Letting Go by Philip Roth Read Free Book Online

now,” she answered cheerily; too cheerily, for looking at her I saw the after-effects of illness still in her face.
    “How’s your husband?”
    “He’s fine.”
    We both did not know where to go from there. She must have heard, as 1 did, that I had not called Paul Paul.
    “You must come see us some night,” Libby suggested.
    “I’ve been very busy.”
    A strand of hair that was swept away from the side of her head suddenly engaged her; she brushed it with her hand, and pulled everything tighter through the rubber band at the back. “I want to thank you,” she said, “for the car offer. That was very nice. Paul told me.”
    “I’m sorry he couldn’t use it.”
    With her hair out of the way, she began fiddling with the items in her cart; she had a great deal of oleo but no Breck. “Thank you anyway,” she said, and we both looked off at the shelves of Tide and Rinso.
    “How do you get all those groceries home now?” I asked.
    She shrugged. “Walk.”
    “It’s far.”
    “Not that far.”
    “Why don’t you wait—” I found myself looking at a crease that extended from the edges of her nostrils to the edges of her mouth, barely visible, but still a mark on the skin. “Maybe you shouldn’t walk …”
    “Oh but I’m fine.”
    “I can drive you. I’m almost finished.”
    When she looked to see how finished I was, I realized that it was clear from my cartful that I was feeding and deodorizing more than one. It was also clear—to me—that the other person was not one toward whom I had a great deal of feeling. It was beginning to seem that toward those for whom I felt no strong sentiment, I gravitated; where sentiment existed, I ran. There was my father; there was even the girl before me. With her, of course, circumstances had combined with judgment to hold me back. But no circumstances had forced me, really, into a liaison with Margie Howells, whose sickroom behavior informed me that even if I had not developed feelings, I had at any rate initiated obligations. Standing there with Libby Herz, I found myself feeling rather shabby.
    “Do let me drive you,” I said.
    “I’ll wait just outside.”
    In the car I put my bundles out of sight on the back seat. I propped up Libby’s bag in front, between us, and asked her how school was.
    “I’m not in school any more.”
    “I didn’t know that,” I said.
    “I decided to quit a couple of weeks ago. A few days after we saw you, I guess.”
    “I suppose it’s less hectic.”
    She shrugged her shoulders again, and I saw that somehow I was making her nervous. “I’m working in the registrar’s office,” she said. “You’re right, it is less hectic. I mean generally.” And rather than explain, she raced ahead. “I finished your book. You don’t mind if we keep it for a while, do you? Paul hasn’t gotten around to it yet. He’s just starting to get some time.”
    “That’s all right.”
    “Isabel
has
a lot of courage in the end,” she said. “You were right. Going back to Osmond, I mean. I don’t know—I think some people might think it was stubbornness. Do you think it was?”
    I thought she thought it was, so I said, yes, in a way it probably was. However, I said, stubbornness might be the other side of courage.
    “That’s very hard to figure out,” she answered. “When you’re being stubborn and when you’re being courageous. I mean, if you were alone—but there are other people …” The conversation seemed suddenly to depress her. Whenever we talked principle it always wound up seeming as though we were talking about her. I could tell when she spoke next that she had told herself to stop brooding.
    “Why don’t you come visit us?” she asked.
    I did not answer.
    “Don’t judge us by that night,” Libby said. “Please don’t. We, both of us, were preoccupied.”
    “It’s not that,” I said. “Actually I’ve just been busy.”
    “Paul …” she began slowly, “did appreciate your offering the car.” She