Philip Roth - Letting Go

“Yes,” she said. “And, and this is our apartment. Please, sit down. I’ll make some coffee.”

“It’s a very big apartment,” he said, coming back to the sofa. “Spacious.”

What did he mean — they didn’t have enough furniture? “Well, yes … no,” replied Libby. “There’s this room and then down the hall is the kitchen. And my husband’s study—”

Rosen, having already taken his trouser creases in hand, now rose and asked pleasantly, “May I look around?”

She did not believe that the idea had simply popped into his head. But he was so smooth-faced and soft-spoken and well-groomed that she was not yet prepared to believe him a sneak. He inclined slightly toward her whenever she spoke and, though it unnerved her, she preferred to think of it as a kind of sympathetic lean.

“Oh do,” Libby said. “You’ll have to excuse us, though; we were out to dinner last night. Not that we go out to dinner that much — however we were out to dinner”—they proceeded down the hall and were in the kitchen—“and,” she confessed, “I didn’t get around to the dishes … But,” she said, cognizant of the sympathetic lean, though doing her best to avoid the sympathetic eyes, “this is the kitchen.”

“Nice,” he said. “Very nice.”

There were the breakfast crumbs on the floor around the table. All she could think to say was, “It needs a paint job, of course.”

“Very nice.”

He sounded genuine enough. She went on. “We have plenty of hot water, of course, and everything.”

“Does the owner live on the premises?”

“Pardon?”

“Does the owner of the building live on the premises?” he asked.

“It’s an agency that manages the place,” she said nervously.

“I was only wondering.” He walked to the rear of the kitchen, crunching toast particles. Out the back window through which he paused to look, there was, of course, no green yard. “There was just”—he lifted a hand to indicate that it was nothing—“a light bulb out in the hallway, coming up. I wondered if the owner …”

He dwindled off, and again she didn’t know what to say. The bulb had been out since their arrival; she had never even questioned it; it came with the house. “You see,” Libby said, “there are two Negro families in the building and—” And what! I don’t have anything against Negroes! But the agency does — the agency — Why do I keep bringing up Negroes all the time! “And,” she said, blindly, “the bulb went out last night, you see. My husband’s going to pick one up today. Right now he’s teaching. We don’t like to bother the agency for little things. You know …” But she could not tell whether he knew or not; he was leaning her way, but what of it? He turned and started back down the hall. Libby shut her eyes. I must stop lying. I must not lie again. He will be able to tell when I lie. They don’t want liars for mothers, and they’re perfectly right. Tell the truth. You have nothing to be ashamed of.

“My husband is a writer, aside from being a teacher,” she said, running down the hall and slithering by Rosen, “and this”—she turned the knob to Paul’s room, praying—“is his study.”

Thank God. It was orderly; though there was not much that could be disordered. In the entire room, whose two tall winter-stained windows were set no further than ten feet from the apartment building next door, there was only a desk and a desk lamp, a chair and a typewriter, and a wastepaper basket. But the window shades were even and all the papers on the desk were piled neatly. God bless Paul.

“My husband works in here.” She flipped on the overhead light, but the room seemed to get no brighter; if anything, it was dingier. But it wasn’t their fault that the sun couldn’t get around that way. They hadn’t constructed the building next door. “He’s writing a novel.”

Rosen took quite an interest in that, too. “Oh yes? That must be some undertaking.”

“Well, it’s not finished yet. It is an undertaking, all right. But he’s working on it. He works very hard. However this,” she said quickly, “this, of course, would be the baby’s room. Will be the baby’s room.” She blushed. “Well, when we have a baby, this will be—” Even while she spoke she was oppressed by the barren feebleness of the room. Where would a baby sleep? From what window would the lovely, healthy, natural light fall onto a baby’s cheek? Where would they get the baby’s crib, Catholic Salvage?

“Where will your husband work on his novel then?”

“I”—she wouldn’t lie—“I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it. This has all happened very quickly. Our decision to have a baby.”

“Of course.”

“Not that we haven’t thought about it — you see, it’s not a problem. He can work anywhere. The bedroom. Anywhere. I’ll discuss it with him tonight, if you like.”

Rosen was quite taken aback; he made a self-effacing gesture with his hands. “Oh, look, I don’t care. That’s all up to you folks.” Even if there was something professional about his gentleness, she liked him for trying to put her at her ease. (Though that meant he knew about her nervousness; later he would mull over motives and behavior.) She had no real reason to be uneasy or overexcited or ashamed. Marty Rosen wouldn’t kill her, wouldn’t insult her, he wasn’t even that much older than she — but what right, damn it, did he have to come unannounced! That was the trouble! What kind of business was this natural habitat business! They have no right to trick people , she was thinking, and then she was opening the door to their own bedroom, and there was the bed, and the disheveled linens, and the half-painted dresser, and there were Paul’s pajamas on the floor. There, in fact, was Rosen’s coat, half on the floor. She closed the door and they went back into the living room.

“Actually,” she said, addressing the back of his neat little suit as they moved toward the sofa, “I was trying to write a poem …”

“Really? A poem?” He sat down, and then instantly was leaning forward, his arms on his legs and his hands clasped, smiling. It was as though nothing he had seen up until now meant a thing; as though there was an entirely different set of rules called into play when the prospective mother turned out to be a poet. “You write, too, do you?”

“Well,” said Libby, “no.” Then she did not so much sit down into their one easy chair as capitulate into it. Why had she told Rosen about the poem? What did that explain to anybody — did writing poetry excuse crumbs on the floor? It was the truth, but that was all it was. They may want poets for mothers, she thought, but they sure as hell don’t want slobs.

“Well,” said Rosen cheerily, “it’s a nice-sized apartment.” It seemed impossible to disappoint him. “How long have you been here, would you say?”

“Not long,” the girl answered. “A few months. Since October.”

Rosen was opening his briefcase. “Do you mind if I take down a few things?”

“Oh no, go right ahead.” But her heart sank. “We’re going to paint, of course, as soon as … soon.” Stop saying of course! “When everything’s settled. When I get some time, I’ll begin.” The remark did not serve to make her any less conscious of her bathrobe and slippers. “You see,” she went on, for Rosen had a way of listening even when no one was speaking, “I was working. I worked at the University. However I wasn’t feeling well. Paul said I had better quit.”

“That’s too bad. Are you better now?”

“I’m fine. I feel fine—” she assured him. “I’m not pale, or sick, I just have very white skin.” Even as she spoke the white skin turned red.