Philip Roth - Letting Go

“Crap, Libby. We’re poorer than he is.”

“What kind of letter is it?” she asked.

“He brought a friend over with him. The man with the shakes next door. With the limp. Korngold. Korngold’s son has ruined Korngold’s life. Disappreciation—”

“Who’s Dr. Smith?”

“Who?”

She was holding up the little white piece of paper. “Dr. Thomas Smith. BA 3-3349.”

“Where was that?”

“On the table. Who is he?”

“He bandaged my hand. I have to call him.”

“Are you all right, sweetheart?” she asked. “Are you very upset?”

“It’s nothing.”

“I mean the other thing. Me.”

“You are,” he said. “You’re depressed.”

“I’m not depressed, I’m just nauseous. Is that possible? So soon? I couldn’t eat my lunch.”

“Maybe you should go to a doctor.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“If you’re feeling nauseous you ought to go to a doctor. You’ve got to eat.”

“We don’t have to start with doctors already,” she said. “I’m not going to pay anybody five dollars to tell me I should be nauseous.”

“Then go to a clinic. Go to the City Hospital.”

The suggestion visibly shocked her. “It’s not necessary.”

“Lib, you’re going to have to see a doctor eventually. Not doing anything isn’t going to make it not so.”

“Don’t lecture me, please. I’m quite aware of my condition and what to do about it.”

Her words confused him — though within the confusion was a strain of relief. “What do you mean?”

“That you don’t have to run to doctors in the second month. Please , Paul.” She picked up Levy’s letter from the floor; after looking at it for only a second, she buried her head in her arms on the table.

“Put something over your shoulders, Libby.”

“I’m all right,” she mumbled.

“Libby …”

She answered only with a tired sound.

“Dr. Smith is an abortionist,” he said.

Her arms remained crossed on the table, and she raised her head very slowly. She had nothing to say.

“He does abortions,” Paul said.

“I see.”

He got up from the edge of the bed and moved toward her. “You don’t see anything.”

“I don’t see anything,” she repeated. “You just made me numb, saying that.”

“I made myself numb.”

“He bandages hands too?”

“The doctor at the plant bandaged my hand. I just said that. The plant doctor gave me Smith’s name.”

She hammered on the table. “I don’t understand.”

“What?”

“I don’t understand how people give out names like that! I don’t think I understand what you’re talking about!”

He decided to say no more; he sat back down on the bed.

“I said I don’t think I understand everything,” Libby shouted. “Would you please tell me? I’d be interested to know how my condition was bandied about in some doctor’s office.”

“Nobody bandied anything.”

“Then what happened?”

“Let’s forget it. I’ve been stupid. I’m sorry.”

“Let’s not forget it till I know what I’m supposed to forget!”

“Libby, let’s do forget it.” He did not give in to his impulse to pretend that his wrist was hurting. But Libby fierce, Libby pounding on tables and shouting, made him very uncertain; this was the girl he had married to take care of. Sternly he said, “Forget it.”

“Maybe I’m interested!” she said, pointing a finger at him. “Maybe I’m interested! All right?”

“Maybe I’m not.”

He did not realize that she still had the piece of paper in her hand until he saw it being waved in his face. “Then why did you bring this home? Why did you bring it up in the first place?”

“The doctor did.”

“But you brought it home, you wrote it down—”

“He wrote it down. Calm yourself. He asked me why I was so preoccupied. I told him. He took out a piece of paper and wrote this name down. He gave it to me, and I was in a daze, and I took it — and that’s all.”

“He didn’t say anything.”

“Nothing. It was all very … decent.”

“So then how do you know it’s an abortionist? Why do you come home and even say that?”

“Because I know. Because it is. He was trying to be kind.”

At last she sat down beside him, helpless. “Do you think it was kind?”

“I don’t know.” He pulled her head down into his lap, and ran a finger along the hard bone of her nose. “Stop shouting abortionist around here,” he said. “Levy’s behind every door.”

“All right.”

After a few silent minutes, he asked, “What do you think?”

“How …” She held his hand over her mouth as she spoke. “How much is it? Is it too much?”

Around the corner from them was a little delicatessen with a neon Star of David in the window, and tile floors, and the usual smells. They ate dinner there often because it was cheap and the counterman was kind, especially to Libby. Jewish store owners were always taking her for a nice Jewish girl and giving her extra portions to fatten her up.

“What kind of dinner is that?” Solly called from behind the cold-cut slicer. “Consommé and tea, you’ll dwindle away to nothing. We’ll have to give you an anchor for outside in the wind.” He had a concentration camp number on his forearm and had bought the store with Nazi reparation money; the Herzes respected him fiercely.

“I’m not hungry,” Libby called back to him.

“You’re not hungry, what’s wrong with a piece of boiled chicken?”

“No thank you, Solly.”

“Are you still nauseous?” Paul asked her.

She nodded and broke a slice of rye bread into small pieces; she touched a crust to her lips, but couldn’t push it any further.

“Lib, I’m going to call him.”

“From here?”

“From the booth. I’ll just call. I’ll inquire.”

He waited, but she gave him no answer. A couple of teen-age boys came into the store and ordered knishes.

“Does that seem all right?” Paul asked.

“… I think so.”

“That doesn’t sound like conviction, Lib. Should I or shouldn’t I? What do you want me to do?”

“Whatever you want …” She collected all the little pieces of bread and put them in the ash tray.

He sat a moment longer and then got up and went to the phone booth. Solly passed him, carrying two bowls of soup. “It’ll get cold,” Solly said. Paul smiled and shut the door of the booth behind him. He looked at the piece of paper but could not read the number. I drank tea with Levy … I kibitz with Solly … At the plant I eat my lunch with Harry Black, LeRoy Holmes …

If no one knew my face or name—

“Hurry up,” Solly called as he passed the booth again. Paul turned his back to the store; hunched on a corner of the seat, he dialed. The underwater feeling he had lately experienced returned. He waited until he heard a hello from the other end.

“Is Dr. Smith in?”

“He’s eating—” a woman replied. “I said he’s eating.”

He did not know where to go from there.

“Hello — is this an emergency?” the woman shouted. “Is this Mr. Motta?”

“No.”

“Well, the doctor is eating his dinner. You want him to call you back? Is this Mr. Motta?”

“No, no. I’m in a booth.”

“Look, you call when he’s finished eating. You hear me?”

When he got back to the table, the steam still rose off their bowls of soup. Libby had not disturbed the oily surface with her spoon.

“Are you sick again?” he asked.