by Philip Roth
“You’re trespassing on private property that don’t belong to you!”
“He’s sent the letters to this address.”
“Where does he come off sending letters to my address? Where’s he get my address?”
“From the phone book.”
“I never received any letters. I never got ’em, and I don’t want ’em. I’m asking you to go, Mister. I’m asking you nice—”
“Mr. Bigoness, I don’t want anything from you. Is your wife home?”
“My wife’s my business.”
The little girl had returned to the living room. She began asking again for her sandwich. All the while the two men talked, she pulled at her father’s trousers.
“I’ve come down from Chicago—”
“I’m busy—”
“All we would like is for you to sign a paper, and for your wife—”
“I’m busy, she’s busy, we’re all busy! Now—”
“—a consent form, and that’s it. There’s nothing for you—”
“I said three times, Get out!”
“Will you please listen to me?”
“I want my sandwich.”
“It’s a simple procedure. It’ll take five minutes—perhaps if I speak to Theresa—”
“My wife’s my business.”
“She had a child—”
“I want my sand—”
“I don’t care what she had, she don’t have time to go—”
“I only want a word with the two of you.”
“Listen—”
“I want my sandwich.”
“Bigoness, simply let me—”
“I want my sandwich!” The little girl threw herself upon the floor. “I want to eat!”
Instantly another howl went up. What she had thrown herself upon was her little brother.
“Christ,” groaned the harassed father. “Ohhh—”
Gabe held his words, and Bigoness dropped back on the sofa. “Oh man,” he said, “what are you bothering me, huh? It’s Christmas time, don’t you know that? What are you bothering me about?”
“I only want to talk to you, Mr. Bigoness, and to Mrs. Bigoness.”
Two dark, distrustful eyes took him in, head to toe. “Your name Wallace?” the man asked.
“That’s right.”
Bigoness nodded, his lashes dropping halfway over his eyes. Softly he said, “You son of a bitch.”
“Daddy! My sandwich—”
“You want a sandwich, go make it.”
“I can’t reach the peanut butter.”
“Ain’t that too bad.”
“Daddy!”
“Oh man …” His feet swung down; Gabe saw only obstinacy in the thick dark workman’s shoes. Bigoness was heading out of the room. The solemn little girl did not smile with victory; she followed on her father’s heels, whimpering. “I’m the new nigger around here,” Bigoness said.
Alone, he took quick glances around the room—as though Theresa might pop up from behind a chair or emerge from back of the curtains. The decor was Chinese modern—the yellow rug swam with pop-eyed dragons; the walls were papered with rickshaws and coolies and junks. There was nothing that was not immense, no object, no design. The two lamps at either end of the sofa were the size of small people—they were small people, one a yellow woman, the other a yellow man, each in kimono, each with hands up sleeves, each with bulb screwed in top of head. All the upholstery was silky, Oriental; only the TV set made a forthright concession to the Occidental world of Indiana. The room seemed to be expanding and narrowing by the moment. There was no chair in which one could sit without sinking. He instructed himself to remain standing—let Bigoness sit. He felt himself becoming excited. He went over what had to be accomplished; he was excited because he felt that something already had been. He had not fallen back—no matter how close he might have come. What he did counted, not what he thought.
Jaffe had indicated on the phone that if the signing of the consent forms could not be worked out, he might have to take a chance and appear in court without any signatures at all. He would report to the court that the child had been abandoned. The danger, however, was that a social agency of the court might be called into the case at the request of the judge; the adoption could then be delayed for months and months, with any number of complications arising. The social agencies of the courts were not very sophisticated—nor, said Jaffe, were the courts themselves, which frowned upon private adoptions anyway. If it was necessary for him to claim abandonment in court, there might even be religious trouble. The infant had been born in a Catholic hospital of a mother who claimed to be Catholic—if the judge sitting in County Court that day also happened to be Catholic, it might eventually be suggested that the child be turned over to a Catholic adoption agency to be placed in a Catholic family, or, for the meantime, in a Catholic orphanage.
Further, since the court presumed the offspring of a married woman to be the offspring too of her lawful husband, it was quite impossible—Jaffe had explained, countering a suggestion of Gabe’s—to go into court with Theresa alone. Whether the husband was or was not the natural father was inconsequential; the child was simply not his wife’s to give away. He had to sign. Also—it was here that Gabe had stopped listening—there were matters of inheritance, insurance benefits … He had stopped listening because he had begun to wonder how this could be anybody’s business but Jaffe’s … Then Jaffe was saying that he was going to have to start charging the Herzes for his time. Since he would now have to go down to Gary, track down the Bigonesses, talk with them—
Here Gabe had butted in. Jaffe had been thorough till then, but certainly not friendly; he had been clipped and to the point and even impatient. So Gabe had leaped in—he could himself do the tracking down, if that was all right with Jaffe. He could do the initial consulting, if that was okay … “And I’d rather,” he had said, “that you wouldn’t tell the Herzes—”
But he had not bothered to instruct Jaffe not to tell Martha, if he chose to. He had been sure she was in Jaffe’s apartment while the two of them had spoken, while he had informed Jaffe of his willingness and persuaded him finally—how pleasant!—of his usefulness. Waiting for Bigoness to return now, he had a full-blown daydream: he saw himself being reconciled with Martha. He dreamed of stealing her back from Jaffe. He saw himself on the brink of many changes. He was not sorry now that he had come, nor that his trip was a secret from the Herzes. It gave him strength, knowing that he did not want or expect their gratitude.
Bigoness had removed his apron; he was eating a sandwich. He had taken up a leaning position in the door and had the air of someone who has just completed some serious thinking. His beard was blue, as were his eyes, and his part seemed chopped into his hair. His face sloped almost straight back from his nose, as if the brain within was tubular in shape. “Now who is it you represent again, Mr. Wallace?”
“The lawyer who’s written you about this adoption. Sid Jaffe.”
Bigoness thought that over while he chomped away at the sandwich.
“Have you read Mr. Jaffe’s letters?”
No answer.
“I asked if you’ve read Mr. Jaffe’s letters.”
“You know,” Bigoness said, making much of the unhurried ease with which he continued to eat, “I’m in the union, Mister”—he swallowed—“and we got a lawyer too, a pretty smart cookie. So I know what questions I got to answer and I know which ones I don’t have to answer. It’s in the Constitution of this country that I only have to answer what I want. If you want to keep talking, that’s all right with me, you go ahead. I got to eat my sandwich anyway. But don’t try to tell me what I’ve got to answer, and what it says in the Constitution I don’t have to answer if I don’t want to.” Secure in his rights, he ambled over and plunged into the upholstery of a wing chair near the window. Spreading the blinds with two fingers, he looked outside, a new man, a bored man, a defiant man.
“I wonder if I could speak to your wife.”
“You spoke to my wife, buddy.”
“She’s not at home?”
“Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t.”
“Mr. Bigoness,” he began again, “nobody wants anything of you. Or of your wife. Mr. Jaffe has only asked—you know this if you’ve read his letters—he only wants you to come down to the court on the twenty-ninth and sign a consent form saying that you want your child adopted by another family. This was all arranged months back, between Mr. Jaffe and your wife. It’s simply a matter of signing the papers. At the time we didn’t even know she was your wife, you see.”
“Whatever happened months back, I don’t care about neither.”
“Doesn’t your wife care?”
“My wife cares about what I care about. I’ve got nothing to do with any paper-signing.”
“I don’t think you understand what kind of paper it is. It doesn’t make you responsible for the child. Just the opposite, in fact. It will free you of any responsibility at all where this child is concerned.”
“Well, I don’t have no responsibility, Mister. I’ve got kids of my own.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Shit, that ain’t what you said. What do you think I am? Why don’t you go back up to Chicago and tell Mr. Jaffe to sign his own papers? Cause Theresa ain’t signing nothing. I mean her name ain’t even Haug, for crying out loud.”
“She’s obliged to, however.”
“Oh yeah?”
“She’s legally responsible for that child, until she signs a paper which releases her from that responsibility.”
Bigoness tried eating again.
“And so are you,” Gabe said.
“Oh is that so?”
“You’re her husband.”
“I ain’t the father.” He did not seem delighted to have had to make the statement. He mumbled, “Why don’t you go see him.”
“Because he’s not responsible—”
“Oh screw that,” said Bigoness. “You ain’t sticking me. See,” he said, his mouth narrowing to a point, “I know what you guys are up to. I know what kind of business you guys are in.”
“I’m not in any kind of business.”
“Tessie told me, don’t worry about that. I ain’t signing any papers, so why don’t you think twice and leave me alone.”
“Why don’t you let me talk to your wife?”
“Look, why don’t you leave us both alone! I’m not signing any papers, don’t you understand me? I’ve been signing papers all my life. Five papers to get this here sofa carried up those stairs, you understand that? I signed a paper for my car. I signed a paper for my Hollywood bed that’s right there in the bedroom—where it’s going to stay! I signed for plenty, and I paid for plenty and nobody’s going to stick me. We got a lawyer in the union, Mister. I can get advice whenever I need it, don’t kid yourself about that.”
“Any lawyer will tell you that if you want to be sure that nobody does stick you where this baby is concerned—”
“Look,” he said, standing, “the only way you don’t get stuck is you don’t sign.”
“What I’m trying to explain—”
“I understand what you’re trying to explain.”
“You don’t seem to.”
“You think you’re so smart and I’m so stupid?”
“Why don’t you just listen to me?”
“I listened plenty. I listen to what Tessie tells me you guys—”
“I want to speak with Theresa myself.”
“You can’t speak to her! Why don’t you leave us alone? I got a lot of bills, Mr. Wallace. Maybe you don’t know what that is. I’ve been out of work for five months. I’ve been taking care of this house here for five rotten months, and now my wife’s home with me and she’s out working, and that’s that. You got a paper,” he said, “well, you leave it here. I’ll take a look at it for you, okay? We got nothing else to talk about.”
“You’ll have to sign in court, however.”
“Oh sure.” He dropped his lids again, moved his shoulders, shifted on his heavy shoes. His entire body said, Listen to this guy, will you?
“A judge has to witness the adoption. That protects you as well as the people who are adopting the baby.”
“I told you, didn’t I, that I got a lot of bills—don’t you listen? I’m going to pay them, you hear, don’t you worry about that either. But I just ain’t stepping up to some judge, see, and saying, here I am, your honor, go ahead and stick my ass in the workhouse.”
“This has nothing to do with any work or workhouse, or with any bills you may have.”
“I’ve been married already before this, buddy. I’ve been married, I’ve been divorced. I’ve been around. I’ve lived in six different states in my life, you understand? I’ve been involved with your kinds of lawyers, believe me.”
“What kind is that?”
“I ain’t got no prejudice. I just been involved, so I know what I’m talking about. You guys got some kind of deal going, that’s all right with me. Tessie got confused, made a little mi—”
“Daddy—” His little girl had stepped back into the living room.
“Get out of here, you. Go play, go color. Take him with you.” He pointed to the small boy who had been sitting in the center of the rug all the while they had been talking.
The little girl said, “Walter’s still making a tinkle.”
It took a moment for the words to register on Bigoness. “Oh Jesus!” Again he fled.
A second later a door opened; a child cried; the toilet flushed; Bigoness moaned. He came back to the living room with still another child in his arms.
“C’mon, cut it out, boy,” Bigoness was saying, as he paced the rug; the diaperless child in his arms rolled back his head and howled. The little girl followed her father as he walked. “C’mon, Walter boy, you’re all right. Ah come on now, stop crying, will you? You going to be a big man or you going to be a little sissy boy?” The little boy continued to weep. “Oh man,” groaned Bigoness, “look, why don’t you leave me alone?” At that moment he did not appear to be anything but pitiful. “This little kid’s been strapped to that toilet seat for about a hour—and it’s on account of you butting in around here. You come in here and you dis-repp everything, and I forget all about him. Why don’t you go away and stop breaking up my house? I don’t know whether you trying to stick me, or you in the black market—you guys that sell babies, I don’t know which—but why don’t you just get out?”
“I’ve explained to you who I am.”
“Tessie told me about you, Wallace—”
“Well, I don’t know what she could have said.”
“You guys care about one thing, and that’s the buck.”
“What guys?”
“You got the baby, why don’t you just leave us alone?”
“Because you’re responsible for that baby—until you sign that paper—”
“The hell I am! What do you want from me, Mister!”
“I want you to come into court with your wife, and sign”—his weariness almost overwhelmed him—“a little paper. Mr. Jaffe’s office will pay your travel expenses, we’ll get you a baby-sitter—”
“Where is this court, Africa? Man, I’ve had a rough time—I’m waiting on a phone call for a job—”
“The court is in Chicago.”
“I don’t live in Chicago.”
“I said we’ll pay your expenses; it’ll take a couple of hours. You’re not working anyway—”
“My wife is.”
“We’ll pay her a day’s salary! Stop being contrary!”
“I’m not getting mixed up in no black market.”
“This isn’t the black market!”
“Don’t you raise your voice in my house, hear? This is my house!”
“I won’t raise my voice—I’ll get you hauled into court if you keep this up!”
“Yeah? For what?”
“You’re going to have more trouble than you bargained for, Mr.
Bigoness!”
“You go ahead, you tell me what for, huh?”
“You want to support a fourth child?” He had spoken desperately—had he gone too far? Either too far or not far enough … Suppose Bigoness said yes.
“It’s not my kid—”
“It’s your wife’s!”
“It ain’t hers either. You want to stick somebody, you go stick old Dewey, he’s the son of a bitch knocked her up. He’s the son of a bitch took her away from here. When she married me, Mister, she married my three kids too. She ain’t running out again, you understand that? I had one old lady run away already. She thought life was a bowl of cherries, see. One day she just takes our little portable phonograph and all her Ricky Nelson records and so long, honey. I was left with them three kids—and I didn’t run out on them neither. Her son-of-a-bitchin’ family wouldn’t take them—okay, I didn’t run out on them. I went and found them another mama. Don’t tell me what I’m going to support! I got three kids, and I didn’t set them out in the street, neither. I’m a nursemaid around here, and scrub lady, but pretty soon they’re going to open that mill up and then old Tessie’s going to get her ass back in this kitchen, and this here family’s going to get shaped up around here. You just leave us alone, Wallace, and I’ll work everything out all right. Don’t you worry about me!”
“What does Theresa make in a day?”
“What she makes is my business.”
“You tell me what she makes, and we’ll make good her salary for the morning she has to be up in Chicago. We’ll cover both your travel expenses.”
He had to wait a long time for a very short answer.
“Yeah?”
“That’s right.”
He waited again; he could not tell what might or might not push Bigoness the wrong way.
“What about a baby-sitter?” Bigoness asked.
“And a baby-sitter.”
“Well, she makes …” He looked up at the ceiling for a figure—and found one. “She makes herself about sixteen, seventeen bucks a day, that’s about what she makes.”
“That’s good pay for a waitress.”
“Well, that’s what she makes. Who the hell said she was a waitress? Maybe she’s a waitress, maybe she’s isn’t.”