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425
her, picks up that strand in their relationship along with a good many
others. Yes, guilt, submission, intimidation, sudden moral collapse,
all those motives are obvious and correctly identified, and yet the fact
remains that such
marria~es
are only possible fora special class of
men-those who don't like women. Maureen,
to
hear her tell it, had a
talent for tinding such men: Mezik, the alcoholic bartender in Roches-
,j
ter who made her blow his buddy while he watched, and Walker, the
homosexual in Cambridge who promised to give up boys after the
marriage and broke the promise. Tarnopol is more at home in such
company than he imagines. What all three have in common is a dislike
for women and a penchant for discovering in Maureen the right sort
of woman- someone for whom their prearranged misogyny can seem
like a just and natural hatred. Indeed, the circumstances of her death
are ambiguous enough to suggest that it is Walker at last who kills her.
He, at any rate, was driving, though, as so often is the case in mutual
-destruction pacts, he may have survived the sacrifice more or less ac–
cidentally.
The news of Maureen's death has hardly arrived when Peter finds
himself contemplating his newest problem, girlfriend Susan McCall,
who, until then, had merely been a pleasant burden: a helpless, mildly
neurotic, leggy heiress who is incapable of an orgasm but cooks a mar–
velous
blanquette de veau
and expertly knows just how much kirsch to
put on the fruit.
In
sh.)rt, she is totally unsuited for life with an aspir–
ing young hunger artist. Thus it is that
My Life
concludes with Peter,
in tears from just having spoken to his father on the phone, turning
to
contemplate the newest threat to his freedom.
I turned to Susan, still sitting there huddled up on her coat look–
ing, to my abasemant, as helpless as the day I had found her.
Sitting there
waiting.
Oh, my God, I thought-now you. You be–
ing youl And
me!
This me who is me being me and none other!
No, this one is off to Quahsay and sexual quarantine,
to
a life of hard
work, regular hours, calisthenics, a breakfast of hot cereal, and a sim–
ple boy's lunch. He is out to relive, if possible, the easy ascetic tri–
umphs of those sa lad days when to finish your homework and clean
your plate were the only evidence you needed that you were living the
good life.
My Life as a Man
is Roth's best sustained piece of writing since
