Letting Go

by Philip Roth

  Kuzmyak was standing beside him. “Come on there, Libby.” With one hand she rolled Libby’s head around, the girl’s cheeks jelly between her thumb and forefinger. “Come on, Libbele—wake up, dahling, breakfast is ready.”

  “Her name is Libby.”

  “Just trying out my accent,” Kuzmyak said, and she went over and poured hot water in the doctor’s cup.

  “Prop her up a little,” said Doctor Tom, sitting in his leather chair.

  Kuzmyak came back and pulled the girl up by her armpits. “Okay, let’s snap out of it now, huh?”

  Libby opened her eyes. She made some sounds. It took her three minutes before she said her husband’s name, another three before she began to cry. She drank her coffee through white lips and took an unsteady practice walk around the office.

  Downstairs a taxi was waiting that drove them home. “Are you all right? Did it go all right? Nothing hurts, does it?”

  The cab turned through the dark streets. “I’m still sleepy,” she answered. “Very sleepy.”

  “I love you, Libby. I love you. I do love you.”

  “I’m very tired. My arms are just sleepy.”

  “I love you. I want you to know I love you. I do love you, Libby. I love you. I’ll do anything for you. Everything for you, Lib. I love you. Don’t ever forget, Libby, that I love you. Please, please, that I love you.”

  At home he put her to bed, and then with all the lights out he sat beside her. “Was it all right? Did you feel anything? Did you go right to sleep?”

  “Yes …”

  “Don’t you want to talk? Do you want to go to sleep?”

  “I think so.”

  “All right. Just go to sleep.”

  “Paul?” She spoke with hardly any strength.

  “What is it, honey? Yes?”

  “When I walked in,” she said, crying very softly now, “she took off my skirt and slip. I had to stand around in my stockings and blouse—”

  He waited for more, but that was it; he heard her weeping, and then after a while he heard her asleep.

  Thirty minutes must have passed before the scuffling began in the hall. In that time he had not moved.

  First he heard a voice cry out, “Son of a bitch! No good rat! Louse!”

  “Caaaaalm yourself,” Levy was intoning in the meantime. “Caaaalm yourself down.”

  “Let go, cock sucker! Let me be! I’m going where I’m going!”

  There was an unearthly banging on the door, a sound larger than he could have imagined two, three, or four old men making. “Herz! I’m Korngold!” Then: “Hands off, you bastard!”

  Paul knocked over a chair running to the door; behind him, Libby stirred and mumbled.

  The door opened, and before Paul could slam it shut, Korngold fell like a sack in his arms—simply toppled in. Levy was left standing in the hallway in furry slippers and a red satin robe initialed in gold ALL. All what! Wheedlingly he said, “Korngold, straighten up, act a man. Step back over here.”

  “Shush you cock sucker you! Herz, help me from him.” Korngold struggled up straight in Paul’s arms, then freed himself and turned on Levy. “Go! Wait! The authorities will drag you screaming away! Close the door on him!” he said to Paul.

  “Uh-uh,” said Levy, and his cane came poking through the door. “You wait up a second—”

  “Paul …?” All three men turned and looked at her. Libby had flipped on the reading lamp. Her cheeks were drawn; her eyes were clouds of black. “Paul—Paul, what?”

  “Sick?” asked Levy. “Or recovering?”

  “Quiet!” Paul whispered. “Both of you! Now, please, let’s all of us step outside—”

  “This son of a bitch—” began Korngold in a trembling voice.

  “Korngold.” Paul grabbed the man’s arm. “Korngold, please, be still—now come on—”

  Almost crying, Korngold raised his arms and said, “He stole my underwear. Seven years,” he moaned, “and along comes this cock sucker—”

  “Korngold!” Paul shouted, and shook him.

  “That’s the story …” the man said. Released by Paul, he fell, in tears, into a chair.

  “Look, gentlemen,” said Paul. “My wife is sick. She has to sleep. This is an outright invasion—”

  “You hear him?” said Levy to Korngold. “Come along.”

  “Oh-oh,” Korngold wailed, “thief, mamza, rat!”

  “He’s in hysterics, almost a fit,” Levy explained, for now Libby was propped up in bed, and her bewilderment seemed to demand a reason, a word.

  Paul went to Korngold and laid a hand, a friendly hand, on his arm. Korngold instantly put out both of his hands, sandwiching Paul’s. “Help,” he whispered. “I’m fleeced still again.”

  “Mr. Korngold …” Paul knelt beside him, aware that now Levy had moved all the way into the room and was circling behind them. “Mr. Korngold, tonight you have to pull yourself together. We’re going to go out into the hall now. My wife is very sick—”

  “Recovering …” he heard, and saw the rubber tip of Levy’s cane near his foot. In the bed, Libby was reddening, not with health but with helplessness. She kept saying, “Paul,” while he went on convincing Korngold.

  “You’ve got to go home now,” Paul said. “Get some sleep.”

  “What a life,” exclaimed Korngold, bringing the three-hand sandwich up to rest his cheek upon. “I can’t go to the toilet, I ain’t stolen blind.”

  “What?” Paul said.

  But Levy’s cane was as good as in his ear. “We split—is that robbery?” asked Levy. “I moved them jockeys for him before they rot and mildew. A wet spring and he was finished. Is that a thing to throw a fit on? You understand?”

  “Twenty dollars is a split?” cried Korngold. “On first-rate shorts? On a quality T-shirt? Die, you bastard, die you son of a bitch—”

  “Control, Korngold. Control. You’re in the room of a convalescent. Right, Paul?”

  Still squatting at Korngold’s knees, he looked up at Levy. The lawyer held his caneless hand to his chest, protecting his respiratory system with the plushy satin robe. “Paul,” Levy said again—and saying that little word, it was as though he owned the world. “Senile,” he whispered. “Don’t be foolish, Paul. They would sit in that room till he passes on. Twenty dollars is not nothing. For him almost a month’s rent.”

  “How much did you get, Levy?”

  “Add twenty and twenty, what else? A split.” He looked over at Libby as though perhaps she was the member of the family with the mathematical head.

  “Paul,” Libby said, “what happened?”

  “Please,” Paul said. “Please”—he controlled himself so, that tears were squeezed from his eyes—“let’s go out into the hall. Let’s go into Levy’s room.” But he could not drag Korngold from his chair.

  He said please again, and then he said it one final time. In the moment that followed all sense fled, all plans; all the rules of his life deserted him, and he expelled a confused, immense groan.

  Korngold looked at him in fright and awe. “What—” he cried.

  Before it even happened Levy began backing away. But Paul had already grabbed him by the throat with two aching hands.

  “Stop pinching!” screamed Levy.

  “How much! How much was it! How much!” He was foaming, actually foaming at the mouth.

  “I’m suffocating to death,” Levy cried. He wheeled his cane, striking out at the madman who was whirling him into a corner. “Let go, abortionist! Let go—I’m having you incarcerated—”

  Korngold was at last out of his chair, on Paul’s heels. “Don’t hurt him—just ask—”

  “Give him the money!” Paul cried. “Give it up, you son of a bitch!”

  “Aaaaaaacchhh …” went Levy, his eyes showing a sudden belief that the end was really at hand.

  “Hey, Herz—” yelled Korngold. “Herz, you’ll strangle him dead! Herz!”

  “I give, I give—” Levy was screaming, his arms collapsin
g as though broken. “All right, I give!”

  “He admits it!” Korngold triumphantly addressed the ceiling.

  And then Paul felt Libby’s arms pulling him back. Under his fingers he still had Levy’s quaking chicken neck, still felt the disgusting bristly hairs. “Paul” came Libby’s voice. “Paul, oh honey, you’re going crazy—”

  “Get in bed!” He turned and took her by the hair. “Get in bed! Are you crazy? Get in bed!”

  Her expression was incredulous, as though having leapt from a window, she had her first acute premonition of the pavement below. She winced, she wilted, and then she took two steps backwards and gave herself up, sobbing, to the bed.

  But Levy was now in the doorway, slicing the air with his cane. Everyone jumped back as he made a vicious X with his weapon. “Disgusting! Killer!” he cried, slashing away. “Scraping life down sewers! I only make my way in the world, an old shit-on old man. I only want to live, but a murderer, never! This is your friend, Korngold,” announced Levy. “This is your friend and accomplice, takes a seventeen-year-old girl and cuts her life out! Risks her life! Commits abortions! Commits horrors!” He gagged, clutched his heart, and ran from the room.

  Breathless, Paul approached Korngold and took his arm. “Now you get out too—”

  “The money—”

  “That’s your business.”

  “But I need—”

  “Just get out!”

  Libby still sobbed on the bed. Korngold, a man with all chances gone but one, looked wildly about him and, in a crazy imitation of his attorney, suddenly rose up and waved his cane at Paul’s head. Paul only snarled, and Korngold dropped it; he fled then, not to the door, but to the girl on the bed. He took her head in his arms. “Oh a darling yiddishe maydele, a frail fish. Come, darling, tell me who I should call. I’ll dial your good family, let them come take you—”

  “I have no family,” Libby sobbed.

  “Libby! What is this! What’s going on here! Korngold, get out! Get out!”

  “Paul …” Libby begged. “Paul—”

  “Shut up!”

  “A monster,” said Korngold, and he hid his face when Paul raised his hand.

  “I give you three, Korngold!” And Korngold, looking once at the girl—his heart, his soul, his very being, in his eyes—Korngold disappeared.

  “God damn you, Libby! God damn you!”

  “This is the most horrible night of my life,” his young wife cried.

  He sat up all night in the chair. Near four—or perhaps later, for the buses were running—he walked into the hall. He hammered twice on Levy’s door.

  “Levy!”

  No answer.

  “Levy, do you hear me?” He kicked five distinct times on the door. He started to turn the knob but, at the last moment, decided not to. From the darkness behind the door might not Levy bring down a cane on his head?

  “Levy—listen to me, Levy. You never open your mouth. You never in your life say one word to anybody. Never! I’ll kill you, Levy. I’ll strangle you to death! Never—understand, you filthy son of a bitch! I’ll kill you and leave you for the rats! You filth!”

  And that last word did not leave him; it hung suspended within the hollow of his being through the rest of the night, until at last it was white cold daylight.

  Had everything worked out? Wife all right? Satisfied? Fine—he did not mean to pry. Only one had to check on Smitty. He fed the osteopath patients—almost one a month—but still it was wise to keep an eye on the fellow. Every once in a while Doctor Tom seemed to forget about slipping Dr. Esposito his few bucks. You know what I mean? Not an entirely professional group, osteopaths. And how’s the wrist?

  3

  The rottenest moment of all. All the lies and errors, but now these thoughts. Get up and go—he wrote, snow piling on his office window, on Iowa City, the river, the prairie, on all his brave plans and principles. Stay here. Stay. Give them what times it takes. He’ll crawl into our bed and free poor Libby. Am I crazy? No, let her go, let Wallach be the answer, this soft rich boyish boy, not-a-care-in-the-world boy. I only envy him all that free-and-easy business, not the money. But it’s not my nature. Anything can be your nature. Make it your nature! Impossible. I should just write everything out. 1,2,3, et cetera. An outline, what I want and don’t. What I’m not and am.

  1. (Face it.) Let them kiss in our bed, let him devour her, caress her, absolutely drive a wedge right through her loyalty to me. Take her loyalty away! Wheedle her, urge her, greet me at the door (fly unzipped, why not), say: Your wife spread everything for me mouth legs heart. Now we leave you. We leave you! Then leave! Wallach will make her happy. But what couldn’t? The normal progression of life, a fearless approach, an honest unselfish open loving, and the girl would blossom, come back to life again. Squabbling, bickering, fighting is all we do. Honey forgive me baby I’m sorry. Squirm. Beg. Grovel. Where was my mistake? The first mistake. This is devious and I know it. Something is simply missing in me. All that has happened doesn’t just happen. Go ahead, progress. Wallach carries her away. Now 2. Face 2.

  2. Marge. A stranger. A different face, is that all? How long can I hold to the story that I was seduced? Not long. Plaintive and moping, sad, inviting, she knew what she was up to. But I knew what she was up to. Crying. Calling Wallach names. Her calling Wallach heartless perked me up! Is that seduction by any stretch of the imagination? Who tore whose clothes? How different—not since the beginning, with virginal Libby. My wife. I did the tearing. Me. Endlessly me. When she phoned, when we were just drinking coffee, didn’t I already know? All her loneliness talk, all the talk of betrayal and subterfuge, and on my face what splendid concern. What sympathy. All the time I shook my head yes yes, poor girl.

  3. Marge. Write it again. Margie. Margie. Marjorie. Say my name, she said—and I said it. Now say what we’re doing—and I obliged. Screwing games. I could have carried those boxes and suitcases down the stairs and put her in a taxi for the station and then gone home. I knew the minute we began to talk. And did I need it? For ten minutes thrashing on Wallach’s bed? But there was nothing to worry over. Just plain sweet coming, without Libby underneath. Libby underneath! Libby. My wife Libby. Libby and Paul Herz. What next? Next is this. Urging on another to fuck my wife. Say what we’re doing. Say it, Paul. Libby. My Libby. Fuck my Libby. Take Libby. Take Libby away!

  4. She leaned; I did not deliver. I could never stop organizing anything. I couldn’t leave well enough—bad enough—alone. Pay my way, take my lumps, have my baby. Circumstances. No, me. No! I married her with ideals, all right. Hopes. Love. Caring. I cared for her into the ground. To elevate our lives. To be happy. To be good. What causes pain is that I still want the same. Nothing I do gets it. I fuck Marge, you fuck my wife. All right. Stop saying it.

  5. What else? Biding time? Taking my time while Wallach is making his pass. Waiting for Libby to throw off her dedication. She will. He will. Unless I discouraged him. Take your car and shove it! I probably frightened him away. I frighten her. They all think what I am is what I’m not. I said to him stay out of my life when I meant come in. Make the girl a decent offer—an indecent offer. Relieve us, please. Everything is out of hand. Though not entirely—until one week ago. No, out of hand with the abortion. No, just one week ago with Marge Howells. A silly stupid girl, and that was more ruinous than what happened in Detroit. This very minute feeling has run out of me. More ruinous and so on. Do I mean a word of this? When I feel pain am I really even feeling pain? What am I doing here, Iowa? This writing business. Who am I trying to emulate? Asher? No. I’ll come to understand my mess. Keep writing.

  6. Why not have a baby now?

  7. Start over. Make love to her. Be kind. Be soft-spoken. But it’s she who bitches all the time. Don’t let her. Take control again. But I have no force left.

  8. Get force. Pull yourself together. Get force.

  9. Suppose Marge tells Wallach. He tells Libby. Then tell her myself. Confess. Admit. Start over. We’re young. I had
guts turning down Wallach’s car. But sense? I was trying to muster strength. I knew what I was. Not going to tempt Libby, because I saw her being tempted. I even made up my mind: make perfect love to her. Touch her. I cannot touch her. Do. it! Reach out a finger and do it! Once, then twice, and then life will come rushing back again. I know this is not insane. Perfectly natural, a mountain slide in my life. Only start up the other side. But I ruined it.

  10. Tenth commandment. Nothing. It’s up to them. I have stayed away. Gabe and Libby. Libby and Gabe. Paul Herz. Do they know? Does Libby? Can she see that I want for her only the best? Do believe me, Lib! Right from the beginning. The first day, and still. Am I only stupid?

  Midnight. Libby confessed. Wallach kissed her. She sobbed for an hour. Nothing more happened. Nothing. A precious girl. A precious girl. I’m ripping all this up. Every word. Start over. Try!

  Three

  The Power of Thanksgiving

  1

  “Is it still baseball season?” frail Mrs. Norton was saying, trying—despite the inclinations of her frame to gaunt melancholy—to be jolly. With an unconvincing display of liveliness, she threw some jeweled fingers toward the bellowing TV set. Everybody around her turned for a moment to show a mouthful of toothy kindness. All her recent tragedies had made the rounds.

  Dr. Gruber, sensitive as a bag of oats (which he resembled), wrapped an arm around her waist, and she whitened. “That’s football, my dear girl,” he cried, lipping his spiky mustache. “This is my alma mater, preparing to knock the tar out of that Cornell bunch. Anybody here for Cornell be prepared to shed tears!” he shouted, almost directly into her small ear.

  Unspinning herself from the doctor, Mrs. Norton explained to anyone who would listen, “My goodness, it’s as loud as baseball. I only know the world of sport through my husband. He had a box at Sportsman’s Park—” She was all filled up but no one seemed to know she was speaking. She crept off to have her tomato juice iced by the silent, appreciative colored man who was tending bar in the dining room.