Philip Roth - Letting Go

He sat on the bed, then floated, fell, died on the pillow. At first he did not ask himself why or how or when she had written; there was only the fact: she had. The letter rested on his chest, and for a moment he wondered if perhaps now he could rest. But even with the wind knocked out of him, it seemed he could not; breathless, he was up off the mattress suddenly, hunting. He poured out the contents of the trash can, sorting through wads of Kleenex; on the damp floor he crawled halfway under the bed; he looked through his wallet again. But he could not find the paper with Smith’s name. Then, with nothing better to do, he counted out the money — he ruffled and snapped each of the bills like a businessman, but they gave him none of what they gave the businessman. It seemed that he did not so much hate giving away this money as he hated himself for having it to give in the first place. Confusion. Terrible confusion. He returned to the bed and lay there face down, clutching the money in his hand. How easy, how soft and easy, he thought, was the solution: let go, give up, have a baby …

Okay then: consequences …

But for the first time he was not afflicted with visions of dancing dollar signs. His visions were not of loss and chaos. His family, for instance. Would not a baby’s coo soften their hearts? How could they resist a little dark-eyed child? This would be different from Libby’s conversion; this was nature, not design. The conversion, which he had masterminded, he knew now to have been a mistake, the real low point in his life. He was almost glad that his parents had not been fooled by it. Nobody else had, not even (most wretched of all) the convert herself. Yet he had still been dazed enough at the time to figure that something dramatic would knock them all back to their senses. After all, he was Paul, their son … it would forever remain a painful mystery to him that those parents whom he had never needed could shake him so by deserting him and his young wife.

It was easier understanding Libby and her parents. The protected child, the sheltered little girl, the baby sister. He could almost bring himself to forgive her for writing that father of hers. A girl with a past full of Gloriful Heaven and Sweet Jesus could not believe that anything as innocent as their marriage could provoke in others such monstrousness. The values from which their union had grown were the values the world had smiled upon for centuries. Not for a moment was either of them irresponsible; they had not been able to sleep with one another for more than a night without serious and profound feelings. And once they had rushed to confess these feelings to each other, how could they ever part? Oh love — was that the seed from which dragons grew? It was disbelief not greed, wonder not stupidity, that had led Mr. DeWitt’s loyal little girl to write to him.

But why had she to plead with him? Why ask for, of all things, money? How that sanctimonious bastard must have licked his chops! Privation, debts, hunger, fear! And up ahead, ah yes, there she glows, The Shining Light. The miserable sadist! The heartless Christ-kissing son of a bitch! Why should either of them have to plead with him, or anybody? Why must he suck around a dog like Levy? Suddenly he, Paul Herz, was a partner in the screwing of Korngold! And what, what was the best, the honorable, the manly course? He could put the four fifty back in the bank. He could give in to nature, let life — his, his wife’s, his child’s, roll on …

At work in the afternoon he knew he had changed his mind out of nothing noble. His decision not to go ahead with the abortion had little to do with any discovery of his own manliness. It was simple. How to avoid going to jail? Have the baby. How to get out from under Levy? Have the baby. How to win back his parents’ love? How to make DeWitt eat his words? Simple — have the baby, but deprive that pious louse of any rights to it. If they threw out the daughter, he could give them the heave-ho too! But what machinations— what cowardice! The hand he had lifted against the cruel world was now a fist striking against his own heart.

Libby arrived home that night before he did. He heard her singing inside, and hesitated with his key; he still did not know what to do with the letter from her father. With no plan at all, he opened the door.

Matters were further confused by the kiss. “I’ve got control of myself,” she said, brushing the side of his head with her lips. “I want to tell you that. I want you to know. I’m glad we had this extra day. I’ve got control of myself now.”

“Good.”

“I want to go to bed with you.”

“Lib, my wrist—”

“Right now. Let’s take advantage, Paul—” She still held him so that he could only feel her body and hear her voice. “We don’t have to use anything. Nothing — just the two of us—”

“I’m just a little tired …”

“What is it? What’s the matter now?”

“Nothing.”

“Didn’t you go to the bank again?”

“Everything’s taken care of.”

“What’s the matter? I’ve gotten myself all ready for it. I’ve changed my attitude. I decided to be a woman about this thing. What’s wrong now?”

Taking a deep breath, aware of how impossible he was being, he said, “Let’s go to bed, Lib. Let’s get in bed.”

“Don’t oblige me.”

“I’m not obliging you. Don’t you oblige me.”

“I wasn’t obliging you. I changed my mind. ”

“From what? I didn’t know it needed changing. I thought you had agreed—”

“I can’t stand any more of this!” she shouted. “Everything I do is wrong!”

He was shaking the letter at her. “Writing your father was wrong, damn it!”

She snatched it from him, crying, “Do I open your mail!”

“That isn’t the point! The point is that you can’t go crying back to your family!”

“I wasn’t crying to him — as a matter of fact I was bawling him out. I was telling him what I thought of him!”

“How much did you say we needed?”

At the last moment, on the point of breaking down and sobbing an apology, she shouted, “Plenty! I said we needed plenty! What’s wrong with that? Do you know when I wrote that letter?” She was crying, but not with any loss of force. “The day we moved in here. That night, that terrible awful night. I wanted him to know, God damn him — I wanted him to know what his selfish mean stupid Catholic crap had driven us to—”

“He didn’t drive us here, Libby. We chose to come here.”

“I didn’t choose it.”

“You agreed, damn it! Don’t start that. In Ann Arbor—”

“But I didn’t choose it! I’m agreeing to this abortion, but I didn’t choose to get pregnant. Oh Paul, I didn’t choose any of this.”

“Are you blaming me for dragging you down in the mud?”

“ I ’ m blaming him! That’s why I wrote the letter!”

“But he has nothing to do with it, Libby.”

She wept. “Then who does?”

There was only one thing that remained to be said. His impulses were all confessional; he almost came to his knees when he admitted, “I do.”

She misunderstood; or perhaps she would not allow herself to hear of his weakness. He heard her say, “Are you telling me you’re sorry you married me again?”

“For Christ sake, stop that! Nobody said anything like that. My blood is like water from all this squabbling. Let’s stop it!” But the moment to which he felt he had every right had been denied him. Caring for Libby, he could not be what perhaps he really was. They were — the word came at him with every ounce of its meaning— married.