Philip Roth - Letting Go

My taste in personal effects is conventional, running to a kind of quiet fussiness, and marked by a decided Anglomania, common enough to my profession, I think, as well as my class and generation. That afternoon, however, I indulged my cabinet-minister inclinations with the wantonness of a Turk. Actually it was only of late that I had begun appreciating the pleasures to be derived from spending money on myself; as a child and youth, others for the most part had spent it on me. But with Libby, during those two solid hours of accumulation in Brooks, I unearthed new possibilities in capitalism, I saw that things are not going to be so easy for the Russians as they may think. There is something life-giving and religious in outfitting yourself.

Back on the street we surrendered ourselves to shame. The Balboic, the Columbian emotions I had first experienced upon discovering myself in the full-length mirror, now washed right by me. And that absolute delight and sparkle in Libby’s eyes — for it was she who had egged me on, past the fedora to the homburg, and on then to the puce gloves, the tight-rolled umbrella, the long lisle stockings, the garters, the ties, and finally to the glowing, noble scarlet smoking jacket — the sparkle that had given to Libby’s face such incredible life, that had won envy for me from every man in the store, ran out of her eyes now in two barely visible tears. I knew I should never again be able to kid myself, even if I returned the smoking jacket the following day, into feeling lofty or virginal about our relationship.

“I have to run off — I have a class at six — I have to have a bite. I’m going, Gabe.”

“I don’t feel very splendid, Libby, about this whole silly indulgence.”

“You …” She almost laughed, crying. “You look splendid. You look terribly splendid.”

“I’m walking toward the train,” I said.

“I’m going to have one of those dollar-seven steaks.” She went off in the opposite direction, toward State Street.

And so there I was, under sunny skies, tapping the pavement with the tip of my umbrella. I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window. What a dandy! How weak and feeble! Some match for my father and his surprise! And then hurtling at me from behind, practically flying, came Libby’s reflection. I turned to catch her, and she reached out with her hands to my new — our new — gloves. There on Madison Street, just within earshot of Michigan Boulevard, we came the closest we had come to each other in Chicago.

“In New York,” she said, breathless from running, “go see Paul’s family, will you? Oh, Gabe, just tell them, will you, about his job, that I’m working, that I’m going to school, that everything is working out? Will you, please? ”

“Yes, sure, Lib—”

“Just tell them.”

On the train back to the South Side I could not work out in my head exactly how the lines and angles of our triangle had altered; nor could I begin to see what my visiting the elder Herzes would do for everybody’s well-being that it might not do to their detriment. I did not care either for the tone the mission had of a soldier paying a call on the family of a dead buddy. Despite definite feelings of obligation, I had a very imprecise sense of who I was feeling obliged to. In Chicago that day (and once again, sitting at the little phone table in my father’s apartment), Martha Regenhart began to loom in my head — and subsequently in my heart too — as a green, watery spot in a dry land; I felt in her something solid to which I could anchor my wandering and strained affections.

Why I had called her now seemed perfectly clear. I slipped the Brooklyn directory back into the table and went into the kitchen, ostensibly because my mouth had gone dry, but actually, I think, to come close as I could to the pure, unspoiled realities of the holiday — the greasy turkey pan, the dirty dishes, the still-warm oven, the aromas of a happy and spontaneous American family life.

Fay Silberman was there, her head over a coffee cup.

Since I couldn’t simply turn and walk out, I went to the sink and ran some cold water into a glass. Mrs. Silberman rose and smoothed her shaky hands over her smart velvet suit. My admiration for the fight she was trying to put up against her condition did not particularly alter my attitude toward the condition itself. She had made a silly fool of herself in the living room.

“We haven’t had a chance to talk,” she said. “You resemble your father remarkably.”

The father, I realized, was about to be courted through the son. All the desperation I had been witness to during the long afternoon suddenly centered for me on this hungover, handsome, game, miserable woman, who had been beauty-parlored nearly to death. Her hair floated and glowed like a sky, and her face had been lifted and was too tight; her nails, ten roses, were long enough to sink deep, to hang on, tenaciously. She was heartbreaking, finally, but I wasn’t in the mood.

“I look a little like my mother too.”

“I haven’t seen any pictures of her,” she said.

“There are several in the living room.”

She smiled hard, the end of round one. I summoned up whatever good sense I had accumulated over the years and came out like a small, affectionate dog for round two. “My father looks fine — he hasn’t looked this well in years. The trip seems to have done him a lot of good.”

“All he did was laugh. He laughed all the way through Europe.”

“He can be a very happy man,” I said.

Her answer confused me a moment. “Thank you,” she said. “Nobody …” She swayed, tilting in some private breeze, but found strength against the sink. “Nobody should miss it. Europe. It’s just another culture.”

“Are you feeling all right?”

“I feel fine!” Then, focusing her eyes on the wall clock, she added, “I had too much to eat.”

“So did I—”

“Don’t hate me, young man. You have no right to hate me!” She slumped down into a kitchen chair and covered her eyes. I did not know now what to say or do, and only prayed that no one would come into the kitchen. “I have children of my own in California,” she said, as though that were some threat against our house.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Silberman. I have to be going.”

“Your father said you were here for the weekend.” She spoke almost with alarm.

“I have to go to Brooklyn.”

“I’ve never been to Brooklyn in my life.” I wondered if that was supposed to have been a gay remark. Was she soused, or stupid, or both? “You better stay,” said Mrs. Silberman, turning regal before my eyes. “After coffee, your father is going to announce our engagement.” She stood up, quite steady now — the weather in the kitchen having calmed for her purposes — and turned to face me. I took a sip of water, waiting for my own responses (which were slow, very slow), and when I looked up again what I saw was that her face had gone all to pieces. “This is a wonderful thing in everybody’s life. Don’t you go throw a monkey wrench,” she begged. “You’re supposed to be an educated person!” Her whole body stiffened with that last plea.

“Maybe you better calm yourself.”

“I’m not an invalid. I’m a very young woman. I’m fifty-four. What’s wrong with that? I’ve had a shock in my life. I chose your father, after all, not Dr. Gruber.”

I had to admit that her choice was meritorious, and whatever she might have thought, I had no intention of being caustic, nor anything to gain thereby; in fact, I wanted for personal reasons to give her all the credit her selection deserved. Unfortunately for all our futures, I chose the wrong words. “You did well for yourself.”

“I make him laugh. It’s more than anybody else in his family ever did! I make him feel important!”