Philip Roth - Letting Go

“Is it still baseball season?” frail Mrs. Norton was saying, trying — despite the inclinations of her frame to gaunt melancholy — to be jolly. With an unconvincing display of liveliness, she threw some jeweled fingers toward the bellowing TV set. Everybody around her turned for a moment to show a mouthful of toothy kindness. All her recent tragedies had made the rounds.

Dr. Gruber, sensitive as a bag of oats (which he resembled), wrapped an arm around her waist, and she whitened. “That’s football, my dear girl,” he cried, lipping his spiky mustache. “This is my alma mater, preparing to knock the tar out of that Cornell bunch. Anybody here for Cornell be prepared to shed tears!” he shouted, almost directly into her small ear.

Unspinning herself from the doctor, Mrs. Norton explained to anyone who would listen, “My goodness, it’s as loud as baseball. I only know the world of sport through my husband. He had a box at Sportsman’s Park—” She was all filled up but no one seemed to know she was speaking. She crept off to have her tomato juice iced by the silent, appreciative colored man who was tending bar in the dining room.

I went over to the set and turned down the volume knob. Settled into the two velvet-covered love seats that had been dragged in front of the machine were several of the paunchier, more afflicted men present. For the moment I only recognized and greeted Dr. Strauss, who had arthritis, and Sam Kirsch, my father’s diabetic accountant. My father himself was gliding about on black patent-leather shoes he’d bought in Germany; he was endearing himself to J.F. and Hannah Golden, but soon he slipped away from them and released his high spirits on poker-faced Henny Sokoloff, widower and diamond king. When he finally came around to the TV screen, Dr. Strauss raised the toe of his shoe toward my father’s seat. I heard my old man cackle, and, in his exuberant mood, he turned the sound up again. “Any score?” he asked. “Nothing nothing, it hasn’t started — get the hell out of the way,” Strauss scolded him. In the meantime, Mrs. Norton was standing beside the orange sofa, stirring her cube around. With the set blaring away again, carrying to all ears the measurements of the Penn linemen, she raced in tears for the nearest bathroom. Two startled people spilled drinks, and a silence drifted for a moment over the rest of the widows, widowers, and aging couples.

Later I saw my father stroking Cecilia Norton’s hand, while she tried several gallant, coughy little smiles. Mrs. Norton had been a college friend of my mother’s; after her marriage she had moved to St. Louis, where her husband was in the beer business. There he had made millions, suffered four heart attacks, and then died of pneumonia brought on by a case of the mumps. A week later she had had a breast removed. When she came on home to New York, having finished up in St. Louis by paying three doctors, two hospitals, and a funeral home, she telephoned my father. It is an indication of all his thoughtfulness and all his blindness that he tried to interest Gruber in her. But if anybody should have wooed Cecilia Norton, if anybody should have unfurled a soft palm for that small lame bird to rest in, it should have been himself. He didn’t, however, and it probably did not even occur to him; all that had happened to him was drawing him now in another direction. He went off to Europe … But let me take things up in order, at least the order of that day.

A buffet dinner was laid out during the third quarter of the game. There were bottles and bottles of liquor (aside from Mrs. Norton’s juice, and club soda for Sam Kirsch) and much of it had already been consumed when the appetizer was carried in. By the fourth quarter what appeared to be mouselike portions of turkey, candied sweets, and salad decorated my mother’s Moroccan rug. Its dull green was bleeding a little red with cranberries, and ice cubes melted at a slow pace under chairs. Millie went starchily to and fro — for she had memories of other Thanksgivings too — and knelt between people with her dust pan and a damp cloth. “They should know better,” she informed me, and then carried our slops back to her kitchen.

The purpose of the party was to celebrate not only the national holiday, but the triumphant return to these shores of my father and Dr. Gruber. This accounted for much of the levity and a good deal of the whiskey; imbibing had never been important in our family Thanksgivings in the past. But for four months the two widowers had been gone from us, and now all the strays and waifs in New York had been gathered together to see that they were alive, kicking, and full of information as a consequence of their lengthy educational experience. They had drunk the water from Oslo to Tel Aviv, they had slept in forty-eight different beds, traveled in twelve countries, and snapped several thousand pictures — and now they were ours once again.

The air of celebration hung on for a good long time, and even when the holiday spirit waned, the semihysteria of several of the women kept a decidedly Dionysian mood about the place. Then around half-past three came the first dying of spirits. Women stared for brief, deep moments over the shoulders of their companions; well-dressed, not too faded, sparkling women drifted away from us for seconds at a time, as though having visions of the past, of Thanksgivings clear back to Governor Winthrop of Massachusetts. Photographs began to appear; mince pie was balanced on laps, while little boys and girls growing up in distant corners of the world made their debut. “My daughter Sheila’s little girl in Los Angeles …” “Mark’s son in Albany …” “My Howard’s twins in Boulder, Colorado …” “Geraldine in Baltimore, Adam in Tennessee, Susanna and Debby in Ontario.” “Canada?” “Yes, Canada.” “That’s nothing,” said Dr. Strauss; he extended one arm back over the love seat and handed around a snapshot of Michael Strauss, age six months, in a baby carriage in Juneau, Alaska. Alaska! Sure, My son’s a metallurgist. But Alaska — how far is it by plane? Far, says Strauss, turning back to the football game.

Suddenly there was traffic, most of it to the two bathrooms. Women repaired their eyes in all the mirrors of the house. Men blew their noses into expensive handkerchiefs. One’s son, one’s grandchild, one’s own flesh and blood, miles and miles away … For a short while well-fleshed backs were all one could see in the room. But through some miracle — the miracle of alcohol, companionship, of everybody feeling his obligation to the Pilgrim fathers — the party did not dissolve into old people collapsing on the floor and beating their hearts with their fists. For a suspenseful few minutes it hung just above that — Mrs. Norton almost turned purple with sadness right in the center of the emptying room — but then feet began to ache, stomachs became gassy, and a little heartburn had to be taken care of. Groans and sighs took precedence over the deeper pains, and full bellies rose and fell in exhaustion. The women sat with heads back and arms folded; the men slept. A general mellowing took place, and the knowledge spread — silent, but electric — that there were thousands and thousands in the world in exactly the same fix as those aged gathered here. With the food moving through the system, the blood thickening, there came the hour of philosophy; outside the window the day turned purple and gold. This was the way of life — separation and loss. To be eating, drinking, to be warm, to be left , that was something. At least those who remained, remained.

I saw my father’s iron-gray hair dart down to a woman’s hand. This happened in the corner of the room near the spindly little Jane Austen desk, where the gas-and-electric bills had always been filed by my mother. The hand was not Cecilia Norton’s; she had departed fifteen minutes earlier, a slice of pie — for her maid — clutched in wax paper to her mink. Goodbye, goodbye, Mordecai. Goodbye, Cecilia, poor Cecilia …