When We Argued All Night (27 page)

—I didn't call your landlord. He was in the apartment when your mother called.

—Well, he shouldn't have answered. What did he tell you? Behind her was the driveway from the restaurant parking lot. Each time someone drove out, the noise of the motor made it hard to hear her father's voice. The operator asked for more money, and Brenda was tempted to pretend she had none, but she threw in some more change: it was good to hear his voice.

Now he was shouting about men. What had the landlord said? What did he know?

—That's simply not true, she said. I have friends, sure, and sometimes somebody came over.

—That's not what he seems to think. Where are you?

—I'm in Seattle. I'm coming home. You won't hear from me for a while because it's hard to phone when I'm traveling.

—Seattle? What are you doing in Seattle? Don't you have a job?

—It ended. You don't have to shout, Dad, I can hear you.

—I'm not shouting, he shouted. What do you mean it ended? They have summer vacation in April? What kind of a college is this? What kind of a lousy unaccredited joint did you end up in?

Again, she had to put in more money. It's a state junior college. You know this. Look, they fired me.

—They fired you? he said, and she heard her mother's sharp intake of breath. For what? Because you're against the war? Don't tell me you're another one like me—but why didn't you tell me? You think I haven't been through this?

She was on the edge of tears. If only she were a political martyr. She knew, in a way, she was—they'd been against her since her outburst at the poetry reading. She had told her parents that story, and her father had enjoyed it, while her mother found it frightening. Won't the dean be angry with you? she'd asked.

But she was as much to blame for losing her job as the college. She shouldn't have had the Christmas party at her house. She shouldn't have served beer and let the kids smoke pot. She'd played into their hands, and that was what had angered Richie. More than for anything, she blamed herself for Richie.

—I don't have any more change, she said, which was not true. Tell me about the baby.

They told her about the baby. The baby was perfect. I'll call again, she said, and hung up. Distracted, she put the remaining coins into her pocket and looked around for her car, then remembered she had to walk back to the motel. It took an hour. When she got back, she wished she had brought something with her, some sweet food to eat before turning out the light.

Brenda called her parents again in Chicago. She didn't want more details about her landlord's report—or that of anyone else in town he might have spoken to. She could never tell her parents the whole story. But it pleased her that they had worried. She'd forgotten that anyone, anywhere might be thinking of her, loving and worrying. And she was pleased that her father had been ready to welcome her to the club: people who'd lost jobs because they were true to their beliefs. This time she planned what she'd say before she called, and filled the time with an account of what she'd seen and where she'd been. Her parents had traveled little and were impressed with stories of stopping at the side of a river amid mountains in Idaho, of crossing the Mississippi.

—And I thought Idaho was just potatoes! her father said.

She answered their questions briefly: she didn't know where she'd live or what she'd do when she got back to New York. They didn't have a chance to ask more about her job: she had piled up only a few quarters. The baby was fine.

As she drove along the New York State Thruway a day later, through a landscape that looked more midwestern than eastern, she knew that no matter what it looked like, it would be transformed into her parents' kitchen too quickly. She was almost out of money, and she would have to live with them—fights every day—until she could make some more. They were friendly on the phone, but after a few days they would blame her for everything they knew of, and they'd be right, even if with luck they'd never learn about Richie.

A sign told her the number of miles to Albany, where she'd turn ninety degrees south, to drive the last hundred miles or so to New York. If only she could turn north, drive to Schroon Lake and out the road to the cabin, which didn't even belong to Harold anymore, but to his former wife.

Then it occurred to her that Myra didn't live in the cabin—she probably used it for a couple of weeks each summer, if that. It was Harold who had loved it—Harold and her father—and Myra had kept it, she'd always heard, just to make Harold and Artie feel bad. Maybe the cabin was empty. She could take a detour. She could stop and look at it, walk down to the lake and see how it looked in spring—it was spring, though she hadn't thought about that. Trees had new leaves, and one day her coat had felt too warm. Brenda had driven across the country looking around her as little as possible, but even in her present mood she'd noticed one or two things.

She couldn't afford to stay in a motel in Schroon Lake. To save money, she'd been buying food in grocery stores and eating sandwiches in the car. But she could look at the cabin, spend an hour or two there, breathing the calm, clear air. When she reached Albany, she turned north, imagining Artie and Evelyn shouting and gesturing: The other way, the other way! How they did love her, and how difficult their love was.

She remembered the route. The narrow road through woods, after she left the highway, gave her a feeling so strong she drove through tears. Nothing bad had happened to her in these woods, and in these woods she'd done no harm. The drive was longer than she remembered, and she thought she might be lost, but she wasn't. She drove down the long, bumpy, rutted driveway. The cabin, with an open area between it and the driveway, looked different but not very different. The living room now protruded toward the driveway, and the clapboards were tan with green trim, instead of green all over. There had never been noticeable trim. No cars were parked; there were no lights. Brenda stopped and got out. She walked around the back of the house—it was more of a house than a cabin now—and down to the lake. The ground was muddy. The lake and its surroundings looked messy and wild. The woods reasserted themselves, she saw, when people were gone. The last time she'd come, after her affair with Douglas, she had had no idea how much trouble was inside her, how much harm she could do. What a child she had been. Now she had done worse. She'd abandoned her students—she had lived in such a way that she had to.

It was too cold and wet now to crouch on the ground and stare at the lake, discovering unforeseen flaws in her own soul. She knew about her flaws anyway. She walked back to the cabin and sat down on the porch steps, facing the lake. At least she'd had the brains to come here, however briefly. The pine trees thrived, the houses receded, and the smell, as always, told her where she was. She was hungry. She had to urinate, and she walked a little way from the house to squat. The air was cold on her bottom, but peeing into the damp leaves was honest, valid. Pulling up her pants, she felt like a dog who had taken possession. She walked around the house and remembered where the key had been kept years ago, in a crevice in the stone foundation, near the ground, left of the door, inside a Band-Aid box. The box was rusted and battered. Myra didn't seem like the type to leave a key in a rusted box. She probably didn't come at all. The key stuck, then worked. Inside, the smell was the same, despite modernizing, and the air chillier than outside. In her coat, she lay down on a couch she didn't remember and slept.

When she awoke, it was dark. She brought in what food she had, and her bag with pajamas and underwear. The electricity and water were off. She found a flashlight and looked at the books on the shelf. Novels from a few years back, or many years back.
Lady Chatterley's Lover
,
The Alexandria Quartet
, Pearl S. Buck, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Henry James. She sat on the floor and read a short story in an old anthology of humor, but it was hard to read by flashlight. There might be a caretaker who'd discover her. If so, she'd apologize, say she was a friend of the family, and leave. She ate a sandwich and potato chips and drank from a warm bottle of grapefruit juice. She slept. In the morning she dug a latrine in the woods with a shovel she found. She wondered where the old outhouse had been.

Then she drove into Schroon Lake and, counting her money carefully, bought more food at the Grand Union. She would arrive at her parents' house penniless, a further humiliation. Twenty-eight was too old for this. She called Artie and Evelyn, but they weren't home. It was a weekday. She'd have to return here and phone again in the evening. She didn't want them screaming at her again that she didn't care if they thought she was dead, and now that the idea of emergencies and death had been raised, she needed to know that they were all right, that Carol and her baby were all right. Back at the cabin, she chose a novel she didn't know—
The House of Mirth
by Edith Wharton—and lay on the couch reading. She heard nothing but the occasional scrape of branch against branch in the trees behind the house. There was a wind. She ate a sandwich and read some more, going outside only when she needed to use the latrine. The book was about a woman who spoiled her life out of vanity, and Brenda read it with interest for a while, then lay with it on her lap. Richie would have hurt her again if she had stayed, since she had no power to keep him away. At least she had run away. Like the number of dollars in her wallet, her supply of courage and brains was what it was.

Around five o'clock, she drove back to Schroon Lake in the cold, light spring air. Her parents would not be home yet, and she wandered around Grand Union, thinking how to conserve money, wishing she could afford ice cream—but she had no refrigerator—and fruit and meat. She bought corn flakes, then went to the pay phone.

—Where are you? said her mother.

—I don't know. I think I'll be home the day after tomorrow.

—Are you eating?

—I'm eating.

—Honey, are you all right?

—Sure, she said quickly, and got off before she'd planned to.

When she got back with her box of corn flakes in a grocery bag, in early twilight, the door of the cabin stood open. She was sure she'd locked it, and the key was in her pocket. Had she left it unlocked after all, and had the wind blown it open? No. She put her head down and breathed slowly, explaining to herself that there was no way Richie could know she was here. She saw no car. Before she could make up her mind what to do, a man's figure appeared in the doorway. Of course he had heard her car. She put her keys into the pocket of her jeans and got out of the car. She could leave in a hurry if she had to, abandoning her possessions inside. The man was young and looked familiar. He looked Jewish. Nelson? she said. His hair was wild and made his face hard to see, and she hadn't seen Nelson in years. But she recognized him by the way he stood, with a tentativeness that had infuriated her when she was a child. Of course. It was his mother's house. Walking closer, she said, Brenda Saltzman.

—Did someone send you to find me? Nelson said. Then he said, I thought you lived in California.

—I'm back, she said.

—Is that your stuff inside? He looked at her as if she could order him to leave, instead of the other way around.

She said, I knew where the key was. I needed a place to go.

—I don't care, he said. I wondered who was squatting here, that's all.

—You don't have a car?

—I hitchhiked from the bus stop, he said. Walked part of the way. So you have the key?

—Yeah. How'd you get in?

—The bedroom window. He fell silent, and then as if he'd belatedly figured out that he was standing in the doorway, he moved back, and she followed and closed the door. He sat on the sofa. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans.

—Why did you think someone would be looking for you? she said.

—I don't know. Nobody would. I need to turn on the water before it gets dark.

—You know how to do that?

—Sure. But he didn't stand up for a long time. She was hungry. I don't have money, she said. Do you? All I have is corn flakes.

—Did you put that bottle of juice in the kitchen? I drank some, he said.

—Yeah, that was me. He went out to turn on the water, and she followed. It was almost too dark to see the valve. She stood behind him. I don't suppose you know how to get electricity? she said.

—No, but I know where there are candles, and I've got matches.

—The comforts of home, she said. She was cold. He took a long time to figure out how to turn on the water. They went back inside. Do you have any food? she said again.

—I have some weed, and I have money, he said. He had stopped at the Grand Union but had bought only a package of cookies and some bananas. I have a sandwich too, he said.

—If you'd pay, we could go into town and eat, she said.

—All right, he said, but he didn't get up for a long time, and at last she put corn flakes into a bowl, and they ate them dry and shared his sandwich.

—Probably nothing is open, he said. He lit candles, and then he lit a joint. She was cold and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. They sat at either end of the couch. He fiddled with something he'd taken from his pocket, some little thing. His face flickered in the candlelight—deep eye sockets, fleshy lips that seemed to change shape more than other people's when he spoke, which made his speech seem a little disdainful, with the elongated vowels of sarcasm. I sort of love this place, he said after a long silence.

—Me too. I love it a lot.

—Was California good? Lots of good people, right?

—Not where I was. They threw me out because I was against the war, Brenda said.

—No shit.

—Well, it was complicated, but that was the main thing.

—So you took off.