When We Argued All Night (14 page)

—Don't, Harold said.

—I'm not going to save your ass, Artie said. He was crying like a child, and Nelson whimpered. Artie stood. His face was red and his black hair flopped on his forehead as it often did. Wait a minute, he said, and hurried out of the kitchen.

—Daddy? Nelson said.

—What is it, honey?

—Did Mommy die?

Harold stood. He carried his boy to the window that looked out on the ordinary Brooklyn street, where a car drove by and a man walked a dog. No, baby, no, Mommy's fine. We'll go see her in the hospital. You know you've got a brother?

—What's his name? Nelson said.

Harold heard water running in the bathroom. Paul, he said.

—Will Paul take away my toys?

—No, baby, Paul can't play with toys yet. Don't worry about your toys.

—I brought the truck and Laddy and the horse, but I forgot some other toys. Can we go home now?

Artie came back. His face looked damp and his hair was slicked down, which made his nose look big. I gotta talk to you, he said.

—Come to the hospital with me, Harold said. I was going to ask you—if you'd stay with Nelson while I go in. I don't think they'll let me take him into Myra's room, but maybe if he just sees the place, he'll calm down.

Artie looked suspicious. I'll ask Ev, he said, and left the room again.

—Let's pack my toys, Daddy. Nelson had climbed out of his arms and tugged him toward the children's room, and Harold followed awkwardly.

—I told you, you'll talk to the union representative, he heard Evelyn saying. They were in their bedroom. Don't just assume—

—He wants me to come with him, Artie said.

—Where? To the hospital?

—I could stay with the kid when he goes in.

—Go, Evelyn said. Together, you'll figure something out.

Brenda was reading on her bed. She looked up and then down again at her book. Mind if I come in? said Harold. He pointed. The floor was strewn with toys.

Carol began filling Harold's briefcase with Nelson's belongings. As Harold shifted on the linoleum, trying to help, he realized that Artie was behind him in the doorway, whistling, and though Harold couldn't see him, he knew that Artie stood with his arms folded, rocking back and forth over the wooden doorsill. He whistled an insistent jazz melody.

In the car they discussed the best route to the city but then were silent. A gritty, cold rain began to fall, just frozen enough to make a click on the windshield. In the backseat, Nelson sang, inaudibly at first. Then Harold heard some of it:

I went in the car because Mommy died

Mommy didn't die, she didn't die

I went in the car because the baby died

I went in the car because Daddy died

Artie said, Look here.

—What?

—Time after time I told you joining the party was asinine. Now, just because I know you, I have to lose my job?

—You won't lose your job, Harold said. He hadn't seen the letter, he found himself thinking, and for a moment he found himself wondering why Evelyn and Artie would invent such a story when only his baby mattered.

—It's not right.

—Look, it's a mistake. Probably somebody else with the same name. The union will figure it out, Harold said. You never fooled around with this stuff—this is crazy.

—The union isn't going to solve it. I don't know how this happened, but you know as well as I do there's only one possible outcome where I don't lose my job.

—Which is? Harold resisted the temptation to look at him. He was a careful driver.

—Which is simple. Which is that I tell them I wasn't a Communist, and when they ask, I say I know someone who was and his name is Harold Abramovitz.

Harold's hands clenched on the wheel. You could lie.

—Lie about what?

—Tell them you were never a Communist and you don't know anybody who was ever a Communist.

Artie gestured so wildly that Harold was afraid he'd grab the steering wheel. For crying out loud! he said. You want me to perjure myself? How many people in this city know I know you? They probably already know you were a Communist, or they'll find out from some other sucker. The only way to save my job is to tell them the truth, and Harold, I love my job. Again, he sounded as if he might sob. They were nearing the approach to the bridge, then they were on the bridge, and Harold looked around for something distracting.

—I'm a good teacher, Artie said, as the skyline, gray in the weather, opened around them: its chaos and charm, with boats and the Statue of Liberty to one side, and before them the irregular shapes and shades of gray of Manhattan's haphazard architecture, the simplicity of the Empire State Building. Artie went on, It's the only thing I'm good at. He paused. I'm sorry.

Harold drove over the noisy floor of the bridge and into Manhattan. If that's how you feel, he said. Harold loved his job too, and now he had two children, and Myra couldn't work with a tiny baby in the house. If he lost his job she'd never forgive him; he couldn't imagine what she'd do. Myra thought people who cared too much about politics and ideology were fools. She'd leaned into him the night before, when he'd finally been allowed to go to her. I wanted a girl, she said. Harold knew that was true, but she'd never said it before. Did you see the baby?

—He's perfect, Harold said. He'll make everything good. Now as he drove through the quiet Sunday streets, he tried to regain the sense of being complete that Paul had bestowed on him. To his surprise, he found he could. His life would go well no matter what happened. Artie, he said. We won't let this make us enemies. You do what you need to do.

—Don't give me that, said Artie.

M
yra missed Nelson—they wouldn't let him in—and worried about Paul. She no longer minded that he wasn't a girl. A nurse had tried to persuade her to breastfeed, and the suggestion made Myra frantic. You don't want me to do that, do you? she asked Harold, and he didn't know what the right answer was.

—He'll be fine, whatever you do, he said. The baby—heavier than Nelson had been at birth, and round where Nelson had been elongated—slept sturdily, his thumb in his mouth.

Myra said, The doctor said it's unusual that he learned to suck his thumb in the womb. He's smart.

Paul might or might not be smart, but Harold admired his capacity—even before he saw light and people, before he knew what he was—to figure out what his body could do for him. He wondered if Paul had also masturbated in the womb.

During the elevator ride back to Artie and Nelson—an interval between Myra's fretful delight and Nelson's anxiety, Artie's rage—Harold had a free moment, thinking of nothing but the numbers of the floors, and something made him think of the woman who taught next door to him. She had said Beatrice London resembled Whittaker Chambers. That was how she'd gotten to the topic of Beatrice London. Beatrice London wasn't a sexual threat; that wasn't what she meant. Beatrice London was an informer. He'd heard of them—former Communists who named names and sometimes made claims that were completely fabricated. Beatrice London could have told the Board of Ed that Artie was a Communist just because she had never liked him. And Harold himself had provided Beatrice London with the information she needed: that Artie worked for the school system.

S
itting in the waiting room, Artie—who was still reliving the Dodgers' loss to the Giants in the play-off game for the pennant—tried to explain the Dodgers' lineup to Nelson, leading up to the decision to pitch Ralph Branca, who gave up the winning home run to Bobby Thomson. He couldn't tell if Nelson understood. Nelson stared at him, his nose running. Artie looked up and saw Harold coming from the elevator. As his friend took out his handkerchief to wipe Nelson's nose, Artie stood, said, So long, fella—touching the boy's shoulder—then, to Harold, I'll take the subway home. He turned toward the door, buttoning his coat. Harold called after him, but he kept going, out into the street.

At home, Artie walked into the living room, sat down, and picked up the paper. Evelyn was startled when she walked through the room. I didn't hear you come in! How's the baby?

He didn't answer and didn't say anything more that day, even when Evelyn got angry or when Carol made a joke of it. Daddy, I'm going to jump out the window if you don't tell me not to, okay? Well, I guess you want me to jump out the window!

Brenda, who understood more, pulled her away. Artie was too upset not to scream and shout if he spoke, but he also found not speaking an interesting game. He'd have to talk the next day at school but maybe not until then. Evelyn stopped speaking to him when he didn't answer her, but she put food on the table.

Walking into his school the next day, he looked at the ordinary, ugly reminders that this was a New York City public school: the warning against trespassing signed by William Jansen, Superintendent of Schools (who was caught up in the investigation of suspected Communists and Communist sympathizers, and had questioned the first accused teachers himself); the tiled corridors with signs denoting the basement as an air-raid shelter; the clock and window pole in his classroom, with a hook at the end; the big windows with their many panes. The American flag hung on its pole near the door, and at the shrill sound of the bell, children appeared, walking close to the walls on either side of the corridors while teachers stood in the center.

Artie wordlessly accepted a parent's note explaining a child's absence, then handed over the bathroom pass, also without speaking. He'd have to lead his pupils in the Pledge of Allegiance—someone might notice if he didn't—and he thought he would scream if he had to start speaking by asserting his fidelity to a country about to betray him: to mistake his stubborn, cynical, unsentimental but undeviating loyalty for disloyalty, for foolishness, for an organized opposition to law that would not have interested Artie, even if he hadn't found Communism boring from the start.

—Rochelle, he said to a girl whose loose-leaf binder had slipped onto the floor, pick up your notebook. He had spoken and could mumble the Pledge of Allegiance.

Two weeks later, and a week before the day he'd appear at the Board of Ed, Artie—who now spoke to his family but became irate if somebody wanted more of him than monosyllabic replies—went to New York to consult with someone from the union, which was providing him with a lawyer. The headquarters was on West Fifteenth Street. Listen, he said to the woman who greeted him, extending her hand to shake his, It has to be a mistake. I'm not a Communist. I was never a Communist.

—I wish I could tell you that's going to make a difference, she said. They talked, and he walked glumly back to the subway. When he changed trains at Delancey Street, he noticed Harold walk onto the train ahead of him. He sat down without seeing Artie, and Artie didn't go over to him. But Harold must have spotted him. As they crossed the Williamsburg Bridge he came over and laid his heavy hand on Artie's shoulder. Are we speaking? he said, sitting down.

The river sparkled in winter sunlight, and Artie automatically noted, through the spotted window behind Harold's head and across the aisle, buildings he looked at whenever he crossed to Brooklyn.

—My friend, Harold said.

—How's the baby?

—The baby is fine. The baby sleeps and eats. The big brother wets the bed, but the baby is fine.

—It figures, Artie said. Where are you coming from? Like him, Harold must have gone into the city after school.

Harold looked uncomfortable, then said, The Forty-second Street library. It was possible—he'd come from the West Side if he got on at Delancey—but the pause made Artie know he was lying.

—Oh, for Christ's sake! he said. You got a two-week-old baby at home—you're playing the field already?

—Don't be silly, Harold said, but he self-consciously refolded his afternoon paper—the
World Telegram and Sun
—pressing the edges crisp as if that was important.

—I know, I know, one of your old pals, Artie said. I'm not accusing you of picking up prostitutes in Hell's Kitchen. Or wherever you guys pick up prostitutes.

—I don't know, Harold said, smiling.

—Oh, go to hell, Artie said.

—I probably will, Harold said. Do Jews believe in hell?

The train crossed the bridge and clattered slowly through Williamsburg. Nobody ever told me, Artie said. My parents were more interested in making a little hell on earth. He was shocked yet again at Harold, at the difference between them.

—I know what you mean, Harold said. For a moment they were silent. The train, which continued to run above the ground after the bridge, bumped to a stop, the doors opened, and people got on, bringing cold air and noise. The doors rattled closed and the train moved on. Artie studied the buildings next to the train: window shades, a plant, sometimes an empty room, once a head and shoulder as a woman turned. They came to Eastern Parkway.

—Mr. Saltzman, Harold said in his deepest voice, Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party? It was a game.

—No, Artie said, without expression.

The doors opened. People got off and others got on.

—And do you support any organizations that advocate the overthrow of the United States government by force and violence?

—No, Artie said. You know I never did.

—I know, Harold said, in his ordinary voice. Then in the deep voice, And do you know anyone now teaching in the New York City schools who is or has ever been a member of the Communist Party?

Artie paused for a long time. The doors closed. The train pulled out of Eastern Parkway. Yes, he said.

They reached Van Siclen Avenue. Harold would stay on for one more stop. Artie stood up and edged past him. Harold looked up. I think you mean it, he said. I'm not going to blame you.