Philip Roth - Letting Go

“Suppose,” she said, “you have principles.”

I smiled. “Still ignore him.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe you can …”

I tried now to ignore her. I looked over at her husband, who was leaning back against the sofa, his face marked slightly by a frown. “It isn’t a matter of me, Libby,” I said, “it’s simply the most sensible thing to do.”

Paul leaned forward. “Oh but, Jesus, the circular symbols in Tom Sawyer. ” He looked to Libby, who nodded in agreement. “What incredible horseshit,” said Paul.

“Of course,” I told him. “I know.”

“Then,” said Libby, no longer in a flat voice, “why don’t you say something?”

I was puzzled for a moment, until I imagined again all the conversations that this couple — my old Libby — must have had about me. “Look, Libby, I was through all this last year. I shared your feelings exactly. But the best thing is to ignore Spigliano and do your job.”

“We certainly didn’t have anybody like him at Reading,” she said.

“So?” I answered. “That doesn’t prove anything here or there.”

“It proves something,” she said.

“Oh hell, Libby, you didn’t have to come here if you didn’t want to. I was led to believe it was so awful in Reading.”

“Nobody’s blaming you,” Paul said now.

“Well,” I replied, “isn’t that nice.”

“Actually, we were probably better off in Reading,” Libby said, “where there weren’t all these phoney and ambitious people.”

“Well, you could have chosen to stay there.”

Paul was standing. “Libby’s not feeling well, Gabe—”

“Oh balls,” I said, standing now myself, “Libby’s never feeling well.”

“I don’t think there’s any need for that kind of remark,” he said, growing fierce.

“There’s no need for anything,” I said. “You’ve got some appreciation of generosity—”

“I told you Libby’s not feeling well—”

“Well, I’m talking to both of you.”

Suddenly Martha was in the room. “Could all of you stop shouting! Could my kids get some sleep, please!”

Libby stood up and faced her. “We’re going, Mrs. Reganhart.”

“Yes,” Paul said, taking his wife’s elbow. “I think we’d better.”

I took a walk that night, by myself. I pulled up my collar and went all the way down to the lake, where the waters were behaving like an ocean, breaking onto the dark rock barrier, then rushing out with the sound of violent tugging. I could not distinguish where the black water ended and where the black sky began. What I saw — actually, what I could not see — frightened me, but I hung on as long as I could, looking straight out into it, as though fear might run through me like a cathartic, and leave me a less cautious man. Finally I broke away and dashed across the deserted park and onto the lighted streets. Walking back to Martha’s apartment very slowly, I did not do a great deal of thinking because I could not figure out what to think about.

The table had been cleared and pushed back to the wall; the coffee cups, brandy glasses, and bottle had all been put away. I turned off the hall light and in the bedroom got into my pajamas, while Martha lay there with her eyes open, smoking. The bedside lamp was on, but her gaze was focused only on the smoke that rose above her head.

I sat down by the window, pushed back a corner of the shade, and peered outside. I said, “What a night.”

Martha only pushed herself up a little, as though my remark had caused her some postural discomfort. Her hair was still down over her shoulders, and from time to time her eyes twittered from the smoke; that was all that moved.

“It was stupid of me to have chosen to invite those people,” I said. “I should surely have realized what was going to happen beforehand.” She said nothing. “I don’t know why I felt the necessity to extend something that is really quite over. I should never—”

“Gabe,” she said, “we have to do something about the money situation.”

I rose, and I paced until I could contain myself.

“I told you,” I said, “that I’ll pay for that bottle. If you want, I’ll make out a check right now. Or give you cash, if you object so strenuously to my checks.”

“What about the groceries?”

“Oh hell!”

She went on smoking in that contemplative, bitchy, distracted way.

“What’s come over you?” I asked. “What did I say? We’ve been through all this, over and over it, as a matter of fact. Okay, money is a problem, and I’m willing to work it out. But what is it you want me to do, Martha, pay for everything? Is that what you think will work better? Are you sure about that?”

“Well, I prepare the food,” she said. “You don’t pay for that. The gas I cook with I happen to pay for. The same goes for the electric lights in the kitchen. Be reasonable, please.”

I leaned toward her over the foot of the bed. “You’re kidding me or something, aren’t you? Look at me — aren’t you? What do you want me to do — hire you as a cook?”

“You treat me like one, why not?”

“Do I? Look at me, damn it! Do I? Do you think,” I demanded, “I’d hire a cook with two kids?”

She pushed her cigarette into the ash tray beside the bed. “I don’t know if this is working out.”

I tried deep breathing — a metaphoric way, I suppose, of pumping up the will. “Martha, if you’re willing, we ought to wait until tomorrow. We’ll both feel more ourselves in the morning. This has been a bad day from the start. The money mix-up, and Theresa, and the Herzes. Paul Herz is a strange fellow, impossible to get to, and Libby — Libby’s very tough to figure out.”

“Not so tough.”

“Maybe not. I suppose she got very screwed up seeing your kids. Two handsome children getting ready for bed, Cynthia’s book … It probably upset her.”

“Those two handsome children seem to have the remarkable ability of upsetting everybody.”

“I can’t be responsible for her, Martha.” I went back to the window and found myself staring into the drawn shade.

“That’s your type though, isn’t it?” Martha said. “The svelte, skinny Mediterranean ones.”

“Christ, why don’t you go to sleep and take your rotten temper with you.”

“What — did you have an affair with her? Is that what she was up to with all that pecking away at you? Why didn’t she look at me, I’d like to know? Can’t anybody talk directly to me? Am I just the new lay — do you do this often, old man, so everybody’s in on it except the dumb blowsy mistress herself?”

“I’m going to turn the light off. You’re not jealous, which you know, and you’re not making sense. I don’t go for these midnight accusations.”

“You don’t really dig us big fat Nordic slobs, though, do you?”

I looked at her. “I’m crazy about fat Nordic slobs, as a matter of fact.” I went over and switched off the bedside light, but then I could not bring myself to get into the bed beside her. I sat on the edge.

“This just isn’t working out,” she said.

“ What isn’t working out?”

“Cynthia is very upset.”

“Cynthia was upset before I got here.”

“Not the same way.”

“All right then,” I said, rising. “Then I’ll move out. We’ll break it off. This is ridiculous, Martha. What is it you want anyway?”

“I don’t want you to move out!” she said.

“Then what do you want?”

Suddenly she had flipped on the light and was squatting on the blanket. Her nightgown was hiked up to her knees upon which were planted her fists. “Stop raising your voice!” she demanded. “Everybody just hates for those kids to get some sleep! What do you mean you’ll move out? What do you think this is, a hotel? You’ll move in one week and out the next? I’ve got kids to think about. This is no flophouse, you!”