When We Argued All Night (24 page)

—I'm sorry! she said, coming out. Let me do that. Want coffee?

He shrugged and withdrew to the window, standing with his back to it, so when she looked into his face she could see only shadows and the planes of his nose and chin. It felt as if she would gain points in some game she hadn't agreed to play if she could get him to sit down, that he would gain points if he didn't. She removed the obvious clutter and started coffee.

When she returned to the living room while the coffee perked, he had moved out into the middle of the room. His mouth twitched oddly, and for a moment he looked frightened. Nobody's here? he said.

—What do you mean?

—Nobody's here, I mean—is anybody here? Now he sounded impatient.

—Except us? Why should anyone be here? She looked around. Had one of the kids gotten so drunk he'd passed out? Was someone in the apartment with her?

—I mean, he said, in the bedroom.

She understood. No, of course not. You think I slept with them?

—One would be enough, I presume.

—Of course not! she said. For heaven's sake. I go crazy waiting for you.

—And you know I come when I can. And you take it out on me when I can't, by coming on to one of those students. You said they weren't all kids. Again, she glimpsed that tipped head, the look of someone younger, more unsure—only for a moment.

—I don't do that, she said, but she felt ashamed, as if she had done it, as if what she'd done while simply leading her life—thinking each action was the next logical one—might somehow have fallen into a shape she hadn't planned or wanted.

He'd had a haircut and his hair was shorter this time. Now, she said, you don't look the least bit like an antiwar person. It seemed that she could fix this morning if she could get him to relax his neck, his jaw.

—What are you talking about? I don't look like what I think.

—You had long hair. I thought you were against the war the first time I saw you.

—I happened to like the way I look in long hair, he said resentfully, and I happened to get tired of it. So you don't want to sleep with me anymore because I don't look like one of your scruffy friends?

—Richie, she said as gently as she could. Of course I want to sleep with you. I don't even
have
friends.

—Oh, yeah, so who were you having fun with last night? Your enemies? And obviously you gave them stuff to drink, he said.

Now she was worried. I didn't mean to, she said, but I let them come here, and I bought beer. I thought they wouldn't take any unless they were of age, but things got away from me.

—Got away from you! You didn't
mean
to buy beer, but somehow—somehow or other— His voice rose to a falsetto,
Oh my gosh, I seem to have bought some beer!
In his own angry voice he said, You never were running it. I can see from here you didn't show a goddamn grain of sense! He sounded like a father, not exactly like her father, though it was an accusation her father might have made, but like a father more sure of himself than hers was, one who knew the rules and enforced them. And like the kind of father she knew of but didn't have, Richie stepped toward her, his hand raised, and smacked the side of her head and her ear. How can you be like that? he said, his voice high again now, almost teary. What am I risking, with someone who can't think?

When he connected, Brenda cried out and stepped backward. Her face stung, and the shame was worse, mixing with the headache. Don't! she said, but it sounded more like a plea than a command. She ran into the bedroom and flung herself on the bed, sobbing, and he followed.

—Aah, what do you do things like that for? You think you can come to a town like this and have that kind of party? You haven't noticed how people think around here? I hope what I just did is the worst of it.

There was some solace in giving way to the sloppiness of tears. At last he began stroking her back and shoulders and her hair, and his voice turned soft. It's okay, baby, it's okay. Maybe nothing will come of it. We'll hope for the best. Come on, baby.

She turned, and after a while, she opened her arms to him and felt the comfort of his solid, expressive body. His body was more nuanced, more able to express complex feeling, than his talk. It cherished her convincingly. Lovey, he said, as he was getting out of bed, reaching to stroke her shoulder again. You know why I did that? I had to do it. I had to wake you up. Do you understand?

—Yes, Brenda said.

—Maybe nothing else will happen, he said, and she didn't know whether he meant maybe nothing bad would come of her party—and what would that be?—or whether he meant he might not have cause to hit her again. She pulled the blankets around her, bruised, shamed, comforted, afraid and not afraid. So it had happened.

H
arold phoned a lawyer. He had to phone several before he found someone who was interested in taking Artie's case against Beatrice London on a contingent fee basis. Simply writing a letter and asking the Board of Education to restore Artie's job had no effect. Artie had not been surprised—he was almost triumphant—when his letter was answered by someone who obviously didn't know what he was talking about.

—I should change my name, like you, he said, and apply to teach for the first time. Hello, this is Artie Saltz. Can I teach Social Studies? I've heard it's fun. My first unit will be freedom of speech in the classroom.

—You probably wouldn't have to change your name, Harold said. Nobody there would think about who you might be. But if it ever came out, you'd lose your job again.

—I was kidding. It's no fun these days. Kids pull knives on you. Why should I bother?

—You'll never be happy until you do. Harold had no classes that day and had met Artie for lunch at the Chinese restaurant. He was reaching his chopsticks into the middle of the table for shiny eggplant cubes, looking up now and then at his old friend, who still used a fork but who ate a lot and never gained weight, unlike Harold. Maybe fitting shoes all day kept him slim.

—What do you know about happy? Artie said. Living alone in that place—like a doctor's office. Bare, white, and cold. At least when I go to visit, you don't make me wear a johnny coat that shows my tuchas. He pushed his chair back. I don't know which would be worse, teaching or this. My back is a wreck from all the bending in the store. I'll be a cripple before I can retire. I had to stop playing the recorder at night—I can't stand up after a day in the store. But teaching again? All those kids? I'm not the same guy.

Harold thought that might be the truth. Maybe he was being foolish, telling all these lawyers that justice required putting his friend back into the classroom. Maybe it was too late.

Then Artie said, Okay, give me the name of the lawyer. And now tell me, how are your kids? And Harold, do you ever get to the cabin these days? Is it still there?

Harold bent over his briefcase, looking for the notebook in which he'd written the name and number of the lawyer. His head was down, and he was glad Artie couldn't see his face when he mentioned the cabin. Harold had to compose himself before he could speak again. Paul's fine, he said. Writing for the student newspaper. He wants to go away next year—maybe Berkeley. He's caught up in this stuff, but he's not crazy. I think he'll be okay.

—And Nelson? Artie's face tensed.

—The same as ever. He heard anger in his own voice and Artie waved as if to say, Never mind. No, Harold said. I'm not ashamed of him, but Artie, what can I do? He's in the street, in some apartment—I don't know. I'd go back and change everything if I could, but I wouldn't even know what to change.

It was the thought of the cabin that had upset Harold. The lake and the woods around it didn't enter his thoughts for weeks at a time, but when the memory came, it was intense. The cabin and even its surroundings were diminished these days, with those other cabins on the lake. Paul said he was bored when he went with his mother and grandparents, but when Harold thought of being there, it wasn't even the lake and the mountains that came to mind first; it might be walking out of Grand Union with a bag of groceries and across a rainy parking lot to his car. He didn't know why his brain had bothered to keep that memory.

Harold took leave of Artie, urging him to phone the lawyer. That bitch owes you something! he said. He took the subway to Times Square and walked over to the library, the wind puffing out his raincoat as he passed Bryant Park. He was writing an article about Delmore Schwartz. His mood improved. He felt lucky to have the day—it was exam week at the college—to have the city, the freedom to go into the reading room and consult an obscure book, as he'd been doing all his life. He began feeling his usual guilt: Artie's life had been narrowed, not broadened, by their dismissal from the school system. Harold put that feeling aside. He could feel guilty about any number of topics, and what good did that do anyone? He was having dinner with Naomi, meeting her at a restaurant downtown. Naomi enjoyed good food but didn't want more than health required, as she enjoyed other people without craving anyone. He was shy about touching her. She was at ease, watching others and commenting on them. Her heart wasn't constantly breaking and mending, and she didn't have to protect herself. Naomi had the luxury to be clever, to be wise. He could marry her now, but she didn't need him any more than she ever had.

The book he consulted was old, interesting, and useful. He read into the late afternoon, making careful notes on the 4 x 6 index cards he preferred. When he left the library, it was dark. He started walking down Fifth Avenue, then jumped on a bus, but when he got off, close to the restaurant—downtown on the East Side—he realized he was much too early. He'd lost track of the time in the wrong direction, which was a little embarrassing. He was near Nelson's apartment—if Nelson still lived in the apartment—and though he hadn't been there, he thought he remembered the address and had it in the little leather book he carried in his briefcase. He was afraid to ring the doorbell, if there was a working doorbell, but he could walk past the place. The apartment was in a poorly kept-up brownstone, and he didn't know which floor it was on. He felt overdressed in this neighborhood with its shabby, colorful shops smelling of incense: as always, Harold was conspicuous. What if Nelson had seen him walk by his house and keep going? At that thought, he took his address book out to check the address—he was right—and returned. He mounted the front steps and tried all three doorbells, none of which was labeled. After a wait, he heard sounds inside, and the door was opened by a girl with loose hair and overalls.

—I'm looking for Nelson Abrams—I mean Abramovitz, Harold said. Nelson had pointedly refused to change his name.

—Are you his father?

—That's right. I'm Harold Abrams.

—Hi, the girl said.

—Does he live here? Harold persisted.

—Sort of. He's here now.

She led the way up a staircase with loose treads and squeaky boards, to a dark landing, then into an apartment. He was in a living room like various shabby living rooms of his youth, and four or five young people sat on sofas and a bed and on the floor. There were a lot of filled ashtrays. These kids were accustomed to dropping in on one another. It would have been more awkward if he'd tried to set up an appointment. There was insistent music he didn't recognize. Nelson was one of the kids sitting on the floor, leaning back against a sofa, with a gray tiger cat in his lap. Except Nelson was too old to be considered a kid. He looked up and smiled. Dad? He wasn't surprised enough.

—I was in the neighborhood, Harold said.

—Trying to score some good stuff? one of the kids said, and Harold didn't know if he was seriously offering him a deal or not.

—Just in the neighborhood.

—You're not a narc, are you? someone said, then smiled.

The girl made room on the sofa against which Nelson leaned, and Harold sat down.

—Do you know anything about cats? Nelson said. I'm worried about this cat.

—Is it yours? Harold said, looking down at his son's hair. It was an unexpectedly tender view of Nelson. His brown hair was clean.

—I brought him home to feed him, Nelson said. I bought cat food, but he won't eat.

The girl said, He wants to be outside—he's an outdoor cat. He's going to spray too—you know, Nelse, a male cat that hasn't been altered can't live in a house.

—Just giving him a chance for a decent meal, Nelson said. But he won't eat. Maybe Ralph fed him.

—Who's Ralph? Harold said.

Nelson tipped his head back to look at him. He looked better than when he had come to Harold's house. A very cool guy I met, trying to end the draft. He might give me a job, but he can't pay.

—That's wonderful, Harold said, with unconvincing enthusiasm. Volunteer. End the draft. He felt as if he was on display. He asked more questions. Let me know the address of the organization, he said. I'll make a contribution.

—Sure, Nelson said, but kept stroking the cat.

Harold continued asking questions: When had Nelson seen Paul? He didn't remember. Then he described his afternoon at the library. At last it was time to go and meet Naomi. Where is it? Harold said, as he stood. The place where you might work. Where's the office?

Nelson pointed vaguely.

—Downtown?

—Downtown.

—I've got to go, he said.

—You don't think the cat is sick? Nelson said, reaching the animal in Harold's direction.

Harold stood. He reached down to stroke the cat. It was bony. I don't know. Maybe.

—No, you're not an expert on animals, are you? Nelson said.

The girl didn't stand up and Harold let himself out. He was late now and hurried to the restaurant. His hand felt unclean from touching the cat. No, he was not an expert on animals. He found Naomi at a table in the back. It was an Indian restaurant they liked. Naomi had learned to eat Indian food in England and had introduced it to Harold. She looked up as he came along—amused at what she seemed to see in his face.