Philip Roth - Letting Go

“What did?” Cynthia asked.

“Who?”

“The edifice. Don’t you listen when I’m talking here?”

It had been a long tiring day, and Cynthia’s bafflement brought her right to the edge of tears, with Mark only a step behind.

“It’s a joke , sweethearts!” Martha cried. “A funny story!” And the little girl and her brother, relieved of their confusion, were swept away on waves of laughter, far away from the cares and conditions of their lives.

Necessity aside, it took an effort of the will for Martha to leave Hildreth’s. She was having a good time; she was liking Blair Stott; by extension, she was even liking Sissy. She remembered now how much she had liked her on that quiet afternoon she had come to look at the room — carefree and silly and, for all her experience, innocent. Now, both Blair and Sissy seemed to her very happy people. From the doorway, Martha turned back to them and waved a fluttery and uncharacteristic farewell. Sissy threw a kiss and Blair called after her, “ Au revoir , blondie.”

Outside Sid was already at the curb, crossing the children. He had warned and warned her about being late, until finally he had stopped whispering his warnings and gotten up and gone ahead. She watched him now as he looked both ways up the street. She started to follow him, but she couldn’t. At first it was only that she wanted to turn back into Hildreth’s and have one last cup of coffee. But then she wanted more; she wanted him to take her children not just across the street, but as far as he liked. She wanted all three of them to continue walking, right out of her life. She wanted to be as mindless as a high school sophomore. She wanted to be taken on a date in somebody’s father’s car. What she wanted were all those years back. She had never had the simple pleasure of being able to think of herself as a girl in her twenties. One day she had been nineteen; tomorrow she would be thirty. For a moment, she wanted time to stop. I want to paint my toenails and worry about my hair. I want—

She looked back over her shoulder into Hildreth’s window and saw Sissy eating her mayonnaise. Suddenly it was as though her old old Fifty-seventh Street had been pulled from beneath her: she was floating, nothing above or below. All her life seemed an emptiness, a loss.

At the door to the Hawaiian House, Sid stood holding Markie’s hand. Cynthia was asking him, “Were you in the Army?”

“The Marines,” he told her.

“Were you in a war?”

“Two.” And he looked at Martha with his most open appeal of the day: Two. All those years. I have no wife, no child. Don’t deny me.

“Tell us a story,” Mark said.

“Children,” Martha said, “Sid has to go home. He has some work to do.”

“That’s okay.” His annoyance with her had disappeared. He spoke softly, setting the scene. It was here and now that she was supposed to say yes , kiss him, fall into his arms. He stood waiting in his big raglan coat, a solid and decent man. “I’ll stay with them,” he said.

“They can stay alone. It’s all right, really.”

“I don’t mind,” he said.

“As long as I’m in by one, Cynthia likes to stay alone.” She touched her first baby’s cheek. “Don’t you, lovey? She’s the best baby-sitter in Chicago. Barbie’s mother looks in every hour or so.”

“I can dial the police,” Cynthia said, “the fire, the ambulance, Doctor Slimmer, I can dial Mother, I can dial Aunt Bev, I can find out the weather, the time—”

Martha bent down to kiss the children good night; it was four minutes after five. Kissing Cynthia, she said, “You’re a very good brave girl. But, baby-love, don’t call the weather any more, will you? It’s tragically expensive. If you want to know how it is just look out the window. Good night, Markie. Are you happy, honeybunch?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, yawning.

“Good night, Sid. Thank you for a merry Thanksgiving.”

“Martha, if you want me to sit with them—”

“You have work to do.”

“I can work at your place, honey.”

Cynthia looked at Markie: honey. Martha put her cheek to Sid’s and, for a second, kept it there.

“Martha—” he began. However, she chose to misunderstand him; no, no, they could stay alone; it was good for them, it developed character; it destroyed silly fears. But Cynthia, don’t forget, you don’t open the door for anybody. Then, feeling no compulsion to say any more, she left the three of them — it was dusk — and went into the Hawaiian House to feed a bunch of strangers their Thanksgiving dinner.

I suppose I have certain advantages over my colleagues (and 99 percent of the world’s population) in not needing my job. I am alone in the world, and self-sufficient — economically, that is — while they, on pay checks that are slipped bimonthly into their boxes at Faculty Exchange, must buy provisions for wives, children, and in a few instances, psychoanalysts. Worse, they have aspirations, visions of tenure and professorships, and all of this combines to make them jittery on other scores as well. I teach out of neither spiritual nor financial urgency. Perhaps I could receive my share of satisfaction from some other job, but at present I prefer not to. I have never had any pressing interest in buying or selling, and I possess neither the demonic genius nor the duodenum necessary for mass persuasion. There are occupations outside the University that have interested me, but they are, to be frank, tasks that play footsy with the arts; whenever I think of them, I think of all those girls I used to know in Cambridge who, the day after graduation from Radcliffe, zoomed down to New York to be copyreaders in the text-book departments of vast publishing houses, or script girls for Elia Kazan, or secretaries at twenty a week for perennially collapsing, perenially sprouting, little magazines. Perhaps the other sex can afford such lapses into fetishism, but the rest of us are wise to take our places as men in the world as early as we can possibly make arrangements to.

So, for myself, I taught classes as diligently as I could, straining daily at being Socratic and serious; I marked all those weekly compositions with the wrath of the Old Testament God and the mercy of the New; I emerged bored but uncomplaining from endless, fruitless staff meetings; and every six months or so, I plunged into my grimy dissertation and mined from it another Jamesian nugget to be exhibited, for the sake of the bosses and their system, in some scholarly journal. But in the end I knew it was not from my students or my colleagues or my publications, but from my private life, my secret life, that I would extract whatever joy — or whatever misery — was going to be mine.

I reached Chicago so late on Sunday night, feeling so broken and foggy, that it was not until I awakened the following day that I realized that the taxi I had taken from the airport had skidded me home to my apartment through a snowstorm. My limbs and mind had been fatigued from both my journey and my visit, and that distant corner where consciousness still burned was fed with recollections of the weekend — of my father, his fiancée, the Horvitzes, the old Herzes, Martha Reganhart, and of myself, what I had and had not done. When I am about to die the last sound you hear will be that of conscience cracking its whip. I am not claiming that this makes me a better man or a worse man; it is merely what happens with me.

At seven-thirty the next morning, the alarm sang out one stiff brassy note. Beyond my frosted window, it was a lithographer’s dream of winter; such Decembers they have in the Holland of children’s books. The snow covered the ground, and the sun the snow. With a happiness so intense that I saw no reason to question it, I rose from my blankets. Just living, sheer delightful breathing, had, in earlier periods of my life, convinced me that a man, like a dog, is most himself wagging his tail. This truth now asserted itself again, and it was with genuine pleasure that I shaved my face, selected my clothes, and prepared my breakfast. Four inches of snow, and life had changed back to what it once had been, what it should be forever.