Philip Roth - Letting Go

When we had finally finished the one bottle of wine — which everyone had been sipping parsimoniously — I ran off to the kitchen to get the other. I returned to the living room to find that the Herzes had retired to the sofa and Martha had begun to clear the table.

“We’ll have coffee over there,” she said, carrying the dishes away.

I sat down in a sling chair opposite the Herzes. Libby had picked up a book from the sofa.

“It’s a very funny book,” I said. “Martha reads the children a little every night, and they laugh …”

Libby set it down. “That must be nice.”

“Yes,” I said. And I thought, Then why did you come? Why did you accept my invitation? Why won’t you let this be ended!

Why won’t I?

The three of us sat facing one another, and the gloom came rolling in. I said, “Excuse me, I better go say good night to the children.”

In the kitchen Martha was standing over the stove, fiddling with her beads and waiting for the coffee to be ready.

“Come on,” I whispered. “It’s like a wake in there.”

“I’ll be in in a minute.”

I put my hands on her bare arms, and she moved away. “Hurry up, will you?” I said. “Nobody’s willing to say anything. Everyone’s a little stiff.”

“Oh, just a little.”

“Why did you have to rush them away from the table?”

“They weren’t eating anything, what was the difference?”

“I was going to open another bottle of wine.”

“They weren’t drinking either.”

“Well, I’m going to bring in the Armagnac,” I said, “the hell with it.”

“What!”

“The Armagnac. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t tell me nothing — what’s the matter now?”

“That Armagnac happens to date from before I saw your smiling face.”

“Martha, we’ll all die out there.”

“So we’ll die. That bottle costs seven bucks. If you wanted some why didn’t you think to buy it this afternoon?”

“Because you’ve hardly started the bottle that’s here. What’s gotten into you?”

“Don’t people drink beer any more?”

“Look, I’ll give you a check for seven dollars! Be quiet! ”

“You and your checks.” She turned back to the coffee. “I saved nickles and dimes, and bought that as a special gift for myself, but the hell with it, just take the stuff and pour—”

“This is some party! This is marvelous! Are you coming back in there tonight or aren’t you?”

“I’ll be in,” she mumbled. “Just go ahead.”

“Well, I’m taking the Armagnac.” And I went back into the living room, choking the bottle around the neck. I poured four glasses of brandy without asking whether anybody wanted some. I sat back with my glass, sipped from it, and said — innocently, absolutely innocently, just in order to say something—“How’s the adoption going?”

Paul turned immediately to Libby, who turned to him. He said, “I mentioned it to Gabe, you know.” He looked back to me, and I felt no need to apologize; since the beginning of the evening surely it was I who had been the most burdened member of our party. We stared, Paul and I, wordlessly at one another while Libby said, “Oh did you?”

“I thought he would like to know,” he said.

Libby looked down into her lap.

I said, “I think it’s a fine idea, Libby.”

“What is?” The question came from Martha, who had entered the room with a trayful of coffee cups. Apparently she had decided to make an effort to be gracious; it was simply the wrong moment to have chosen.

“Nothing,” I said, leaning back.

“I’m sorry I interrupted.”

I saw her face harden, and Paul must have seen it too. “Libby and I are adopting a baby,” he said. “That’s all.”

“Oh yes?” She looked at Libby, and for the first time since the Herzes’ arrival, she smiled. “A boy or a girl?”

The question had an astonishing effect upon Libby at first; she seemed frightened, then insulted.

Paul said, “We don’t know yet. We’re still in the inquiring stage.”

Martha set down the tray and poured the coffee. Libby looked over to me. “We have to adopt a Jewish baby anyway,” she said.

“Yes? I didn’t know.”

“The Catholic orphanages are crawling with kids,” explained Libby in an emotionless voice, “but that doesn’t help us. With the Jewish agencies there’s over a three-year waiting list. Then we’re a mixed marriage as far as anybody’s concerned.”

“But you converted—” I said.

Sullenly she said, “So what?”

I did not press for more information; Martha sat down and the four of us drank our coffee. Paul said, “You see, today we called long distance to New York. Thinking we could work something out with an agency there.” He stopped explaining, and what was left unsaid was clear enough from the look on his face.

Martha said to him, “That’s too bad.”

“It’ll work out,” he assured her.

“Oh sure,” Libby said.

Some moments later, Libby spoke again. When her mouth opened the words that came out were connected to none that had previously been spoken in the room. Her body was lifeless and her voice vacant, and it seemed that she might say just about anything. This girl had aroused numerous emotions in me in the past, but never before had she made me feel as I did now — afraid. Looking at me again, she said, “Paul was called in to see the Dean today.”

“Libby—” her husband said.

“That Spigliano,” she said, “is really going to try to get him fired.”

“You’re kidding,” I said. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Paul inclined his head toward his cup after he had spoken, so that his face was in shadows. “I ran into the Dean,” he said softly, “I wasn’t called in anywhere, Libby. I just ran into him.”

“You said he as much as told you they weren’t happy with you.”

“Libby’s exaggerating,” Paul said.

“Mommy!”

We all looked toward the doorway, where Cynthia stood, rubbing her eyes.

“What’s the matter, honey?” Martha said, getting up.

Cynthia’s eyes landed on each of us in turn. “You’re all talking too loud. I can’t sleep.”

Martha set down her cup. “We’re hardly talking at all,” she said, and chaperoned Cynthia back to her room.

Libby extended her neck its full length. “Maybe we had better go. I don’t want to wake up anybody who’s trying to sleep.”

“Libby, Paul — please stay. Let’s not run off. Why don’t we all relax,” I suggested, and went off to the kitchen. The door to the back porch was ajar, and Martha stood in the opening leaning against the wall and looking outside.

“Martha,” I said, coming up to her and feeling the cold from outside, “what the hell is going on here? I invited them over, you invited them over. Let’s not throw them out. I feel as though I’m in the middle of an earthquake. Let’s all at least try to be civil. Let’s get through this thing like human beings.”

“I’m all right,” she said.

“Don’t mind Libby. If it’s any solace to you, she’s really quite miserable.”

“If it’s any solace to her, so am I. So we’re even.”

“So am I, damn it! Just control yourself. Turn around, Martha. Tell me what the trouble is.”

“Married people depress me,” she said, not turning.

“I thought it was divorced people.”

“Why don’t you go back into the living room and entertain your friends?”

And I went, but before I had even sat down again, Libby said to me, “I’ve been saying something ought to be done about that John Spigliano. Somebody should hit him in the jaw.”

“He’s a pain in the ass, Libby,” I said, making a hopeless gesture, “nobody will argue that. There’s really nobody who can stand him. But you’ve really only got to ignore him.”