Authors: Philip Roth
And into this street, which seemed paved with chromium, came Eli Peck. It was not enough, he knew, to walk up one side of the street. That was not enough. Instead he walked ten paces up one side, then on an angle, crossed to the other side, where he walked ten more paces, and crossed back. Homs blew, traffic jerked, as Eli made his way up Coach House Road. He spun a moan high up in his nose as he walked. Outside no one could hear him, but he felt it vibrate the cartilage at the bridge of his nose.
Things slowed around him. The sun stopped rippling on spokes and hubcaps. It glowed steadily as everyone put on brakes to look at the man in black. They always paused and gaped, whenever he entered the town. Then in a minute, or two, or three, a light would change, a baby squawk, and the flow continue. Now, though lights changed, no one moved.
“He shaved his beard,” Eric the barber said.
“Who?” asked Linda Berg.
“The … the guy in the suit. From the place there.”
Linda looked out the window. “It’s Uncle Eli,” little Kevin Berg said, spitting hair. “Oh, God,” Linda said, “Eli’s having a nervous breakdown.”
“A nervous breakdown!” Ted Heller said, but not immediately. Immediately he had said “Hoooly…”
Shortly, everybody in Coach House Road was aware that Eli Peck, the nervous young attorney with the pretty wife, was having a breakdown. Everybody except Eli Peck. He knew what he did was not insane, though he felt every inch of its strangeness. He felt those black clothes as if they were the skin of his skin—the give and pull as they got used to where he bulged and buckled. And he felt eyes, every eye on Coach House Road. He saw headlights screech to within an inch of him, and stop. He saw mouths: first the bottom jaw slides forward, then the tongue hits the teeth, the lips explode, a little thunder in the throat, and they’ve said it: Eli Peck Eli Peck Eli Peck Eli Peck. He began to walk slowly, shifting his weight down and forward with each syllable: E-li-Peck-E-li-Peck-E-li-Peck. Heavily he trod, and as his neighbors uttered each syllable of his name, he felt each syllable shaking all his bones. He knew who he was down to his marrow—they were telling him. Eli Peck. He wanted them to say it a thousand times, a million times, he would walk forever in that black suit, as adults whispered of his strangeness and children made “Shame … shame” with their fingers.
“It’s going to be all right, pal…” Ted Heller was motioning to Eli from his doorway. “C’mon, pal, it’s going to be all right…”
Eli saw him, past the brim of his hat. Ted did not move from his doorway, but leaned forward and spoke with his hand over his mouth. Behind him, three customers peered through the doorway. “Eli, it’s Ted, remember Ted…”
Eli crossed the street and found he was heading directly towards Harriet Knudson. He lifted his neck so she could see his whole face.
He saw her forehead melt down to her lashes. “Good morning, Mr. Peck.”
“Sholom,” Eli said, and crossed the street where he saw the President of the Lions.
“Twice before…” he heard someone say, and then he crossed again, mounted the curb, and was before the bakery, where a delivery man charged past with a tray of powdered cakes twirling above him. “Pardon me, Father,” he said, and scooted into his truck. But he could not move it. Eli Peck had stopped traffic.
He passed the Rivoli Theater, Beekman Cleaners, Harris’ Westinghouse, the Unitarian Church, and soon he was passing only trees. At Ireland Road he turned right and started through Woodenton’s winding streets. Baby carriages stopped whizzing and creaked—”Isn’t that…” Gardeners held their clipping. Children stepped from the sidewalk and tried the curb. And Eli greeted no one, but raised his face to all. He wished passionately that he had white tears to show them … And not till he reached his own front lawn, saw his house, his shutters, his new jonquils, did he remember his wife. And the child that must have been born to him. And it was then and there he had the awful moment. He could go inside and put on his clothes and go to his wife in the hospital. It was not irrevocable, even the walk wasn’t. In Woodenton memories are long but fury short. Apathy works like forgiveness. Besides, when you’ve flipped, you’ve flipped—it’s Mother Nature.
What gave Eli the awful moment was that he turned away. He knew exactly what he could do but he chose not to. To go inside would be to go halfway. There was more … So he turned and walked towards the hospital and all the time he quaked an eighth of an inch beneath his skin to think that perhaps he’d chosen the crazy way. To think that he’d
chosen
to be crazy! But if you chose to be crazy, then you weren’t crazy. It’s when you didn’t choose. No, he wasn’t flipping. He had a child to see.
“Name?”
“Peck.”
“Fourth floor.” He was given a little blue card.
In the elevator everybody stared. Eli watched his black shoes rise four floors.
“Four.”
He tipped his hat, but knew he couldn’t take it off.
“Peck,” he said. He showed the card.
“Congratulations,” the nurse said, “…the grandfather?”
“The father. Which room?”
She led him to 412. “A joke on the Mrs?” she said, but he slipped in the door without her.
“Miriam?”
“Yes?”
“Eli.”
She rolled her white face towards her husband. “Oh, Eli … Oh, Eli.”
He raised his arms. “What could I do?”
“You have a son. They called all morning.”
“I came to see him.”
“Like
that!
” she whispered harshly. “Eli, you can’t go around like that.”
“I have a son. I want to see him.”
“Eli, why are you doing this to me!” Red seeped back into her lips. “
He’s
not your fault,” she explained. “Oh, Eli, sweetheart, why do you feel guilty about everything. Eli, change your clothes. I forgive you.”
“Stop forgiving me. Stop understanding me.”
“But I love you.”
“That’s something else.”
“But, sweetie, you
don’t
have to dress like that. You didn’t do anything. You don’t have to feel guilty because … because everything’s all right. Eli, can’t you see that?”
“Miriam, enough reasons. Where’s my son?”
“Oh, please, Eli, don’t flip now. I need you now. Is that why you’re flipping—because I need you?”
“In your selfish way, Miriam, you’re very generous. I want my son.”
“Don’t flip now. I’m afraid, now that he’s out.” She was beginning to whimper. “I don’t know if I love him, now that he’s out. When I look in the mirror, Eli, he won’t be there … Eli, Eli, you look like you’re going to your own funeral. Please, can’t you leave well enough
done?
Can’t we just have a family?”
“No.”
In the corridor he asked the nurse to lead him to his son. The nurse walked on one side of him, Ted Heller on the other.
“Eli, do you want some help? I thought you might want some help.”
“No.”
Ted whispered something to the nurse; then to Eli he whispered, “Should you be walking around like this?”
“Yes.”
In his ear Ted said, “You’ll … you’ll frighten the kid…”
“There,” the nurse said. She pointed to a bassinet in the second row and looked, puzzled, to Ted. “Do I go in?” Eli said.
“No,” the nurse said. “She’ll roll him over.” She rapped on the enclosure full of babies. “Peck,” she mouthed to the nurse on the inside.
Ted tapped Eli’s arm. “You’re not thinking of doing something you’ll be sorry for … are you, Eli? Eli —I mean you know you’re still Eli, don’t you?”
In the enclosure, Eli saw a bassinet had been wheeled before the square window.
“Oh, Christ————” Ted said. “You don’t have this Bible stuff on the brain—” And suddenly he said, “You wait, pal.” He started down the corridor, his heels tapping rapidly.
Eli felt relieved—he leaned forward. In the basket was what he’d come to see. Well, now that he was here, what did he think he was going to say to it? I’m your father, Eli, the Flipper? I am wearing a black hat, suit, and fancy underwear, all borrowed from a friend? How could he admit to this reddened ball—
his
reddened ball—the worst of all: that Eckman would shortly convince him he wanted to take off the whole business. He couldn’t admit it! He wouldn’t do it!
Past his hat brim, from the comer of his eye, he saw Ted had stopped in a doorway at the end of the corridor. Two interns stood there smoking, listening to Ted. Eli ignored it.
No, even Eckman wouldn’t make him take it off! No! He’d wear it, if he chose to. He’d make the kid wear it! Sure! Cut it down when the time came. A smelly hand-me-down, whether the kid liked it or not!
Only Teddie’s heels clacked; the interns wore rubber soles—for they were there, beside him, unexpectedly. Their white suits smelled, but not like Eli’s.
“Eli,” Ted said, softly, “visiting time’s up, pal.”
“How are you feeling, Mr. Peck? First child upsets everyone….”
He’d Just pay no attention; nevertheless, he began to perspire, thickly, and his hat crown clutched his hair.
“Excuse me—Mr. Peck….” It was a new rich bass voice. “Excuse me, rabbi, but you’re wanted … in the temple.” A hand took his elbow, firmly; then another hand, the other elbow. Where they grabbed, his tendons went taut.
“Okay, rabbi. Okay okay okay okay okay okay….” He listened; it was a very soothing word, that okay. “Okay okay everything’s going to be okay.” His feet seemed to have left the ground some, as he glided away from the window, the bassinet, the babies. “Okay easy does it everything’s all right all right—”
But he rose, suddenly, as though up out of a dream, and flailing his arms, screamed: “I’m
the father?
’
But the window disappeared. In a moment they tore off his jacket—it gave so easily, in one yank. Then a needle slid under his skin. The drug calmed his soul, but did not touch it down where the blackness had reached.