The World According to Garp

Helen thought: It is my father; it's his heart. Sometimes she thought: They've finally found and identified my mother. In a morgue.

And Garp thought: They have murdered Mom. Or they are holding her for ransom—men who will accept nothing less than the public rape of forty virgins before releasing the famous feminist, unharmed. And they'll also demand the lives of my children, and so forth.

It was Roberta Muldoon on the phone, and that only convinced Garp that the victim was Jenny Fields. But the victim was Roberta.

“He's left me,” Roberta said, her huge voice swollen with tears. “He's thrown me over. Me! Can you believe it?”

“Jesus, Roberta,” Garp said.

“Oh, I never knew what shits men were until I became a woman,” Roberta said.

“It's Roberta,” Garp whispered to Helen, so that she could relax. “Her lover's flown the coop.” Helen sighed, released Garp's leg, rolled over.

“You don't even care, do you?” Roberta asked Garp, testily. “Please, Roberta,” Garp said.

“I'm sorry,” Roberta said. “But I thought it was too late to call your mother.” Garp found this logic astonishing, since he knew that Jenny stayed up later than he did; but he also liked Roberta, very much, and she had certainly had a hard time.

“He said I wasn't enough of a woman, that I confused him, sexually—that I was confused sexually!” Roberta cried. “Oh, God, that prick. All he wanted was the novelty of it. He was just showing off for his friends.”

“I'll bet you could have taken him, Roberta,” Garp said. “Why didn't you beat the shit out of him?”

“You don't understand,” Roberta said. “I don't feel like beating the shit out of anyone, anymore. I'm a woman!'...

“Don't women ever feel like beating the shit out of someone?” Garp asked. Helen reached over to him and pulled his cock.

“I don't know what women feel like,” Roberta wailed. “I don't know what they're supposed to feel like, anyway. I just know what I feel like.”

“What's that?” Garp asked, knowing she wanted to tell him.

“I feel like beating the shit out of him now,” Roberta confessed, “but when he was dumping all over me, I just sat there and took it. I even cried. I've been crying all day!” she cried, “and he even called me up and told me that if I was still crying I was faking myself.”

“The hell with him,” Garp said.

“All he wanted was a great big lay,” Roberta said. “Why are men like that?”

“Well,” Garp said.

“Oh, I know you're not,” Roberta said. “I'm not even attractive to you, probably.”

“Of course you're attractive, Roberta,” Garp said.

“But not to you,” Roberta said. “Don't lie. I'm not sexually attractive, am I?”

“Not really to me,” Garp confessed, “but to lots of other men, yes. Of course you are.”

“Well, you're a good friend, that's more important,” Roberta said. “You're not really sexually attractive to me, either.”

“That's perfectly all right,” Garp said.

“You're too short,” Roberta said. “I like longer-looking people—I mean, sexually. Don't be hurt.”

“I'm not hurt,” Garp said. “Don't you be, either.”

“Of course not,” Roberta said.

“Why not call me in the morning,” Garp suggested. “You'll feel better.”

“I won't,” Roberta said, sulkily. “I'll feel worse. And I'll feel ashamed that I called you.”

“Why not talk to your doctor?” Garp said. “The urologist? The fellow who did your operation—he's your friend, isn't he?”

“I think he wants to fuck me,” Roberta said, seriously. “I think that's all he ever wanted to do to me. I think he recommended this whole operation just because he wanted to seduce me, but he wanted to make me a woman first. They're notorious for that—a friend was telling me.”

“A crazy friend, Roberta,” Garp said. “Who's notorious for that?”

“Urologists,” Roberta said. “Oh, I don't know—isn't urology a little creepy to you?” It was, but Garp didn't want to upset Roberta any further.

“Call Mom,” he heard himself say. “She'll cheer you up, she'll think of something.”

“Oh, she is wonderful,” Roberta sobbed. “She always does think of something, but I feel I've used her for so much.”

“She loves to help, Roberta,” Garp said, and knew it was, at least, the truth. Jenny Fields was full of sympathy and patience, and Garp only wanted to sleep. “A good game of squash might help, Roberta,” Garp suggested, weakly. “Why not come over for a few days and we'll really hit the ball around.” Helen rolled into him, frowned at him, and bit his nipple; Helen liked Roberta, but in the early phase of her sex reassignment Roberta could talk only about herself.

“I just feel so drained,” Roberta said. “No energy, no nothing. I don't even know if I could play.”

“Well, you should try, Roberta,” Garp said. “You should make yourself do something.” Helen, exasperated with him, rolled away from him.

But Helen was affectionate with Garp when he answered these late-night calls; she said they frightened her and she didn't want to be the one to find out what the calls were about. It was strange, therefore, that when Roberta Muldoon called a second time, a few weeks later, Helen was the one who answered the phone. It surprised Garp because the phone was on his side of the bed and Helen had to reach over him to pick it up; in fact, this time, she lunged across him and whispered quickly to the phone, “Yes, what is it?” When she heard it was Roberta, she passed the phone quickly to Garp; it was not as if she'd been trying to let him sleep.

And when Roberta called a third time, Garp felt an absence when he picked up the phone. Something was missing. “Oh, hello, Roberta,” Garp said. It was Helen's usual grip on his leg: it wasn't there. Helen wasn't there, he noticed. He talked reassuringly to Roberta, felt the cold side of his unshared bed, and noted the time was 2 A.M.—Roberta's favorite hour. When Roberta finally hung up, Garp went downstairs to look for Helen, finding her all alone on the living-room couch, sitting up with a glass of wine and a manuscript in her lap.

“Couldn't sleep,” she said, but there was a look on her face—it was a look Garp couldn't immediately place. Although he thought he recognized that look, he also thought he had never seen that look on Helen.

“Reading papers?” he asked; she nodded, but there was only one manuscript in front of her. Garp picked it up.

“It's just student work,” she said, reaching for it.

The student's name was Michael Milton. Garp read a paragraph of the paper. “It sounds like a story,” Garp said. “I didn't know you assigned fiction writing to your students.”

“I don't,” Helen said, “but they sometimes show me what they do, anyway.”

Garp read another paragraph. He thought that the writer's style was self-conscious and forced, but there were no errors on the page; it was, at least, competent writing.

“He's one of my graduate students,” Helen said. “He's very bright, but...” She shrugged, but her gesture had the sudden mock casualness of an embarrassed child.