Letting Go (90 page)

For the moment he believed this. For the moment he believed more. Standing over the phone, he reasoned that even if he had married her, there was no guarantee that one morning a child of hers might not have rolled from his bed (or tripped down the stairs, or slipped in the bathtub, or stepped in front of a car, or swallowed a bottle full of iodine) and died.

Dear Mr. Jaffe—

I am not able to come to your office about that baby or ever. I have not told you all the truth. I am a married woman. My real name is Mrs. Harry Bigoness the other name I made up though my first name is Theresa really. Haug isn’t my Maiden name it is just something I made up because I suppose I liked the sound of it. I am only a housewife in Gary Ind. and I went astray and now I am back with my husband Mr. Bigoness and we both do not want me mixed-up in any of that business. That is all my “shameful” past and was a big big mistake. Harry knows what is best for our family especially with this “recession” on. I don’t think I should get mixed-up again. I had done all I can. I hope I am not cauzing trouble but it was a shock to me and Mr. Bigoness and now it is over and done, with. Harry says it is absolutely done, with. Excuse me.

Yours Very Truly
,

Theresa Bigoness
(
Theresa “Haug”
)
12/16/57

Gabe:

Here is the letter I told you about—let me know what happens.

Sid Jaffe

P.S. Please save the letter for my files. Thanks for your interest.

The mills were dark and nearly smokeless; for all the mass and solidity, without purpose. High up on concrete foundations, the wooden houses—two stories each, set fifteen feet apart—brought to mind prehistoric lake villages, dank shacks on stilts. The dwellings went on and on, as did the aerials hooked to the roofs, until blocks away the weather blurred the wires and rods, leaving what might have been ancient writing, hieroglyphics, illegible markings in the unpleasant winter sky. It was a day of dampness, of heaviness, a day without color; a haze like cold steam moved forward in puffs. Stuck to a few front doors were clumps of holly; those Christmas trees visible behind lace curtains were not aglow—there was no wasting of electricity, no sign anywhere of comfort or luxury. The big soiled cars lining both sides of the street indicated that, though it was a Tuesday and not yet four in the afternoon, men were at home. The day itself felt grainy to the skin.

Twisting the key in the door of his car, Gabe had numerous shooting thoughts, but only one that was strong and recurrent.
I am in it again.

There was nothing of value in the car, yet he came around to check the far door too. His stray thoughts turned on theft, assault, violence … He informed himself that his life didn’t depend on this little trip. Yet the mills, the houses, the fact that Harry Bigoness was probably a steel worker, served to intimidate him. The man’s name could itself have been a word having to do with the atmospheric conditions, the haze, the chill, the shadows. The weather will be mostly bigoness through the late afternoon and evening. Big business. Big onus. By gones—let them be—

Bigoness.
Over one of the four bells he found the name. Each time he rang the bell he cleared his throat. He looked at his clothing. The smell he smelled was not himself; it was the house exuding its odor—wet surfaces and old carpeting, a dusty weightiness in his nostrils. The varnished baseboards looked sticky. In the pebbled glass that cupped the electric bulb over his head, last summer’s bugs showed through as dirty spots. He stopped clearing his throat when he became conscious that he had been doing it. His hand shot up to his pocket. Theresa’s letter was still there; he hadn’t dropped it anywhere.

He rang again, and again nothing happened. He did not know what to do next. Though in it now, he had only to walk down the
stairs and get in the car to be out of it. After all, if the snarl was legal—a matter of signatures, identities—then it was only sensible to leave it to a lawyer to untangle … Only he did not see that he could give up so easily. He would talk to Theresa; when her husband came home, he would talk to him—and that would be that. They were probably no more than nervous.
He
was probably no more than nervous.

No one seemed to be at home. He tried not to pay any attention to the emotion he felt; however, he could not help but recognize it as relief. He marched three steps forward and twisted the knob of the glass-paned door leading to the inner stairway. When it opened, his heart did not know how to respond; it was no longer entirely clear as to what was in its own interest. It rose and sank simultaneously, like two hearts. He rushed up three landings to Apartment C; without hesitating very long, he knocked. He had only taken time to count the number of milk bottles lined up on the doormat. Six. He heard a creaking, but when no one answered, he decided it was only his weight on the floor boards. He knocked again, then took out his billfold, hunting for a blank scrap of paper, and he came upon a business card of his father’s. Crossing out the printed name and number, he began to phrase a message. He was reminded that he had only eight days in which to buy that present. A child’s cry came faintly through the door.

“Hello?”

The crying had already stopped.

He knocked. “Is anyone home?”

Feet moved. “Hello? Theresa? Mrs. Bigoness?”

He knocked again. “Is any …? Theresa, it’s only Mr. Wallace.” Mispronouncing his own name had its effect—it made sharp the feeling that he had erred in taking this trip upon himself. He should simply have washed his hands of … “Hello?”

Inside something dropped, someone spoke; footsteps crossed the floor. Then the door opened, a crack; a blue-eyed little girl, no more than four or five, stood before him in red pajamas.

“Close it, Melinda—get back—”

The child was looking at him. From behind her came a brief barrage of sobs. Then the man’s voice again.

“Oh hell—
Melinda!
”

The little girl turned away and the door eased slowly shut. Gabe reached for the knob, pushed it, and the door went flying backwards into the wall.

“Hey!”

A slender dark man, in need of a shave, was standing over an ironing board, a plastic basket full of wash beside him on a wildly yellow living-room rug. The first thing he noticed—even before he noticed that the man was wearing an apron—was that the fellow was not, as he had imagined he would be, older than himself. “Hey—what’s the matter with you—get out!” The small boy who was crawling on the floor began to wail.

“Are you Mr. Harry Bigoness? My name is—” He could not say Wallace again, though he hadn’t the chance to say anything.

“Just get out of here, that’s all!” Rubbing madly at his chin, plucking at the apron, the man came around from behind the iron. Big mahogany furniture lined all the walls; the panels of a chest before which Bigoness now stood were designed to give the illusion of depth. “Close the door, get out of here, will you!”

The little girl was pulling at her father’s blue work trousers. “I want my sandwich.”

“Mr. Bigoness, I’m representing Sid—”

“Get your hand off my door—don’t you understand?”

“I want my sandwich.”

“—the lawyer who has been in correspondence with you people—”

Not too gently, Bigoness uncurled the little girl’s hand from his leg and advanced upon him. The man’s chest curved in toward its center, but out to beefy shoulders; his arms were ridiculously long. It was his build more than his face that made him look stupid. “Now did I ask you, get your hand—”

“You don’t even know who I am.”

“You woke up that kid—”

“If you’d have answered when I rang—”

“Who do you think you are, invading people—” A crash, then a shattering, then a whimper, came from another part of the house. “
Get
, before
I
call the police!”

“Daddy!” The little girl had disappeared and was calling from behind some door. “My Daddy!”

“Mister, I’ll give you three—”

He might then have turned, stepped back. Bigoness’s face was not very far from his own. “Is your wife home—may I speak—”

“Oh—oh—everything fell! It fell on me! I didn’t—” As the little girl cried in the other room, the small boy on the floor continued to whimper. Bigoness tried to fill his lungs; he rose up on his toes;
his head moved. His visitor held fast—and Bigoness broke for another part of the house.

“Oh hell.” His moan was deep, pitiful.

“It just fell,” the little girl was explaining.

“Oh Melinda—”

By the time Bigoness had returned to the living room, with a sponge in one hand, the front door was shut, and Gabe was standing inside, hat in hand. “Mr. Bigoness, I’m here representing Sid Jaffe, the lawyer. He’s been writing to you about this adoption case. He’s written four letters since he received a letter from your wife about a month ago. He’s tried to call you on the phone, but it’s been disconnected—”

“Did I say come in here, you?”

“Haven’t you received Mr. Jaffe’s letters?”

“You’re trespassing on private property that don’t belong to you!”

“He’s sent the letters to this address.”

“Where does he come off sending letters to my address? Where’s he get my address?”

“From the phone book.”

“I never received any letters. I never got ’em, and I don’t want ’em. I’m asking you to go, Mister. I’m asking you nice—”

“Mr. Bigoness, I don’t want anything from you. Is your wife home?”

“My wife’s my business.”

The little girl had returned to the living room. She began asking again for her sandwich. All the while the two men talked, she pulled at her father’s trousers.

“I’ve come down from Chicago—”

“I’m busy—”

“All we would like is for you to sign a paper, and for your wife—”

“I’m busy, she’s busy, we’re all busy! Now—”

“—a consent form, and that’s it. There’s nothing for you—”

“I said three times,
Get out!
”

“Will you please listen to me?”

“I want my sandwich.”

“It’s a simple procedure. It’ll take five minutes—perhaps if I speak to Theresa—”

“My wife’s my business.”

“She had a child—”

“I want my sand—”

“I don’t care
what
she had, she don’t have time to go—”

“I only want a word with the two of you.”

“Listen—”

“I want my sandwich.”

“Bigoness, simply let me—”

“I want my sandwich!”
The little girl threw herself upon the floor.
“I want to eat!”

Instantly another howl went up. What she had thrown herself upon was her little brother.

“Christ,” groaned the harassed father.
“Ohhh—”

Gabe held his words, and Bigoness dropped back on the sofa. “Oh man,” he said, “what are you
bothering
me, huh? It’s Christmas time, don’t you know that? What are you bothering me about?”

“I only want to talk to you, Mr. Bigoness, and to Mrs. Bigoness.”

Two dark, distrustful eyes took him in, head to toe. “Your name Wallace?” the man asked.

“That’s right.”

Bigoness nodded, his lashes dropping halfway over his eyes. Softly he said, “You son of a bitch.”

“Daddy! My
sandwich—
”

“You want a sandwich, go make it.”

“I can’t reach the peanut butter.”

“Ain’t that too bad.”

“Daddy!”

“Oh man …” His feet swung down; Gabe saw only obstinacy in the thick dark workman’s shoes. Bigoness was heading out of the room. The solemn little girl did not smile with victory; she followed on her father’s heels, whimpering. “I’m the new nigger around here,” Bigoness said.

Alone, he took quick glances around the room—as though Theresa might pop up from behind a chair or emerge from back of the curtains. The decor was Chinese modern—the yellow rug swam with pop-eyed dragons; the walls were papered with rickshaws and coolies and junks. There was nothing that was not immense, no object, no design. The two lamps at either end of the sofa were the size of small people—they
were
small people, one a yellow woman, the other a yellow man, each in kimono, each with hands up sleeves, each with bulb screwed in top of head. All the upholstery was silky, Oriental; only the TV set made a forthright concession to the Occidental world of Indiana. The room seemed to be expanding and
narrowing by the moment. There was no chair in which one could sit without sinking. He instructed himself to remain standing—let Bigoness sit. He felt himself becoming excited. He went over what had to be accomplished; he was excited because he felt that something already had been. He had not fallen back—no matter how close he might have come. What he did counted, not what he thought.

Jaffe had indicated on the phone that if the signing of the consent forms could not be worked out, he might have to take a chance and appear in court without any signatures at all. He would report to the court that the child had been abandoned. The danger, however, was that a social agency of the court might be called into the case at the request of the judge; the adoption could then be delayed for months and months, with any number of complications arising. The social agencies of the courts were not very sophisticated—nor, said Jaffe, were the courts themselves, which frowned upon private adoptions anyway. If it was necessary for him to claim abandonment in court, there might even be religious trouble. The infant had been born in a Catholic hospital of a mother who claimed to be Catholic—if the judge sitting in County Court that day also happened to be Catholic, it might eventually be suggested that the child be turned over to a Catholic adoption agency to be placed in a Catholic family, or, for the meantime, in a Catholic orphanage.