Philip Roth - Letting Go

Martha Reganhart

The first words I ever heard her speak were, “There’s a Negro little-boy problem”; the second: “What a dumb, silly, impossible bitch.” The dry whistling autumn air outside seemed to give to Martha Reganhart’s voice a special quality of exuberance; since she seemed to have no intention of being secretive in the first place, she ended up practically shouting. We had managed to escape from the club at the same time and had turned east toward Woodlawn together, under a perfectly beautiful evening sky. “What a thing— rape prone! Don’t you feel like stamping her out? Don’t you want to grind her into something? God, she makes me ferocious! She doesn’t read contemporary novels, do you know that? And she thinks water should be fluoridated. And her little girl can’t kiss her little brother for the same reason he can’t marry Negroes. Oh, you were there for that. You should have stopped by a little earlier — you missed all the casserole recipes, my friend. Do you know John speaks sixty — oh, you know all this. You don’t happen to be a pal of theirs …? Did you think I was? I sat there thinking, This fellow is going to hang me by association. Not that I read many contemporary novels myself, but I’m not against it for others, you know? Which is probably my fluoridation opinion too. What is fluoridation exactly? What? Oh I don’t even know how I got invited to dinner — Oh I do know. I’m a gay divorcée and Spigliano is in on the folklore.”

“He made a pass? John?”

“It does sound pretty unstructured of him, doesn’t it? I took a course from him downtown this summer. I was leaning over my Ibsen in his office and he snuck up from behind. He put his hands on my waist. My hips, I suppose. But that’s really all. I guess he felt, given that, I ought to meet his wife. Look, I don’t know what he thought. He invited me and since it’s nice to get out of the house once in a while, I came.”

“How did it end?”

“I said, Cut it out.”

“And John?”

“He said something about my not understanding his passionate Latin soul and then pole-vaulted out of the room. Excuse me, really. That woman makes me want to talk bawdy just as a kind of declaration of humanity. He wasn’t as silly as that. I shouldn’t even have been in that class in the first place. As I said, I get interested from time to time in getting out of— Does this all seem a little too defensive? I know what night school sounds like for a grown woman. Hiking up your earning ability. Improving your word power. But for me it was different, truly. I wore all kinds of jazzy clothes, and heels — so I suppose poor John’s not so much to blame. But tonight I didn’t know whether to apologize to that fastidious Arid-soaked little ladies’ magazine of his, or whether he had brought us all together to confess. She said he’d been talking about me all summer. I was one of his best students and so on, and I just sat there looking stony as I could. Did I look stony?”

“Bored.”

“Really? I wasn’t. After a while I thought maybe it was a joke. Go explain men’s consciences … I’m sorry if I’m being loud. It was a trying experience. You just had brandy — I sat there for two and a half hours. I thought I acted pretty well, though, didn’t you? Oh I said that thing about Negroes, but how could I help myself? And she doesn’t hear anyway. But you were wonderful, by the way-You were really excellent. I mean you know how to be stony, kid. After a while I began to wonder if you were one of them. I live down on Fifty-third, I have to turn off here.”

“Would you like to have a beer with me?”

“I have a baby-sitter waiting.”

“A short beer. I’ll explain fluoridation.”

“Explain the conscience of John Spigliano, if you want to do some explaining. Now that’s something, isn’t it?” She stood for a moment with her hands on her substantial hips, just a little off balance, contemplating the problem. In heels she was my equal, and when she stopped meditating and looked straight on at me, it was directly in the eye. Right off I liked Martha Reganhart a good deal. “To make a pass and then invite me to dinner with her,” she said. “Who in hell was he trying to prove what to? I mean it about men’s consciences. I don’t understand them. They can’t let go, you know? If they know they’re so guilty, then why do they keep acting like bastards? I’m sounding unladylike again, but a woman at least realizes there are certain rotten things she’s got to do in life and she does them. Men want to be heroes. They want to be noble and responsible, but they’re so soft about it. Do you agree with this or are you laughing at me?”

We had a beer and on the way home, crossing Kenwood, I took her hand to guide her onto the curb. And then, with only sidewalk ahead, I kept it. Her next remark left me feeling rather feeble. “It’s only a hand,” she said. I released it. “I was only holding it,” I said. At the corner of Kimbark and Fifty-third she stopped. “The fifth ugly porch down is mine. I think I can make it alone. Thanks for walking me. Thanks for making everything clear about water fluoridation. I’d like to be against it, what with Mrs. Spigliano being for it, but I’m as cavity-oriented as the next parent. Good night, Gabe,” she said. I am of a forgiving nature, and if somebody wants to charm me, I let them. For a moment Martha Reganhart looked up at the white moon, showing the underside of what looked to be — despite my hospitable feelings toward her — a very uncompromising chin. She made a slight but weary sound. She was not so big, really, as she seemed.

“Maybe we could have dinner some night,” I said. “Without the Spiglianos.”

She looked from the heavens back to me with what I thought was genuine interest. Then she turned formal and altogether strange. “That’s very nice of you. Perhaps we can work that out some time.” Her smile didn’t help matters any. “I work, you know, at night. Tonight is — was — an exception. Thanks again for the beer.” As she was about to move off finally, she said, “Please excuse me, will you, if I sounded like a grande dame just now. It’s just the handholding. I don’t see the … I was going to say I don’t see the sense.” She turned here and hurried up the street. I saw that for the most part she took the width of her hips and the breadth of her thighs without very much complaint; in walking she made no attempt to be languorous or statuesque, nor did she hide her neck and slouch off inches in the shoulders, or even give in to buxomness and gyrate belly and can. She walked with an unquestionable solidity; not mannish, mind you, but not tinkley-tinkley or snap-snap either. I imagine that women over five eight have decisions to make that other women don’t; there’s no absolute relaxing, and probably they know best whether to be snugglers and handholders. On the stairway of her front stoop Martha Reganhart suddenly disappeared, and I wondered if she had fallen. But she had only bent over to pick up something from one of the steps. Throwing a child’s doll over her shoulder, she proceeded into the house.

Gabe Wallach.

Knows only two languages, and one badly, so perhaps he is snotty out of envy. Unlike his boss, he has no wife whom he deserves. As for girl friends, he would not be willing to say that he has actually deserved any of them. He is better, he believes, than anything that he has done in life has shown him to be. Often upon parting from friends and acquaintances, he has the suspicion that he has behaved badly; what may or may not have really happened alters very little his attitude toward himself. He has the malaise of many wealthy but ordinary young men: he does not exactly know what to do with himself. Though subject to his share of depressions, nightmares and melancholy, he cannot enjoy any of it thoroughly (and thereby feel his true and tragic worth) because of a nagging doubt that he is very lucky and ought to be thankful and shut up. It would help if he would imagine himself without hope. He has an income, he has perfect health, and he believes not only in the pursuit, but the catching by the tail and dragging down into the clover, of happiness. Unfortunately, all these beliefs don’t get too much in the way of his actions. If his own good fortune were inevitable, he should not have so much trouble making up his mind. For an optimist, he is very nervous and indecisive. Suppose happiness should twitch her butt and dance merrily off the side of a cliff — should he follow?