Free Letting Go by Philip Roth Page B

set to ask
her
some questions. I even thought for a second about calling Kenosha, or the police. Then I remembered that Marge had had coffee with Paul Herz. I hung back from involving him in what might turn out to be a very complicated personal matter; yet my anxiety was by this time a little greater than my shame, and so I looked up the Herz number and dialed it. The phone rang so long that I was ready to hang up when Libby Herz said hello.
    “Libby? This is Gabe Wallach.”
    “My goodness, how are you?”
    “I’m fine. How are you?”
    “Oh, I’m okay.”
    “I heard you were in the hospital. Are you all right now?”
    “I’m convalescing.” Her tone informed me just how boring that could be. “How—how did you know?”
    “Oh, a friend of Paul’s. Is Paul around?”
    “He’s in the bathroom. He’s taking a bath. I’m not even supposed to be out of bed,” she whispered.
    “Never mind then. You go back to bed.”
    “No, no, it’s all right. The phone ringing is the most exciting thing that’s happened here in a month. I’m all right.”
    “It’s not important,” I said.
    “Paul will be out soon. Should I give him a message?”
    “Would you—Look, I’ll see him tomorrow. It’s not important.”
    “Why don’t you come over?” she asked. “Are you busy? Come over and tell us about New York.”
    “I’m not busy. But if you’re resting …”
    “That’s just it. All I do is rest. Paul will be out of his bath in a few minutes. Uh-uh, he’s
getting
out. I’d better hang up—I’m not supposed to be out of bed even for the
toilet.
It’s awful. Hey, do come over!”
    Driving through the storm, I realized how groundless were my fears about Marge. She had probably taken a room in the graduate dormitory. Perhaps she was skiing in Colorado, or had moved in with a friend. I realized as I crossed the bridge over the river that it is the futureless who are found buried under two feet of snow or twenty feet of icy water, not girls who put their underwear on the radiator at night so that it will be warm for them in the morning. By the time I had reached the Herzes’ my motive for visiting had nearly disappeared. Nevertheless, while I waited for the front door to open, the wind blew a handful of snow down my coat collar: I closed my eyes and prayed that wherever Margie had decided to take her broken heart, it was warm and safe.
    Paul Herz opened the front door wearing his beggar’s overcoat and holding his briefcase.
    “Libby’s in the bedroom,” he said.
    “Are you going somewhere?”
    “You’re letting in the cold,” he said, giving me an agreeable look that only mystified me more. “Come in.”
    I stepped in, asking, “Are you going out?”
    He held up his briefcase. “I’m afraid I’ve got some work.” He stepped around me and was out the door. “Good night,” he said, “nice to see you.” His head went into his collar, and the overcoat was swinging down the path like a bell.
    “Can I drive you anywhere?” I called after him.
    Herz turned, but continued walking backwards; the snow had caked instantly on his shoulders. “You better close the door,” he said.
    “Gabe?” Libby’s voice called out to me from the other end of the little apartment.
    “Yes?”
    “Could you close the door? There’s a draft.”
    I was still looking out after her husband, however. I wanted to shout for him to come back: I wanted to
demand
a reason for his leaving.
    “I’m in the bedroom,” Libby said, directing me.
    Herz walked further into the white mist, until at last I couldn’t see him any more.
    Libby was sitting in bed, propped up by two pillows, her knees bent girlishly under the blankets. The bed was made of iron and painted silver and had an institutional air. There was not much more furniture in the room. A floor lamp threw a saucer of light up on the water-damaged ceiling; poor for reading, it was at first generous to the sick. From the doorway Libby looked, in that dim light, no