by Philip Roth
Instead of heading back along the corridor to awaken Roy, Irene started down the stairs. Her hair had gone nearly white in the last few years, and she seemed heavier; or else, without a corset the thickness of her body was more easily discernible. Altogether her appearance was that of an elderly matron, thoroughly composed, and of all things, sympathetic.
“Irene, I want to tell you that your letting Roy think he could get away with this—”
“Yes?” said Julian, from where he sat, smoking.
“—will make it altogether impossible for us ever to see you again. And that means all of us, including Edward. And I hope you will all realize, once again, that this is something you have absolutely brought upon yourselves.”
“We realize everything, kiddo,” said Julian.
Irene moved toward her, with one hand extended. “Lucy, why don’t you sit down? Why don’t we try to talk and see what’s happened?”
“Look,” she said, stepping back, “I do not choose to stay in this house, or even in this town, one second longer than is necessary. You are not my friend, Irene, and don’t suddenly pretend that you are. I am not that stupid, and you should know that. From the very first day that Roy began to take me out, you have behaved as though I were some kind of inferior thing. As though I weren’t worthy of him. I know what your true feelings are, so don’t think you can trick me by taking hold of my hand. You may deceive yourself however you like, but your actions have spoken louder than your words. This is plain idiocy on Roy’s part, and he and Edward are to leave here this instant, and return with me—”
“I think,” said Julian, standing now, “that, first thing, you better calm yourself down.”
“Don’t you tell me what to do, Julian!” She turned to face him, to look right into those dishonest eyes. Oh, she would wipe that little smirk off his face. How superior they thought they were, these people with the morals of animals! “You have no authority over me whatsoever. I think you had better be reminded of that, Julian. I don’t happen to be one of the people dependent upon your millions.”
“Billions,” he said, grinning.
Irene said, “Lucy, if I make some coffee—”
“I don’t want coffee! I want my child! And my husband—such as he is! They are to be returned to me immediately. This instant.”
“But, Lucy dear—” Irene began.
“Don’t you ‘dear’ me! I do not trust you, Mrs. Sowerby—any more than I do him!”
Julian’s figure had suddenly moved between Lucy and his wife. “Now,” he said, “rule number one—either you calm down with that bossy little voice, missy, or you get out.”
“But suppose I will not get out.”
“Then you are a trespasser, and I will heave you out—on your butt.”
“Don’t you dare speak to me—” And she broke for the stairs. An arm, however, fell instantly upon her back; she pulled away, but he had caught hold of her coat.
“No! Let me—”
But his other hand fell upon her shoulder, and she was driven down so forcefully that she felt herself become ill. He had seated her; and was over her, his face purple with fury. His bathrobe had fallen open, and she had a glimpse of his stomach between the buttons of his pajamas.
She did not move or speak. He straightened up and pulled his robe closed, but remained directly before her.
Precise and exact in her diction, Lucy began. “You have no right—”
“Don’t you tell me rights, you little twenty-year-old twerp. It is you who is going to learn rights.”
“Well,” said Lucy, her mind racing, “well, Irene”—trying to look past him to his wife—“you must be very proud of having as a husband a brute, who beats someone half his—”
“Who you are dealing with, Lucy, is me. So it’s me you talk to. Not Irene.”
Now Ellie came out onto the landing. She stood there in her white wrapper, both hands on the banister, looking down.
Lucy turned her face up to Julian’s, and spoke so only he could hear. “I know about you, Julian. So just you be careful.”
“Oh, do you?” He pushed right up against her knees. She drew her head back from his belly. “And what is it you know?” he asked, his voice gruff and low. “You trying to threaten me? Speak up!”
She could not see beyond his bulk. She could not even think now, and she must. “Since I did not come here to discuss your character,” she began, addressing the belt of his robe, “I’m not going to, Julian.”
“Good idea,” he said, and stepped back.
Eleanor had disappeared.
Lucy folded her hands in the lap of her coat; she had to wait until she was sure that her voice would not falter. “So long as I can do what I came here to do, and then leave, there is no need to enter into any kind of discussion … That is fine with me.” Then she looked up at Irene. “Now will someone please awaken my husband—please.”
“Maybe he is sleeping,” said Julian. “Ever think of that? Maybe he has had one hell of a day from you, sister.”
He remained standing so that she could not get up out of her chair; she hammered on the arms. “We have all had one hell of a day, Julian! I have had a horror of a day. Now, I demand that he be told—”
“But your demanding days are over. That, twerp, is the point of all this.”
“Please …” she said, breathing deeply, “I would much prefer to deal with your wife, who has a civil tongue at least, if you don’t mind.”
“But my civil wife isn’t dealing with you.”
“Excuse me,” said Lucy, “perhaps she has a mind of her own, sir—”
“My wife dealt with you, kiddo. Back when she told me there was still some evidence you were a human being. But it turns out that I should never have taken her advice four years ago, back when you started out sinking your fangs into that boy.”
“That boy seduced me, Julian! It became that boy’s duty to me—”
He turned away and looked at his wife. “Duty,” he said, snorting.
She jumped up from the chair. “You may not like the word, Julian, but I repeat—it was his duty to me—”
“Oh,” he said, shaking his head, “everybody has got that there duty to you. But who is it you got the sacred duty to, Lucy? Seems to me I forget.”
“To my child!” she answered. “To the offspring of my husband and myself! To someone starting out in life, that’s who! To see that he is given a home and a family and proper upbringing! To see he is not misused by all the beasts in this filthy world!”
“Oh,” said Julian, “you are a real saint, you are.”
“Compared to you, I most certainly am. Yes!”
“Well, Saint Lucy,” he said, running a hand over his stubble, “don’t worry so much about your offspring any more. Because he hates your guts.”
She brought her hands up over her face. “That’s not true. That’s Roy’s terrible, terrible lie. That’s … no. No, that isn’t—”
She felt Irene’s hand on her arm.
“No, no,” she wept, and fell back again into the chair. “What … what are you planning to do to me? You can’t steal my child. This is kidnaping, Irene. Irene, this is against every law there is.”
Julian spoke. “Leave her alone.”
Irene answered something that Lucy could not hear.
“We are settling something here, Irene. Get away from her. Let her alone. She has done her last—”
Suddenly Lucy came charging up at him, shaking her fists. “You won’t get away with this! Whatever it is you think you are going to do to me!”
Julian only jammed his hands down into the pockets of his robe.
“This is kidnaping, Julian, if that’s what you have on your mind! Kidnaping—and abandonment! He can’t run out on me and take my child! There are laws, Julian, laws against people like you!”
“Fine. You go out and get yourself a lawyer. Nothing would make me happier.”
“But I don’t need a lawyer! Because I intend to solve this r
ight here and now!”
“Oh, but you do need one, Lucy. Let me tell you something. You are going to need the best damn lawyer money can buy.”
Irene said, “Julian, the child is in no condition—”
He shook off his wife’s hand. “Neither is Roy, Irene! Neither is Eddie! Neither is any of us! We have all taken enough orders and insults from this little bitch here—”
“Julian—”
But here he turned angrily back to Lucy. “Because that’s all you are, you know. A little ball-breaker of a bitch. That’s the saint you are, kiddo—Saint Ball-Breaker. And the world is going to know it, too, before I’m through with you.”
“Don’t,” said Irene.
“Irene, enough don’t! I already have heard your don’ts a long time ago.”
Lucy was shaking her head. “Let him go on, Irene. I don’t care. He is only showing himself for what he is.”
“Right you are, Saintie. That’s what I am. And that is how come the busting of the balls stops with these. That’s right, you smile through your tears, you smile how smart you are and what a terrible mouth old Julian has. Oh, I have got a terrible mouth. I am an old no-good beast, besides. But I’m going to tell you something, Lucy—you busted his balls, and you were starting in on little Eddie’s, but that is all over. And if that strikes you funny now, let us see how funny it is going to strike you in the courtroom, because that is where I am dragging your ass, little girl. Little twerp. Little nothing. You are going to be one bloody little mess when I get through with you, Saint Lucy.”
“You’re taking me to a courtroom?”
“Dirty language and all. Uh-huh.”
“You?” she asked, still with a strange smile on her face.
“That’s right. Me.”
“Well, that’s marvelous.” In her purse she found a handkerchief. She blew her nose. “That’s wonderful, really. Because you, Julian, are a wicked man, and to get you in a courtroom—” At the top of the stairs, at last, Roy appeared, Eleanor behind him. So here they all were, those who only a few hours earlier had conspired against her … Well, she would not weep, she would not plead; she did not have to. She would speak the truth.
She looked from one to the other of them, and with that unshakable knowledge that she was right and they were wrong, a great calm came over her. It was not necessary to raise her voice, or to shake a fist; only to speak the truth.
“You are a wicked man, Julian. And you know it.”
“Know what?” His shoulders seemed to have thickened as he hunched forward to hear her words. “Know what, did you say?”
“We won’t need lawyers, Julian. We won’t have to go any further than this living room. Because it is not for you to tell me, or to tell anyone here, what is right and what is wrong. And you know that, I’m sure. Shall I go on, Julian? Or do you wish to apologize now before your family?”
“Listen, little loudmouth,” he said, and started for her.
“You are a whoremonger,” she said—and it stopped him. “You pay women to sleep with you. You have had a series of mistresses. You cheat on your wife.”
“Lucy!” Ellie cried.
“But isn’t it the truth, Eleanor?”
“No!”
She turned to Irene Sowerby. “I would rather not have had to say what I just did—”
Irene dropped onto the couch. “You didn’t have to.”
“But I did,” said Lucy. “You saw how he was treating me. You heard his intentions. Have I any choice, Irene, but to speak the truth?”
Irene was shaking her head.
“He had a sexual affair with the woman who was the manager of the laundromat in Selkirk. I have forgotten her name. I’m sure he can tell you, however.”
The glare Julian had fastened on her was murderous. Well, let him try. Let him lay one finger on her, just let him try, and then he’ll see who it is who will be appearing before a judge. Then his marvelous dream would come true all right—only the defendant would not be her, but himself.
“And,” she said, returning his gaze directly, “there was another woman, who he was either supporting, or keeping, or paying for her services. I would imagine there is now someone else, somewhere. Am I wrong, ‘Uncle’ Julian?”
It was Irene who spoke. “Be still.”
“I am only giving you the truth.”
The woman stood. “You have spoken enough.”
“But it is the truth!” said Lucy. “And it will not go away, Irene, because you refuse to believe it. He is a whoremonger! A philanderer! An adulterer! He schemes behind your back! He degrades you! He despises you, Irene! Don’t you realize that? That is what it means when a man does what he is doing to you!”
Ellie was holding the banister with her two hands, her hair half covering her face. Whatever she was sobbing, Lucy could not understand.
“I’m sorry, Eleanor. This is not my idea of how to behave either. But there is only so much bullying, so much filth and treachery and hatred I can willingly stand here and take. I did not come here, I assure you, for the purpose of attacking your father. What I said I said in self-defense. He is a heartless man—”
“But she knows,” wept Ellie. “She knew, she always knew.”
“Eleanor!” said Irene Sowerby.
“You know?” cried Lucy. “You mean,” she said to Irene, “you know what he is—” She was incredulous. “All of you in this room know what he is and what he has done and still you were going to allow …” Momentarily she could not even speak. “I don’t believe it,” she said at last. “That you can be so utterly unscrupulous and deceitful, so thoroughly corrupt and—”
“Oh, Roy,” said Ellie, turning to her cousin. “She’s crazy.” And she put her face into his chest and wept.
Roy was wearing a plaid robe of Julian’s that was sizes too small for him. With one arm he began to pat Ellie’s back.
“Oh,” said Lucy, looking up at the two of them, “is that the story, Roy? Not that your uncle is crazy, not that your aunt is crazy—but that I am? And what else, Roy? I’m crazy, and what else? Oh, yes, Edward hates me. And what else? Surely there must be more? What other lies have you invented to justify what you have done to me?”
“But what has he done to you!” Ellie screamed. “You are crazy, you are! You’re insane!”
She waited until Ellie had regained enough control over herself to listen. Irene Sowerby was now standing by her husband, preventing him from making any move toward Lucy; she had her face half hidden in his chest—in the chest of that man who cared nothing at all for her honor.
To Eleanor, Lucy said, “I am not Skippy Skelton, Ellie, if that’s what you mean. Nor am I you. Nor am I your mother, though probably that is clear by now.”
“Nothing is clear! Nothing you say is clear!” cried Ellie, even as her mother raised a hand to tell her to be quiet.
But Ellie cried, “I want to know what she even means!”
Lucy said, “I mean, Eleanor, that I am not promiscuous—I don’t run around with married men. I mean that I am not a vain and idiotic child. I don’t spend half my waking hours, and probably more, thinking about my hair and my clothes and my shoes—”
“What are you?” wailed Ellie. “The Virgin Mary?”
Julian stepped forward, freeing himself from his wife, who had begun to cry now too. “Enough, Eleanor.”
“Daddy,” Ellie wept.
“Daddy,” repeated Lucy. “Wonderful Daddy.”
“You get on the phone, Lucy,” said Julian, breathing thickly. “You call your grandfather. You tell him to get over here and take you home … Now either you do it, or I will.”
“But my home happens not to be here, Julian. My home is in Fort Kean, with my husband and my child.” She looked up toward her husband. “Roy, we are going home. I want you to get ready.”
All that moved were his eyes; they darted from one to the other of the people in the living room.
“Roy, did you hear me? We’re returning to our own home.”<
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He remained motionless and silent.
“Of course,” she said, “the choice is yours, Roy. You can either be a man about it, and return with me and Edward, or you can follow the advice of this most worthy—”
“Lucy!” Roy threw his hands over his head. “For God’s sake, cut it out!”
“But I can’t, Roy!” Cut it out, indeed! “Nor can you! Oh, you can cut out, all of you, the fact that this uncle, this Daddy, this husband here, happens to be a filthy beast. You can fool yourselves about this cheat, and tell yourselves I’m insane—oh, live with him, sleep with him, who cares! But cut it out? Oh, no, Roy—because there happens to be one more important fact to consider. I’ll tell you why it so happens you can’t take your uncle’s advice, Roy—and I’ll tell your uncle too. It so happens, Roy, and Julian, and Eleanor, and Irene, it so happens that I am pregnant.”
“You are what?” whispered Julian.
Roy said, “Lucy … what do you mean?”
There was no need to raise her voice now to be heard. “I am going to have a baby.”
Roy said, “I don’t understand you.”
“The daughter that you wanted, Roy, is alive inside me. Alive and growing.”
Julian was saying, “What daughter? Now what in hell are you—?”
“Roy is going to be the father of a second child. It is our hope that it will be a girl.”
Julian was looking up at Roy.
“Roy,” she said, “go ahead. Tell them.”
“Tell them what?”
“What you told me. Roy, tell them what you told me you wanted.”
“Lucy,” he answered, “I don’t understand you.”
“Roy, are you actually now going to deny—”
“Pregnant?” said Julian. “Oh, not that old song and dance—”
“Ahh, but I am, Julian! I know you yourself happen not to like them, but facts are facts! I am pregnant with Roy Bassart’s child. The child he wanted. The child he has been dreaming of all his life. Linda, Roy. Well, tell them!”