Philip Roth - Letting Go

“What next?”

“Tomorrow. What will it be then, another five hundred? What’ll it be by the twenty-ninth? This is crazy, Bigoness. Whoever you’re talking to is giving you the wrong information. You can’t go around extorting money from people; that’s against the law. Why don’t you follow your own instincts?”

“See,” said Bigoness, “you don’t trust me.”

“What?”

“You son of a bitch.” It was said for what seemed to be the simple pleasure of saying it.

“What’s going on with you, Bigoness? You’re ashamed of asking for this money yourself. Bigoness — don’t hang up—”

“I got business upstairs.”

“Bigoness, you’re a father yourself—”

But the phone clicked.

He removed his jacket from the closet, where Libby had neatly hung it beside his coat. He opened his checkbook and wrote out a check. Then he came back into the living room and tried to play with Rachel. He was able to make her smile. He checked the time; the Herzes were entering the movie. He could drive down in forty minutes, back in forty minutes, allowing himself at least an hour in Gary. He would hand the check over to Bigoness and this time be given proper assurance. But he could never be properly assured. Nor could he leave Rachel alone … He would mail the check tonight, and fly to New York tomorrow—

Nothing would work. He was rocking Rachel now, to get her back to sleep. It’s all become too abstract, he thought, holding the child. Bigoness did not believe Rachel was as real as Walter. He had to be put in touch with the simplest of human facts. He was stupid, but he had feelings. If he could meet Paul, see Libby — see Rachel. If he could be Gabe, rocking her. In one way it was all so simple.

He asked the operator for Gary again.

“May I speak to Harry Bigoness?”

“What is this, a joke?”

“Please, I’m calling from Chicago.”

“So what!”

“Can you get Harry Bigoness to the phone?”

“You the guy’s been calling all night?”

“I’m sorry, please, I’d like—”

“A little peace and quiet, that’s what we’d like!”

The phone was dropped; he waited to hear the broom beat on the ceiling.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Bigoness — this is Wallace.”

“You son of a bitch, I told you not to talk to my wife, didn’t I?”

“I felt it was important to speak to her.”

“How about what other people feel, huh?”

“I want to talk to you now—”

“What were you going to tell her to do, that’s what I want to talk about!”

“I wanted to find out whether you were still coming.”

“Then what?”

“That was all.”

“You’re trying to screw up my life for me—”

“That’s absurd—”

“Everything’s that way to you! Not to me! You leave off Tessie, you hear?”

“I’ve written out a check for five hundred dollars.”

“… Oh yeah, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“I got to see it,” Bigoness said. He was not managing to sound as cool as he intended. “Before I believe it,” he added.

“I’ve got to be sure about you too.”

“I’m plenty reliable, don’t worry about me. You’re the one don’t strike me as a safe bet.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I want to see that check before I make any promises. I want to make sure it don’t bounce, to put it blunt.”

“I can assure you it won’t.”

“Maybe you better bring cash.”

“ Bigoness —look, I want you to realize, I don’t want you to forget — a child—”

“Look—”

“A child, like Walter—”

“You don’t believe Walter was in the hospital. I’ll tell you whose fault it is too; that kid ain’t never recovered from the shock of you, Mister—”

“All I’m saying, all I want to make clear—” he broke in, “is that the child, the parents … Bigoness, is this clear to you? They’re all as real as you and I. They’ve got feelings—”

“ I got feelings, damn it! Who don’t have feelings! You just stay away from my wife, do you hear? She’s home now and she’s staying home. Soon as I get work she’s going to start learning to be a good mama—”

“Nobody’s trying to get her away from you.”

“If I catch her ass down that Fluke’s place—”

“Why don’t you listen— ”

“I’m listening all right. We’re talking about whether that check of yours is going to bounce.”

“Do you understand about this child?”

“Oh yeah, I know. She’s my responsibility and she’s my legal problem. Don’t worry, Wallace, I got some advice about that too. I told you what I’d do if you keep bugging me now—”

“You won’t understand.”

“It’s you,” Bigoness said maliciously, “won’t understand.”

“Bigoness — you’re at home tonight?”

“I told you, I got business—”

“You stay where you are. Don’t you move!”

He took what was his from the closet. His watch showed that the movie had just begun. No one would ever know; he would set it right; the knowledge of how close he had pushed them all to failure would be his own — as would the knowledge of his final success. That was fair. He carried Rachel into her bedroom and dressed her in a red snowsuit and a pair of white shoes; he dressed her right over her woolen pajamas. He lined a wicker laundry basket that he found in the kitchen with a double thickness of blanket; then he wrapped the child in still another blanket and carried her in the basket down the stairs of the old building.

Up till now he had stopped before the end. Now with the basket beside him on the front seat, he started the car. Someone was to get what he wanted! Someone was to be satisfied! Something was to be completed!

Finish! Go all the way!

He began to tremble. But why? What had he to bring to Bigoness’s attention but the very simplest facts of life? Bigoness would have to see the child to believe it, to stop bargaining over it. A life! A life! What was there left to appeal to, but the man’s human feelings?

He tucked Rachel securely in the basket. Then with the motor rocking beneath him, he picked her up and held her to him. And it was not out of pity or love that he found himself clutching her; the mystery of her circumstances was not what was weighing him down. He clutched her to himself as though she were himself. It was as though the child embraced the man, not the man the child. He ground his teeth, locked his arms: if only he could be as convinced as he was determined; if only he could tell which he was being, prudent, imprudent, brave, sentimental … A bleeding heart, a cold heart, a soft heart, a hard, a cautious … which? Oh if he could only break down and give in and weep. But there was no comfort for him in tears, or in reason. He had passed beyond what he had taken for the normal round of life, beyond what had been kept normal by fortune and by strategy. Tears would only roll off the shell of him. And every reason had its mate. Whichever way he turned, there was a kind of horror.

The waiter boned her fish for her, then left them to themselves. Libby said, “I don’t feel very much like a mother tonight.”

“And what do you feel like instead?”

“A — the girl in The Tempest. What’s her name? I don’t mean to be too precious, but since you’re asking …” she said, preciously.