Authors: Philip Roth
Each morning I headed back to the desk in my West Twelfth Street sublet, off to school to practice the three Rs—reading, writing, and angrily toting up yet again the alimony and legal bills. In the elevator, as I descended from 9D, I met up with the schoolchildren a third my age whom Susan took on weekends to the Planetarium and the puppet shows, and the successful business executives whose August recreation she had sometimes been. And what am
I
doing here, I would ask myself. With
her!
Just how debilitated can I be! My brother
’
s recent warning would frequen
tly
come back to me as I exited past the doorman, who always courteously raised his cap to Mrs. McCall
’
s gentleman caller, but had surmised enough about my bankroll not to make a move to hail a cab. Moe had telephoned me about Susan the night after I had come around with her to have dinner at his and Lenore
’
s invitation. He laid it right on the line.
“
Another Maureen, Pep?
”
“
She
’
s hardly a Maureen.
”
“
The gray eyes and the
‘
fine
’
bones have got you fooled, kiddo. Another fucked-up shiksa. First the lumpenproletariat, now the aristocracy. What are you, the Malinowski of Manhattan? Enough erotic anthropology. Get rid of her, Pep. You
’
re sticking your plug in the same socket.
”
“
Moe, hold the advice, okay?
”
“
Not this time. I don
’
t care to come home a year from now, Peppy, to find you shitting into your socks.
”
“
But I
’
m all right.
”
“
Oh, Christ, here we go again.
”
“
Moey, I happen to know what I
’
m doing.
”
“
With a woman you know what you
’
re doing? Look, what the hell is Spielvogel
’
s attitude toward this budding catastrophe—what is
he
doing to earn his twenty bucks an hour, anything?
”
“
Moe, she is
not
Maureen!
”
“
You
’
re letting the legs fool you, kid, the legs and the ass.
”
“
I tell you I
’
m not in it for that.
”
“
If not that, what? Her deep intelligence? Her quick wit? You mean on top of being tongue-tied, the ice cube can
’
t screw right either? Jesus! A pretty face must go an awful long way with you—that, plus a good strong dose of psychon
eurosis, and a girl is in busi
ness with my little brother. You come over here tonight for dinner, Peppy, you come eat with
us
every night—I
’
ve got to talk some sense into you.
”
But each evening I turned up at Susan
’
s, not Moe
’
s, carrying with me my book to be read later by the fire, envisioning, as I stepped through the door, my blanquette, my bath, and my bed.
So the first months passed. Then one night I said,
‘
Why don
’
t you go back to college?
”
“
Oh, I couldn
’
t do that.
”
“
Why couldn
’
t you?
”
“
I have too much to do already.
”
“
You have nothing to do.
”
“
Are you
kidding?
”
“
Why don
’
t you go back to college, Susan?
”
“
I
’
m too busy, really. Did you say you
did
want kirsch on your fruit?
”
Some weeks later.
“
Look, a suggestion.
”
“
Yes?
”
“
Why don
’
t you move in bed?
”
“
Haven
’
t you enough room?
”
“
I mean move. Underneath me.
”
“
Oh, that. I just don
’
t, that
’
s all.
”
“
Well, try it. It might liven things up.
”
“
I
’
m happy as I am, thank you. Don
’
t you like the spinach salad?
”
“
Listen
to me: why don
’
t you move your body when I fuck you, Susan?
”
“
Oh, please, let
’
s just finish dinner.
”
“
I want you to move when I fuck you.
”
“
I told you, I
’
m happy as I am.
”
“
You
’
re miserable as you are.
”
“
I
’
m not, and it
’
s none of your business.
”
“
Do you know how to move?
”
“
Oh, why are you torturing me like this?
”
“
Do you want me to show you what I mean by
‘
move
’
?
”
“
Stop this.
I am not going to talk about it! I don
’
t have to be shown anything, certainly not by you! Your life isn
’
t such a model of order, you know.
”
“
What about college? Why don
’
t you go back to college?
”
“
Peter,
stop.
Please! Why are you
doing
this to me?
”
“
Because the way you live is awful.
”
“
It is
not.
”
“
It
’
s crazy, really.
”
“
If it
’
s so crazy then what are you doing here every night? I don
’
t force you to spend the night. I don
’
t ask anything of you at all.
”
“
You don
’
t ask anything of anyone, so that
’
s neither here nor there.
”
“
That
’
s none of your business either.
”
“
It is my business.
”
“
Why?
Why
yours?
”
“
Because I
am
here—because I
do
spend the night.
”
“
Oh, please, you must stop right now. Don
’
t make me argue, please. I hate arguments and I refuse to
participate in one. If you want
to argue with somebody, go argue with your wife. I thought you come here
not
to fight.
”
She had a point,
the
point—here I need contend with
nothing
—but it stopped me only for a while. Eventually one night some two months later she jumped up from the table and, popping her one tear, said,
“
I can
’
t go back to school, and leave me alone about it—I
’
m too old and I
’
m too stupid! What school would even take me!
”
It turned out to be C.C.N.Y. They gave her credit for one semester
’
s work at Wellesley.
“
This is just too silly. I
’
m practically thirty-one. People will laugh.
”
“
Which people are those?
”
“
People. I
’
m not going to do it. By the time I graduated I
’
d be fifty.
”
‘
What are you going to do instead till you
’
re fifty, shop?
”
“
I help my friends.
”
“
Those friends can hire fellows pulling rickshaws to help them the way you do.
”
“
That
’
s just being cynical about people you don
’
t like. I have a huge apartment to take care of, besides.
”
‘
What are you so frightened of?
”
“
That
’
s not
the
issue.
”
“
What is then?
”
“
That you won
’
t just let me do things the way I want to. Everything I do is wrong in your eyes. You
’
re just like my mother. She never thinks I can do anything right either.
”
“
Well, I think you can.
”
“
Only because you
’
re embarrassed by my stupidity. It doesn
’
t do for your
‘
self-image
’
to be seen with such a sap—so the upshot is that in order to save
your
face, I have to go to college! And move in bed! I don
’
t even know where C.C.N.Y.
is—
on a map! What if I
’
m the only person there who
’
s white?
”
‘
Well, you may be the only person there quite
so
white
—“
“
Don
’
t joke—not now!
”
“
You
’
re going to be fine.
”
“
Oh, Peter,
”
she moaned, and clinging to her napkin crawled into my lap to be rocked like a child
—“
what if I have to talk in class? What if they call on me?
”
Through my shirt I could feel
ice
packs on my back—her two hands.
“
What do I do
then?
”
she pleaded.
“
Speak.
”
“
But if I
can
’
t.
Oh, why are you putting me through this misery?
”
“
You told me why. My self-image. So I can fuck you with a clear conscience.
”
“
Oh, you, you couldn
’
t fuck anybody with a clear co
nscience—dumb, smart, or in be
tween. And be
serious.
I
’
m so terrified I feel
faint.
”
Though not too terrified to utter aloud, for the first time in her life, that most dangerous of American words. The next afternoon I had one of those mock headlines printed up in a Times Square amusement palace and presented it to her at dinner, a phony tabloid with a black three-inch banner reading: SUSAN SAYS IT!
In the kitchen one night a year later I sat on a stool near the stove sipping a glass of the last of Jamey
’
s Mouton-Rothschild, while Susan prepared ratatouille and practiced a talk she had to give the next morning in her introductory philosophy class, a five-minute discourse on the Skeptics.
“
I can
’
t remember what comes next—I
can
’
t do it.
”
“
Concentrate.
”
“
But I
’
m
cooking
something.
”
“
It will cook itself.
”
“
Nothing cooks itself that tastes any good.
”
“
Then stop a minute and let
’
s hear what you
’
re going to say.
”
“
But I don
’
t care about the Skeptics. And
you
don
’
t, Peter. And nobody in my class cares, I can assure you of that. And what if I just can
’
t talk? What if I open my mouth and nothing comes out? That
’
s what happened to me at Wellesley.
”
And to me at Brooklyn College, but I didn
’
t tell her, not on that occasion.
“
Something,
”
I said confidently,
“
will come out.
”
“
Yes?
What?
”
“
Words. Concentrate on the words the way you concentrate on the eggplant there
—“
“
Would you come with me? On the subway? Just till I get up there?
”
“
I
’
ll even come to the class with you.
”
“
No! You mustn
’
t! I
’
d be
paralyzed
if you were there.
”
“
But I
’
m here.
”
“
This is a kitchen,
”
she said, smiling, but not all that happy. And then, with some further prodding, she went ahead and delivered her philosophy report, though more to the ratatouille than to me.
“
Perfect.
”
“
Yes?
”
“
Yes.
”
“
Then why,
”
asked Susan, who was turning out to be a wittier young widow than any of us had imagined,
“
then why do I have to do it again tomorrow? Why can
’
t this count?
”
“
Because it
’
s a kitchen.
”
“
Shit,
”
said Susan,
“
that
’
s not fair.
”