Letting Go (88 page)

Turning, Rachel made a weak nasal sound. It was slight, but human and penetrable; it broke through the thin skin of his reflections. What looked to be truth poured through: he was imagining in the name of the future what should have been a past; he could have left young manhood, stopped bumbling, whenever he chose …

When Libby put the musical dog at the end of the mattress, he was unprepared for the urge he felt to reach in and take it back. He found himself reduced to elemental emotions and passions. He had been hoping that the child would render him less culpable than he had been feeling since dinner. Now he turned from Rachel’s dog. He still did not have a present for his father and Mrs. Silberman.
Nothing has changed.

In the hallway, Libby asked, “Isn’t she darling? An honest opinion now. A few unbiased words to an objective mother.”

“Unbiased, I’d say she’s perfect.”

“For which statement you will be allowed the pleasure of being her baby-sitter some night. We prefer unbiased baby-sitters.”

His desire earlier to take the toy away caused him to speak now with too much eagerness; he knew he was too eager to play her game, but he did. “That might be fun. I think I’d enjoy it.”

“Are you an unbiased diaper man?”

“Well, I do have what they call a slight fecal aversion—”

“Can’t use you,” Libby broke in. “This enchanting child poops a blue streak.” They were in the living room, speaking in normal voices, smiling with kindness at one another. “Will you stay?” Libby asked, pushing her hair back. “Stay for coffee?”

He had not come so as to leave more firmly convinced that nothing at all had changed. There was Libby smiling—wasn’t that a change? And Rachel
was
a living fact, which counted for something. “I wouldn’t mind some,” he said.

“Let me just turn it on.”

When she returned to the living room he asked her if Paul was still at his office. Alone with Libby he always felt the necessity to establish clearly Paul’s whereabouts. That compulsion had a long history, and the contemplation of it momentarily fatigued him. No sooner had he decided to remain in her company to be cheered up a little, than he saw how inappropriate she was to induce in him optimism and serenity.

“He went to services,” she said. “He should be home soon.”

“Is tonight the holiday?”

“He’s saying Kaddish.”

“… I didn’t know.”

“You did know it was Chanukah though—didn’t you?”

“Libby—” he began, ending only with, “I’m afraid not.” And he remained seated.

“Now you know what
that
is?” She pointed to the four candles flickering into extinction in the holder.

“Candles for Chanukah?”

“A menorah—oh you did know. You pretend because it gives you some pleasure—a savage atheistic pleasure”—she smiled still—“to frustrate me about all this.”

“You have certainly become a very Jewish girl, Libby,” was his reply.

“Well, what are you being, Gabe—skeptical? Don’t you believe it’s possible? You don’t see me as a very religious person? Do I strike you as unalterably secular?”

“You strike me as very religious.”

“But you don’t take it seriously, do you?”

“What?”

“Being Jewish. Being religious!”

“For myself or for you?”

“Either. Both!” she said, slightly leaving her seat.

“It’s not an issue in my life.”

“It is in mine.” Clearly it was only herself that she cared to talk about anyway; though she added, “And it can’t help but be in yours. You were born one.”

“I can only assure you again that it isn’t. At least it hasn’t been yet—all right?”

“Not on the conscious level perhaps.”

He made a slight whistling noise through his teeth.

“Well, you
have
an unconscious,” she said.

To which he nodded.

“So how do you know what’s
in
it?” she asked.

He remembered her having said something like that long ago. “How do you?” he asked.

“I”—she hesitated, and she flushed—“interpret your actions.”

“Oh yes?”

“Don’t you interpret mine?” Before he could answer, she spared him by opening the question out all the way. “Don’t we
interpret everyone’s? I’m not saying all your problems have to do with your identity as a Jew—”

“You see me as a man with a lot of problems, it seems.”

“I just think now that you’re like the rest of us.” Her gaze dropped.

Of late a drop of self-pity was coloring his life—more than a drop. It colored his answer. “You didn’t always,” he said.

With that, the tug he had once felt toward this girl came back to him. They still had the old impulse to flirt, it seemed. Had they been brave enough, or weak enough, or silly enough, to have gone ahead and slept with one another a certain tender curiosity would probably have died out between them long ago. But their sentimental exchange released an anchor, and sexuality moved now on the surface. He sensed the energies of Libby’s body—the purr, the whininess—as he had not earlier, when they had been together beside the crib. Though there she had been conscious—he thought—of whatever energies she imagined him still to have.

Libby became at once dramatic and metaphysical; she tossed her head, not simply to deal with her hair. “We lose some things, we gain others.”

“Well,” he answered, smiling and appalled, “you’ve gained religion.”

“And it makes all the difference.”

“Oh does it? Between what and what?”

“Between knowing what you are and what you aren’t,” she said. “Knowing what’s important and what’s not. Go ahead and be cynical if you want. Remember Isabel Archer?”

“I do.”

“Well, she didn’t know what was valuable; she didn’t know
who
was valuable.”

“At the end I thought she came to know—”

“Now I do too.”

He paused. “That statement,” he said, knowing he had just been maligned, “isn’t marked by much humility, for a religious person like yourself.”

“Well, I
do
know more.”

He only nodded; one of the energies he happened to be without was the energy to resist an attack, from himself or from another.

“I feel different about myself, Gabe. My marriage, my child.” The word turned her lyrical on the spot. “Paul lights the candles and he says the prayer, in Hebrew, and I stand on the side and
watch—and I’m holding Rachel—and that’s a very special feeling. I’ve never had it before.”

“You’re happier?”

The reverent mood into which she had plunged herself made it impossible for her to give him a facile answer. However he was taking her, she was taking herself absolutely seriously. “We have Rachel,” she said.

He had no desire to be hard on her any longer, even if she should be hard on him. What was she but a very simple girl? “She’s a fine little baby,” he said.

“She’s a dream. I know I sound corny saying all these excessive things, but I can’t help it. When I was growing up I swore I’d refrain from certain practices—one of them was boring people about my babies.”

“It shows you don’t have to be true to adolescent ideas, or fantasies.”

“It does. I was a great enemy of religion too, you know. I raised a lot of hell—caused a lot of hell—around our house about God and Christ and the Virgin Mother. But it’s different now, Gabe. Being a Jew.”

“What is?”

“You’re skeptical again.”

Not until she made me so, he thought. The truth was that more often than not he was willing to believe the best of her. “Do you believe in God now? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I don’t know whether I believe in God,” came her sharp reply.

“Then we’re probably a good deal closer in our theology than you think.”

“You don’t understand. What’s important is being something. Maybe I’m not making myself clear.”

“In one way you are, in one way you aren’t.”

“You don’t understand,” she told him, “the power of faith.”

“Faith in what?” he demanded.

“All I’m saying is that everything’s changed … I’m changed … Paul’s changed.” In a lower, less courageous voice, she said again, “Paul is changed.”

“I didn’t mean to be cavalier about your happiness,” he said, after some time had passed. “Or about your conversion. I’m really not a very fierce atheist, Libby. How did all of this begin anyway?”

“I only wanted to let you know …” Apparently she saw no sense in going on.

“… Of course.”

“It was only a discussion. I only want to add”—she seemed unable finally to drop the subject—“that in the end believing or disbelieving in God isn’t the point.”

“Not for you perhaps.”

“Not for a lot of Jews.”

“Not even for Paul?”

She lifted her chin—too high. “I don’t know. Religion has a different meaning for a man than for a woman.”

“Paul believes then?”

“You don’t understand about marriage. I think that’s something I’ve observed about you, Gabe,” she said sternly.

“Who’s even
talking
about marriage?”

“You don’t have to believe exactly as your mate does, to be happy.”

He relaxed a little, and sat back; apparently she had not been about to accuse him of anything specific.

“I don’t know what Paul believes,” she said.

Nothing further was said by either of them, and so Libby’s final admission became laden with gravity. Suddenly she rose and left the room; alone, he found himself contemplating the hardest fact of the Herzes’ life: the husband did not make love to the wife.
Still
…? No sooner did the idea come into his mind than he pushed it right out. He had not been put on this earth to service the deprived, whatever the deprived themselves might think. Whatever
he
might think! He could not fathom yet his soft heart. It was an affliction! It was not soft at all!
He
was soft—the heart was hard.

He was having another bad day.

Two of the candles Paul had lit burned out. The two still wavering cast a homey light, domesticating the barren room, hypnotizing its inhabitant. He was brought around again to thinking of himself as a husband and a father.

Libby burst back into the living room. “Chanukah, Gabe, doesn’t even require that you believe in God—” A small black tray, two cups and a coffee pot upon it, was thrust against her body and accentuated what little bosom she had. She stood over him ready to put the tray down. To reach out for her would require little maneuvering on his part; he believed she was aware of this. “It’s the people it commemorates,” she said, peering straight down at him, “what they did and so forth—and though
they
believed in God,
what you’re celebrating is what they
did.
You can think of it as the Jewish Fourth of July.”

“Oh Libby—”

“Oh Libby what! Libby what! Doesn’t that make any sense to you?” She seemed angry about something; perhaps it was what she was talking about.

“Oh Libby be quiet or you’ll wake up your baby. That’s all,” he said softly.

“Well …” She set the tray down. “You’re not going to win me with charm.”

Silence followed. Libby sat on the sofa, the meaning of what she had said unfolded while they looked at each other’s shoes. They both drank their coffee.

“You can pour yourself more,” she said, “if you want more.”

“I still have some, thank you.”

She asked stiffly, “When will you be going East?”

“Christmas Day. I’m going to fly out that morning.”

“Will it be a big formal wedding?”

“Mostly family and old friends.”

“Paul’s mother is coming to visit us,” she said.

“… He mentioned something about it the other day.”

“I didn’t know …”

“We had a cup of coffee at the Commons.”

“I didn’t know you’d talked.”

“Just a chat.”

After a second of what was clearly indecision, she asked, “Did he tell you how long she’s going to stay?”

He shook his head.

“Well, I suppose he couldn’t,” she said, curling her mouth not quite all the way into a smile, “because we haven’t decided. It’s all a little like walking on eggs. It’s the first time she’s going to be seeing the baby,” she said, waving her arms and nearly tipping the coffee pot, “so it’ll all work out.”

“It should be a thrill for her.”

“That’s what we think. Hope. It’s her only grandchild.”

“When is she coming?”

“She’s taking the train—she doesn’t fly. Oh—Christmas Eve.” She took a sip of coffee and calmed down. “I’m not all stone and mortar, as you can see, about all this. I only think we should have established how long she’ll stay, that’s all. So she knows and we
know … in case, you know. It’s all had to be a little feeling-out and careful.”

“I’m sure that everything will work out,” he said dutifully.

“Yes—she
wanted
to come, after all. I’m simply a little unnerved. Not that I’m what I used to be. I used to be”—she lifted one hand—“impossible. But it’s the adoption that’s gotten to me a little. The combination of things. We’re going to court right after Christmas, so there’s that too. The twenty-ninth—Paul told you that?”

“No.”

Relief—apparently Paul had not told him anything he had not as yet told her. “We sign the paper—and she’s ours. Absolutely ours. Though I can’t imagine her not being ours. You know? If she’s not ours whose can she be? I’m not a total coward, Gabe, no matter what I may seem to people—but you don’t know how thankful I am that we never had to see or know anybody else who was involved. When I think of how kind you and Sid and Martha Reganhart—Sid called before, in fact, and I know it’s something about the court business, and I really was hoping that he wouldn’t tell it to me, because I don’t want to hear. I’m not a coward, but it’s just—Rachel is Rachel.”

“I understand.”

“And he didn’t tell it to me.”

Sid’s accession to her desire made her, of all things, gloomy. Gabe said, “Why should you have to be distracted by legal details anyway? That’s not a mother’s business.”

“Except that I’m so neurotic. Well, I am still—somewhat,” she said, though he had not raised a finger. “I was sure some catastrophe had occurred, and that that was why he wanted to speak to Paul and not me.”