When We Argued All Night (12 page)

—I'm taking a chance, yes, Harold said. But the boy—the boy is
dead
.

—Oh, stop sounding superior, Artie said. With your nefarious past . . .

—They don't even care if you've got a nefarious past, Harold admitted, once they get interested.

—So you need to be a hero?

Since the passage of the Feinberg Act by the New York State legislature two years earlier—subversive persons were to be eliminated from the teaching profession—the Board of Education had been investigating and firing teachers suspected of Communist ties.

Artie kept talking, moving on to the question of what Harold should say if he did get called in. Look, you quit the party years ago. Tell the truth, if anybody asks. You joined and you quit.

—It's not that simple, Harold said.

—Of course it's that simple. You wouldn't be a fool and take the Fifth, would you? Let some kind of crazy idealism ruin your life? People who do that have a death wish.

—Stop it, you don't mean that, Harold said.

—Of course I mean it.

Harold sighed. Why did they have to discuss this? You mean I'd name the people I knew? If it happened to you, you wouldn't do that.

—Of course I would, Artie said.

Harold knew he should get off the phone. Myra, heavily pregnant with their second child—and always testy because she didn't want to gain too much weight and ate as little as she could—was demanding tearfully that Nelson get out of the bathtub. If she got upset enough, she'd frighten him. He said, Nobody's asking me anything at the moment.

Teachers were accused of perjury if they denied membership in the Communist Party. If they admitted it, they were asked to name other Communists they'd known, and they were fired if they didn't. Harold knew quite a few teachers whom he'd known years ago in the party. He finally hung up. I'm going out for a paper, he called to Myra, and put on his coat, though he could hear Nelson crying now. Outside, feeling in his pocket for change, he found himself walking not toward the newsstand but toward the station. No, that made no sense. He went home without a paper, let himself in, and offered to read to Myra. She lay flopped on their bed, almost on her face, her dark red hair scattered, her belly to one side—it aroused him, the look of her big belly—and her nightgown hiked up around it. He read Edna Ferber aloud, starting at the top of the page where she'd left a bookmark. Harold had a girlfriend, but he had managed not to go and visit her.

Harold had been faithful to Myra for two years. One of the two women he was seeing at the time of his marriage worked at a magazine where he sometimes wrote and delivered book reviews. He was relieved when she changed jobs and he no longer knew her. The other was Naomi, the French teacher. She had found out soon enough about Myra and didn't mind seeing him anyway. But a few weeks before his wedding, she put a stop to it. I draw the line, she said.

Two years later he called her. She'd met a man, but when he proposed marriage, she had stopped seeing him, and whenever Harold turned up at Naomi's apartment in the Village and asked for tea or a drink, she let him in. She looked older, still with a tense line between her eyes, and it was hard not to rub it away with his thumb. Sometimes he did. Naomi was unshocked by sex but surprised, each time, at how pleasurable it was. I don't see why people think they should do this with only one person, she said, in bed one afternoon, a rainy afternoon when Harold had come from the library. We don't talk with just one person. We don't eat with just one person.

—So you no longer draw a line, Harold said.

—Yes, I have become depraved. You must lead your life as seems best to you.

On the way home he'd pick her hairs off his clothes. Naomi shed.

Myra accused him of sleeping with other women, becoming hysterical, but she'd always done that. Artie, who knew some facts, was disgusted. Harold had always suspected that Myra continued to see Gus Maloney, and he minded less than he thought he should. He liked knowing the cabin was his—almost his—so much that he didn't care what it took to have it. Myra didn't go there with Gus, he was sure of that; now and then she was mysteriously elsewhere, but only for a couple of hours. People need to live, Harold said to himself. He didn't have daydreams of being with women—women were a responsibility—but of being alone at the cabin, writing and reading and taking walks, looking up to watch a bird or a boat, looking down again at a book.

A
lger Hiss
, Harold wrote on the blackboard in his large loopy handwriting. This was a class of juniors—Kenneth's class—and all he was sure about concerning the day's lesson was that he would not talk about Kenneth. Underneath
Alger Hiss
he wrote
Whittaker Chambers
. Which name sounds like the bad guy? he asked. The class had been discussing
A Tale of Two Cities
. Harold wanted them to think about words themselves; he talked about the taste of words, and the kids laughed tolerantly. He made each of ten students read the famous first sentence of Dickens's novel aloud:
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity . . .
Meanwhile, Harold pounded out the rhythm on the desk and shouted the repeated words. When he began listing the characters, the students were quick to see that Jerry Cruncher and Mr. Stryver resembled their names, but it was harder for them to hear anything in the names Charles Darnay, Sydney Carton, and Madame Defarge, even though Harold stretched it out ominously—Madahhhhme Defahhhhge . . .

So he wrote
Alger Hiss
and
Whittaker Chambers
, not sure how much the students would know about them, and asked his question.

—But that's not fair! shouted Harvey Edelstein, the shortest boy in the class and often the hardest to teach because he knew so much and couldn't keep quiet. Harvey had no sense of nuance. He waved his hand back and forth, supporting his raised arm with his other hand, leaning forward at his desk.

Harold didn't want to talk about the innocence or guilt of Alger Hiss and Whittaker Chambers, he wanted to talk about their names, about the emotional effect of sound. But he couldn't control the boy. His hand still raised, Harvey said, It's unfair because you mean Hiss sounds like the name of the bad guy, just because when you hiss, that means something is bad—but Hiss isn't guilty. Chambers is the bad guy, Hiss shouldn't be in prison right now!

—Do the rest of you know what he's talking about? said Harold with a sigh. He put it as briefly and objectively as he could, explaining that Whittaker Chambers was someone who admitted that he used to be a Communist and claimed first that he knew Alger Hiss, and then that Alger Hiss was not only a Communist but a Soviet spy. He mentioned Hiss's position in the Roosevelt administration. He decided to leave out the Pumpkin Papers (though Chambers's concealment of papers that allegedly incriminated Hiss in a hollowed-out pumpkin was a delicious piece of the story), and just said that Hiss had insisted he wasn't a Communist or a spy, that he was tried twice for perjury, and that the second time he'd been convicted and sent to prison.

—Now, the learned Mr. Edelstein, Harold continued, gesturing grandly toward Harvey, has anticipated my admittedly lame point, which is that the name Hiss sounds bad. Maybe that's too simple an example. Hisssss, he said. He wrote
onomatopoetic
on the board. And doesn't Chambers sound good? Chaaaaymbers, he said, Darnaaaay. Doesn't the sound give you a confident, happy feeling? Some students looked interested, others confused. Whittaker! Harold said then. Could a bad guy be named Whittaker? Whittaker, whittaker, whittaker—it sings!

—So you think Whittaker Chambers is right because he has a nice name? Harvey said.

—No, Harvey, Harold said, his chalk pointing straight at Harvey's bright brown eyes. I think if they each had the other's name, Harold said, Alger Hiss would be a free man today.

One of the front-row girls giggled. But then he wouldn't be him, he'd—

He could not make himself clear today! I mean, he said, the man we call Alger Hiss would be free if his name was Whittaker Chambers. The jury had to decide who to believe, and they couldn't believe a man with a name like Hiss. It's deep in our consciousness—the lying serpent in the Bible.

In fact, this was Artie's argument. Artie was the one in love with the names. Both Artie and Harold assumed Hiss was innocent—everyone they knew thought Hiss was innocent—but Harold was more likely to blame the guilty verdict on the benightedness of the American public and the craziness of the congressman who'd made it his cause, Richard Nixon.

—But, Mr. Abramovitz, do you think Hiss is guilty? Harvey Edelstein asked now.

—That's not for me to say, Harold said, and the bell rang. The class filed out. He was free this period—the fourth—and would sit at his desk and eat the lunch he'd brought from home. He started to erase the board as the woman who taught next door stuck her head in.

—What did you think of that memo? she said.

Harold shook his head. The assistant principal was an old reactionary, and this woman—a union member like himself—was infuriated by his insinuations and demands, and she liked to relieve her rage by analyzing his awkward sentence structure. Harold had only glanced at this latest note to the faculty.

—Alger Hiss! she interrupted herself. What the hell are you teaching?

Harold looked over his shoulder at the blackboard. Dickens, he said. It all made sense—one of the kids even thinks I'm a Commie hunter.

—Erase it anyway, she said.

—That's what I was doing. As he turned to erase the board while she glanced again at the offending memo, she said, Been meaning to tell you something. Speaking of Whittaker Chambers. I heard you've been making friends with his female counterpart.

—Heard from who? said Harold. He was alarmed at the word
female
. Could she somehow have heard about Naomi? This teacher was a nice married woman. She would hate him.

—London? she said. What did I hear—you're in cafeteria patrol with her? Be careful.

He relaxed. The home ec teacher? She's one of those sweet women who's going to turn herself into a little despot because she's scared to be nice. I'm just trying to give her a little advice.

—I wouldn't be so sure she's a sweet woman, his friend said. There are some bad rumors around.

Was Beatrice London a famous loose woman? Did Harold's friend think he'd seduce the likes of Beatrice London? It was absurd and annoying. He sat down and took out his tuna sandwich, and she said, Got to talk to the office about a kid, and hurried away.

T
o Artie's surprise, Evelyn decided to invite Harold's family to come for supper on a Saturday. He didn't like Myra and he knew Evelyn didn't like her either. But Evelyn thought she should invite them, and when Evelyn thought that, things happened. It took a few tries to set the date, and by the time they came, Myra was almost ready to give birth. Evelyn made a roast. Myra came into their apartment a little ahead of Harold and Nelson and sank into the chair near the door, rubbing her belly. She said, I thought we might have to cancel, but it was a false alarm. Then Harold and Nelson came in, holding hands and looking around shyly, as if they were both six.

Myra looked good—stylish, no less, in a loose brown coat—even though she was nine months pregnant and was leaning sideways in her chair in an awkward way. Evelyn! she said in a firm voice, deeper than the voice Artie remembered. It's good to see you. Thank you for inviting us.

Politeness was big with Evelyn, and Artie knew that direct thank-you would look classy to her. Evelyn liked finding reasons to think well of someone. She stepped forward in her apron and leaned to kiss Myra's cheek. Together, they made a soft, pretty shape.

—So Nelsy, what's new? Artie said to the little boy. Sit down, sit down. It was a couple of months since their race in Central Park, and he wondered if Nelson remembered.

—For heaven's sake, take their coats! Evelyn said, and everyone stood again. She gathered the coats and thrust them into Artie's arms.

They had no hall closet. He laid them on the bed. Evelyn self-consciously offered drinks, and Brenda stood in the doorway, with Carol behind her, looking at Harold and Nelson, who were still squeezed close together, with Nelson leaning on his father's legs.

—You girls want to show Sir Nelson some of your stuff? Artie said.

—I want to stay here, Brenda said.

—Sir Nelson! Carol liked that. She ran into their room, emerged with the checkerboard, and set it up at Harold's feet, explaining as she worked. Nelson was prevailed upon to play, leaning against Harold's well-polished shoe.

—So, Nelson, Artie said, are you for the Dodgers? What about that game? Tragic! He meant the play-off game with the Giants, which the Dodgers had lost at the last minute.

Nelson didn't answer, but after a while he got interested in the checkers game and bounced on his knees with pleasure when he took Carol's checkers. When they lost interest in winning, they made piles of checkers, then knocked them down. Then Myra heaved herself to her feet and brought her drink into the kitchen, and Artie said, What happened at the church?

—The meeting about the cop? I went.

—What's going to happen? Artie said.

Harold shrugged. Probably nothing. It wouldn't bring Kenneth back anyway.

—So, in that case, Artie said, what are you knocking your brains out for?

Harold turned his glass around as if examining it for defects, then sipped. I couldn't tell you, he said.

—You're crazy, Artie said lightly.

—Let's forget it for one night, Harold said. Brenda, what are you doing in school these days?