When We Argued All Night (35 page)

—Stop it! Brenda screamed. She was screaming. Jess would hate it. She was screaming and starting to cry as she had forty years ago, fifty years ago. Stop it! Leave my son alone. My son is fine. He is doing fine. And you don't know anything about my business.

And David turned and faced her, speaking in a low, tense, furious voice. Mother, would you just stop it, please! I can take care of myself! He left the room, saying over his shoulder, I'll wash the dishes. Tonight. I'll be back. His backpack was on the sofa, where he'd have to sleep—there were only two bedrooms. As she watched, he dug hiking boots and heavy socks out of his pack.

—Where are you going? she said.

He didn't answer.

—David, what?

—I'm taking a walk. Now would you leave me alone? I can't stay in the house with the two of you, that's for sure.

—But where are you going?

—Giant.

—Giant? She'd expected he'd name one of the hikes near the cabin.

—Up 87.

—The High Peaks? It's too late. Are you crazy?

—Look, I'm not going to hang around here listening to the two of you screaming at each other.

In moments he had filled two water bottles. He dumped his pack out on the sofa—a book, clothes—and put a few things back.

—Wait a minute!

—Where the hell are you going? Artie said.

—I'll see you later. David waved lightly and was out the door. She heard his car start.

D
avid had begun writing true essays instead of invented stories because he was disgusted with himself. Though he considered his life uneventful—at that time it consisted primarily of biking to work in Silicon Valley, sleeping late on weekends in the bed of a girlfriend, disliking an unreasonable boss, and failing to phone his mother—he experienced as much rage, shame, desire, and sorrow as if he was in the habit of hurling his relatives off cliffs or losing his women to murderous pirates. His stories were not dramatic, but they were more dramatic than his life, and that felt like cheating. He'd never be a good writer until he told the truth. Somebody else might become a writer by learning how to make things up, he conceded, but not he. He had to find out how to tell the truth and yet convey to the reader the feelings that were stupid to feel but that David Saltzman did feel. And so he'd begun to write essays, timid essays that got him into graduate school but had teachers asking, But what's at stake here? And then maybe better essays, true stories about himself or other people.

He drove up the Northway, not wanting to look at the dashboard clock because he'd be shocked at how late it was, definitely too late to start a hike, start one when he was already tired. But nothing could calm him except walking up a mountain. He'd hurt his mother; his grandfather had hurt them both. David had refused to see why she was angry when he knew perfectly well why—and at the same time, he scorned her for being angry, for never having grown up, for needing at sixty-two or whatever she was to squelch and silence her admittedly obnoxious father. Only fast driving followed by fast walking would help.

And in truth, it was July, when daylight lasted. He had decent hiking shoes, water, guidebook, a first-aid kit, and trail mix. He had a rain poncho and a warm jacket. Hell, he was as much of a worrier as his terrified grandfather, who had inherited the fears Jews had held for centuries without inheriting the rituals they used to calm themselves. David would not fall off the mountain, would not die, even though he had hurt his mother and probably his grandfather.

He'd picked out a few hikes at home, choosing them for proximity and promised views. A line of cars was parked along Route 73 when he got there, and even before he reached the trail, he met people coming down. It was hot even under the trees, but the glare of the day receded as David began to walk. The trail register showed that dozens of people had gone up this mountain that day. He'd imagined being alone. Many had descended, checking off their return. Some included a comment: Good walk. Nice walk. Nobody admitted to being tired.

Walking felt good, but the trail was steep. He didn't want to fail. Now and then he'd hear a descending party above him, and then they'd pass him with greetings. There were children and dogs, babies on their parents' backs. He was breathless, but it got easier. More people descended.

—You've got a long way to go! a woman said, but she looked as if she'd never hiked before—no pack, flimsy shoes. The woods were dense with heat, but they were
woods
, and he could scarcely believe he'd been in New York that morning. Finally, he looked at his watch: it was 5:30
PM
. He couldn't get down before dark. Well, he couldn't get down before twilight. When he came to a lookout, he was disappointed to learn he'd gone only seven-tenths of a mile, but the next time he checked the guidebook, he'd walked a mile. He'd been walking through deciduous trees, but now he entered an evergreen forest, and as always it seemed quiet, strange. He saw fewer descending hikers. The trail became steep again, but now and then he had glimpses of distant peaks—clouds were coming in—and small ponds and lakes. He let himself drink some water. He climbed.

A
rtie returned to the bathroom. He'd been reluctant to make this trip—to this house that might or might not be the house they used to go to—because there would be only one bathroom, and when he needed to go, he couldn't wait. Now the door was open, so he went. Brenda was washing the dishes. It was hot, but he no longer minded that.

Once when David was three or four, Artie had taken him by the hand and brought him to the playground. He had to keep slowing his pace. David let him hold his hand the whole way, though he had to hold his arm up. They had to stop and look at every construction project or truck. Best of all was a garbage truck. Artie had joked for days about his grandson who came to New York and wanted to see a garbage truck. Broadway show? Nah. Radio City? Nah. Garbage truck.

He'd tried to teach David to play the recorder, but he was too little. Evelyn yelled at him to cut it out, leave the baby alone. She let David help mix cookies, and he ate the dough and wouldn't eat his supper. They kept him for a whole day, maybe two. Some dame his daughter was chasing.

No point sitting here anymore. Why was he sitting here? What had he been doing before he came into the bathroom? He remembered shouting at Brenda and David. He didn't remember why. Time and again, the last few days, he thought of the old guy in California, just last week, who put his foot on the gas instead of the brake and killed people in a market. Artie hadn't driven a car in a while and wouldn't try, but he had the strange feeling, at times, that he too, because he was old, could kill. He didn't think he had killed anybody. He stood, flushed the toilet, reassembled his pants.

N
obody was on the top of the mountain when David got there. Clouds were dense, but the place—one of the higher of the High Peaks—was spectacular. It had taken him three and a half hours, and it would be dark long before he got down. But now he could hear thunder and see what looked like a storm on a nearby peak. He stayed at the summit for only a few moments. Then a spit of lightning formed above the distant storm, and David hurried back down the trail. Rain overtook him a third of the way down, first only a few drops. It was dark, but he had a flashlight, and he could see the trail, different from the shrubs and trees on either side. He was drenched in sweat, hot, and rain was welcome. He didn't want to stop and take out his poncho. He was hungry and thirsty, bitten up—his bug spray wasn't strong enough—dirty. Happy. No longer angry.

B
renda wanted to follow David: take her car, her guidebook, drive to the mountain. But she couldn't leave her father. He managed in his apartment, but it was familiar and there were staff and alarm systems. She was furious with him at the moment, blaming him for being the kind of father who had taught her to manage by shouting. She heard him stumping around in the bathroom—the flush, the water in the sink. It had been her idea to have him brought here, where he and Harold had been happy in their youth, where she and her parents and sister had spent slow, hot vacations in her childhood, dawdling in and out of this lake or Schroon Lake.

She left the cleanup when she heard him come out. Let's walk down to the lake, she said.

—Too far.

—It's not far. It's right outside the door. She opened the screen door and held it.

—You're letting the bugs in.

Of course, that was what he'd say. She waited.

Shuffling the little distance from the porch to the lake, he tripped on a tree root. He fell forward before she could grab him and landed on his hands and knees.

—Dad, my God, are you okay?

He was silent. After a pause he rolled into a sitting position, knees up. He was stiff but also supple, if that were possible, still with a tennis player's sense of where his limbs were and what to do with them.

She leaned over and brushed the dried pine needles off his knees and each hand, taking his hands in her own, one at a time. He didn't think to brush off his own hands. They were ten feet from the lake.

—New boat, he said. It was a red canoe, upside down on the shore.

Brenda stood over him. He shifted to face the lake squarely. It's beautiful, he said. She sat down next to him. It was still hot. Storm clouds made fantastic dark shapes over the lake. She knew that thunderstorms came up quickly in the mountains, and just because there was a storm in one place didn't mean there was one somewhere else. Still. The clouds moved over their heads. Her father didn't seem to notice.

It was impossible to know where David was right now or whether there was a storm there. She heard distant thunder. Dad, she said, with an indefensible feeling that if she could straighten things out between them—difficult as it would be to apologize to a man who never apologized—then everything would be well. David would make it up and down his mountain, and no storm would harm him. Artie didn't look at her.

—I shouldn't have yelled, she said. I know you don't think I brought up David wrong. You understand why he's working in a coffee shop, and it's so good that he's written these things and gotten them published. You didn't mean what you said.

Artie looked at his knees for a long time. I certainly do mean what I said. His voice had the rasp it took on before it got loud. Your kid gave up a perfectly good job. What kind of thinking did you teach him? It's the parents who have to do that. When there are parents. He paused. Par-ents, I said. Plural. And I have never been here before.

Rain began. Artie looked up but made no move to go inside. His hoarse voice sang,
One-four-nine is the school for me, Drives away all adversity . . .

2

T
he sound Harold heard was the phone. The voice said, This is David Saltzman. David waited for him to remember who that was, but Harold was waiting in his turn: he was afraid.

—Your grandfather, Harold said. Did Artie die?

—Oh my God, David said. No. That's not why I'm calling. I'm sorry.

—It's my fault. I always expect bad news. How is he?

—Not too bad, David said. He's got some problems. I wanted to talk to you about your book.

—Oh, my book. Harold sat down. He was in the living room. Naomi was cooking, and he had been on his way to keep her company.

—Congratulations. It was early in 2004, and
A Fool and His Principles
had just come out. There had been two reviews. Harold hadn't asked about sales. He didn't like to think. What I wonder, he'd said to Naomi, is how many people bought it whom I have never met? My guess is two. And the people I know—I've outlived them.

—Not all, Naomi had said.

—What I'm calling about, David said, is I was wondering if I could interview you. I don't know if you ever look at Bad Weather?

—Bad weather?

—It's an online magazine—news, politics, arts. I write for it. We'd like to run an interview about the book.

Harold laughed. No kidding!

—So would that be okay?

—Sure. Want to talk now? I'm not so good on the phone. He had to strain to hear.

—Actually, I was thinking I could come over? Maybe several times? I'd like to run something substantial.

—Who's going to read it? Harold said.

—Who's going to read it? said David. Lots of people. If the book continues to sell . . .

—Continues?

—You know about amazon dot com? Your book has a low rank. That's good. Low is good. It's getting attention on blogs. It's kind of controversial.

As Harold tried to take this in, David said, So if I could come over, maybe three or four times in the next couple of weeks?

—Sure, Harold said.

Y
our father is abusive, said the director of the assisted-living facility. Brenda felt ashamed, defensive, and a little excited—vindicated. Carol's husband had become the rabbi of a congregation in Michigan, and suddenly she in New Hampshire was the local daughter. The director said that Artie shouted at the staff. They didn't want to keep him, but they would if the family hired aides round the clock. It would still be cheaper than a nursing home.

The daytime aide Brenda found sat in Artie's little living room, listening and talking. He seemed to understand her despite her Jamaican accent. The nighttime aide said Artie was rude. Artie insisted he couldn't understand a word she said, though her accent—also Jamaican—was less pronounced than the daytime aide's.

Artie was obsessed with the toilet and spent an hour at a time sitting there, trying to squeeze the last urine from his bladder. The nighttime aide, like Brenda, seemed embarrassed that when Artie's mind narrowed, it had narrowed to urination; the daytime aide smiled and nodded, surprised by nothing. Maybe that was kinder and maybe it was condescending. Brenda drove to New York and slept on David's couch once a week, and she always dropped in on the director of the facility to demonstrate that the Saltzman family was cooperative. She hated these trips. Jess wondered if they were truly essential, and David was too busy to spend much time with her.