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Authors: Philip Roth
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Feeding. ” “ It is important that each breast be emptied completely every 24 hours in order to keep up the supply of milk. To empty the breast by hand … ”
His mother ’ s milk had stained the page. He had no hard evidence to prove it, but then he was not an archaeologist presenting a paper: he was the son who had learned to live on her body, and that body was now in a box underground, and he didn ’ t need hard evidence. If he who had spoken his first word in her presence on March 3, 1934—and his last word on the phone to her the previous Sunday—if he should choose to believe that a drop of her milk had fallen just there while she followed the paragraph instructing a young mother in how to empty her breasts, what was to stop him? Closing his eyes, he put his tongue to the page, and when he opened them again saw that he was being watched through th e elevator door by an emaciated old woman across the lobby, leaning in exhaustion on her aluminum walker. Well, if she knew what she ’ d just seen she could now tell everyone in the building that she ’ d seen everything.
In the lobby there was a sign up for an Israel Bond Rally at a Bal Harbour Hotel, and hanging beside it a crayoned notice, now out of date, for a Hanukkah festival party in the condominium lobby sponsored by the building ’ s Social Committee. He passed the bank of mailboxes and then came back and looked for hers. “ ZUCKERMAN S. / 414 . ” He set down his suitcase, placed the baby book beside it, and touched the raised letters of the nameplate with his fingers. When World War I began, she was ten. When it ended, she was fourteen. When the stock market crashed, she was twenty-five. She was twenty-nine when I was born and thirty-seven on December 7, 1941. When Eisenhower invaded Europe, she was just my age… But none of this answered the cradle-question of where Mama had gone.
The day before, Henry had left instructions for the post office to forward her mail to South Orange. There was a plain white envelope, however, down in the box, probably a condolence note dropped through the slot by a neighbor that morning. In his jacket pocket Nathan had her extra set of house keys; one of her little tags was still attached, labeling them “ Extra set of house keys. ” With the tiniest of the keys he opened the box. The envelope was not addressed. Inside was a pale green index card on which someone who preferred remaining anonymous had printed with a fountain pen
MAY YOUR MOTHER SUCK
COCKS IN HELL—
AND YOU SOON
JOIN HER!
YOU DESERVE IT .
ONE O F YOUR
MANY FOES
In hell no less. An act she never even committed on earth, you stupid son of a bitch. Who ’ d written him this? The fastest way to find out was to go back upstairs and ask Esther. She knew everybody ’ s business. She also had no aversion to reprisals; her success in life was founded on them. They ’ d check together through the building directory until Essie had figured out who it was, who living in which apartment, then he ’ d walk over to Meyer Lansky ’ s hotel to find out from the bell captain who could be hired to do a little job. Why not that for a change, instead of flying back to New York to file the green index card under “ Mother ’ s Death ” ? You could not be a nothing writer fellow forever, doing nothing with the strongest feelings but turning them over to characters to deal with in books. It ’ d be worth a couple thousand to have the ten fingers that wrote those twenty words smashed beneath some moron ’ s boot. You could probably do it down here on your Diners Club card.
Only whose maimed fingers would they turn out to be? What would the comedy come up with this time—one of the widowers she ’ d taught how to fold laundry, or the old guy tottering around the parking lot who ’ d waved to Zuckerman up by the window while he was watering her plants?
A nothing fellow, he flew home to his files. A nasty, nothing fellow, surreptitiously vindictive,
His mother ’ s milk had stained the page. He had no hard evidence to prove it, but then he was not an archaeologist presenting a paper: he was the son who had learned to live on her body, and that body was now in a box underground, and he didn ’ t need hard evidence. If he who had spoken his first word in her presence on March 3, 1934—and his last word on the phone to her the previous Sunday—if he should choose to believe that a drop of her milk had fallen just there while she followed the paragraph instructing a young mother in how to empty her breasts, what was to stop him? Closing his eyes, he put his tongue to the page, and when he opened them again saw that he was being watched through th e elevator door by an emaciated old woman across the lobby, leaning in exhaustion on her aluminum walker. Well, if she knew what she ’ d just seen she could now tell everyone in the building that she ’ d seen everything.
In the lobby there was a sign up for an Israel Bond Rally at a Bal Harbour Hotel, and hanging beside it a crayoned notice, now out of date, for a Hanukkah festival party in the condominium lobby sponsored by the building ’ s Social Committee. He passed the bank of mailboxes and then came back and looked for hers. “ ZUCKERMAN S. / 414 . ” He set down his suitcase, placed the baby book beside it, and touched the raised letters of the nameplate with his fingers. When World War I began, she was ten. When it ended, she was fourteen. When the stock market crashed, she was twenty-five. She was twenty-nine when I was born and thirty-seven on December 7, 1941. When Eisenhower invaded Europe, she was just my age… But none of this answered the cradle-question of where Mama had gone.
The day before, Henry had left instructions for the post office to forward her mail to South Orange. There was a plain white envelope, however, down in the box, probably a condolence note dropped through the slot by a neighbor that morning. In his jacket pocket Nathan had her extra set of house keys; one of her little tags was still attached, labeling them “ Extra set of house keys. ” With the tiniest of the keys he opened the box. The envelope was not addressed. Inside was a pale green index card on which someone who preferred remaining anonymous had printed with a fountain pen
MAY YOUR MOTHER SUCK
COCKS IN HELL—
AND YOU SOON
JOIN HER!
YOU DESERVE IT .
ONE O F YOUR
MANY FOES
In hell no less. An act she never even committed on earth, you stupid son of a bitch. Who ’ d written him this? The fastest way to find out was to go back upstairs and ask Esther. She knew everybody ’ s business. She also had no aversion to reprisals; her success in life was founded on them. They ’ d check together through the building directory until Essie had figured out who it was, who living in which apartment, then he ’ d walk over to Meyer Lansky ’ s hotel to find out from the bell captain who could be hired to do a little job. Why not that for a change, instead of flying back to New York to file the green index card under “ Mother ’ s Death ” ? You could not be a nothing writer fellow forever, doing nothing with the strongest feelings but turning them over to characters to deal with in books. It ’ d be worth a couple thousand to have the ten fingers that wrote those twenty words smashed beneath some moron ’ s boot. You could probably do it down here on your Diners Club card.
Only whose maimed fingers would they turn out to be? What would the comedy come up with this time—one of the widowers she ’ d taught how to fold laundry, or the old guy tottering around the parking lot who ’ d waved to Zuckerman up by the window while he was watering her plants?
A nothing fellow, he flew home to his files. A nasty, nothing fellow, surreptitiously vindictive,
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