Letting Go

by Philip Roth

  He did not answer again.

  Of course it was Utrillo. Everybody knew Utrillo—that was the trouble. “It’s corny, I suppose,” said Libby. “My husband doesn’t like the impressionists that much either—but we’ve had it, I’ve had it, since college—and we carry it around and I guess we hang it whenever we move—not that we move that much, but, you know.”

  Turning, he said, “I suppose you like it, well, for sentimental reasons.” He seemed terribly interested to hear her reply.

  “Well … I just like it. Yes, sentiment—but aesthetics, of course, too.”

  She did not know what more to say. They both were smiling. He seemed like a perfectly agreeable man, and there was no reason for her to be giving him so frozen an expression. But apparently the smile she wore she was going to have to live with for a while longer; the muscles of her face were working on their own.

  “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.

  Rosen smiled his smile. “I hope it wasn’t serious.”

  “It wasn’t anything really. I might have gotten quite sick—” Why isn’t Paul home? What good is he if he isn’t here now? “I had a kidney condition,” she explained, starting in again. “It’s why the doctors say I shouldn’t have a baby. It would be too strong a risk. You see, I’m the one who can’t have a baby. Not my husband.”

  “Well, there are many many couples that can’t have babies, believe me.”

  His remark was probably intended to brace her, but tears came to her eyes when she said, “Isn’t that too bad …”

  He took a long sheet of paper from his briefcase and pushed out the tip of a ball point pen. The click sounded to Libby very official. She pulled herself up straight in her chair and waited for the questions. But Rosen only jotted some words on the paper. She waited. Finally he glanced up. “Just the number of rooms and so forth,” he said.

  “Certainly. Go right ahead. I’ve just been having”—she yawned—“my lazy morning, you know—” She tried to stretch but stifled the impulse halfway. She certainly did not want for a moment to appear in any way loose or provocative. “Not making the bed or anything, just taking the day off, just doing nothing. With a baby, of course, it would be different.”

  “Oh yes.” His brow furrowed, even as he wrote. “Children are a responsibility.”

  “There’s no doubt about that.” And she could not help it—she did not care if that was so much simple ass-kissing. At least, at last, she’d said the right thing. All she had to do was to keep saying the right thing and get him out of here, and the next time Paul would be home. There were so many Jewish families wanting babies, and so few Jewish babies, and so what if she was obsequious. As long as: one, she didn’t lie; and two, she said the right thing. “They are a responsibility,” she said. “We certainly know that.”

  “Your husband’s an instructor then, isn’t that right, in the College?”

  “He teaches English and he teaches Humanities.”

  “And he’s got a Ph.D?”

  He seemed to take it so for granted—was he writing it down already?—that she suffered a moment of temptation. “An M.A. He’s working on his Ph.D. Actually, he’s just finishing up on it. He’ll have it very soon, of course. Don’t worry about that. Excuse me—I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound so instructive. I suppose I’m a little nervous.” She smiled, sweetly and spontaneously. A second later she thought that she must have charmed him; at least if he were someone else, if he were Gabe say, he would have been charmed. But this fellow seemed only to become more attentive. “I only meant,” Libby said, “that I think Paul has a splendid career before him. Even if I am his wife.” And didn’t that have the ring of truth about it? Hadn’t her words conveyed all the respect and admiration she had for Paul, and all the love she still felt for him, and would feel forever? It had been a nice wifely remark uttered in a nice wifely way—why then wasn’t Rosen moved by it? Didn’t he see what a dedicated, doting, loving mother she would be?

  “I’m sure he has,” Rosen said, and he might just as well have been attesting to a belief in the process of evolution.

  But one had to remember that he was here in an official capacity; you couldn’t expect him to gush and sigh. He must see dozens of families every day and hear dozens of wives attest to their love for their husbands. He could probably even distinguish those who meant it from those who didn’t, from those who were no longer quite so sure. She tried to stifle her disappointment, though it was clear to her she probably would not be able to get off so solid a remark again.

  Rosen had set his paper down now. “And so you just—well, live here,” he said, tossing the remark out with a little roll of the hands, “and see your friends, and your husband teaches and writes, and you keep house—”

  “As I said, today is just my lazy day—”

  “—and have a normal young people’s life. That’s about it then, would you say?”

  “Well—” He seemed to have left something out, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. “Yes. I suppose that’s it.”

  He nodded. “And you go to the movies,” he said, “and see an occasional play, and have dinner out once in a while, I suppose, and take walks”—his hands went round with each activity mentioned—“and try to put a few dollars in the bank, and have little spats, I suppose—”

  She couldn’t stand it, she was ready to scream. “We read, of course.” Though that wasn’t precisely what she felt had been omitted, it was something.

  He didn’t seem to mind at all having been interrupted. “Are you interested in reading?”

  “Well, yes. We read.”

  He considered further what she had said; or perhaps he was only waiting for her to go on. He said finally, “What kind of books do you like best? Do you like fiction, do you like nonfiction, do you like biography of famous persons, do you like how-to-do-it books, do you like who-done-its? What kind of books would you say you liked to read?”

  “Books.” She became flustered. “All kinds.”

  He leaned back now. “What books have you read recently?” To the question, he gave nothing more or less than it had ever had before in the history of human conversation and its impasses.

  It was her turn now to wave hands at the air. “God, I can’t remember. It really slips my mind.” She felt the color of her face changing again. “We’re always reading something though—and, well, Faulkner. Of course I read The Sound and the Fury in college, and Light in August, but I’ve been planning to read all of Faulkner, you know, chronologically. To get a sense of development. I thought I’d read all of him, right in a row …”

  His reply was slow in coming; he might have been waiting for her to break down and give the name of one thin little volume that she had read in the last year. “That sounds like a wonderful project, like a very worth-while project.”

  In a shabby way she felt relieved.

  “And your poetry,” he asked, “what kind of poetry do you write?”

  “What?”

  “Do you write nature poems, do you write, oh I don’t know, rhymes, do you write little jingles? What kind of poetry would you say you write?”

  Her eyes widened. “Well, I’m sorry, I don’t write poetry,” she said, as though he had stumbled into the wrong house.

  “Oh I’m sorry,” he said, leaning forward to apologize. “I misunderstood.”

  “Ohhhh,” Libby cried. “Oh, just this morning you mean.”

  Even Rosen seemed relieved; it was the first indication she had that the interview was wearing him down too. “Yes,” he said, “this morning. Was that a nature poem, or, I don’t know, philosophical? You know, your thoughts and so forth. I don’t mean to be a nuisance, Mrs. Herz,” he said, spreading his fingers over his tie. “I thought we might talk about your interests. I don’t want to pry, and if you—”

  “Oh yes, surely. Poetry, well, certainly,” she said in a light voice.

  “And the poem this morning, for instance—”

  “Oh that. I didn’t know you meant that. That was—mostly my thoughts. I guess just a poem,” she said, hating him, “about my thoughts.”

  “That sounds interesting.” He looked down at the floor. “It’s very interesting meeting somebody who writes poetry. Speaking for myself, I think, as a matter of fact, that there’s entirely too much television and violence these days, that somebody who writes poetry would be an awfully good influence on a child.”

  “Thank you,” Libby said softly. Of course she didn’t hate him. She closed her eyes—though not the two shiny dark ones that Rosen could see.
She closed her eyes, and she was back in that garden, and it was dusk, and her husband was with her, and in her arms was a child to whom she would later, by the crib, recite some of her poetry. “I think so too,” she said.

  “—what makes poetry a fascinating subject,” she heard Rosen saying, “is that people express all kinds of things in it.”

  “Oh yes, it is fascinating. I’m very fond of poetry. I like Keats very much,” and she spoke almost passionately now (as though her vibrancy while discussing verse would make up for the books she couldn’t remember having read recently). “And I like John Donne a great deal too, though I know he’s the vogue, but still, I do. And I like Yeats. I don’t know a lot of Yeats, that’s true, but I like some of him, what I know. I suppose they’re mostly anthologized ones,” she confessed, “but they’re awfully good. The worst are full of passionate intensity, the best lack all conviction.’ ” A second later she said, “I’m afraid I’ve gotten that backwards, or wrong, but I do like that poem, when I have it in front of me.”

  “Hmmmm,” Rosen said, listening even after she had finished. “You seem to really be able to commit them to memory. That must be a satisfaction.”

  “It is.”

  “And how about your own poems? I mean—would you say they’re, oh I don’t know, happy poems or unhappy poems? You know, people write all kinds of poems, happy poems, unhappy poems—what do you consider yours to be?”

  “Happy poems,” said Libby. “Very happy poems.”

  At the front door, while Mr. Rosen went round in a tiny circle wiggling into his little coat, he said, “I suppose you know Rabbi Kuvin.”