When We Argued All Night (5 page)

The white scrap was Virginia's bathing suit. She was sitting as she'd sat near the cabin, knees drawn up, watching him.

—Whatcha doing? he said.

—Just looking. She clutched her sweater. Now big dark gray clouds moved across the sky. The wind was stronger, and maybe its direction had changed.

—How did you get here? You're dry.

—I walked from the road. There's a path.

—You just took a path into the woods? he said. He'd been congratulating himself on his affinity with the wilderness, but he wouldn't have done that. He was envious. But he said, You could have gotten lost but good.

—Eaten by bears, said Virginia.

It was the first lightness he'd seen in her. Mind if I join you? he said.

—There's no room, said Virginia. This was true. The path she'd taken was almost closed in by reeds on either side, and it ended at her rock. He stepped around her and sat down on the path, turning up the soles of his feet to dry them. He plucked a long blade of grass and laid it across his lips, trying to make a noise. Artie had fooled around on a lot of instruments, some in high school, where he'd played saxophone in the band, and some in music stores.

—What's it like to live in New York? Virginia said. He ignored her. He was trying to figure out why she irritated him. You're an attractive girl, he said after a while, wrapping his blade of grass around his fingers, weaving it among them, shredding it, then plucking another. There's nothing wrong with your looks, he continued.

—But? said Virginia. There's something wrong with the rest of me? She stood up. Then she gestured in a way he hadn't quite noticed before, except that he had: it was what had made him dislike her. It was a little flutter of the fingers, all ten, a deliberately foolish gesture of incapacity. It seemed to say, How should I know what you mean? and for a second it made him dislike her again, but then it almost made him love Virginia because he could help her.

He could show her what she was doing, and then she'd stop doing it, and though he'd never see her again—she wasn't his type—other men would be drawn to her. Artie was now sprawled on the ground, leaning on his elbows, looking up at Virginia, her legs and thighs followed by her body and head—which was far away, and not a large head to begin with. He scrambled to his feet, his damp pants catching and releasing, and seized both her hands like a suitor.

—Look what you do! he said. Look! I'll show you what you do, and you'll stop. You're not really dumb; you're just pretending to be dumb!

—So just because I'm getting paid for this, you think I'm dumb?

—Getting paid? For what?

—For this. She gestured—the lake, the sky. It thundered, and they both looked around. You think I'm not as good as you?

—I don't know what you're talking about, Artie said. I mean what you do with your fingers. Look. He imitated the gesture, wiggling all his fingers, but that wasn't exactly right. He couldn't quite reproduce it.

Virginia said, Why would I do that? You just think I'm stupid because I work for Myra.

—You work for Myra? he said. Doing what?

—Never mind, she said, and began running along the path to the road. She was quickly out of sight, but then he heard her shout. He put on his shoes and socks and followed. When he caught up to her, ten feet from the road, she was on the ground, saying, Don't touch me, don't touch me. She'd tripped and fallen headlong, breaking a fingernail and scraping her knees. Look what you did to me! she said. And I'm so cold! He helped her stand up and put on her sweater, still trying to explain what he'd meant. Now it was raining.

—Will you stop it? she said. She said her foot hurt and leaned on him. In the rain and thunder, they began the slow walk back to the cabin. She wouldn't talk, and Artie was freezing, but he didn't care. Artie loved self-discovery, and he decided that he'd discovered something about himself when he'd noticed Virginia's habit. He could tell people truths they didn't know, and that would be fun. Artie Saltzman, he said to himself, you were born to teach.

H
arold swam back across the lake into the wind. His arms were tired, and he did the sidestroke instead of the crawl. As he stroked, he went back and forth between thinking it was the worst day of his life and thinking again that he was stupid. When he stumbled from the water, after a long, long time, the storm had ended and the sun was out. He saw no one. Then he noticed that the car was gone. He picked up his wet clothes and went inside in his dripping shorts. Artie was asleep on the sofa in the fetal position, his chin hidden in a blanket. It was not the worst day of Harold's life. He was only stupid.

He started to walk toward Artie in his clinging underwear, to kneel at his side and take him in his arms like a child, but stopped himself. In the bedroom, he put on dry clothes and a sweater. As he pulled his arms through the sleeves, he noticed a sheet of paper on the floor at his feet. It might have been left on the suitcase. He remembered that he had left the suitcase closed, but now it was open. The paper was a note, in large well-formed handwriting.

Dear Harold,

I'm sorry we have to go. Artie doesn't know where you are, and Virginia is anxious to get on the road. I'm borrowing
The Portrait of a Lady
. You brought so many books, I guess you won't mind.

I enjoyed meeting you and hope you feel the same. Thank you for being kind when I was down in the dumps.

Very truly yours,

Myra Thorsten

Under the name was a Manhattan address.

A narrow stripe of rage, jagged like the lightning bolts that might have killed him just now, began in Harold's stomach and traveled to his fingertips. He did not lend books. He had not brought too many books, whatever he'd said earlier. And
The Portrait of a Lady
was not only the book he was in the middle of but a valuable and important one. She had gone through his suitcase. The woman was unaware of anyone but herself. Yet underneath his anger—there was no time now to figure out how this could be—Harold felt something else: he was glad he'd have a chance to see Myra once more, to explain to her the many ways in which what she had done was wrong. Meanwhile, he walked into the living room. Wake up, he said. Wake up, damn you. It seemed he might cry.

—What? Artie looked around, then dropped his head again and burrowed more deeply into the smelly sofa.

—Wake up. Wake up, damn it. I just nearly died because of you.

—What are you talking about? Artie said.

—Where are those women? Harold said. What'd you let her take my book for?

—What book? said Artie. They left. I had enough of those dames. Tonight we can sleep. At least they didn't eat up all the eggs.

He stood. He was in his underwear, and wet clothes were in a pile beside him. His suitcase was near the sofa, and he pulled out clothes and put them on. But we have to eat hot dogs instead of steak.

—Don't you realize what you did? Harold said, wondering what exactly Artie had done. I thought you drowned. I swam all the way out to that boat.

Artie had forgotten about the boat. Where is it? he said. He led the way outside, in his socks. What do you mean you swam? Wha'd you do that for?

Harold could not explain. He pointed until Artie saw the boat. He didn't want anything to do with Artie. He wanted to go inside, lie down, read, but he didn't have his book, and Harold hated to put a book aside before he'd finished it. Even if he didn't like a book or couldn't understand it, he read all the way to the end. And he would stay in this cabin for a week, as well, whether it was what he had imagined or not. And in a way it
was
what he had imagined. It was wild. It was even dangerous. It was cold. Maybe he should have come alone. He had an idea about Henry James. But he knew he would never have come alone. This awareness made him angrier than ever.

—The boat was gone, he said. The oars were still here.

—What oars?

—Never mind what oars. I could see the boat in the middle of the lake. I couldn't see you.

—You thought I drowned? What the hell? Why would I drown? I was right here.

Harold had started back to the cabin, but he turned, his blue eyes bulging. You were not right here! You were not right here!

—Well, sure, not all the time. But now I'm right here.

—What were you doing? Shtupping that pathetic woman in the woods?

—What? That crazy dame? I had to carry her back here in the rain! I had to listen to her! Do you know Myra pays her?

—Never mind, said Harold. Yes, I know. He walked back into the cabin. Artie picked his way down to the shore and stared at the boat. How the hell did it get across the lake? How would they get it back? This was the part of the story his children would be left with. How would they get it back? Because they never did get it back.

Chapter 2

Henry James and the Communists

1936–1939

1

W
hen Myra Thorsten drove away from Gus Maloney's cabin in the Adirondacks with Harold's copy of
The Portrait of a Lady
, he was so upset he scared himself. He had thought about making love to Myra, but brooding on the porch after corn flakes for lunch, he imagined himself hitting her, though not in the uncontrolled, frightening way the policemen in his memory of the Union Square riot still beat women, all but smashing their faces to pulp. In his fantasy, Harold solemnly administered punishment to Myra in a decadent ritual in which she accepted her shame for borrowing a book without permission, and he pronounced sentence, then stepped toward her to carry it out, wielding a shadowy weapon—perhaps a thin cane—which he applied, not hard but firmly, to her shoulder as she bent her head, to her outstretched hands with their polished fingernails, and finally to her buttocks in its snug skirt, as she turned and bent humbly, her hands on her knees. What he imagined embarrassed and aroused him but made him less angry, and he began to notice the smell of the pine trees. Birds cried and a sound made him think a car was coming again, but it was the wind in the trees. He left the porch, stooping to gather brown pine needles and crush them in his hands.

The weather warmed up, and in the days that followed they sat reading at the edge of the lake, going into the water when they were hot. Artie learned to float. They hitchhiked into Schroon Lake. Harold made notes for something, maybe an essay.

Back in New York, he delayed getting in touch with Myra. He borrowed
The Portrait of a Lady
from the library and finished it, horrified but impressed when Isabel Archer, James's bright, lively, innocent American heiress, returned to her evil husband at the end, though she could have gotten away. At last he wrote Myra a note. He wondered if the book would arrive in a package but discovered that he preferred a meeting.

Weeks passed. He decided she'd given him a false address. Then a postcard came, setting a time and place: a bar and grill near Grand Central Station, a Saturday night. Harold took the subway from East New York, where he and Artie still lived, and arrived early, but Myra was already in a booth, wearing black gloves and drinking what looked like bourbon, her red hair under a small black hat. Her purse, a black pouch with a metal clasp, was on top of the book. The table did not look clean, and it was difficult for Harold to refrain from snatching the book even before he sat down.

Myra raised her glass in greeting, flicking an ash from her cigarette, and he slid into the booth with its sticky table, opposite her. She wore bright red lipstick. She had on a stylish gray jacket. A white blouse gleamed from under open lapels.

—Aren't you drinking? Myra asked. She'd dressed carefully; apparently she cared how he saw her. He reluctantly turned his back on his book, went to the bar, and bought a bourbon and water. Almost before he was seated and reaching for his own cigarettes, Myra lifted her glass again, touching his, and began to talk. I can't stand it that she goes back to him, she said. What's
wrong
with her?

Harold lit his cigarette. He put his hand on the book, moving her purse slightly. It had not occurred to him that Myra would read the book, much less have an opinion about it. He was charmed, though he disagreed. He tried to explain what he believed to be true about James's ending: that in making Isabel Archer return to her husband after being away (she had turned down estimable suitors to enter a disastrous, imprisoning marriage), James considered her heroic, not weak—someone who had learned to confront evil.

He tried to explain. If James thinks she should stay away, what is the book
about
? Why would it end just there? What has she accomplished?

Myra scoffed. What does anyone accomplish? She should have stayed away. She could manage.

In college, they did not speak as if characters in books could have chosen to do something else. Harold couldn't think how to explain that this wasn't the proper way to read.

Now Myra took the book (Harold winced but didn't stop her) and began flipping through it. She'd left bits of paper as bookmarks. At least she hadn't written in it. He
hoped
she hadn't written in it. She turned pages vigorously, weakening the binding. She asked questions, pulling her gloves off and putting them on again. What does he mean by this? How can you like an author who'd write something like this? At last she admitted she liked
The Portrait of a Lady
. She couldn't stop reading it. What else do you recommend? she said.

Harold liked being an expert.
The American
?

—Can we talk about it after I read it? Myra said. He hadn't had the chance to scold her for taking the book in the first place. Somehow that incident had become fixed and could not have taken place in any other way, although Isabel Archer, in the book, might have behaved differently if only Henry James had had Myra to consult.

As they stood to leave, Harold said, Do you have a job? Where do you work? Something about the way she picked up her bag and straightened her jacket made her seem like a working woman. He hadn't thought of her working, as if she were a child who would naturally be cared for by others.

—Of course I have a job, Myra said. She was a commercial artist and worked for department stores. I'm good, she said. I'm in demand. With her long right hand, she swiftly drew a series of curves in the air. She smiled at him. He understood her stylish clothes. She was in the business—it had nothing to do with him.

Harold agreed to meet and talk about
The American
. As he made his way back to Brooklyn with his book—Myra refused to be escorted, and he wondered if she was meeting another man—he scolded himself for an assumption he'd made about her. He had believed that a woman who'd have an affair with a married man couldn't be intelligent enough to argue, even erroneously, about Henry James. In the coming days, he stared at the elegant shapes of clothes in newspaper ads, the long sweeping skirts and narrow busts, wondering if he could detect Myra's hand.

2

W
hen Artie applied to teach in the WPA adult education program, he claimed proficiency in photography, journalism, and current events, and was hired, that September of 1936, to teach two afternoon classes in an elementary school in Queens: English conversation for the foreign born. Artie was of several minds as he traveled through Queens to meet his classes for the first time. Since the day in the mountains when he noticed what Virginia was doing, he'd been sure he should teach. At the same time he thought he might be a fraud, only pretending to be a teacher. In the camera store, people had walked away from his explanations. He had not made Virginia listen. In the third place, if he was a fraud, he was proud to be putting something over on the people who'd hired him. He took an elevated train, then a bus. He wore his only sports coat and a fedora, and he carried a briefcase his elder brother had lent him. Inside was nothing but a pad of paper and a few pencils.

The first class had twelve students, mostly mothers who were free while their children were in school. Some attended this very school, and when a child's voice could be heard, the mothers sat up straighter. Current events seemed like a good reason for conversation, and Artie began talking about what he'd read in the newspaper on his way to the school—progress for the Spanish government against Franco and the rebels, a display of military might in Germany, a march by Father Divine. The young mothers were quiet. The school did not use this classroom, up on a dusty, warm third floor. Artie liked its smell. He stood at the front, his hat and briefcase on the teacher's desk, and twirled chalk in his fingers, then dropped it. The windows were open, and fresh air stirred the hair of his twelve students, most clustered near the front. The desks were small, and some students stuck their legs into the aisle. A woman let a shoe fall from her foot and ran her stocking foot over the old wooden floor, as if feeling for splinters.

Artie asked questions. His students knew that FDR was running for reelection, and they considered him a good man but could not say why. Some were not sure who was fighting whom in the Spanish Civil War. They did know about King Edward VIII of England and Wallis Simpson, the divorced American he was in love with, as well as Bruno Richard Hauptmann, who had been executed for the kidnapping and murder of the Lindbergh baby. After Artie thought to ask about the king and his girlfriend, they became less shy.

The one man in the class, who reminded him of Harold's father, was happy to talk. He spoke slowly, with a heavy Eastern European accent, explaining the fighting in Spain sadly and patiently, as if he described battles taking place outside the window while he watched.

When the class ended, Artie had an hour off. The classroom was lonely and he went to talk to his supervisor, a woman a little older than he, Beatrice London. Your name gave me the best idea I had, he said, walking in on her. It wasn't true, but why not say it? She was a small woman with tight brown curls, sitting at a desk that filled the office, and she started when he spoke. He'd forgotten that he moved silently. He said, London made me think of England, and England made me think of King Edward and Wallis Simpson—my ladies knew more about that than anything else.

Beatrice London looked at him soberly under her hair, then smiled. I hope you can get them away from that kind of subject, she said.

On the contrary, said Artie, pleased with himself. Making students feel they already know something about the subject at hand is the best way to prepare them to be receptive to learning. He had not known he possessed an educational philosophy. Beatrice London bent forward a little, her chin protruding. He found himself whistling. I just thought you might have something you wanted to tell me, he said. Instructions.

—No, said Miss London.

The second class was full of talkers, some who barely understood English. The old man with the accent, unaccountably, was in this class too, so Artie didn't feel that he could bring up exactly the same subjects. But after a while he ran out of others, and the man was again happy to tell the group about the rebels in Spain and how Hitler and Mussolini supported them and the Spanish loyalists opposed them. This group didn't need to be told.

Another man stood and, with expansive gestures and little English, denounced Roosevelt—in the pay of the capitalists—while a man who seemed to be Italian shouted that Roosevelt was the only person who cared about him and his family. Others shouted. Artie clapped his hands, stamped his foot, and shouted, Gentlemen! The two men stopped, apologized. They sat down and faced front. One folded his hands on the desk.

—Why did you sign up for this class? Artie asked them. He said it with exasperation as well as curiosity, though he was pleased that this group was wide awake, but the students considered the question appropriate and the women raised their hands. So I can become citizen, they said. So I can talk grandchildren. The group resumed talking and arguing. Artie didn't think their English would get better, since they didn't listen, but he liked them. Each had come to a truce with the English language, and that was enough. They were all older than he.

Instead of going home when it was over, he went to Harold's, though he didn't have his camera with him. Harold was not home, but his mother gave Artie a glass of seltzer and then a bowl of soup. When Harold arrived, they ate again, and Harold said he'd walk Artie home. He was excited about a meeting he'd attended, a woman he'd talked to.

—You're such a fraud, Artie said cheerfully. You don't give a damn about suffering people.

—Just stop it, said Harold. His voice shook. Artie knew he had gone too far. Of course Harold cared. Artie wanted to talk about his classes, but in the right way. Being a teacher should seem significant, not just something he could get paid to do. But he said, Nah, you're just looking for girls. What happened to what's her name—Belle? Did you give her back to her husband?

Harold didn't answer, and they walked in silence. It was dark. Darkness was interrupted by places where streetlights gleamed through rustling leaves. After passing under a light, they'd be back in darkness, as if the night itself encouraged them to pause and reflect privately. Artie began to whistle.

—What's that? Harold said.

—What's what?

—What you're whistling.

—I think it's Mozart, Artie said.

A block or so later, Harold said, Every few days there's something in the paper about Jews in Germany.

—Not today, Artie said. Speech by Hitler. Women should stay home and make little German babies instead of going to work.

—If you'd looked closely enough, you'd have found the Jews, Harold said.

—Yeah, Artie said, what is it with us Jews? Anybody looking for somebody to kick around? Here we are! All set. Then he said, But what are your pals in Russia doing about it, huh?

—What's Roosevelt doing, for that matter?

—Roosevelt has other things on his mind.

—Winning the election? said Harold. He doesn't have much to worry about.

They came to Artie's house. Sometimes they walked past it, circled through the neighborhood more than once, but now Harold seemed anxious to be by himself. As he turned back, he said, Remember that girl, Myra Thorsten?

—What girl? said Artie. The dame at the cabin?

—I saw her.

—You saw that girl? The one who took your book?

—Well, I had to get it back, Harold said. We had a drink.

—Stay away from that dame, Artie said. Harold was already moving away, and his wide, solid body was a dark shape, his face obscured by shadow but his pants and shoes easier to see in a puddle of light. Harold kept his shoes clean and polished. The laces were tied evenly.

—I can see she's a handful, Harold said. But she had some ideas about the book. She's no dummy.