by Philip Roth
“Which is your room?” asked Roy, looking out the car window.
She did not answer.
The school was across from a row of stores, one of which was called “The Old Campus Coffee Shop.” Roy said, “Hey, want a Coke in The Old Campus Coffee Shop?”
No answer.
“Oh, Angel, I do care what you think. You know that. What you think is important to me. But I have to live somewhere, don’t I? Well, Lucy, just be reasonable—don’t I? That’s not being a kid, or a child, or whatever you said.”
“Yes, Roy,” she finally said, “you have to live somewhere.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Lucy, really. Sometimes you’re just too sarcastic, when I’m only asking for a simple answer. I’ve got to get my eight hours’ sleep if I expect to get the most out of classes. Well, don’t I? So I need the long bed. Well, is that a stupid statement too?”
She thought, Everything you say is a stupid statement! “No,” she said, for he had taken her hand, and really seemed to be in pain.
“So then how can you be angry? Lucy, come on, what’s the sense of fighting? Let’s have a Coke, okay? Then we’ll start home. Come on, say the fight is over. Why ruin the day? Look, am I forgiven for my terrible sin, or are you going to keep this silly thing up forever?”
He actually appeared to be near tears. She saw that there was no point in arguing with him any further. For in that instant she made up her mind—if only she had made it up earlier in the day, she could have saved them both the misery of a fight: she would never set foot in that room of his so long as she lived, no matter how many windows it had, or even doors. It was really as simple as that.
“Okay,” she said, “let’s have a Coke.”
“That’s my girl,” said Roy, kissing her on the nose, “that’s my old angel girl.”
From that afternoon on she knew for sure that Roy wasn’t for her. That very night she would not drive up with him to Passion Paradise. When instantly he grew sulky and morose, and seemed about ready to break into tears again, she told him it was because she was not well. It happened to be the truth, but then at home with a thick black crayon she circled on her calendar the day she would make it altogether clear their romance was over (at the same time x-ing out another day of her life in Liberty Center: fifty-eight to go).
It looked as though the bad news could not be broken to Roy until Sunday: the following night there were already plans to drive up to the Selkirk Fair with Ellie and Joe, with whom they doubled at least once a week now that Lucy was working only during the day; and on Friday evening Roy expected her to go over to Winnisaw with him to see A Date with Judy; then on Saturday there was the barbecue at the Sowerbys’. It was a barbecue for the Sowerbys’ adult friends, and when Roy’s uncle had invited “the long drink of water” to come and to bring “Blondie” with him, it had delighted Lucy (secretly) no less than Roy. She was coming to like Mr. Sowerby more all the time, and to admire certain of his qualities. As Roy said, he really didn’t give a hoot about people’s opinions; he did and said whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. She still thought he was a little coarse with his language, but she didn’t object, corny though it was, when he called her “Blondie,” which seemed to have become his nickname for her, or even when he put his arm around her waist one evening and said (in a joshing way, of course, and winking at Roy), “You just tell me, Blondie, when you get tired of looking up at this big lug and want to look down at a little one.”
She would have circled Friday then instead of Sunday, had it not been for the Sowerbys’ Saturday night barbecue, at which her presence had specifically been requested by the host himself. That was awfully hard to turn down. She supposed she could wait until Sunday without losing anything—gaining three nights more away from home, in fact. Surely any diversion, even if it involved Roy, was better than sitting up in her hot room, listening to her family rocking downstairs on the porch; or lying awake in the dark bedroom, unable to sleep until she heard her father’s footsteps coming up the stairs and she had determined (solely for the record) whether he was actually going off to bed sober.
What had always made summer particularly awful was that with all the doors and windows open, her sense of the presence of those whom she could hardly abide was painfully, horribly acute. Just to hear someone she hated yawn could drive her to distraction if she happened to be in an angry mood. Now, however, she was out every night until twelve-thirty, by which time they were usually asleep (not that it was any pleasure hearing someone you hated snore, if it made you start thinking about them). On the hottest nights, rather than being locked up with her family, she and Roy would sit on one of the benches down by the river, catching what breeze there was and staring off into the black stillness of water under the Winnisaw Bridge. She would think about college and Fort Kean—away, away—and often Roy would begin to sing to her, in a voice that really wasn’t that bad, or so she was willing to admit in the pleasure of contemplating the future that would soon be hers. He sang like Vaughan Monroe, and like Dick Haymes; he could do Nat “King” Cole singing “Nature Boy,” and Mel Blanc doing “Woody Woodpecker,” and Ray Bolger (whom he thought he resembled in build) doing “Once in Love with Amy.” After they saw The Jolson Story he did for her his imitation of the incomparable Al Jolson. That was how Roy introduced himself as hand in hand they sat down by the river on those close nights during what was to be the last summer of Lucy’s arduous and unhappy youth. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you will, the incomparable, the one and only, Al Jolson.
“Oh, how we danced,
On the night we were wed,
We danced and we danced—”
Fifty-eight days. Fifty-seven. Fifty-six.
At the Sowerby barbecue on Saturday night she got into a long, serious discussion with Roy’s father—their first real talk—in which she heard herself assuring Mr. Bassart that he really shouldn’t have anxiety or doubt any longer about Roy’s future. Mr. Bassart said that he still could not figure where the interest in photography had suddenly come from. His experience with young people had long ago convinced him not to bank too heavily on sudden enthusiasms, since they had a habit of disappearing under strain. He was, he admitted, relieved that the months wasted wading around in what he called “a swamp of half-baked ideas” had come to an end, but now what concerned him was whether Roy had really chosen something he was going to be able to stick with when the going got rough. What did Lucy think? Oh, said Lucy, his heart was really in photography, she was sure of it.
“What makes you so sure?” asked Mr. Bassart in his flat voice.
She thought quickly and said that photography wasn’t such an astonishing interest for Roy to have, when you thought that really it was a wonderful way of combining his present interest in drawing with his old interest in printing.
Mr. Bassart reflected upon what she had said.
So did she, reddening. “I think that’s true, in a manner of speaking, Mr. Bassart.”
“It’s clever,” he said without smiling, “but whether it’s true is something I’ll have to think about. What about your own plans? What are your own personal educational goals?”
Perspiring away under the brand-new peasant blouse that she had purchased for the party, she told him … Develop a logical mind … self-discipline … increase her general fund of knowledge … learn more about the world we live in … learn more about herself …
It was difficult to tell when to stop (exactly as it had been in the scholarship application), but when Mr. Bassart finally said, during a paragraph break, “Those are all good goals,” she believed she had won approval enough for the time being, and shut up.
And—she later realized—he had asked not a single question about her background He did not appear to be any more interested in the subject than Julian Sowerby; men like that judged you not on family history, but on the kind of person you were. Only Mrs. Bassart (who seemed to have fallen instantly under her sister’s influence) and Irene Sowerby seemed to hold against her
things she wasn’t even responsible for. The others, to their credit, weren’t interested in gossip and ancient history—Roy included.
Since the beginning of summer Roy had taken to picking her up at the house after dinner each night. She was always ready when he arrived, giving him little encouragement, she hoped, to linger and make conversation. On the one occasion when he seemed to be trying to draw her into revealing something, she answered so sharply that he had never brought up the subject again. It was after his first meeting with her family, all of whom were gathered in the living room after dinner. The young man arrived, was quickly introduced and led by Lucy straight back out the door.
Driving over to the movie, Roy said, “Wow, your mother’s a real looker, you know that?”
“Yes.”
“You know who she reminds me of?”
“No.”
“Jennifer Jones.” No answer. “Listen, did you see Song of Bernadette?”
She had, with Kitty Egan, three times; but her conversion was her own business too. It hadn’t even taken place.
“Of course, your mother’s older than Jennifer Jones …” Roy said. “And your grandfather is Mr. Carroll from the post office. Now, I didn’t even know that. Ellie never mentioned it.”
“He’s retired,” she said. Why on earth had she given in when he said it was time he was introduced to her “folks”?
They were crossing the Winnisaw Bridge. “Well, your father seems like a nice guy.”
“I don’t talk about him, Roy! I never want to talk about him!”
“Gee, sure, okay,” he said, raising one hand over his chest. “Just making conversation.”
“Well, don’t.”
“Well, okay, I won’t.”
“That subject does not interest me at all.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, smiling, “you’re the boss,” and after a silent minute during which she contemplated asking him to pull the car over to the side so that she could get out, he switched on the radio and began to sing.
From then on, neither Bassart nor Sowerby asked any question about her home life. Ellie couldn’t have cared less, and so it was only in the company of Irene Sowerby, or Roy’s mother, that Lucy became unduly conscious of what ordinarily she was able, after all these years of practice, to drive clear out of her mind. Of late she hardly ever had cause (outside the house) to think of herself as the kid who had done this or the kid whose father had done that. ‘To the many people she met socially at the Sowerbys’ for the first time on that Saturday night—among them, the principal, Mr. Brunn and his wife—she was, very simply, Roy Bassart’s girl. “So,” said Mr. Brunn, “this is the young lady I hear is keeping our old alum in line these days.”
“Oh, it’s a matter of opinion, Mr. Brunn, who’s keeping who in line,” said Roy.
“And are you off to school in September, dear?” asked Mrs. Brunn. Dear. Just like Mrs. Sowerby.
“Yes,” said Lucy. “Fort Kean College for Women.”
“They’ve got themselves quite a little setup down there,” said Mr. Brunn. “Very nice. Very nice.”
“Lucy graduated twenty-ninth in the senior class this year, Mr. Brunn, before she tells you herself.”
“Oh, I recognized Lucy—I knew she was up there. Good luck to you, Lucy. Keep up our reputation. We’ve sent them some fine girls down there and I’m sure you’re going to turn out to be no exception.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brunn. I’ll try my best.”
“Well, that’ll do it, I’m sure. See you, Roy; see you, Lucy.”
So, later that night, up in Passion Paradise, what could she do? It wasn’t till Sunday that she was to tell him that she’d had enough, and it was still only Saturday night. And when she told him, what would happen? “I’m not going to be able to see you again. Ever.” “What?” “But it’s not love-it’s just sex.” “It’s what?” “Sex!” “Not to me … Look, is that what it is to you? Because to me … Oh, no,” he’d weep, “this is terrible …” And then—she just knew it—he wouldn’t go to Fort Kean at all. If she broke off with him now, he would give up Britannia, give up all his plans, probably in the end give up photography too, despite what she had said to his father in his defense. And then he would be right back in his swamp of ideas … But that was his affair, not hers … Or was it? He was so good to her, so kind to her, sweeter to her than anybody had ever been before in her life, and day in and day out too. How could she turn around now and be so heartless and cruel? Especially when it was only a matter of a few more weeks. It might even mean his whole career. Because he depended on her—he listened to her—he loved her. Roy loves me.
At least that’s what he said.
“I love you, Angel,” he said at the door. He kissed her nose. “You made a real hit tonight.”
“On who?”
“Mr. Brunn, for one. Everybody.” He kissed her yet again. “Me,” he said. “Look, sleep tight.” From the bottom of the steps he whispered, “Au revoir.”
She was very, very confused. Ten months ago she was still in the band, marching behind Leola Krapp, and now she was going steady! Going all the way practically every night!
She circled six days in July, and ten in August, and then on September first she took her crayon and circled four times around the day after Labor Day. She had started out to circle Labor Day itself, until she remembered that she and Roy and Ellie and Joe Whetstone were to go off canoeing on the river, an event that had been planned by Roy weeks before. If only everything weren’t planned so far in advance! If only he didn’t need her so, depend on her so, love her so! But did he?
When they arrived on Labor Day morning at the Sowerbys’, Roy’s Aunt Irene came outside to say that Ellie had been sick in the night and was still sleeping. She suggested that the three young people had better go off by themselves for the day. But even as she spoke, a very sad and wan-looking Ellie appeared in the upstairs hall window, wearing her bathrobe. She waved. “Hi.”
“Ellie,” said Mrs. Sowerby, “I suggested to the others that they’d better go off without you today, dear.”
“Oh, no.”
“Eleanor, if you’re not well, you surely cannot go canoeing.”
“Your mother’s right,” said Joe.
“But I want to go,” Ellie called down in a weak voice.
“It wouldn’t be safe, El,” said Joe. “Really.”
“Joe is right, Eleanor,” said Mrs. Sowerby.
“But I planned to go,” said Ellie, and suddenly she drew down the shade, as though she was about: to weep.
It was decided that the three young people should come inside while Ellie washed and dressed and had a little breakfast of tea and toast; then if she really did seem to have recovered, perhaps the youngsters could go ahead with their plans. Ellie’s troubles had begun the previous evening while Mrs. Sowerby had been away at an informal meeting of the officers of The Quilt Society. In Mrs. Sowerby’s absence, Ellie and her father had sat around the TV set, eating three pounds of cherries, followed by a quart of vanilla fudge ice cream, topped off with half a chocolate nut cake left over from dinner.
Julian Sowerby, feeling fine, claimed Ellie’s upset stomach had nothing to do with a little dish of ice cream and a piece of cake; Ellie simply had the heebie-jeebies about going away to school in two weeks. Roy said that maybe Ellie had inherited her father’s good looks (everyone laughed, Julian loudest of all) but that perhaps she hadn’t been so fortunate as to inherit his cast-iron stomach.
“That’s probably true, Mr. Sowerby” was Joe’s comment. Joe assured Mrs. Sowerby that if she let Ellie come along, he would be sure to see that she didn’t touch anything sweet. Mrs. Bassart had prepared an immense picnic basket for them, but Roy said that he and Joe would take care of Ellie’s portion without too much trouble.
In a few minutes Ellie came down the stairs in white shorts, white polo shirt and white sandals. Her tan—nurtured daily on the back lawn and down by the landing—looked dazzling, as did her hair, which over t
he summer had taken on a coppery sheen. But this morning her face looked small and worn, and her “Hullo” was hardly audible as she went off to the kitchen to try to put a little food into her long, shapely body … Her body. Her long and shapely body! Lucy’s understanding of Ellie’s condition was instantaneous. My God, it’s happened. To Ellie Sowerby.
Julian Sowerby drove off with his clubs to the Winnisaw Golf Club, and the young people consented to forgo the canoeing and take Mrs. Sowerby’s advice and find a nice shady spot up at the picnic grounds to have their outing. But even hidden away under a tree the temperature rose steadily; about one o’clock Ellie began to feel woozy, and so they drove back to the Sowerbys’ in Roy’s car. The house was very quiet. The shades were drawn in the front bedroom, where apparently Mrs. Sowerby was taking a nap; and the family car was still gone, a fact that caused Ellie some consternation. Apparently she had expected to find her father already home.
“Do you want me to wake your mother, El?” asked Joe.
“No, no. I’m all right.”
Joe and Roy decided to go out to the backyard and listen to the Sox double-header on the Sowerby portable. Ellie asked Lucy to come up with her to her room. Once there she locked the door, threw herself onto her bed, and beneath the white organdy canopy, began to cry.
Lucy watched her friend weeping her heart out. On the lawn below she saw the person responsible pick up a croquet mallet and begin to knock a ball around through the wickets. In two days Joe was to report for freshman football practice at the University of Alabama. Partly it was Ellie’s recollection of life in the South during the early years of the war that seemed to have influenced Joe to accept the Alabama scholarship. Joe was to leave for school the very next day—but would he still go? Or would Ellie now go with him?