When We Argued All Night (30 page)

—I'll tell you when I think of something.

He was tired and leaned on the counter. I should have brought coffee.

—I'd love coffee. He went into the rain again, leaving behind his clipboard and brochures, and found an open coffee shop. He brought back two containers, with two muffins in a bag in his raincoat pocket. Walking in the rain—again the umbrella was useless, and now he needed both hands for the coffee containers, but they were warm—he looked forward to the next day.

There was always a next day and a next, and each took him further from Nelson's life, each was a day that Nelson would not live, and each took Harold closer to his own death. But each took him further from the day of Nelson's death, and that was worth it, further from the moment of finding out. They would be a small, quiet group at the wedding tomorrow. He was being married by a rabbi—would wonders never cease? As he walked carefully with the hot containers, head down against the rain, it seemed that if he concentrated enough, it would already be that next day, which was predicted to be sunny. He would be unmarried and then, as if he went over a bump, married. Naomi had wanted a rabbi, and Artie had produced one: Carol's husband, Lenny, in midlife had gone to rabbinical school. Not too much God, Harold said to Artie.

—Are you kidding? With me for a father-in-law? He doesn't dare. Harold knew Lenny wasn't afraid of anyone, but so what? They'd be married at Paul's substantial home near Poughkeepsie—he taught history at Vassar—and Paul and his wife, Martha, were having lunch catered. The only guests would be Artie and Evelyn, Brenda and her little boy, David—who was six or seven—and her latest girlfriend (I try not to like them too much, Evelyn had told Harold, because they just don't last). Carol and Lenny had two children, but Harold had no idea how old they were or whether they were coming. His own grandchildren would certainly be there: Paul and Martha had two boys and a girl, Amanda, who at three somehow knew about weddings and had insisted that she would be the flower girl in Grandpa Harold and Grandma Naomi's wedding. So there would be no fuss—except that Amanda would carry a basket of petals and, if she could be persuaded to give them up, would strew them on the ground. Like Harold, Naomi was an only child, but two of her friends were coming to the wedding.

After Nelson died, Artie and Evelyn had sat silently with Harold for hours, then returned day after day. They sat near him, bent forward as if their chairs had no backs, as if they sat on stools, as Jews are supposed to in mourning, though they were not on stools.

D
id you pick up your dress from the cleaners? he said, when he'd brought the coffee back and was leaning again on the sink.

—What do you think? Huh? Do you think I picked up my dress? Or do you think I just left it there? She finished cleaning the stove, drank more coffee, elbowed him away from the sink and shook some cleanser into it. I've lived in this apartment all these years, she said, scrubbing. Decades.
Decades
, not just years. That stain in the sink. I clean it every week. It never changes. Oh my life, she said. What did I do with my life?

3

T
hese days there were more homeless people in Grand Central Station than people taking trains. This was not true, Artie acknowledged to himself, but the homeless took up more room and were more noticeable than the people hurrying to or from the tracks, or even the people like him, waiting at the clock. A person who might be a man or a woman—in a woolen hat pulled down over the ears—sprawled against a wall, surrounded by battered suitcases. Artie's bum knee was bothering him, and he walked repeatedly around the information kiosk in the center of the station because walking was easier than standing. He had arrived twenty minutes early for David's train. Only eleven, the kid was coming by himself from New Haven, where Brenda had driven from New Hampshire to visit her girlfriend. The two of them would be alone for the weekend, while he and Evelyn got to keep David, which was good. But he didn't see why she couldn't have driven David into New York. Maybe the kid liked trains. He could remember being eleven, and he would have wanted to come alone, to come on the train alone. In a way, Artie was still eleven.

Or Artie could have taken the train to New Haven, said hello to the girlfriend, Jess, whom he liked, and picked up David. Well, Brenda thought the way Brenda thought, and there was no point in arguing.

Seventeen minutes until the train was due. Maybe Brenda thought taking the train back and forth would wear Artie out—that he was too old. She'd given him a funny look the last time they were together, as if she was shocked at how old he was, all of a sudden.

Or maybe the kid insisted. Probably that was it. He enlarged his walk. No point in circling the information booth for seventeen minutes, giving himself the same circular explanations. He toured the station, studied the stupid Kodak ad, studied the homeless. The indeterminate person was a woman. Fourteen minutes. If you often showed up early to meet trains, life would not seem short.

Retired, he had too much thinking time. At the moment he was not worrying about the goddamn country four years after Reagan was elected or about Brenda's love life—Jess had lasted for a while; maybe she was permanent—but, more immediately, about whether David would get safely off the train and into his arms and whether Evelyn would be standing inside the entrance of Macy's closest to Sixth Avenue and Thirty-fourth Street when he and David arrived. What would Evelyn say if he couldn't find David? What would David say if he couldn't find Evelyn? Evelyn might get mixed up and go to the wrong place. He should have thought of something simpler. Macy's had a million entrances. Thirteen minutes. Did he have time to go to the men's room and get back before the train? He should have thought of that before. The impulse had been unexpected. Instead of wasting time deciding, he hurried down the stairs. He could still run. All that tennis. If everyone played tennis, the world would be a healthier place.

He got back with two minutes to spare. Now he circled the information kiosk again, but when the train came in, he couldn't help it, he went to the gate where David would come out. Then he thought that was a mistake, they'd miss each other, and he started back. Grandpa! called David, and Artie turned and opened his arms wide for a skinny boy and a fat, dilapidated backpack. David was wearing a Red Sox jacket.

—You come to New York like that?

—Like what? He smelled fresh and familiar, pressing his face into Artie's chest—eager, cool, aromatic—as if he'd been outdoors, not cooped up in a train. Don't you know better than to come to New York in a Red Sox jacket? Some Yankee fan will knock your block off. Don't worry, I'll protect you. I'll turn you into a Mets fan. Dwight Gooden. You know who that is?

The kid was trembling. Maybe he'd been frightened after all, alone in the train. Artie held his skinny shoulders. You want me to carry your pack?

He shook his head. I'm okay.

—What's the matter?

—Nothing.

—You know, Artie said, when I was eleven, I didn't have a grandfather. I
never
had one. They stayed back in Russia. Horrible, what happened. So I have no experience with how you talk to a grandfather.

David shook his head. I'm okay.

—We'll go find Grandma, Artie said. He'd taught children David's age for years and years, but he'd rarely thought about them one at a time. If there were thirty, he'd know what to do. But this was true for kids too: they liked being with adults if there were plenty of kids around. He remembered being eleven, being with adults at eleven—embarrassment, bafflement. He said, Do you have to go to the bathroom?

—No, David said. Yes.

Back to the men's room. David went into a stall. Artie stood watch. A homeless man washed clothes in a basin. Did you see that? David said as they left. They crossed the main concourse.

—You want something to eat? Can you wait for lunch? He could buy him a knockwurst. A place in the station had great knockwurst. We're having lunch soon—can you wait? I don't want to spoil your appetite.

—I can wait. David had straight, dark hair, like Artie's own before it turned white.

—I'll tell you what. We'll get one knockwurst and share it.

—Okay, David said. He seemed excited. Artie gave him most of the knockwurst. They walked to Broadway—Times Square—and down Broadway. Did you see that? David said again, after a silence.

—See what?

—A man in the men's room was washing clothes in the basin.

—Homeless, Artie said. Reagan's homeless. It's 1984 and we've got 1932 all over again. People with no place to live. Now they're throwing them out of the station. Soon that guy will be out in the street with dirty clothes. A woman got thrown out in the cold a couple of months ago and she died. You know what your friendly president says? He says they're homeless by choice.
Homeless by choice.

—He's not my friendly president.

—Good boy. He's disgusting. And, you'll see, he'll be reelected in November.

—My mom's not voting for him.

—I should hope not! Artie said. How's your mom, anyway?

—She's good.

—So this Jess—is she going to last? Is she better than the others?

—I liked some of the others, David said. I liked Karen. Karen had been Brenda's partner for two years.

—Everybody liked Karen, Artie said. A block later, he said, Hey David, you like limericks? Listen to this:

A woman in females delighted,

And by many of them was excited,

But they'd shout or they'd pout.

They didn't work out.

Would her troth ever be plighted?

David was silent.

—You don't like it? Artie said.

—I don't know, he said. They walked, and Artie looked for something else to talk about. The weather was warm, and he opened his jacket. You want to take your jacket off? Is that thing heavy?

—It's not funny, David said.

—What isn't? Oh, I know what. Artie didn't say anything for a while. Then he said, I know, kiddo. You're right. It's not funny. They didn't speak for a couple of blocks. He should have skipped the goddamned limerick.

When they were almost at Thirty-fourth Street, David said, Grandpa?

—We're almost there. Let's see if we can find your grandma.

—I was scared I wouldn't find you, David said, and burst into tears. He was almost a teenager, Artie saw, looking at him before he put his arms around him, skinny and short but with the beginnings of a man's face, a jaggedness. His cheeks no longer stuck out—that was the difference. David had had round little cheeks Artie liked to pinch. Now he had a bony face. He sobbed and trembled.

—She shouldn't have sent you alone! Artie said. I don't know why the hell she sent you alone!

—I wanted to, David said. But then I was afraid I'd be lost in New York.

—You're not a New Yorker, Artie said. He had almost never known anyone well who was not a New Yorker. A grandson growing up in Concord, New Hampshire! That's okay. I'll teach you to be a New Yorker. I'll teach you what to do. First thing, I gotta take you to a Mets game. I think they're playing tonight—I should have thought. Now Evelyn will want to make a big dinner, the whole bit. Well, we'll watch it on television. But I don't think Gooden is pitching.

If he could find Evelyn. The kid wasn't the only one who worried. Evelyn got mixed up these days. She'd worked at the nursing home for so long, and then one day, before she'd thought about retiring, they told her they were having a big party, a dinner to honor her years of service. I get the message, she said to Artie.

Holding David's hand though the boy protested, Artie went into Macy's and stopped just to the side of the entrance closest to Thirty-fourth Street and Sixth Avenue. He looked at his watch. They were ten minutes late. He didn't see Evelyn. He would count to a hundred and not say anything. He would count to three hundred. Five hundred. There she was, dressed up in a spring coat but with flat shoes. Evelyn had finally stopped wearing heels. A broken ankle I don't need, she said. She was getting shorter. She and David were the same height. I'm late, she said, after she hugged him. Don't say anything, Artie, I know I'm late. I bought you some shirts, David, and there was a line to pay. Wait till you see—very nice shirts.

4

F
inding their way in an unfamiliar store, they forgot soup when they were in the soup aisle, so Jess went back. Brenda pushed the cart across the front of the store toward cookies but stopped when she found piles of newspapers. Here in the Adirondacks, they carried the
New York Times
but not the
Boston Globe
, which they read at home in New Hampshire. The Soviets were withdrawing from Afghanistan. What she wanted to know was how the Red Sox—in second place—had done yesterday, but New York papers neglected the Sox. Jess had grown up in New York and Connecticut. She rooted for the Mets, though now she'd lived in New Hampshire for four years. She'd moved in with Brenda in Concord when—weeping and hugging, arguing, teasing each other for their nervousness—they made up their minds after months of discussion to live together, even if David didn't seem to like Jess much—these days David didn't like anybody much—and even if Jess was a Mets fan. Brenda (who'd been away from New York for years and years, whose son had become a Sox fan the minute she let him out the door) liked the Red Sox.

Two years ago, in 1986, their relationship had survived Bill Buckner's error and the Mets' defeat of the Red Sox in the World Series. If we can handle that, we can handle anything, Jess had said. Now the Mets were in first place in the National League East, the Sox in second place in the American League East. Would they meet again? Could Brenda and Jess still handle it? When nobody was looking, Brenda leafed through the Sports section. Oh shit. Roger Clemens had screwed up early in the game and the Sox had lost.