Philip Roth - Letting Go

And Libby was whining. “I don’t know what to decide any more. Every time I decide to get that thing done to me, you decide I shouldn’t.”

“I didn’t decide anything. I got the money out of the bank, didn’t I? I called the doctor last night, didn’t I?”

“But your heart isn’t in it.”

“Oh Libby, Libby, what a dopey statement …” He flopped onto the bed.

She kneeled on the floor, holding his legs. “I’m not anything you thought I’d be, am I? I turned out to be really dumb, didn’t I?”

“No, Libby.” She would confess and confess, and when would there ever be time for his confessions? Couldn’t he just relax and be a rat?

“I’m not good enough for you,” his wife said. “I know it. I’m just a goddam dope.”

“Shhh,” he told her. “Get off the floor, Lib. Get off your knees, please. Come up here.”

“Paul,” she said, beside him, “do it to me. Just the two of us. Nothing in between. Oh,” she wept, “at least let’s get pleasure out of this. Something —”

Later, curled in the arc between his knees and shoulders, she said, “I looked up osteopathy in the Britannica. I went to the library for lunch.”

For the first time in the whole affair, Paul shed tears.

“The American Osteopathic Association,” she said, “was organized in 1897. Did you ever hear of Still? He founded osteopathy. Discovered it.”

“Never.”

“They believe the body heals itself so long as it’s mechanically adjusted. There are lesions, and they correct them by manipulation. It’s not at all like chiropractors. It’s sort of Eastern, in a certain way — Oriental. They study everything, just like MDs. Obstetrics — everything. The American Osteopathic Association was organized—”

“In 1897.”

“It sticks in my mind …”

He thought she had fallen asleep, but a few minutes later she spoke again. “I looked up abortion.”

“Libby—”

“Abortions contributed to sixteen percent of maternal deaths in America in 1943. Or ’44.”

“Look, Lib—”

“That’s nothing, sweetie. When you sit down and figure it out it’s a misleading fact. How many maternal deaths are there? Say it’s as much as three percent. Well, sixteen percent of that. That makes it probably one in a hundred thousand. It’s safer,” she said, reaching back to touch him, “than crossing the street.”

“Are you laughing?” he asked, burying his head in her hair.

“I’m smiling, baby. I’m trying to—”

“Shhh—” Paul said. He moved quickly to the edge of the bed, tiptoed to the door and put his ear to it; after a minute he threw it open. All that fell into the bedroom was the dim light from the corridor.

So that each minute would not be an hour, he had brought a book with him to read. He carried it in his hand while he paced, just like the expectant fathers in the movies. He sat down and opened an osteopathic magazine. Again he came upon the picture of Dr. Selwyn Sales of Des Moines. His hobbies were reading and his family. His wife was a Canadian. He had taught at Kirksville, Missouri. Missouri! Paul began to search, with no success, for the editorial in which he had seen Dr. Tom Smith’s name. He flipped through magazine after magazine until he was nearly frantic. Finally he forced himself to put down the magazines, and started pacing again. The elevator door opened in the hallway. It slammed shut. A figure moved in the pebbled glass of Dr. Smith’s outer doorway. Thank God — it moved on. He heard Mrs. Kuzmyak say something. He heard metallic clinking. Had Kuzmyak administered the pentothal? With those oversized brutish pumpkin hands, had she pushed too deep, too hard? He did not even know how many minutes the whole thing should take. Shouldn’t it be over soon? When she hemorrhaged, what would they do? If there is a body to dispose of—

The door opened and Kuzmyak appeared. “Over,” she said, yanking off her gloves. She hadn’t even worn a mask! She had breathed her fat greasy germs right into Libby! Over? What’s over?

“What?”

Kuzmyak did not like his tone or volume. “Just let Doctor Tom cover her up,” she said abruptly.

“For Christ sake!” Paul rushed through the door just as the doctor’s hands were pulling Libby’s skirt down around her knees. She had worn the old skirt with the oversized girlish safety pin in front, to make it easier; twice before they had left the apartment she had put on fresh underwear. Her eyes were closed now, but she was breathing.

“It takes a few minutes,” Dr. Tom said. But he would not look at Paul. Was he worried? What was going on? “Mrs. Kuzmyak will make some coffee.”

Paul took his wife’s hand — her blouse was unbuttoned. What had her blouse to do with anything? Asleep, anesthetized, what exactly had happened to her? All those women dropping at Smith’s feet—

“Honey? Libby?”

“It takes a while,” said Dr. Tom, washing his hands.

“She’s all right?”

“Like new.”

“Look — is she all right?” He only wanted the doctor to turn and talk to him. “Did you get it all out? Is she bleeding—”

“Control yourself.”

“Just yes or no!”

“Just you don’t be too snippy!” Kuzmyak was standing in the doorway with a kettle. “Poor Doctor Tom,” she said, shaking her head.

“Libby?” Paul rubbed her hand. “C’mon, Lib.”

“That one like Nescafé?” asked Kuzmyak.

“Anything.” He was rubbing and rubbing her hand, to no avail. “Come on, honey, you’re fine, just fine—”

Kuzmyak was standing beside him. “Come on there, Libby.” With one hand she rolled Libby’s head around, the girl’s cheeks jelly between her thumb and forefinger. “Come on, Libbele — wake up, dahling, breakfast is ready.”

“Her name is Libby.”

“Just trying out my accent,” Kuzmyak said, and she went over and poured hot water in the doctor’s cup.

“Prop her up a little,” said Doctor Tom, sitting in his leather chair.

Kuzmyak came back and pulled the girl up by her armpits. “Okay, let’s snap out of it now, huh?”

Libby opened her eyes. She made some sounds. It took her three minutes before she said her husband’s name, another three before she began to cry. She drank her coffee through white lips and took an unsteady practice walk around the office.

Downstairs a taxi was waiting that drove them home. “Are you all right? Did it go all right? Nothing hurts, does it?”

The cab turned through the dark streets. “I’m still sleepy,” she answered. “Very sleepy.”

“I love you, Libby. I love you. I do love you.”

“I’m very tired. My arms are just sleepy.”

“I love you. I want you to know I love you. I do love you, Libby. I love you. I’ll do anything for you. Everything for you, Lib. I love you. Don’t ever forget, Libby, that I love you. Please, please, that I love you.”

At home he put her to bed, and then with all the lights out he sat beside her. “Was it all right? Did you feel anything? Did you go right to sleep?”

“Yes …”

“Don’t you want to talk? Do you want to go to sleep?”

“I think so.”

“All right. Just go to sleep.”

“Paul?” She spoke with hardly any strength.

“What is it, honey? Yes?”

“When I walked in,” she said, crying very softly now, “she took off my skirt and slip. I had to stand around in my stockings and blouse—”

He waited for more, but that was it; he heard her weeping, and then after a while he heard her asleep.

Thirty minutes must have passed before the scuffling began in the hall. In that time he had not moved.