Philip Roth - Letting Go

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “You don’t have to stay until Paul gets back.” Her husband’s name gave her trouble.

“I think I’d rather stay,” I said.

“But I don’t mind being alone.”

“That’s all right.”

“I just don’t want you to think I expect anything.”

“I don’t think you expect anything!” I answered. “Jesus, Libby.”

She raised her hands to her face again so that the fingers barely touched it, as though the bone beneath were sore and fragile. “I wormed that out of you too,” she said.

Following our embrace I had been visited with a mess of emotions, no one of which I could clearly identify. It wasn’t so much emotion, in fact, as emotionality: much strong feeling, no particular object. Now all I’d felt refined itself down into anger. “Listen, you didn’t have to do any worming of anything out of anybody. I did what I wanted to do. Stop feeling guilty about everything, will you? I don’t even believe it. You wanted me to kiss you, and I wanted to. I was glad I had, in fact, until you started talking. I’m not going to run off now, Libby, and I’m not sneaking out of any bedroom windows. I’ll wait till Paul gets back—” The name, short and simple as it was, gave me some trouble too. “I came over here to ask him something anyway.” I had difficulty, momentarily, remembering what it was.

“I’m sorry,” she said meekly. “You’re right.”

Now, sitting straight in my wicker chair, I found it impossible to look at anything other than the Utrillo print. I saw that they had used thumb tacks to secure the two top corners to the wall, and two pieces of ragged Scotch tape to secure the bottom.

“I’m something,” Libby said.

“Why don’t you rest? Why don’t you try to get to sleep?”

“That’s a good idea … Oh Gabe, what am I? Am I awful or am I crazy?”

“Go to sleep.”

She turned her head on the pillow, closed her eyes, and tried for thirty seconds to follow my directions. Then her eyes opened. “Excuse me, but I don’t think I can with you sitting there.”

“I’ll sit in the other room.”

“That might be a help,” she said.

I got up and went to the door and behind me I heard her say, very softly, “I’ll really be all right, you know. I mean you could go home.”

“It was only a kiss, Libby,” I said, turning to face her.

She looked up at me hopelessly. “Still,” she said.

And then, along with her, I felt ashamed for our having turned out to be just about as unreliable as Paul Herz had given us the opportunity to be. I went out of her room and in the kitchen found my copy of Portrait of a Lady. I left, telling myself that I had no business in the lives of these people and that I would not come back, no matter who invited me. I got into my car and started away, and as I slowly took the first corner I saw Herz trudging home through the snow. He was no more innocent than any of us, and no braver, and yet he was Libby’s husband, and I felt moved to pull the car over and confess to him that I had held his wife — and that my holding her was as good as saying to her that her husband gave her a rotten life. Which perhaps he did.

I passed snow banks and moved cautiously around stalled cars, and heard the trees creaking under the storm’s weight. Soon I was worrying all over again as to the whereabouts of Marge Howells. I should have pulled over to Herz to ask … But what business of mine was she any more? If Marge Howells wanted to run, let her run! If my father wanted to pine, let him pine! If Libby Herz wanted to weep, let her weep!

When I had crossed the bridge and was turning into Dubuque Street, I had to slow up because of an accident ahead. A police car and an ambulance and half a dozen people were gathered under the street light. There was a tow truck on the scene too, the driver of which I recognized, and down on the icy street I saw a stretcher. I was ready to drive around the squad car and head up the next cross street when I saw that on the stretcher there was a blanket, and under the blanket a person. I stopped my car and got out and walked straight toward the center of the circle. I suppose the policemen must have thought I was a friend or relative who had been summoned, for the two of them stepped aside and let me through. What I saw surprised me. The face sticking up above the blanket belonged to nobody I knew.

December 14, 1955

Reading, Pa.

Dear Gabe ,

I have had so much time to correspond with old friends lately and it has been so long since either Paul or myself has had a chance to hear how you’re doing, that I thought to write to you. When I mentioned it Paul thought it would be a good idea, and he wants to send along his good wishes. He is doing well in the department here, though the quality of the students isn’t all one could ask for. The novel is coming along, despite interruptions and distractions and those omnipresent freshman essays. We are hoping, however, that he’ll be able to finish it by the end of the year and get his degree and perhaps move on then to a college a little further from the coal fields. There’s still the German to pass, but he’s getting on top of that and with a little time will probably be able to pass it with ease. I had an excellent job here up until a few months ago when that old fever business started and I finally wound up in the hospital. It turns out I’ve got some kind of kidney disturbance, but now that it’s been properly diagnosed, I’ve gotten the proper drugs and am out of the hospital and feel much better. I’ve had much time and even tried writing a story — which was awful — but have been able to read volumes and volumes. I finally got around to Wings of the Dove, which I think is the best of them all. Didn’t you do your dissertation on it? Kate Croy engaged me so very much — does that say bad things about my character? Aside from my almost dying — which I almost did and which I repeat merely for the romance of it — the next most exciting thing of the last six months was that we met a famous poet. Through some fluke, D— came to the campus to read his poetry. ( He’d been invited by the head of the dept. — the only man in the state of Pennsylvania who reads a little bit of the Faerie Queene at bedtime each night — and apparently thought it was some other school, because he showed up .) He was older than I had thought, but I was consoled by the fact that he was thin, had tight skin, and a youthful manner. He seems to me everything his poems indicate. After an evening reading in the chapel, D. and his wife were given a party by the dept. head. The entire English staff was invited, along with other greater or lesser folks, so I got to see and hear him informally. I’d memorized a little speech beforehand, but I got too shy to say anything to him, so I stared instead. And I wasn’t disappointed at all. Both D. and his very beautiful wife are all that you would like — kind, quiet in a shy way and not distant, deeply in love with each other ( I could tell, of course ) and naturally, most intelligent. When I saw them together, I kept thinking of how happy they are, and I loved her for being the inspiration of all those nice husbandly poems etc. The party went on, with people drinking nervously, talking nervously, and those younger ones of us feeling ill at ease and clinging to those we knew. After a while, bolstered by Scotch of course, I followed D. into another room and sat on a long chintzy couch opposite him and watched and listened to the general chatter which never got very profound about anything ( including poetry ) and glowed from my Scotch and my fever and the new red dress I had on — two dollars a week saved from my job here in the Dean’s office, but beautiful I think anyway. So red dress and all, I was hardly inconspicuous, though most silent. But to get to the point, finally the Dean came to say goodnight to D. and noticed me sitting there and said, “Have you met my secretary yet?” And as I was walking across that long room to say hello ( finally ), D replied, “Not officially, but we’ve been staring at each other all evening.” And they all laughed, and I said in an exaggeratedly low voice I was happy to meet him and then thank God the Dean introduced our poet ( published in the obscurest of quarterlies ) Charlie Regan and I retreated awkwardly to my couch. Then after a confused while, D. and his wife decided to leave — the whole thing must have been awful for them — and again I followed, staring, and stood with the others waving goodbye. And I was desperately wishing to say something to him, when he noticed me, said “Oh,” and came in again, walked over to me, took my hand and then KISSED me on the forehead and said something, but I don’t know what, I was so stunned. And then I said, “Thank you for your poetry,” and he looked pleased and bowed thank-you and left. And I went soaring up to the stars literally; I’ve never in my life had such a feeling. I thought at the time that it all was most symbolic, even though I realized that he thought I was a sweet silly girl, in love with the idea of a poet. Reading all this over I see that it sounds just like that, like so much honey and roses. But 1 can’t help it because it’s all true. And I was very happy. I’m looking forward now to getting up and around, and even to getting back to the filing cabinets in the Dean’s office, so you see that I must be well, having become so edgey. I’ve written letters to dozens of people, and since you helped us out so long ago, when we were both down in the dumps, I thought it might be pleasant to write to you. The sad thing in life is that we don’t see friends and let small things separate us, and after a while you just think that even a greeting is insignificant. I know that Paul does send his best, and the two of us hope your life at Chicago and your job at the university is going well. It seems like a marvelous opportunity for you, and we would of course be interested in hearing how everything is going and how you like teaching there. It’s time for me to take one of my pills, they’re as big as stones and expensive as jewels, so I must close …