Letting Go (27 page)

“But I need—”

“Just get
out!”

Libby still sobbed on the bed. Korngold, a man with all chances gone but one, looked wildly about him and, in a crazy imitation of his attorney, suddenly rose up and waved his cane at Paul’s head. Paul only snarled, and Korngold dropped it; he fled then, not to the door, but to the girl on the bed. He took her head in his arms. “Oh a darling
yiddishe maydele
, a frail fish. Come, darling, tell me who I should call. I’ll dial your good family, let them come take you—”

“I
have
no family,” Libby sobbed.

“Libby! What is this! What’s going on here! Korngold, get out!
Get out!”

“Paul …” Libby begged. “
Paul—
”

“Shut up!”

“A monster,” said Korngold, and he hid his face when Paul raised his hand.

“I give you three, Korngold!” And Korngold, looking once at the girl—his heart, his soul, his very being, in his eyes—Korngold disappeared.

“God damn you, Libby! God damn you!”

“This is the most horrible night of my
life
,” his young wife cried.

He sat up all night in the chair. Near four—or perhaps later, for the buses were running—he walked into the hall. He hammered twice on Levy’s door.

“Levy!”

No answer.

“Levy, do you hear me?” He kicked five distinct times on the door. He started to turn the knob but, at the last moment, decided
not to. From the darkness behind the door might not Levy bring down a cane on his head?

“Levy—listen to me, Levy. You never open your mouth. You never in your life say one word to anybody. Never! I’ll kill you, Levy. I’ll strangle you to death! Never—understand, you filthy son of a bitch! I’ll kill you and leave you for the rats! You filth!”

And that last word did not leave him; it hung suspended within the hollow of his being through the rest of the night, until at last it was white cold daylight.

Had everything worked out? Wife all right? Satisfied? Fine—he did not mean to pry. Only one had to check on Smitty. He fed the osteopath patients—almost one a month—but still it was wise to keep an eye on the fellow. Every once in a while Doctor Tom seemed to forget about slipping Dr. Esposito his few bucks. You know what I mean? Not an entirely professional group, osteopaths. And how’s the wrist?

The rottenest moment of all. All the lies and errors, but now these thoughts. Get up and go
—he wrote, snow piling on his office window, on Iowa City, the river, the prairie, on all his brave plans and principles.
Stay here. Stay. Give them what times it takes. He’ll crawl into our bed and free poor Libby. Am I crazy? No, let her go, let Wallach be the answer, this soft rich boyish boy, not-a-care-in-the-world boy. I only envy him all that free-and-easy business, not the money. But it’s not my nature. Anything can be your nature.
Make
it your nature! Impossible. I should just write everything out. 1,2,3, et cetera. An outline, what I want and don’t. What I’m not and am.

1. (
Face it.
)
Let them kiss in our bed, let him devour her, caress her, absolutely drive a wedge right through her loyalty to me. Take her loyalty away! Wheedle her, urge her, greet me at the door
(
fly unzipped, why not
),
say: Your wife spread everything for me mouth legs heart. Now we leave you.
We leave you!
Then leave! Wallach will make her happy. But what couldn’t? The normal progression of life, a fearless approach, an honest unselfish open loving, and the girl would blossom, come back to life again. Squabbling, bickering, fighting is all we do. Honey forgive me baby I’m sorry. Squirm. Beg. Grovel. Where was my mistake? The first mistake. This is devious and I know it. Something is simply missing in me. All that has happened doesn’t just happen. Go ahead, progress. Wallach carries her away. Now 2. Face 2.

2. Marge. A stranger. A different face, is that all? How long can I hold to the story that I was seduced? Not long. Plaintive and moping, sad, inviting, she knew what she was up to. But
I
knew what she was up to. Crying. Calling Wallach names. Her calling Wallach heartless perked
me
up! Is that seduction by any stretch of the imagination? Who tore whose clothes? How different—not since the beginning, with virginal Libby. My wife. I did the tearing. Me. Endlessly me. When she phoned, when we were just drinking coffee, didn’t I already know? All her loneliness talk, all the talk of betrayal and subterfuge, and on my face what splendid concern. What sympathy. All the time I shook my head yes yes, poor girl.

3. Marge. Write it again. Margie. Margie. Marjorie. Say my name, she said—and I said it. Now say what we’re doing—and I obliged. Screwing games. I could have carried those boxes and suitcases down the stairs and put her in a taxi for the station and then gone home. I knew the minute we began to talk. And did I need it? For ten minutes thrashing on Wallach’s bed? But there was nothing to worry over. Just plain sweet coming, without Libby underneath. Libby underneath! Libby. My wife Libby. Libby and Paul Herz. What next? Next is this. Urging on another to fuck my wife. Say what we’re doing. Say it, Paul. Libby. My Libby. Fuck my Libby. Take Libby.
Take Libby away!

4. She leaned; I did not deliver. I could never stop organizing anything. I couldn’t leave well enough—bad enough—alone. Pay my way, take my lumps, have my baby. Circumstances. No, me. No! I married her with ideals, all right. Hopes. Love. Caring. I cared for her into the ground. To elevate our lives. To be happy. To be good. What causes pain is that I still want the same. Nothing I do gets it. I fuck Marge, you fuck my wife. All right. Stop saying it.

5. What else? Biding time? Taking my time while Wallach is making his pass. Waiting for Libby to throw off her dedication. She will. He will. Unless I discouraged him. Take your car and shove it! I probably frightened him away. I frighten her. They all think what I am is what I’m not. I said to him stay out of my life when I meant come in. Make the girl a decent offer—an indecent offer. Relieve us, please. Everything is out of hand. Though not entirely—until one week ago. No, out of hand with the abortion. No, just one week ago with Marge Howells. A silly stupid girl, and that was more ruinous than what happened in Detroit. This very minute feeling has run out of me. More ruinous and so on. Do I mean a word of this? When I feel pain am I really even feeling pain? What am I doing here, Iowa?
This writing business. Who am I trying to emulate? Asher? No.
I’ll come to understand my mess. Keep writing.

6. Why not have a baby now?

7. Start over. Make love to her. Be kind. Be soft-spoken. But it’s she who bitches all the time. Don’t let her. Take control again. But I have no force left.

8. Get force. Pull yourself together.
Get force.

9. Suppose Marge tells Wallach. He tells Libby. Then tell her myself. Confess. Admit. Start over. We’re young. I had guts turning down Wallach’s car. But sense? I was trying to muster strength. I knew what I was. Not going to tempt Libby, because I saw her
being
tempted. I even made up my mind: make perfect love to her. Touch her.
I cannot touch her.
Do. it! Reach out a finger and do it! Once, then twice, and then life will come rushing back again. I know this is not insane. Perfectly natural, a mountain slide in my life. Only start up the other side. But I ruined it.

10. Tenth commandment. Nothing. It’s up to them. I have stayed away. Gabe and Libby. Libby and Gabe. Paul Herz. Do they know? Does Libby? Can she see that I want for her only the best? Do believe me, Lib! Right from the beginning. The first day, and still. Am I only stupid?

Midnight.
Libby
confessed. Wallach kissed her. She sobbed for an hour. Nothing more happened. Nothing. A precious girl. A precious girl. I’m ripping all this up. Every word. Start over. Try!

“Is it still baseball season?” frail Mrs. Norton was saying, trying—despite the inclinations of her frame to gaunt melancholy—to be jolly. With an unconvincing display of liveliness, she threw some jeweled fingers toward the bellowing TV set. Everybody around her turned for a moment to show a mouthful of toothy kindness. All her recent tragedies had made the rounds.

Dr. Gruber, sensitive as a bag of oats (which he resembled), wrapped an arm around her waist, and she whitened. “That’s football, my dear girl,” he cried, lipping his spiky mustache. “This is my alma mater, preparing to knock the tar out of that Cornell bunch. Anybody here for Cornell be prepared to shed tears!” he shouted, almost directly into her small ear.

Unspinning herself from the doctor, Mrs. Norton explained to anyone who would listen, “My goodness, it’s as loud as baseball. I only know the world of sport through my husband. He had a box at Sportsman’s Park—” She was all filled up but no one seemed to know she was speaking. She crept off to have her tomato juice iced by the silent, appreciative colored man who was tending bar in the dining room.

I went over to the set and turned down the volume knob. Settled into the two velvet-covered love seats that had been dragged in front of the machine were several of the paunchier, more afflicted men present. For the moment I only recognized and greeted Dr. Strauss,
who had arthritis, and Sam Kirsch, my father’s diabetic accountant. My father himself was gliding about on black patent-leather shoes he’d bought in Germany; he was endearing himself to J.F. and Hannah Golden, but soon he slipped away from them and released his high spirits on poker-faced Henny Sokoloff, widower and diamond king. When he finally came around to the TV screen, Dr. Strauss raised the toe of his shoe toward my father’s seat. I heard my old man cackle, and, in his exuberant mood, he turned the sound up again. “Any score?” he asked. “Nothing nothing, it hasn’t started—get the hell out of the way,” Strauss scolded him. In the meantime, Mrs. Norton was standing beside the orange sofa, stirring her cube around. With the set blaring away again, carrying to all ears the measurements of the Penn linemen, she raced in tears for the nearest bathroom. Two startled people spilled drinks, and a silence drifted for a moment over the rest of the widows, widowers, and aging couples.

Later I saw my father stroking Cecilia Norton’s hand, while she tried several gallant, coughy little smiles. Mrs. Norton had been a college friend of my mother’s; after her marriage she had moved to St. Louis, where her husband was in the beer business. There he had made millions, suffered four heart attacks, and then died of pneumonia brought on by a case of the mumps. A week later she had had a breast removed. When she came on home to New York, having finished up in St. Louis by paying three doctors, two hospitals, and a funeral home, she telephoned my father. It is an indication of all his thoughtfulness and all his blindness that he tried to interest Gruber in her. But if anybody should have wooed Cecilia Norton, if anybody should have unfurled a soft palm for that small lame bird to rest in, it should have been himself. He didn’t, however, and it probably did not even occur to him; all that had happened to him was drawing him now in another direction. He went off to Europe … But let me take things up in order, at least the order of that day.