Authors: Philip Roth
“Why not?”
I did not answer.
“I’m in the television room,” she called.
“Good.”
“Are you supposed to stay with me?”
“Yes.”
She appeared unexpectedly through the dining room. “Want to read a book report I wrote?”
“Not now.”
“What do you want to do?” she said.
“Nothing, honey. Why don’t you watch TV?”
“All right,” she said disgustedly, and kicked her way back to the television room.
For a while I remained in the hall, bitten with the urge to slide quietly out of the house, into my car, and back to Newark, where I might even sit in the alley and break candy with my own. I felt like Carlota; no, not even as comfortable as that. At last I left the hall and began to stroll in and out of rooms on the first floor. Next to the living room was the study, a small knotty-pine room jammed with eater-cornered leather chairs and a complete set of
Information Please Almanacs.
On the wall hung three colored photo-paintings; they were the kind which, regardless of the subjects, be they vital or infirm, old or youthful, are characterized by bud-cheeks, wet lips, pearly teeth, and shiny, metallized hair. The subjects in this case were Ron, Brenda, and Julie at about ages fourteen, thirteen, and two. Brenda had long auburn hair, her diamond-studded nose, and no glasses; all combined to make her look a regal thirteen-year-old who’d just gotten smoke in her eyes. Ron was rounder and his hairline was lower, but that love of spherical objects and lined courts twinkled in his boyish eves Poor little Tulie was lost in the photo-painter’s Platonic’ idea of childhood; her tiny humanity was smothered somewhere back of gobs of pink and white.
There were other pictures about, smaller ones, taken with a Brownie Reflex before photo-paintings had become fashionable. There was a tiny picture of Brenda on a horse; another of Ron in bar mitzvah suit,
yamdkah,
and
tallas;
and two pictures framed together—one of a beautiful, faded woman, who must have been, from the eyes, Mrs. Patimkin’s mother, and the other of Mrs. Patimkin herself, her hair in a halo, her eyes joyous and not those of a slowly aging mother with a quick and lovely daughter.
I walked through the archway into the dining room and stood a moment looking out at the sporting goods tree. From the television room that winged off the dining room, I could hear Julie listening to
This Is Your Life.
The kitchen, which winged off the other side, was empty, and apparently, with Carlota off, the Patimkins had had dinner at the club. Mr. and Mrs. Patimkin’s bedroom was in the middle of the house, down the hall, next to Julie’s, and for a moment I wanted to see what size bed those giants slept in—I imagined it wide and deep as a swimming pool—but I postponed my investigation while Julie was in the house, and instead opened the door in the kitchen that led down to the basement.
The basement had a different kind of coolness from the house, and it had a smell, which was something the upstairs was totally without. It felt cavernous down there, but in a comforting way, like the simulated caves children make for themselves on rainy days, in hall closets, under blankets, or in between the legs of dining room tables. I flipped on the light at the foot of the stairs and was not surprised at the pine paneling, the bamboo furniture, the ping-pong table, and the mirrored bar that was stocked With every kind and size of glass, ice bucket, decanter, mixer, swizzle stick, shot glass, pretzel bowl—all the bacchanalian paraphernalia, plentiful, orderly, and untouched, as it can be only in the bar of a wealthy man who never entertains drinking people, who himself does not drink, who, in fact, gets a fishy look from his wife when every several months he takes a shot of schnapps before dinner. I went behind the bar where there was an aluminum sink that had not seen a dirty glass, I’m sure, since Ron’s bar mitzvah party, and would not see another, probably, until one of the Patimkin children was married or engaged. I would have poured myself a drink—just as a wicked wage for being forced into servantry—but I was uneasy about breaking the label on a bottle of whiskey. You had to break a label to get a drink. On the shelf back of the bar were two dozen bottles—twenty-three to be exact—of Jack Daniels, each with a little booklet tied to its collared neck informing patrons how patrician of them it was to drink the stuff. And over the Jack Daniels were more photos: there was a blown-up newspaper photo of Ron palming a basketball in one hand like a raisin; under the picture it said, “
Center,
Ronald Patimkin, Millburn High School, 6‘4”, 217 pounds.” And there was another picture of Brenda on a horse, and next to that, a velvet mounting board with ribbons and medals clipped to it: Essex County Horse Show 1949, Union County Horse Show 1950, Garden State Fair 1952, Morristown Horse Show 1953, and so on—all for Brenda, for jumping and running or galloping or whatever else young girls receive ribbons for. In the entire house I had’nt seen one picture of Mr. Patimkin.
The rest of the basement, back of the wide pine-paneled room, was gray cement walls and linoleum floor and contained innumerable electrical appliances, including a freezer big enough to house a family of Eskimos. Beside the freezer, incongruosly, was a tall old refrigerator; its ancient presence was a reminder to me of the Patimkin roots in Newark. This same refrigerator had once stood in the kitchen of an apartment in some four-family house, probably in the same neighborhood where I had lived all my life, first with my parents and then, when the two of them went wheezing off to Arizona, with my aunt and uncle. After Pearl Harbor the refrigerator had made the move up to Short Hills; Patimkin Kitchen and Bathroom Sinks had gone to war: no new barracks was complete until it had a squad of Patimkin sinks lined up in its latrine.
I opened the door of the old refrigerator; it was not empty. No longer did it hold butter, eggs, herring in cream sauce, ginger ale, tuna fish salad, an occasional corsage—rather it was heaped with fruit, shelves swelled with it, every color, every texture, and hidden within, every kind of pit. There were greengage plums, black plums, red plums, apricots, nectarines, peaches, long horns of grapes, black, yellow, red, and cherries, cherries flowing out of boxes and staining everything scarlet. And there were melons—cantaloupes and honeydews—and on the top shelf, half of a huge watermelon, a thin sheet of wax paper clinging to its bare red face like a wet lip. Oh Patimkin! Fruit grew in their refrigerator and sporting goods dropped from their trees!
I grabbed a handful of cherries and then a nectarine, and I bit right down to its pit.
“You better wash that or you’ll get diarrhea.”
Julie was standing behind me in the pine-paneled room. She was wearing
her
Bermudas and
her
white polo shirt which was unlike Brenda’s only in that it had a little dietary history of its own.
“What?” I said.
“They’re not washed yet,” Julie said, and in such a way that it seemed to place the refrigerator itself out-of-bounds, if only for me.
“That’s all right,” I said, and devoured the nectarine and put the pit in my pocket and stepped out of the refrigerator room, all in one second. I still didn’t know what to do with the cherries. “I was just looking around,” I said.
Julie didn’t answer.
“Where’s Ron going?” I asked, dropping the cherries into my pocket, among my keys and change.
“Milwaukee.”
“For long?”
“To see Harriet. They’re in love.”
We looked at each other for longer than I could bear. “Harriet?” I asked. “Yes.”
Julie was looking at me as though she were trying to look behind me, and then I realized that I was standing with my hands out of sight. I brought them around to the front, and, I swear it, she did peek to see if they were empty.
We confronted one another again; she seemed to have a threat in her face.
Then she spoke. “Want to play ping-pong?”
“God, yes,” I said, and made for the table with two long, bounding steps. “You can serve.”
Julie smiled and we began to play.
I have no excuses to offer for what happened next. I began to win and I liked it.
“Can I take that one over?” Julie said. “I hurt my finger yesterday and it just hurt when I served.”
“No.”
I continued to win.
“That wasn’t fair, Neil. My shoelace came untied. Can I take it—”
“No.”
We played, I ferociously.
“Neil, you leaned over the table. That’s illegal—”
“I didn’t lean and it’s not illegal.”
I felt the cherries hopping among my nickels and pennies.
“Neil, you gypped me out of a point. You have nineteen and I have eleven—”
“Twenty and
ten,
” I said. “Serve!”
She did and I smashed my return past her—it zoomed off the table and skittered into the refrigerator room.
“You’re a cheater!” she screamed at me. “You cheat!” Her jaw was trembling as though she carried a weight on top of her pretty head. “I
hate
you!” And she threw her racket across the room and it clanged off the bar, just as, outside, I heard the Chrysler crushing gravel in the driveway.
“The game isn’t over,” I said to her.
“You cheat! And you were stealing fruit!” she said, and ran away before I had my chance to win.
Later that night, Brenda and I made love, our first time. We were sitting on the sofa in the television room and for some ten minutes had not spoken a word to each other. Julie had long since gone to a weepy bed, and though no one had said anything to me about her crying, I did not know if the child had mentioned my fistful of cherries, which, some time before, I had flushed down the toilet.
The television set was on and though the sound was off and the house quiet, the gray pictures still wiggled at the far end of the room. Brenda was quiet and her dress circled her legs, which were tucked back beneath her. We sat there for some while and did not speak. Then she went into the kitchen and when she came back she said that it sounded as though everyone was asleep. We sat a while longer, watching the soundless bodies on the screen eating a silent dinner in someone’s silent restaurant. When I began to unbutton her dress she resisted me, and I like to think it was because she knew how lovely she looked in it. But she looked lovely, my Brenda, anyway, and we folded it carefully and held each other close and soon there we were, Brenda falling, slowly but with a smile, and me rising.
How can I describe loving Brenda? It was so sweet, as though I’d finally scored that twenty-first point.
When I got home I dialed Brenda’s number, but not before my aunt heard and rose from her bed.
“Who are you calling at this hour? The doctor?”
“No.”
“What kind phone calls, one o’clock at night?”
“Shhh!” I said.
“He tells
me
shhh. Phone calls one o’clock at night, we haven’t got a big enough bill,” and then she dragged herself back into the bed, where with a martyr’s heart and bleary eyes she had resisted the downward tug of sleep until she’d heard my key in the door.
Brenda answered the phone.
“Neil?” she said.
“Yes,” I whispered. “You didn’t get out of bed, did you?”
“No,” she said, “the phone is next to the bed.”
“Good. How is it in bed?”
“Good. Are you in bed?”
“Yes,” I lied, and tried to right myself by dragging the phone by its cord as close as I could to my bedroom.
“I’m in bed with you,” she said.
“That’s right,” I said, “and I’m with you.”
“I have the shades down, so it’s dark and I don’t see you.”
“I don’t see you either.”
“That was so nice, Neil.”
“Yes. Go to sleep, sweet, I’m here,” and we hung up without goodbyes. In the morning, as planned, I called again, but I could hardly hear Brenda or myself for that matter, for Aunt Gladys and Uncle Max were going on a Workmen’s Circle picnic in the afternoon, and there was some trouble about grape juice that had dripped all night from a jug in the refrigerator and by morning had leaked out onto the floor. Brenda was still in bed and so could play our game with some success, but I had to pull down all the shades of my senses to imagine myself beside her. I could only pray our nights and mornings would come, and soon enough they did.
Over the next week and a half there seemed to be only two people in my life: Brenda and the little colored kid who liked Gauguin. Every morning before the library opened, the boy was waiting; sometimes he seated himself on the lion’s back, sometimes under his belly, sometimes he just stood around throwing pebbles at his mane. Then he would come inside, tap around the main floor until Otto stared him up on tiptoes, and finally headed up the long marble stairs that led to Tahiti. He did not always stay to lunch time, but one very hot day he was there when I arrived in the morning and went through the door behind me when I left at night. The next morning, it was, that he did not show up, and as though in his place, a very old man appeared, white, smelling of Life Savers, his nose and jowls showing erupted veins beneath them. “Could you tell me where I’d find the art section?”
“Stack Three,” I said.
In a few minutes, he returned with a big brown-covered book in his hand. He placed it on my desk, withdrew his card from a long moneyless billfold and waited for me to stamp out the book.