When We Argued All Night (16 page)

She cut her meatball with her fork and ate before looking up. Mind your buying me dinner? No.

—That's not what I mean.

—Mind that you married Myra instead of me? You deserve each other.

—But
your
life? What kind of a life—

—I'm going to France in the summer, she said. I'm going to stay in a chateau and speak French all day.

—I didn't know, Harold said.

—I'm sure the effects of the war are everywhere, but at least now they can have people come and stay. She spoke as she always did of France and the French, with respect and restraint, and maybe as if she had to think twice to speak English when talking about France.

—You didn't tell me.

—Oh, I wouldn't have left without telling you, she said. You can come to the ship with a bottle of champagne. Yes, it's a terrible life. She laughed. Then she said, Nobody in my family marries. I've told you that. She finished her dinner—she always cleaned her plate—and folded her arms on the table, wineglass in hand.

—Somebody must.

—Well, my parents married, but their brothers and sisters still say it was a mistake. She frowned. I don't mean a problem; I mean an error. They walked into the Municipal Building looking for a bathroom and, by mistake, went to the room where the clerk who performs marriages sits, so they had to get married.

She could go on this way, making up stories about her relatives, who sounded like rabbits or field mice in a Beatrix Potter story, with little harmless arrangements and childlike ideas of what adults do. She would not—
would not
—turn the conversation to Harold's failings, Harold's troubles, Harold's boring, lumpy burden of grief at how badly he'd managed his life. A conclusion, anyway, at which she scoffed. You wanted to go to graduate school, she would say, you're in graduate school. You wanted to bed a sexy French teacher, you got that. You know just what you're doing.

2

W
hen Evelyn Saltzman had been in college, she didn't know what work she wanted to do, and then it was the Depression and she sold shoes. What she was good at, Artie knew, was knowing what had to be done immediately and what could wait. Of course, the bastards at the home where she worked weren't slow to discover that Mrs. Saltzman, who was hired part-time to keep records, also knew when to start planning the fund-raising dinner.

—They're not paying you for that, Artie said, when she came home late and tired. Evelyn ignored him, and soon she had a full-time job.

—It's up to you, Artie said when she told him her new salary. But don't tell me it's because I complained about money!

—Did I say that? said Evelyn, and went into the bedroom to take off her shoes. He followed. They still found sex a fine game, but even with the door closed, she wouldn't do it when the girls were awake.

She wore her hair pulled back with two barrettes and had never stopped having the look of a girl who might giggle or run away if you surprised her. Artie sometimes put down what he was doing and stared, watching Evelyn walk through a room, looking as if anything at all might be in her mind—something amusing, something easy to think about. When Artie noticed that look, he promised himself never to yell at her again, and one night he made up a limerick for her.

There once was a guy with a wife.

They had plenty of trouble and strife

But her hair was so curly

Although she was surly

He loved her for all of his life.

—Who's surly? Evelyn said. Anyway, it's wavy, not curly. She was piercing potatoes with a fork, preparatory to baking them, and she pretended to throw one underhanded at his head. Artie waited for Brenda to come home, to recite his limerick for her.

B
renda was late. It was spring 1956, she was in high school, and she had stayed after school to try out for the tennis team. She didn't know much about tennis because what she did know, her father had taught her, which meant that she knew one thing well. Brenda still played the recorder and had even gone with her father to a meeting of the American Recorder Society, at which an auditorium full of recorder players—brandishing their soprano, alto, tenor, and bass recorders—played music together. Brenda tootled along on her soprano, biting the inside of her cheeks to keep her mouth from opening in laughter at the sound she and her earnest neighbors produced.

He'd never taught her the alto recorder, never taught her the trickier ornaments on the soprano, and in the same way, in tennis she'd learned nothing but a basic forehand. But it was a lovely forehand. She practiced in the park, batting balls against the handball courts after school. A good forehand might impress the coach, who would teach her the backhand and how to serve. How hard could it be?

Artie had laughed when she mentioned at breakfast that she'd be home late because she was trying out for tennis, and his laughter made her lose her temper. Then she cried.

—It's about time you learned to be realistic about what you can do and what you can't, he said, ignoring her tears. That made her sure she couldn't do it, but now she couldn't back down. And she hated to give up her image of herself, darting across a court, slamming a ball—backhand—just over the net, as a stymied opponent scrambled for it.

Brenda knew it would be better not to pay attention when her father criticized her, better to feel angry instead of ashamed. But she could sustain her anger only so long, and when she was alone after an argument with him, she frightened herself with imagined rituals of worthlessness, torments inflicted on herself, not by her father but by godlike authorities. Alone in the bedroom she shared with Carol, Brenda might conclude that she ought to be killed or turned out to starve. Her father didn't say it, he didn't think it, but something in his ridicule met something in Brenda that consumed his laughter with terrifying eagerness. Her mind turned on her, and her thoughts were too big for her head.

So she had to try out. And anyway, what could the coach say that would be worse than the cruel, laughing voice she sometimes heard as she deposited coins to ride the bus, or tied her shoe? It spoke inside her ear—not her father's voice, not anyone's—high-pitched, not quite clear.

Brenda didn't make the team, but her forehand got her into an advanced after-school class that the coach, Mrs. Broward, said was another way of making the team. Mrs. Broward was short, powerful, and blond, not young but younger than Brenda's parents. When she volleyed with Brenda—leaning forward, positioning her racket and grinning, then meeting any ball without stretching—Brenda felt protectiveness coming toward her, along with the tennis ball and, to tell the truth, a hint of disdain. A couple of girls had crushes on Mrs. Broward and informed the others of the progress of their passions, but Brenda hated the word
crush
and would never have spoken of the yearning delight she took in the coach, who sometimes dug in her pocket, thrusting her hips forward slightly, to ease a man's handkerchief from the shorts that hugged her thick midsection. Her voice was critical but never sarcastic. Someone said Mrs. Broward had once sung in a Christmas show in the auditorium, and Brenda would have given much to have heard it.

Her father was not surprised that Brenda didn't make the team—after all, she didn't know how to play tennis. At supper, he detailed all she didn't know. Brenda sometimes went along on a Saturday or Sunday when Artie met Harold to play. She'd watch or take her racket to the handball court and practice. Artie would interrupt his game with Harold, which he nearly always won, to go over and give her some pointers.

—Leave her alone, Brenda heard Harold say, the second time he did this. She has a teacher. Let the teacher handle it.

—What does that dame know? Artie said. He and Harold rarely talked about anything but tennis these days.

Mrs. Broward didn't teach as Artie did. Her after-school class learned forehand, backhand, and serves, all within a few days. Brenda stood to demonstrate service with an imaginary racket, flinging her arm at the kitchen ceiling.

—This is asinine! Artie shouted, and Brenda burst into tears.

—Artie, said Evelyn.

—Artie, Artie, he said, imitating her. Every time I give these kids something to think about, something to consider, it's Artie, Artie. What's wrong with letting her see her teacher isn't God in heaven?

—Mrs. Broward is an excellent teacher, Brenda said, though she didn't know if Mrs. Broward was a good teacher or not.

F
or a year, Artie heard about the after-school tennis class and Brenda's beloved Mrs. Broward. When Brenda came to the park, he could see right away that her form was lousy. One night when he got home from work she was arguing with Evelyn about how to cook meatloaf. It's disgusting, Brenda said.

—You've eaten it this way for years, Evelyn said.

—It should be crisp, Brenda said.

—For God's sake, now what? Artie said. She wants caviar?

—I'm having a conversation with Mother, Brenda said,
if you don't mind.
It ended with her refusing to eat anything but toast and jelly, which she prepared ostentatiously, several times that evening, crunching the toast crudely.

As Artie and Evelyn were turning off the television and moving toward bed, Carol came out of the bedroom. She said, Brenda got thrown out of the tennis class.

—What are you talking about? Artie said.

—She said she could come home earlier now, and I said, Did you quit tennis, and she said, Not really.

—Not
really
! Artie said.

—Leave it alone, said Evelyn.

Artie ignored her. Brenda! That dame threw you out? What happened? He strode into the girls' bedroom without knocking, something they made a fuss about. Brenda was in bed, but he could see she was only pretending to be asleep.

—Tell me what happened!

—Would you leave me alone?

—She threw you out?

She sat up. If you must know, yes, Mrs. Broward said I'm out of the after-school class.

—Did she give a goddamn
reason
? Did she offer the slightest
explanation
?

Brenda started to cry. Leave me alone. I stink, that's all. Forget it.

—For crying out loud, Artie said. I'll go talk to this Mrs. Broward with her fancy ideas and total incapacity for education.

Brenda leaned forward and screamed,
Don't you dare!
Then she said. It's not her fault. I can see I'm no good.

—Well, whose fault is that? If the pupil can't learn, the responsibility goes to the teacher. You wouldn't have found
me
telling some kid he can't learn! I just tried a little harder. He was leaning in the doorway, getting interested. Carol was in bed, and now Brenda lay down and turned her back to him under the covers. Artie kept talking. One method doesn't work, you try another one. I should have talked to her a long time ago.

Brenda had pulled her head under the blankets.

Carol said, Daddy, Brenda doesn't want you to say things like that.

—And what do
you
know? Artie said.

—Artie, come to bed, Evelyn was calling.

There once was a guy with three women,
Artie said.
There once was a guy with three women . . .
Oh, to hell with it.

He had worked out the limerick by morning. Hey, Bren, he said, how about this? Brenda was eating corn flakes and hadn't yet spoken.

He recited,

There once was a guy with three winnimen

As delicious as sugar and cinnamon,

But they cried all the time

Though he plied them with rhyme

And sooner or later they DID HIM IN.

—For God's sake, Brenda said. At least she'd spoken.

—I'm taking the morning off and coming to school with you, Artie said.

—You are not.

—Of course I am. What kind of a father— He didn't finish the sentence. Brenda stood up, her cereal half eaten, and left the room. Before he knew what was happening, she was gone, not saying good-bye.

Artie could find the goddamn school on his own. He put on his tie and called the store to say he had to talk to one of Brenda's teachers and would be late. Evelyn asked what was going on, but he didn't say anything, and she was in a hurry herself.

Artie walked into the first school office he saw, hat in hand, and asked how to find Mrs. Broward. The building smelled so much like a school that he was shaky, though it didn't particularly resemble the junior high where he'd worked. He was directed to another office, where the dean of students decided they'd go and speak together to Mrs. Broward, and sent for Brenda as well.

In Artie's mind Brenda was a child, but as he sat in the dean's office, nervously waiting, he heard steps that sounded familiar but sounded like a woman, and when he turned, Brenda looked different. At home her gestures were histrionic, chosen to communicate outrage as often as not, but here she had the efficient, sturdy walk and movements of a short woman going about her business, expecting to be left alone. Seeing her father, she stopped and said, Oh, for heaven's sake, what is this all about? She told the dean that she understood perfectly why Mrs. Broward had dismissed her, that she didn't mind, and that she was more interested in other activities.

—What activities? Artie said.

—I haven't decided yet.

The dean, who was pleased to have a parent taking an interest, led the way to the girls' gym, where Mrs. Broward was teaching a large phys ed class. Through an open door Artie glimpsed long rows of girls in green uniforms doing jumping jacks, and the dean asked them to wait while he went inside. Brenda wouldn't look at Artie. Then the dean returned with Mrs. Broward, a stocky woman, not much taller than Brenda, in a white polo shirt and white shorts.