When We Argued All Night (28 page)

The grass was getting to her. I had nobody to talk to, she said.

—That's not how I think of California.

—How old are you? she said.

—Twenty-four. I never grew up, he said.

She remembered that he'd been in a mental hospital. I wish I had some wine, she said.

—There's nothing here. My mother hasn't been here in years, he said. She wants to sell it.

—I used to love to come here, she said. Maybe it's not so nice anymore.

—She never liked it, Nelson said.

—She should sell it to your father.

—She'd die first. He laughed. After a silence, he said, I used to be afraid of you.

—Of me?

—You weren't afraid of your father, Nelson said. I was afraid of you because you didn't seem to be afraid of anything.

—You mean if I wasn't afraid of my father, I wasn't afraid of anything?

—Something like that.

—In a way I was very afraid of him, she said.

—I'll never believe that. He got out his package of cookies and put them between them, and she took a few. They were Oreos. The first one was delicious, but then the sugar made her jittery. In the dark she could see that he was doing something to his cookie. He separated the chocolate wafers and was licking the icing off.

—I have to stop eating these, she said. I wish I had a steak and some vegetables. Tomorrow we're going into town and steal some. She felt happy to have this boy with her. She had been alone for months.

—We could buy some, but we can't cook them, he said. Well, I guess we could build a fire.

—I have to go back to New York, she said. How long are you going to stay?

—Oh, man, I have to get my shit together, Nelson said. I can't go back to New York. Or maybe—I don't know what I'm going to do.

There was silence again, and he said, Would you mind if I touch you? Sometimes I need so badly to touch someone, and grass does that to me, especially.

—What do you mean, touch?

—Just touch. Your hair maybe.

Brenda's hair was still thin and short, nothing special, and she hadn't taken a shower in days. But she stretched out on the sofa with her head toward him, and he stroked it hesitantly. Do you have a lot of guys? he said.

—No.

—Nobody? Do you have an old man?

—I had a bad affair in California, she said.

—You want to tell me?

—No.

She was freezing. She wondered what time it was. Nelson, behind her, continued crunching cookies. You know about me? he said.

—You tried to kill yourself.

—I jumped in front of a train. The first time.

—There were other times? she said.

—When you're like this, you don't stop, you just postpone it. Nelson continued stroking her hair and her forehead, and then he left his hand on her hair. It was scarcely a weight on her head. She turned so as to bring her forehead and face into contact with this childish hand. It was the first time she'd been touched—except maybe by a stranger putting change into her palm—since Richie had hit her the last time. She'd done the only thing she could do. But she'd have liked to be someone who could do other things instead, and she wondered what a stronger, more adult woman would have done, and when. Each occurrence had followed, step by step. She'd never chosen to have an affair with a married man who beat her up regularly. But this cool, young hand on her face. She was crying and he was touching her tears, then began wiping them with his fingers. I need you! he said after a long time.

—I was in love with your father when you were little, she said slowly. I wished he was my father. I used to imagine that he'd come and save me. I was jealous of how you could stand near him and touch him.

—Weren't your parents okay? I mean, even with your father being like that?

—They're decent people, Brenda said. They just didn't know what they were doing. My father is surprised at everything that happens. Now he got his job back, and he's surprised at that. This was not fair, she decided, but didn't say so. She was surprised at everything too. She too didn't know how to do things so life worked out.

Nelson stopped speaking, and after a while Brenda thought she'd get up and wash her face. How good to have water, even though it was only cold water. She sat down again next to Nelson. There were no towels in the bathroom and her face was wet.

—We could ball, Nelson said. Would that be incest?

—Maybe. She laughed. But maybe we should, she said. Then she said, The guy I was in love with was married. And he hit me.

—That's heavy, Nelson said after a long pause, and his voice sounded young again. She wasn't attracted to him in that way, but she wanted to press her body into the body of another person who would not hurt her.

She said, I found sheets. They made their way in the dark into the bedroom and for a long time lay holding each other in the bed she'd slept in the night before. Then in a sleepy, delicate way he moved on top of her, somehow without resting his weight on her. She perceived that he was naked and didn't know when he'd taken off his clothes. She stood and removed hers, then lay down next to him and slowly, awkwardly, he moved on top of her again and touched her breast. She lay still, stroking the vertebrae of his back, then brought her hand around his narrow hips to touch his penis. Almost immediately he entered her. Even on top of her, he felt tentative and light. Being with Nelson was sad but good. There were other beds in the place, but they stayed together in this one.

The next day he was moody and quiet. Brenda said she'd leave the next morning. She was awkward with him and envisioned them reading quietly together or going for a walk, but they did little. She walked a little alone, but he stayed in the cabin. They drove into Schroon Lake and found an open lunch counter, then returned there for supper. Nelson paid both times. They didn't make love again, and he had no more grass. In the evening, she wished she'd asked him to buy some beer and cigarettes. Early, he took some blankets from a shelf and went into the other bedroom. You're going in the morning? he said, turning in the doorway.

—Yes.

—Wake me before you leave, he said. Okay?

—You're sure?

—Yes.

She hoped she hadn't harmed him. She wasn't sleepy yet. She took one of Myra's books into the bedroom and tried to read by candlelight, wondering how literature survived the years before electricity. Maybe candles were better in those days. The lost art of candlemaking, she said out loud.

She slept well and long, and when she woke up, the light told her it was late morning. She got up and washed her arms and face and neck in cold water. She ate corn flakes with milk. They'd bought some milk and left it outdoors in the cool air. Nelson had drunk much of it. Then she began to gather her things and take them out to the car. It looked like rain. She went back into the cabin and into Nelson's room. He had put something over the window, and it was dark. He was solidly asleep, snoring lightly. She put her hand on his shoulder. Nelson?

—What?

—I'm going.

—No, don't.

—I have to, she said. She wanted to.

—Wait.

—What is it?

He sat up in bed and pushed his long hair out of his eyes. Would you do me a favor? he said.

—Sure. Well, if I can.

—Drive me to New York.

—But you just came. You said you wanted to stay here and think. You haven't had a minute, with me around.

—Is that why you're going? So I can be alone?

—No.

—I might come back here after I go to New York, he said, but there's something I have to do there.

—What is it? Can I do it for you?

—No, he said. I'll tell you about it. Just wait, I'll be ready in a minute.

They didn't turn off the water, but Nelson said it was all right, that there wouldn't be another hard frost. He had brought a large duffel bag with lots of things in it—maybe all his things. She had to work to get it into her packed car. I like my things, he said. She didn't think he'd opened it, except maybe to get a toothbrush. He was wearing the same flannel shirt and jeans he had on when she found him there.

They rode down the Northway in silence. Then Nelson said, When people ran away from the mental hospital, they called it
eloping
.

—That's funny.

—It was funny. As if they were getting married. You know where it is?

—Where what is?

—The hospital. It's right near the George Washington Bridge.

—Oh, right, she said. She was changing lanes behind a slow driver.

He went on. With her peripheral vision, she could see that he was gesturing. Nelson had long narrow hands and long oval nails, and his gestures were slow and beautiful. There was a girl I liked, he said. Her name was Susan.

—What was she like?

—Do you have anything to eat? I didn't eat.

She said, The corn flakes and a couple of other things are in a grocery bag, on top of the shit in the back seat. But we left the milk.

He turned around, and then she heard him crunching corn flakes.

—I still have just a little money, she said. We'll stop and get something.

—I have money.

—Do you sell drugs? she said.

—Sometimes. He reached into the box for more corn flakes. Want some?

—No. What was Susan like?

—She was little and she had long dark hair. She used to play the guitar and sing. She sang Joan Baez songs.

—She sounds like Joan Baez.

—A little. With curly hair, though. And—do you mind my telling you this?

—Of course not, she said. She thought he might mean she'd be jealous of this Susan. Are you going to see her? Is that why you're going into the city?

—Something like that. He seemed to have put the box of corn flakes down at his feet, in the space that was already cluttered. He was silent. Then he said, Susan eloped, and she jumped off the George Washington Bridge.

—Oh my God, Brenda said. Oh, honey. Do you want me to get off the road, so I can stop and hold you?

—No. I think about it all the time. Thing is, I have to walk out on the bridge and tell her I love her. I've loved her all these years.

—Did you ever do that before? Walk out on the bridge?

—No. Being with you made me know I should do it.

She considered. You want me to drive you to the bridge?

—I won't be able to do it otherwise.

—And it's so important, all of a sudden, after all these years?

—She was a really sweet girl, he said.

—Was she your girlfriend?

He considered. Sort of. We didn't screw, you know—that would have been hard to do there, and we were kids. I didn't have the nerve to say I didn't know how. But we used to talk and touch each other. It was touching your hair that made me know I had to go onto the bridge and say good-bye. I never said good-bye. They wouldn't let me go to the funeral.

She turned on the radio. Here she could find stations that played the music she liked. Over the sound of a Doors song they listened to together, she said, But how do I know—Nelson, you know what I'm thinking.

—You're thinking I'm going to kill myself.

She waited until the song ended. That's right. Another song began.

—What can I say? You have to trust me. Don't you trust me? There was a hint of a whine in his voice.

She didn't answer. They were still north of Albany. You jumped in front of a train, she said.

—That was years ago. I was shrunk and treated and given a million pills—I'm not that kid now.

She was silent. She wished the George Washington Bridge were farther away, so she could think. She calculated. Simplest would be to come at it from the Jersey side. But she wasn't going to do that, and she knew he didn't mean that. The girl would have walked out from the New York side. And she herself needed the drive through the familiar avenues of New York. She wouldn't be able to think until she was in New York. I hate this road, she said, and at her next opportunity she got onto Route 9, which would slow them down and would take her right into the city.

—This is the way we used to go when we were kids, he said.

—Us too. I'll take the Taconic State. She'd drive through the Bronx and onto city streets in Manhattan. Now there were things to look at beside the road. They stopped for coffee and doughnuts. The small shabby businesses were cheering after the speed and mindlessness of the highway.

—What's your brother like these days? she said, when it began to seem that they had been silent for too long.

—My brother. Well, he smiles all the time, Nelson said. He has tried marijuana exactly once. He's a kid, but it's hard to remember he's a kid. He's like the mayor. He's taller than my dad and wider.

—He's fat?

—No, he's just got arms and legs like telephone poles. He does everything right. Somebody has to be like that.

—That's my sister, in my family. She has a husband and a baby.

—No shit. A baby. Do you like it?

—I've never seen him, Brenda said. That's part of why I have to get to New York.

—How old is he?

—Five or six months.

—You didn't fly east to see him?

—I should have.

—Your sister was nice to me when we were kids, Nelson said. I wasn't afraid of her.

—She's still nice.

The next time they spoke, he said, Are you going to take me to the bridge?

—Can't you take the subway to the bridge?

—You don't want the responsibility. But look, Brenda, even if I was going to kill myself—isn't that my business?

—You're going to kill yourself, I knew it. They were driving through a town, an ugly town. There were traffic lights at every corner, and they were all red.

—I'm not going to kill myself. But why should you care? Isn't it my business to choose the length of my life? I could get drafted. I could end up in Vietnam and not only die but kill other people. This way I wouldn't be killing anybody but me.