Philip Roth - Letting Go

“That’s right, Markie,” Cynthia said, “for you there is.”

“I know,” the little boy said.

A wind rattled the window panes back of the drawn shades, but it was of no consequence to me. In her coat and kerchief and snow boots, Martha appeared to take my tray away.

“Good night,” she said.

“Wake me when you come in.”

“You better sleep through. If you are awake—”

“Please wake me. And thank you for dinner, Martha. I appreciate you for being so perfect.”

She went off to work. I dozed for a while and read, while in the living room Markie and Cynthia watched television. At about eight, the front door opened.

Cynthia ran out into the hall to greet whoever had arrived. “Hi!” the child cried. “Hi, Blair!”

Mark joined in. “Blair! Blair! Tell a story!”

Sissy spoke. “Cut it out, kids. Please. We’re busy.”

“Are you moving away?” Cynthia asked.

Sissy started down the hall toward her room; I saw her flick by my own door.

“But where? ” Cynthia demanded.

“You go back and watch TV, Cyn, please. Go ahead.”

“Hi, Blair,” Cynthia said, forlornly.

“How are you?” he asked. Then the door to Sissy’s room slammed, and Mark and Cynthia’s slippers padded back toward the living room.

Not much could be heard over the noise of the TV, but some fifteen minutes later there were footsteps down the corridor; then Cynthia again, running out into the hall.

“What are you doing with that, Blair?”

“Open the door, will you?”

“Where are you going?” Cynthia asked, but Blair passed down the stairs.

Cynthia walked to Sissy’s room, scraping her heels; she knocked at her door, and then I couldn’t hear anything.

Now Markie ran by my room; he was wearing his pajamas and his hair was slicked back from his bath. He looked in at me with half his face, then took off down the hall. I heard Sissy and Cynthia talking as they moved toward the front door.

“You can keep the phonograph here, Sis, if you want.”

“Watch it, Cynthia, it’s heavy. Please, honey, move—”

“You want to leave your records? I don’t think Mommy would mind if you left your records.”

“Mommy would mind, all right,” said Sissy, and she went down the stairs. She called back from a flight below, “Don’t close the door.”

There were half a dozen more trips up and down the hall. Finally Blair was saying, “Why don’t you burn all this crap?”

“Shhhhh.”

“I got only one closet, Sister,”

“Oh Blair, how can you be so selfish! I want to go with you! Where am I going to go?”

“You got Dave Brubeck and Jerry Mulligan, Sister — there won’t even be room for me.”

“Oh Blair,” she was weeping. “You’re disloyal …”

They went out the door again.

I heard Cynthia call, “Should I leave it open? Sissy, do you want it open? Are you gone?”

“I’ll be right up,” Sissy answered.

When Sissy returned, she was alone.

“Are you going now?” Cynthia asked.

“Uh-huh.” Sissy had stopped crying. “I just want to check the room.”

Cynthia followed her down the hall. “Where are you going? Where are you going to live? Are you going to go home?”

“I’m going to live on Kimbark.”

“Oh goodie, Stephanie lives on Kimbark!” Cynthia replied. “Are you going to live with Blair? Is he your husband?”

“Cynthia, you know he’s not my husband.”

“Are you going to sleep in bed with him?”

“Of course not!” Sissy shot back. “Look, Cynthia—” But that was all she said; she went into her old room.

Soon they were back on the landing.

“Goodbye, Sissy,” Cynthia said.

“Goodbye, Cynthia. Goodbye, Markie. I’ll see you in Hildreth’s.”

As Sissy started down the stairs, Cynthia called, in a last attempt if not to stop what was happening, at least to slow it down, “Sissy, what’s your real name? Do you have a real first name?”

Sissy stopped a moment. “Aline,” she said. “My first name is Aline.”

“Don’t you like it?” Cynthia asked. “Don’t you like people to call you that?”

“Oh, I don’t mind.” Outside Blair leaned on the horn of the car.

“Can I call you that?” Cynthia asked.

“Cynthia, I have to go now.”

“Do you like Cynthia for a name?”

“Sure — listen, I have to—”

“I think it’s horrible.” Cynthia said, and she was crying. “Don’t you want to stay here any more? You sure you don’t want to sleep here tonight?”

“Cyn, I have to go. I don’t think your mother wants me to live here any more.”

“Oh,” cried Cynthia, “rotten Mommy!”

The horn blew again — and Sissy was gone, having decided at the last, it seemed, to let Cynthia’s judgment of her mother stand. For all the girl’s hard luck and all her weakness of character, it still seemed to me a disgusting and unnecessary trick.

Soon Cynthia was bawling in the other room. Markie came to the door. “I think Cynthia’s sick,” he said.

I did not know what good it would do if I were the one to go in and try to comfort her. Nevertheless, I got out of bed and put on an old bathrobe of Martha’s — the pajamas that barely covered me were hers too — and started to the door. Markie, who had been watching me closely, said gravely, “You need a shave.” He led me into the living room, where his sister lay face down on the floor. The Christmas tree, which I had only seen in brief glances as I went to and fro between the toilet and the bed, was so tall that its pointed top bent against the ceiling. Markie went over to the TV set and put one hand on the volume knob, as though to anchor himself to the Western he’d been watching.

I sat down on the sofa. “I’m sorry you’re so upset, Cynthia. Would you like a handkerchief? Can I do anything for you?”

“You did it. You and Mommy.”

“Did what?”

“Made Sissy go!”

Markie sat down on the floor, and stood up, and sat down again. I tried to give him a reassuring smile.

“How did I make Sissy go?” I asked Cynthia.

“You did.”

“How?”

Cynthia wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and caught a glimpse of me from under her lashes.

“You just did.”

“You’ll have to tell me how I did.”

“You told Mommy to do it.”

“That’s not so, Cynthia. I didn’t tell Martha anything either way.”

“Mommy stinks.”

She waited for a reaction, which was not forthcoming. But it was her own grossness, rather than my silence, that made her stop crying. Some moments passed, and then in a voice a good deal less certain, she said, “She does.”

“Does she?”

“Why did she have to make Sissy go? Sissy’s fun. Sissy’s my friend. She had no right to make her move.”

“It’s her house. She can ask anybody to move out, or to stay, that she likes. Don’t you think adults have rights as well as children?”

“She doesn’t own it.”

“Yes, she does,” I said.

“Ha-ha. The agency owns the house.”

“She owns you, Cynthia. She owns Markie.”

I looked at Markie, who was sitting on the floor now, reflecting.

“My father owns me too,” Cynthia said cautiously.

I went on as best I could; though there was suspicion in her voice, there was a note of inquiry too. “Of course your father owns you too. However, right now you’re living with your mother. Your mother makes your meals, and buys your clothes, and she calls the doctor, and sees you get Christmas presents, and she supports you and protects you. Do you know that, Cynthia? Your mother works to support herself, and you, and Markie.”

“So does my father. He’s a famous artist.”