Philip Roth - Letting Go

I stopped, and heard what I thought for a moment was something as noncommittal as a cough. But it was the beginning of tears. She said, “Oh, you’re drunk, baby — but come, come anyway.”

“What about Daddy?” Cynthia asked.

“Daddy has decided to live in Arizona. He decided that a long time ago. I don’t think that Daddy is a consideration here. He doesn’t have anything to do with what I’m saying, Cynthia.”

“Is Gabe our new Daddy?” Markie asked.

“He’s mother’s dearest dearest friend. He’s your dearest friend.”

“Yes,” Markie said.

“Okay?”

“Will he sleep in bed with you?” Cynthia asked.

In the kitchen I sat at the uncleared table, drinking my coffee; in the children’s room I heard Martha say that I would.

“Where’s Arizona again?” Mark asked.

“In the southwest of the United States. I showed you on the map.”

Cynthia spoke next, her words a surprise. I did not expect that she would choose so quickly to be distracted. “What’s the capital?” she asked.

“Tucson. Phoenix,” Martha said. “I’m not sure.”

“What’s the capital of Illinois?” Cynthia asked.

“Springfield.”

“Why don’t they make it Chicago?” asked Cynthia.

“I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“Gabe knows,” Markie said.

“He probably does,” Martha said.

“I’ll bet he doesn’t,” Cynthia said.

“Well, it’s not important.”

But it was; I pushed my chair away from the kitchen table and went into the children’s room, where the little lamp between the beds illuminated the wall upon which Martha’s kids had poured out all their talent and aspirations. In a dim light, the crayoned stick figures, the stick houses, and round radiant suns and gloomy moons had about them a charm and gaiety that at this particular moment had no effect upon the seriousness of my mood or mission. Cynthia was sitting up in bed, wearing over her pajamas one of her Christmas presents — a red Angora sweater; she was surrounded by her nurse’s kit, her Spanish doll, and the Monopoly set, upon which the first game had been played that afternoon by Martha, me, Cynthia, and Cynthia’s friend Stephanie. Mark’s head was on his pillow and his hands were tucked under his crisp sheets. He was looking very happy about being in bed. A wad of clay sat on the pillow beside his head, there because he had “made” it in the morning, and had bawled loud and long throughout the day whenever separation had been suggested. It had fallen into his soup at dinner, but now that was all forgotten.

Martha stood by the window, hefty in a pair of faded dungarees, with her hair pulled into one long dramatic braid down her back. She was rocking on the outer edges of her blue sneakers, and her body was arranged in what I had come to think of as her posture: right hand on the chin, left hand just below the hip, fingers spread down and out over the can. Though she had earlier requested that I not be present for this scene — and though I had willingly agreed — she looked in my direction with a face upon which worry turned to relief, relief to hope. She smiled, a what-do-we-do-next smile, and sighed.

“Do I or don’t I know what?” I asked.

Cynthia said, “Why isn’t Chicago the capital?”

“Of America?”

“Of Illinois.”

“That’s a tough question.” I looked over to where Markie lay in his neat little bed. “Probably,” I said, “because it gets too cold for a capital here. Capitals are where the big shots live; I suppose they like it warm. What do you think, Mark? Does it look warm outside to you?”

He propped himself up on his elbows. “I can’t see. Mommy’s by the window.”

Martha moved to the side; she looked at me as though I had announced I would now pull a rabbit from a hat, without even having a hat, let alone the rabbit.

Snowflakes were tapping against the pane. “Does it?” I asked.

“No,” Markie said, though he looked up at me willing to be corrected.

“Does it to you?” I asked Cynthia.

With a lofty sophistication, she said, “It’s snowing.” But for a flicker of a second she had almost smiled.

“All right,” I said. “Who in his right mind would make this place a capital?”

After a moment Cynthia spoke again. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“With Martha,” I said.

“Maybe,” said Martha, moving now between their beds, “you should close your eyes, sweethearts. You had a very tiring day. Come on, Cyn, take off your sweater.”

“I think I want to wear it.”

“Honey, it’s brand new. You can wear it tomorrow.”

“I want to wear it now!”

Martha took my hand. “Wear it, Cynthia,” she said. “And go to sleep.” She leaned over and kissed each child. “Good night.”

“Can Gabe kiss us?” Markie asked.

“Sure,” his mother said.

I leaned down and kissed Markie, who stuck his lips directly into mine. I put my lips to the cheek that Cynthia had turned toward me.

“Good night, Cynthia,” I said. “You’ll have fuzzy dreams in that sweater.”

“I’ll be all right,” Cynthia said; and Martha turned off the light.

“I loaned her a hundred,” Martha said.

“And so is that what all this irritation with me is about?”

“I’m not irritated with you.”

“Because we can call them up, Martha. We can tell them not to come.”

“What’s that have to do with anything? The roast is in the oven. We invited them. Let’s leave it that way.”

“Then what is it, Martha?”

“Nothing.”

“What is she going to do with the money? Are you going to get that money back?”

“I suppose so.”

“Martha, sit down and forget those potatoes a minute.”

“Your friends will be coming—”

“And what’s this ‘my friends’ business? We discussed whom we would have. You went through all your friends, and you said you didn’t want any of them.”

“Divorced women depress me. Please,” she said, “I have to finish here.”

“What’s eating you? Sit down. What is it?”

At last she looked directly at me. “Oh hell — I don’t have any money for the January rent.”

“Sit down. You gave what’s-her-name, Theresa, the rent money?”

She moved into a chair opposite me at the kitchen table, holding a spatula in her hand.

“Most of it,” she answered.

“Including what I gave you?”

“Are you going to cause a fuss about that?”

“I’m not causing a fuss over anything.”

“Well, you only gave me forty bucks,” she said, “so obviously the other sixty was mine. And the rent’s a hundred and thirty, so I mean forty bucks doesn’t get me very far.”

“We’ve been through all this. Didn’t Sissy give you forty a month?”

“I didn’t ask you to give me that money. You don’t have to give me a penny.”

“Who said you asked me?”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“All right, fine. I told you I’d pay Sissy’s share.”

“Thanks,” she said, and got up and went over to the sink. “Sissy only lived in one room,” she informed me.

“Then I’ll pay half the rent. If that’s what you want me to do, why don’t you say so?”

She turned and faced me. “You’ve still got your other apartment.”

“Don’t worry about my other apartment. If I want to be a hot shot and have one and a half apartments, that’s my business.”

“Why do you have to keep the other one?” she asked. “Isn’t it silly, isn’t it a waste?”

“It’s eighty-five bucks a month — I do it for the sake of my colleagues. He that filches from me my good name, and so on. Please, if I don’t mind the eighty-five … Please, don’t fret, Martha. If you’re upset, if you don’t want people for dinner—”