by Philip Roth
She tried the door of the car. If she could just have a moment to rest, to think; no, not to think …
The noise was sharp and clattering. She jumped around; there was nothing. Through the garage window she could see into the kitchen; she was able to discern on the walls the cabinets her mother had chosen for Mr. Muller. Again she heard a crash, and this time saw the ice sliding down off the roof into the yard. She stepped into the car.
And now what? Morning had come … If a light went on in the kitchen, how quickly could she be out of the garage? Suppose he had seen her already and was sneaking around by way of the front door? How could she explain herself? What story would he believe? What would she be able to tell him, other than the truth?
And then? She would tell him everything, what they had already done, what they planned to do; and then? He would push open the garage door, back the car out the driveway, he would take her to The Grove himself. He would ring the Sowerby bell and wait beside her on the front porch, and then he would make it clear to Irene Sowerby why he and Lucy were there … But if he were to come upon her unexpectedly, discover her kneeling, hiding, in the back seat of his car—he would jump to the conclusion that she was in the wrong! She must go immediately around to the back door then—no, the front door—and ring, say that she was sorry to be bothering him so early in the morning, that she understood this was totally out of the ordinary, but that she was in desperate need of … But would he even believe her? It was so monstrous, what they were doing, would he even believe that it could be? Might he not listen, thinking to himself all the while, “Of course, that’s only her side of the story.” Or suppose he listened, and then telephoned her mother to check on the story. What was Lucy Bassart to him, anyway? Nothing! Her mother and her father had seen to that. “Sorry,” he would say, “but don’t see that it’s my affair.” Of course! Why would he come to her aid, when even those closest to her had turned against her? No, there was only one person she would rely upon; it was now as it had always been—the one to save her was herself.
She must hide; she must find some hideaway nearby, and then when the moment was right, she would swoop down, make off with Edward, and the two of them would disappear.
To where? Oh, to some place where they would never be found! Some place where she would have her second child, and where the three of them could begin a new life. And then never again would she be so foolish and gullible and dreamy as to place the welfare of herself or of her offspring in any hands but her own. She would be mother and father to them both, and so the three of them—herself, her little boy, and soon her little girl too—would live without cruelty, without treachery, without betrayal; yes, without men.
But if Edward would not come? If she called and he ran the other way? “Your face is all black! Go away!”
In her glove she was still carrying the letter she had taken from her mother’s bed. She had sunk to her waist in drifts of snow; she had tripped and fallen over backyard fences; she had pushed open the door of the garage, climbed into the back seat of the car—and still the letter addressed to her mother was clutched in her glove.
She should be on her way now. The moment was right. By now they were all at the police station. Soon they would disperse and begin the search. There was not a second to waste, not on something so ridiculous as a letter from him. She had barely permitted him to enter her thoughts since the day of Edward’s birth; she had driven him from their lives, then from her mind. There was clearly nothing to do with this letter but destroy it. And how appropriate that would be. To burn this letter, to scatter the ashes to the wind—that would be a most fitting ceremony indeed. Yes, goodbye, goodbye, brave and stalwart men. Goodbye, protectors and defenders, heroes and saviors. You are no longer needed, you are no longer wanted—alas, you have been revealed for what you are. Farewell, farewell, philanderers and frauds, cowards and weaklings, cheaters and liars. Fathers and husbands, farewell!
The letter consisted of one long sheet of writing paper. There were spaces to be filled out at the top, and then his message below. The page was closely covered with writing on both sides, and lined in blue, so that the prisoner’s handwriting ran evenly from one end to the other.
She forced it back into its envelope. At any minute Blanshard Muller would be out of bed, down the stairs, out of the house—she would be discovered! And turned over to them—her enemies! So go!
But where? To a place where no one will think to look … to some place close enough for her to descend quickly upon the Sowerby house … in the afternoon, when he is at play in the yard … no, at night, when they are asleep … yes, in the night, while he sleeps too, bundle him off—“Your face is poison! Your face is black! Put me down!”
No! No! She must not weaken now. She must not weaken before their filthy lies. Whatever strength was required, she must find. Whatever daring, whatever boldness …
She removed the letter from the envelope once again. She would read it, and destroy it—and then be off. Of course, she would read what he had written, and in his words find that which would harden her against the trials to come … the lying in wait … the kidnap … the flight … Oh, she did not know what was to come, but she must not be afraid! Against the cold and the dark, in her solitude, while she waited to free her child from his captors—“Mamma, where have you been?”—while she waited to rescue him—“Oh, Mamma, take me away!”—to flee with him to a better world, to a better life, all she would have to sustain her would be the power of her hatred, her loathing, her abhorrence of those monsters who so cruelly destroy the lives of innocent women and innocent children. Oh yes, read then, and remember the horror inflicted upon you and yours, the cruelty and the meanness inflicted willingly and without end. Yes, read what he has written, and in the face of hardship you will have the courage. Whatever the wretchedness, the desolation, you will be implacable. Because you must be! Because there is only you to save your son from just such men as this—to save your helpless, innocent daughter-to-be. Oh, yes, draw them down, these words of his, inscribe them on your heart, and then fearlessly set forth. Fearlessly, Lucy! Against all odds, but fearlessly nonetheless! For they are wrong, and you are right, and there is no choice: the good must triumph in the end! The good and the just and the true must—
NAME: D. Nelson NO: 70561 DATE: Feb. 14.
TO WHOM: Mrs. Myra Nelson (WIFE)
Dearest Myra:
I guess I read your letter over about twenty times. There is no question about all the things you say. I was all that and probably more. As I’ve said before, I am so sorry and will be as long as I live that I have caused you so much embarrassment and pain. But now there is no doubt you are really forever free of trouble from me again. I presume the State of Florida will see to that. For me, it doesn’t matter. All my life has been a more or less rough deal. No plans, no matter how good they were, ever seemed to work out. But it shouldn’t be arranged to hurt the one who is closer to you than anything in the world. That is what is wrong.
One thing I feel better about is that you say there is no one else. That was more than I could stand to hear. I just couldn’t stand to hear it. Remember just one thing, that I had nineteen years of happiness. That the only fly in the ointment was the inability to give you the things I wanted you to have. Maybe when I get out, if I last, I will be able to be some help to you financially, even if from a distance, if that’s the way you still want it. But you must have a sponsor and a job to get out of here on your minimum and though I shouldn’t be bothering you I wonder if you can think of anyone at all.
Of course it will depend upon how vindictive the “alleged Justice” is inclined to be anyway. There is a point where punishment becomes corrective. Beyond that, it becomes destructive. I’ve seen cases just since I have been here where Justice depended upon how you spelled it. Whether as Webster spelled and defined it or by spelling it with either a dollar sign or influence. Many times already I have seen cases where Justice was not “served” but purchased. I see how fel
lows become hard and bitter who there was a chance of helping.
But I will not dwell on these issues. Especially not today. Myra, Myra, the growing years seem to make the memories of the past more and more poignant. I miss you so much that it is worse than hunger. I said years ago that without you I would slide to hell in a hurry. I guess it was a prediction that came all too true. There are some names I could mention who I could have lived without all right, but Myra, Myra, Myra, never you.
O Myra, I had always hoped by this time in my life I could express this wish to you much more materially, but if you can forgive me, this will have to do until the State of Florida decrees otherwise:
As years go by—with accelerated speed,
We find with us, an ever growing need
To recall to mind, and a wish to live,
In that glorious past—to re-have and re-give.
We bring to mind—the mistakes we made,
The aches and hurts—that we’ve caused, I’m afraid
Are brought in distinctly—with increasing pain
Till we wish, with all heart—to re-do it again.
Only to do it better—so that the pain is gone,
And make them all the good things, all along.
At least the great wish that would be really mine,
That I could just once more—be your Valentine.
Your Faithful,
Duane
On the third night after Lucy’s disappearance two kids from the high school drove out to Passion Paradise to be alone. Near midnight, at which hour the girl had to be home, they tried to start back to town and found that the tires of the car had sunk into the snow. At first the boy pushed from behind while his companion sat at the wheel pumping on the accelerator. Then he took a shovel from the trunk, and in the dark, while the girl held her gloves against her ears and begged him to hurry, he started to dig his way out.
In this way the body was found. It was fully clothed; in fact, the undergarments were frozen to the skin. Also, a sheet of lined paper was frozen to her cheek, and her hand was frozen to the paper. An early hypothesis, that the hand might have been raised to ward off a blow, was rejected when the coroner reported that aside from a small abrasion on the knuckle of the right hand, the body bore no wounds, bruises, or punctures, no marks of violence at all. Nor was there any indication that she had been sexually molested. Of pregnancy nothing was said, either because the medical examiner found no evidence, or because the investigation included only routine laboratory tests. The cause of death was exposure.
As to how long she had been lying there undiscovered, the medical examiner could only guess; the freezing temperatures had preserved the body intact, but judging from the depths of snow above and below the body, it was surmised that the young woman had probably been dead about thirty-six hours when she was found. If that was so, she had managed to survive up in Passion Paradise through a day and a night and on, somehow, into the following morning.
It was some months after the funeral, during one of those cold, fresh, wet springs such as they have in the middle of America, that the letters from the prison began to come directly to the house.
BOOKS BY PHILIP ROTH
“The uncontested master of comic irony.”
—Time
OPERATION SHYLOCK
In this tour de force of fact and fiction, Philip Roth meets a man who may or may not be Philip Roth. Because someone with that name has been touring the State of Israel, promoting a bizarre exodus in reverse, Roth decides to stop him—even if that means impersonating his impersonator.
Fiction/Literature/0-679-75029-0
THE PROFESSOR OF DESIRE
As Philip Roth follows Professor David Kepesh from the domesticity of childhood into the vast wilderness of erotic possibility, from a ménage à trois in London to the throes of loneliness in New York, he creates an intelligent, affecting, and hilarious novel about the dilemma of pleasure: where we seek it; why we flee it; and how we struggle to make a truce between dignity and desire.
Fiction/Literature/0-679-74900-4
THE BREAST
Professor David Kepesh wakes up one morning to find that he has been transformed into a 155-pound female breast. What follows is an exploration of the full implications of Kepesh’s metamorphosis—a daring, heretical book that brings us face to face with the intrinsic strangeness of sex and subjectivity.
Fiction/Literature/0-679-74901-2
MY LIFE AS A MAN
At the heart of Philip Roth’s novel on sexual obsession is a portrait of the marriage between Peter Tarnopol, a gifted young novelist, and Maureen, the woman who wants to be his muse but functions as his nemesis. Their union is based on fraud and sustained by moral blackmail but is so perversely durable that, long after Maureen’s death, Peter is still trying futilely to write his way out of it.
Fiction/Literature/0-679-74827-X
GOODBYE, COLUMBUS
AND FIVE SHORT STORIES
In Philip Roth’s National Book Award-winning first novel, Radcliffe-bound Brenda Patimkin initiates Neil Klugman of Newark into a new and unsettling society of sex, leisure, and loss.
Also included in this volume are five classic short stories.
Fiction/Literature/0-679-74826-1
PORTSOY’S COMPLAINT
Philip Roth’s classic novel with a new afterword by the author for the twenty-fifth-anniversary edition. “Simply one of the two or three funniest works in American fiction.” —Chicago Sun-Times
Fiction/Literature/0-679-75645-0
VINTAGE INTERNATIONAL
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