by Philip Roth
“And how much are travel expenses?”
Bigoness hardly hesitated. “About fifteen bucks.”
“For one person, fifteen dollars?”
“I’m talking about round trip.”
“So am I.”
“What are you saying? I’m a liar? Jesus!”
“I’m only saying that it’s about four or five, from Gary to Chicago and back.”
“Well, what about lunch, huh? Meals? What”—he searched—“what about the general inconvenience?” He seemed to feel he had hold of something with that last phrase. “What about that?”
“Look, someone is trying to adopt a baby; somebody, whether you appreciate it or not, Bigoness, is finally doing you a favor. Did you a favor. Don’t try to turn this into a business venture—”
“Oh man, oh man! Look what’s talking about business!”
“Bigoness, this is not the black—”
“And Jesus, what did I ask for, a million dollars? A brand new washing machine? A TV? Jesus! I’m asking for ten lousy bucks more for fare.”
“For two—”
“Well, I’m busted, damn it! I’ll tell you that—I ain’t ashamed. I didn’t do it. Old Wanda pulled her ass out of here over a year ago, when this one was just born.” He pointed to docile, sleepy Walter, on the sofa. “She just took off, and she took the checkbook with her. I raced down to the bank, but it was too late—she’d wiped me out, the son of a bitch. And now this fuckin’ recession. The bastards are hounding me, Mister. Don’t worry, I get letters all right, I get plenty of letters. I never got so much mail in my whole life. They’re all lining up outside to take my furniture away—take my bed away, my TV away—but I’ll tell you, I didn’t make this recession, and I didn’t ask for it neither. I like nice things too”—he was pointing down at Gabe’s shoes—“I like nice sofas and I like nice big beds to roll around in, just like everybody else. I got a new Plymouth, and that there’s a guaranteed orthopedic mattress on that bed, that’s the best money can buy. I gave that little bitch Wanda the best money can buy. Don’t think I don’t like nice things—don’t worry about that!”
He let Bigoness finish. He let him feel that he was finished. He let him stand there empty-handed. “I’ll give you ten dollars each for the train,” he said finally. “And seven and a half dollars for a half day of your wife’s wages. And four dollars so you can pay a baby-sitter for four hours. That’s thirty-one fifty. Mr. Jaffe will write and tell you the place and the time. Is there a phone where he can reach you?”
“I’m doing business with you. I ain’t doing business with no shyster lawyer.”
“I’m acting for Mr. Jaffe. He’s acting for the family.”
“What kind of jerk you think you’re dealing with?”
“I don’t know what it is that’s bothering you now—”
“Don’t think I ain’t got you figured out, Wallace. You ain’t just spreading cash around for your own fun, don’t kid me. Now you’re a pretty smart fella, all right. I see the way you come in here and act tough and hard, and all the time being fancy and ritzy, sort of like Lepke—I’ve seen all about him on the TV, don’t worry about that. Oh, you’re going to keep me in my place and all that. Well, I’ll tell you one thing—I may be out of work, but nobody’s going to make shit out of me while I’m standing around. You ain’t the first one that’s tried it, and you ain’t getting away with it neither. You want that kid—okay, you take the kid. But don’t come around here thinking you’re going to make shit out of me. That’s what old Wanda thought, you see, but she got it all wrong. And old Tessie thought she’s going to do it too, but she come back for her Thanksgiving dinner, Mister, she come crawling back here for turkey stuffing and candied sweets all right, and now she’s going to be a good mama to those kids, you hear? I’ll take fifteen bucks for the train, like I said—fifteen for me, and fifteen for Tessie. Don’t talk to me about no ten-dollar train rides.”
“You should disabuse yourself of the notion that this is the black market.”
Bigoness nodded and nodded. “Yeah, I’m going to do just that. That’s still going to cost you another ten bucks, Mr. Wallace, even if it’s the red-white-and-blue market.” He was amusing himself, which did not mean that he was not in dead earnest. He was fully alive to the possibilities of the moment. “That’s going to cost you exactly forty-one dollars and fifty cents. Don’t think I don’t know how to add up a row of figures either.”
Gabe reached into his jacket. Bigoness whitened; did he think Gabe had a gun? Only a moment earlier Gabe had been wondering if Bigoness had one … He took out his billfold. “Let’s make it forty-five,” he said. “Four and a half dollars for the general inconvenience. You forget the general inconvenience.” He set three bills, two twenties and a five, into the groove of a small floral ash tray. He set them down just out of Bigoness’s reach. And the fellow could not wait; he took a hurried, desperate walk to the cash, and nearly stumbled on the rug.
There had been moments when he could have backed away. He had not. He had humbled Bigoness—raising the ante had done it, finally. He had remained stern, unmovable; that was his accomplishment. In the flush of success, he tried to think of a single mistake he might have made, and halfway home he came up with one. Whether the train was five, ten, or fifteen dollars made no real difference to a man who owned a new Plymouth. Bigoness would drive into Chicago, as he himself was driving now; Bigoness had known he would all along.
Conned … Really? He made himself relax. Forty-five dollars, fifty or even sixty, wasn’t much when one considered what had been accomplished … by him. Though toe to toe with Bigoness—in that second when, shouting at one another, he had believed himself about to be hit, or shot—he had seen his usurpation of Jaffe’s offices as the most selfish and stupid act of all; he had seen himself seeing only himself. But he’d been mistaken.
When he reached Chicago, he drove directly up Kenwood. Why Kenwood? Why not? Old energies began rising to the surface. He slowed the car; behind Martha’s windows were the lights of a Christmas tree. Ah, she had it … She must be home from work; her car was parked in front. He contemplated his solitude, the injustice of his isolation, and found no reason whatsoever for his having to eat dinner alone again tonight. He did not have to wash his hands of anything. He parked the car. One of the doors of her car was slightly ajar; before heading up the stairs, he slammed it shut. It wouldn’t stay; it slipped and was ajar again.
Everything she has is broken … But the thought no longer filled him with fear and distrust. It was not that which had been building in him in the long ride up from Gary. Forgiving himself, he forgave her.
3
Martha’s head poked out just beyond the bannister at the top of the short stairway. “Yes?”
He did not know whether she could see him, but he felt he could not advance another step without being invited to do so. He leaned his head into the shaft of light, feet in place. “Martha? It’s Gabe … Wallach.”
When she moved to the head of the stairs, he was surprised to find her fully dressed. He had imagined her in a robe; he had even imagined her having a visitor. But all that was missing were her shoes; she wore a white blouse and a narrow red skirt. He waited for her to speak, to move, to turn and walk away.
She said, “Why, hello.”
“Are you busy?”
“No.”
“… I thought you might be free to have a bite with me.”
“I was just eating.”
“Oh, I see.”
He would not have been surprised, really, if that moment his enterprise had fallen through; but neither of them moved.
He asked, “How are you?”
“I’m fine … How are you?”
“Fine.”
Up in the shadows, she crossed her arms and leaned one shoulder against the wall. He would not believe that she was so blatantly registering impatience. He couldn’t really be sure that she wasn’t standing up there smiling.
“I see you’re an automobile
owner,” he said.
“Oh yes.”
“Would you mind very much if I advanced out of the doorway here?”
“If you like—”
“You see, I came to ask if you wanted to have dinner with me.”
“Well, I’ve begun, you see—”
“Oh, I didn’t know.”
“Yes.” Then: “But you’re welcome to come up the stairs.”
“I’d like to,” he said, without advancing.
“Well—why don’t you then.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your dinner.” He started up toward her.
“One doesn’t really think in terms of interrupting a plate full of raw vegetables.” God, she was smiling.
“Well—would you like to go out then?”
“No, no, I like raw vegetables—”
He was beside her. Her hair was pulled back, her lipstick was paler, but that seemed the extent of the change. It had really been only a few months. “How are you?”
“I’m pretty well,” she said. “You look well.”
“It’s good to see you, Martha.”
“I live just down here.”
She turned away—but the way she had turned.… He heard instantly the openness, the pleading in his last words. He had spoken too softly—not that he could have helped it. His desire to be tender was almost more than he could manage. It seemed to be effecting him as far down as his muscles; the weakness in his fingers was such that he could not even have made a fist, had there been any reason for his wanting to. The sternness Bigoness had been witness to was nowhere to be seen. He followed after her, neither too close nor too far. It was like having endured a long rainy spell; and now, no clouds—and soon, the sun.
At least she was not what he had been dreading as he had rung her bell. Actually he should be feeling energetic, not limp. For down below he had awaited a face hard, grudging, foul, a witch’s face. And what had she been to him in that awkward moment on the stairs but kind? Whose face had he seen but hers? Not until he stepped into her room did it occur to him that her kindness could have arisen out of the simple fact that she was about to marry another man. It cost her nothing to be nice; why fight him any longer? Inside the door, which remained ajar, he looked when he could at her hands. At least it was not the kind of engagement that is spoken of as formal. There were no rings.
He was gripped by shyness. “Well, well,” was what he said.
“May I take your coat?”
“Well—it’s a pleasant little room.”
“Well, it’s a little room.”
“But pleasant …” A blue India print covered a small bed pushed against the far wall; the print hung an even half inch from the floor, all around an even half inch. There were two red throw cushions at the head of the bed. An old oak table was set in the center of the room, two candlesticks upon it; before the chair in which Martha had been sitting was a plate full of raw vegetables: a carrot, some lettuce, a stick of celery, slices of a green pepper. Against the walls were a chest and a washstand, and hanging untilted above the bed was Cynthia’s large circus picture. It was the first object he recognized from the old life. Then the sight of some paperbacks on a bookshelf by the window touched him nearly as much as the picture; they might have been real, palpable human things. The throw cushions on the bed, the little red rug, and the stumps of two lavender candles on the table helped to save the room from austerity. A tissue-thin Chinese shade ballooned over the ceiling bulb, releasing a thin gold light onto the table top. There were three bulbs strung around the tree, fewer than there had seemed to be from outside. He commented on the comfort of the place.
“Oh I suppose so,” she said, not unpleased. “There are six women in the house and only one bath. That’s not entirely comfortable.”
“Do you all share that refrigerator?” He motioned to a big old Westinghouse purring in the hallway.
“Discomfort number two.”
“Still—”
“It’s not too bad, no. Oh there’s an Indian girl, or Pakistani, and she leaves her little footprints on the toilet seat—”
“Yes? Both feet?”
“Both. I think you’re thinking of dogs. Truly, she squats up there … Life is very international here. There’s a silent little Korean girl, and a noisy dyke, and a chesty young thing who’s an assistant associate copywriter on the Near North Side but lives down here for the culture. And there’s a terribly heavy pathetic German girl who types theses for people, and there’s one of those guitar players without make-up, who I believe squats too. And there’s me. I seem to represent the old sturdy bourgeoisie. What do you think of that? May I take your coat?”
“You sound as though you like being the delegate from the middle classes. You sound—you look—at ease, Martha.”
She hung his coat in the closet, and while her back was turned he peeked into it. He found no resemblance to any closet of her past. There were even empty hangers. She seemed—so nice. It turned out she wasn’t at all bad bourgeois. Had he not allowed full play to his morbid imaginings, had he not such a weak-minded sense of causality, he would have come back to her months ago. He would have come back had he not been sure that she no longer had any use for him; he would have come back had it not been for Jaffe’s car parked outside here, and her car parked outside there; he would have come back if his mind had been clearer. At least he was certain she was pleased that he was here now; believing this to be so, he was so excited that for a moment he actually trembled.
“I suppose I am,” Martha said.
“That’s fine.”
Conversation was exhausted.
She reached for the shoebag hanging inside the closet and, hardly raising her knees, stepped into a pair of slippers.
He looked around the room, having seen everything twice already. “I notice,” he said finally, “that you have a car.”
“That seems to have impressed you all right.”
“Well, it’s rather a snappy number. Though your front door doesn’t close all the way, I notice—”
“Oh, but I think that adds dash.”
“Absolutely.”
They both worked a little at grinning. “I just got it back,” she said, sitting down at the table.
“From being fixed?”
“From being stolen. Would you like to sit down? Do you want a carrot? I’m afraid that’s all I can offer. The dyke made free with my leftover salmon. She’s very aggressive about canned foods. Would you like some sherry? There’s a bottle in the closet.”
“I’ll just sit.” He pulled out a chair opposite her; on its seat rested a lavender cushion. Everything was so—careful. Suddenly the order of the place—everything matching—was no longer becoming; it was chilling—though that passed too. “Who stole your car?”
“Some poor dishonest boys, I suppose. The police found it three days ago. It was in a junk yard. They’d sold it. Though a friend of mine says it went there on its own; you know, out of some deep knowledge of its own essence.”
He said, “Oh yes,” and smiled. The words of this friend of hers served to settle his emotions. He did not tremble; he was not chilled. That he did not feel distant from her, that he could see this day as an extension of their first days almost a year before, did not mean that she was not conscious of all that had intervened. Of course he was conscious of all that too; it was just that he was willing to forget it. She was probably only being nice. She had a friend who said such-and-such. He had an impulse to ask her if she was really going to marry this friend; he had every reason to believe she was, except the reasons he had not to …
She had given him an opening, so he went ahead and made talk. “How did it get stolen? Did you leave the key in?”
She frowned, looking up from her plate. “No, I didn’t leave the key in.”
He had somehow offended her. “Well—how then?”
“Well … as a matter of fact,” she said, having decided, it seemed, to go on, “I saw them stealing it. I was working
a little late one night—reading The Princess Casamassima in my office—and when I came out to the Midway, there was my car being pushed away, out toward Cottage Grove.”
“Being pushed?”
“Yes. I started running after them, and felt like Barbara Stanwyck or someone, shouting, ‘Stop, thief! Help!’ and so on, and waving my handbag—and then I was out of breath, and they were pushing it faster than I could run, so I turned and came back to the office and called the police. I called the operator, and I told her I wanted the police.” She cut a piece of lettuce and ate it. Footsteps were mounting the stairs; he restrained himself from looking over his shoulder. Martha went on as though she were expecting no one. Her desire to be witty and gay, an ingénue, made him uneasy, but he made it his business to look interested.
“And the operator,” Martha said, “—this is the Chicago part of the story—the operator asked me what I wanted them for, and I told her my car was being pushed away, being stolen, and she said oh no, it was probably the snow-removal people.”
“She did?”
“It hadn’t snowed for nearly a week—which I managed to convince her of finally—and then she asked me where I was calling from, and she gave me the police. The Hyde Park district police, and I told him that my car was being stolen, right then, and that if they just sent a squad car around they could intercept it, but he began to ask me what kind of car it was and where I lived, and I told him, look, they’re stealing it right now. You just have to go there now. And he asked me where exactly it had been parked before it was pushed, and I told him across the Midway, and he said, Oh then it was being stolen really in the Woodlawn district, and I said, but the operator connected me with you, and he said that was because I was calling from Hyde Park—and then there was a lot of clicking and a terrible dreadful dead line, and I was pulling my clothes and stomping the floor, and then I was talking to another Sergeant O’Somebody with a lilting voice from the Woodlawn district—whom I proceeded to tell that my car was being stolen, right then. That was the idea I kept trying to push to the front, you see, that it was being stolen at that very moment. But he took my name and my home address, and he asked where I was calling from, and I told him, and then—well, this goes on and on, you know, from one sweet sergeant to the next. Apparently if I had been able to arrange to call directly from the car while it was being pushed, I could have worked something out with the authorities. Finally I just sat in my office sort of awestruck, and two hours later two policemen showed up at my house, right here, and stood in the doorway and asked what the trouble was.”