Philip Roth - Letting Go

She had, of course, heard of transference, and she wondered if it could be beginning so soon. She was beaming at him; her first friend in Chicago.

“So …” he said peacefully.

“Really I haven’t begun to tell you things.”

“Sure, sure.”

“When should I come again? I mean,” she said more softly, with less bravado, “should I come again?”

“If you want to, of course.” He looked at the appointment book on his desk. “How’s the day after tomorrow? Same time.”

“That’s fine. I think that would be perfect. Except—” Her heart, which had stopped its pounding earlier, started up again, like a band leaving the field. “How much will it be then?”

“Same as today—”

“I only brought,” she rushed to explain, “ten dollars.”

“We’ll send a bill then. Don’t worry about that.”

“It’s more than ten, for today?”

“The usual fee is twenty-five dollars.”

“An hour?”

“An hour.”

She had never in her life passed out, and that she didn’t this time probably indicated that she never would. She lost her breath, voice, vision, all sense of feeling, but she managed to stay upright in her chair. “I — don’t send a bill to the house.”

“I’d rather you wouldn’t,” Lumin began, a kind of gaseous expression crossing his face, “worry about the money. We can talk about that too.”

Libby had stood up; now she sat down. “I think I have to talk about it.”

“All right. We’ll talk.”

“It’s after two, I think.”

“That’s all right.”

But what she meant was, would he charge for overtime? Twenty-five dollars an hour — that must be nearly fifty cents a minute. “I can’t pay twenty-five dollars.” She tried to cry, but couldn’t. She felt very dry, very tired.

“Perhaps we can work it out at twenty.”

“I can’t pay twenty. I can’t pay fifteen. I can’t pay anything.”

“Of course,” said Lumin firmly, “you didn’t expect it would be for nothing.”

“I suppose I did. I don’t know …” She got up to go.

“Please sit down. Sit.”

She almost crept back into the chair as though it were a lap. “Don’t you see, it’s all my doctor’s bills in the first place. Don’t you see that?”

He nodded.

“Well, I can’t pay!” But she couldn’t cry either. “I can’t pay!”

“Look, Libby, look here. I’m giving you an address. You go home, you give it some thought. It’s right here on Michigan Avenue — the Institute. They have excellent people, the fee is less. You’ll have an interview—”

“I married Paul,” she said, dazed, “not Gabe — this is ridiculous — you’re being ridiculous — excuse me, but you’re being—”

He was writing something.

She shouted, “I don’t want any Institute!”

“It’s the Institute for Psychoanalysis—”

“Why can’t I have you!”

He offered her the paper. “You can be interviewed at the Institute,” he said, “and see if they’ll be able to work you in right away. Come on now,” he said, roughly, “why don’t you think about which you might prefer, which might better suit your circumstances.”

She stood up. “You don’t even know they’ll take me.”

“It’s research and training, so of course, yes, it depends—”

“I came to you, damn it!” She reached for the paper he had written on, and threw it to the floor. “I came to you and I told you all this. You listened. You just sat there, listening. And now I have to go tell somebody else all over again. Everything. I came to you— I want you! ”

He stood up, showing his burly form, and that alone seemed to strip her of her force, though not her anger. “Of course,” he said, “one can’t always have everything one wants—”

“I don’t want everything! I want something! ”

He did not move, and she would not be intimidated: she had had enough for one day. Quite enough. “I want you,” she said.

“Libby—”

“I’ll jump out the window.” She pointed over his shoulder. “I swear it.”

He remained where he was, blocking her path. And Libby, run down, unwound, empty-minded suddenly, turned and went out his door. He provoked me, she thought in the elevator. He provoked me. He and that son of a bitch Gabe. They lead me on.

Ten minutes later, in Saks, she bought a sweater; not the white cashmere, but a pale blue lamb’s-wool cardigan that was on sale. It was the first time in years she had spent ten dollars on herself. She left the store, walked a block south toward the I.C. train, and then turned and ran all the way back to Saks.

Because the sweater had been on sale she had to plead with two floor managers and a buyer before they would give her back her money.

At home later she tried several different ways of committing suicide, but the problem was that she didn’t want to die. The problem was that she wanted to live. When she turned on the gas, she very soon turned it off, fearing an explosion. She went into the bedroom where she stretched out on the unmade bed and put a pillowcase over her head. But it was hot and uncomfortable, and every few minutes she kept releasing the opening around her neck to let air in. She remained on the bed for nearly an hour — what she began to want was for Paul to come home and catch her in the act. Sometimes she would pull the pillowcase off entirely, but as soon as she heard a footstep on the stairs, or even the least little noise in the building, she would jerk it back over her, clamp tight the bottom, and wait. She wondered at various times (there was nothing much else to do but think) if she should write a note and take off her clothes and die — be caught dying — naked. Maybe he would come in, find her unclothed, and ravish her. And she would keep the pillowcase over her head all the while he devoured her body. But by four-thirty he was not home. She slipped the case, which was warm and damp from her breathing, back onto the pillow, and made the bed.

She paced the apartment, looking — for what she did not really know. In the living room she sat down on the floor and began to sort through their books. When she came up with a gayly jacketed book in her hands, she thought that perhaps unconsciously it was this book she had been searching for. That day she believed strongly in the guiding light of the unconscious self; what with the conscious self doing such a rotten job, she had to. The book she held in her hand was not Faulkner, Fitzgerald, nor a book of verse; it was the volume the rabbi in Ann Arbor had given her as a present after she had been dunked in the pool at the Y, and converted. The Wonder of Life it was called, and subtitled, “Suggestions for the Jewish Homemaker.” Her eye moved eagerly over the blurb on the inside flap. “… creative, contemporary home life … traditions and ceremonies … how to build a Jewish record library … chapters on family fun, painting, music, literature, the community, household finances … the place of the woman in a beautiful tradition … basic recipes … special holiday menus … how to plan a wedding, how to name a baby …”

When everything had ended with Paul’s family, when they had slammed down the receiver at the news of Libby’s conversion, this book, she remembered, had been tossed aside; it had — remembering more clearly — been kicked aside. But never thrown out. Books were really all they owned, and wherever they moved, from Ann Arbor to Detroit to Iowa City to Reading to Chicago, from poverty to sickness to humiliation, every single book was carried with them. Some were read, and others unread but coveted, and others just came along for the ride. That she had not even opened this one in all those years was understandable, since she was not religious or pious by nature. She was no worse a Jew, however, than she had been a Catholic — religion had always seemed to her “extra.” And perhaps thinking that was her mistake. Perhaps (listen, she told herself, is this my unconscious at last making itself heard?), perhaps the adoption agencies know what they are talking about; maybe Marty Rosen’s question about the rabbi had not been improper after all. Not that one could force oneself to believe — no, something else. The family … the home. What she had always taken for granted about Jewish life was the warm family environment. And what an irony! Look at Paul’s parents; Paul himself. In the most Protestant household in America there could be no more coldness than had surrounded her first five years of marriage. But perhaps the fault was partly hers. Perhaps there was one final way out of all this mess that was not psychoanalysis, or money in the bank, or carnality, or self-pity, or madness: Religion. Not all that Christ and Mary hocus-pocus; not even a belief in God necessarily — though who could tell, maybe God Himself would come in time. But first something basic and sustaining, something to make them truly ready for, deserving of, a baby; something warm, sacred, worth while: traditions and ceremonies, holy days and holidays and customs …