the note to him. “Here’s where we’ll be,” she had said. At seven-thirty, while they were still at the Drake he wrote a memorandum to himself on the back of Libby’s note.

Have plane ticket.

Take quilt.

Call taxi by ten.

Call airport first, check etc.

Mail applications!

Enough cash.

Call Jaffe.

Call Bigo

Number eight was crossed out. It was then written in again. The process was repeated three times over.

At eight — the Herzes were still enjoying dinner at the Cape Cod Room — Rachel woke up and cried briefly. He gave her a bottle. He stood by the crib, thinking over and over all that he had been thinking over and over for days. There were no new thoughts for him to have. He referred to his list of things to do. At eight-fifteen he telephoned Gary.

“I’d like to speak”—yes, this was safe, this was wise—“to Theresa Bigoness, please.”

He heard the broom bang against the ceiling.

“Hello?”

“Theresa?”

“Uh-huh.”

“This is Gabe Wallach.”

“Who?”

“Martha’s friend … Mr. Wallace.”

“You want to speak to Harry?”

“I wanted to speak with you. Privately. To say hello … Just to make sure everything is all right. Is everything …?”

“… I’m okay.”

“I was sorry I couldn’t get to see you—”

“Uh-huh.”

“—when I came to talk to your husband.”

“Maybe you better talk to him.”

“I wanted to tell you that Mr. Jaffe’s looking forward to seeing you on the twenty-ninth, you know. You remember Sid Jaffe — he got your letter, of course.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Everything’s all right then?”

“I feel okay.”

“And we’ll be seeing you on the twenty-ninth?”

“I’ve got a job.”

“I know. The twenty-ninth, of course, has been taken care of.”

“The mill’s all closed up, I have to work—”

“Hasn’t your husband told you that you’re coming into town on the twenty-ninth?”

Silence.

“Theresa, you’re coming, right? You have to, you know. That was all made clear to you by Mr. Jaffe.”

“I have to work.”

“… I’ve paid your salary for that day, more than your salary already.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Theresa, are you listening to me? You do remember me?”

“I have to go upstairs now.”

“When you were in trouble, Theresa, everybody up here was very kind to you. You were taken care of — weren’t you?”

Again she did not see fit to answer immediately.

“Well, isn’t that so?”

“No.”

“It is so, Theresa. Don’t you remember how unhappy you were?”

“Not everybody was nice to me.”

“Who wasn’t?”

“Not everybody,” she whispered.

“Your husband has agreed to come up to Chicago. Hasn’t he told you that?”

“I didn’t have to be treated like that.”

“What are you talking about? Like what?”

“I have to hang up now. I can’t talk long, count of it’s Mr. Phelps’s phone, not mine.”

“Theresa—”

Time passed. The Herzes were finishing up at the Cape Cod Room AM 3-4582; Rachel lay on a blanket on the living room floor, where her sitter had carried her — where, for some fifteen minutes, he had been looking at her. Once again he called Gary.

“I’d like to speak to Harry Bigoness, please.”

The broom.

“Hullo?”

“This is Wallace, I’m calling from Chicago.”

“Look, you just call my wife?”

“No.”

“What do you want anyway?”

“I wanted to give you a ring, to make sure everything was all right.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, that’s all.”

No answer now from the husband.

“Everything’s okay then, about the twenty-ninth?”

“My kid was in the hospital.”

“Who?”

“Walter.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Something with his insides. They don’t know.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“—won’t be able to …”

“What?”

This round the words were sharp and clear; Bigoness took his time with them. “I said I don’t think I can make it.”

It was Gabe’s turn to be silent.

And Bigoness’s to lose his temper. “Did you try to talk to Tessie before?”

“I’ve promised you your money, Mr. Bigoness—”

“My kid is sick!”

“Well, that costs money—”

“God damn right it costs money. What do you think it costs, nothing?”

He said nothing — and not out of strategy; he had no strategy, only confusion.

“Look,” said Bigoness carefully, “I ain’t got time to talk. I’m meeting with a friend. I got some business …”

“You just can’t change your mind like this.”

“I’m too busy.”

“What are you going to do then?”

“I told you.”

“… What do you want, Bigoness — more?”

“You asking?”

“I asked you a question, that’s right.”

“You want to talk about money?”

“How much do you want — don’t be coy, God damn it.”

“I’ve been talking to the lawyer down the union. I’m talking to a friend here — he knows something too.”

“So? What?”

“I know my rights, Wallace.”

“No one’s tried to deprive you of your rights.”

“I know what you been full of crap about, and what you ain’t.”

“How much money do you want?”

“If I wasn’t hard up I wouldn’t ask a guy like you for a God damn penny.”

“I understand.”

“Five hundred bucks.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I ain’t the doctors, Mister—” Bigoness began rapidly. “I ain’t the President of the United States. I ain’t Khrushchev or any of those guys. I didn’t give my kid bad inside troubles. I need five hundred bucks. Take it,” and there was a tremor in his voice, “or you know what.”

“And what’ll it be next?”