When We Argued All Night (34 page)

—The people you stayed with, Harold said, as Amanda dug out toys to amuse Nell, who was in a high chair. Do they have children?

—What people? Amanda said.

—In Astoria, Harold said.

—Oh, you mean Steve—no, he lives alone, Amanda said. He's divorced.

A bowl of sour and half-sour pickles was on the table, and Amanda ate a pickle with her free hand. Her other hand danced a small plastic animal up and down to amuse Nell. She was looking at Nell, not at Harold, but her shoulder, the side of her face—something—looked self-conscious. How do you know him? Harold said, coming to the slow understanding that Amanda had phoned him not just because he knew his way around New York.

It hadn't occurred to him before to wonder what Paul had told his children about Harold's divorce from Myra. Myra had died when Paul's children were small, but they might remember her; in any case, Paul remembered her. Amanda knew not only that Harold wore a hearing aid because he preferred to hear, she knew how Harold had lived. He'd even written about it—well, tangentially, except for this book he was trying to finish. Which Amanda might read. He didn't know what reader he'd imagined until now, but now he imagined Amanda reading about his infidelities, his uncertainties, his clumsy use of politics to guide his private life and also justify the private life he felt like leading. Harold had never concluded—he didn't conclude in this book either—that because he'd been a fool, he was sorry about his life. It seemed all of a piece. He didn't regret the politics, wrong as they sometimes were. Was it impossible for a lefty to be faithful to a woman? In the book he argued that it would have been impossible for him, that the nerve to break rules made many rules breakable, and made him understand and sympathize with rebellious young people in the sixties.

—Is Steve your lover, Amanda? he asked the side of her face. She focused more intently on Nell, and he wondered how much the little girl understood. But that didn't seem to be the issue.

—I kept asking myself if I was going to tell you, Amanda said. I don't know who else to tell—what a crazy thing to say to my grandpa.

He could think of no answer. The food came and Amanda fed Nell applesauce, then turned to her sandwich, offering the baby bits of bread and french fried potatoes.

—He was my professor at NYU, she said. He's nine years older than I am. He was junior faculty then. Biology. Now he has tenure. We had an affair my junior year—he was married then. I didn't break up his marriage. Are you shocked by all this? I was careful not to tell you at the time!

—I thought nowadays teachers didn't do that, he said.

—It wasn't sexual harassment, Amanda said, and though he hadn't been particularly shocked by her news, he was shocked at her easy use of the sociological, legal, distancing term. Then she said, Oh, maybe it was. How should I know? But it was harder on him than on me, that's what I mean. It wasn't like, I'm weeping in the dorm and he's callously making me go to bed or he'll fail my lab report. He was the one who did all the weeping. Now he weeps because it's the other way around—I'm married. He says to me, I'm a grownup; I should know better. As if I was a child.

—You are a child, Harold said, before he thought, and was afraid she'd say nothing more, as she shook her head in impatient dismissal.

—Sorry, he said. Of course you're not. You're a mother.

—Children can be mothers, but I'm not a child, she said. She faced him now, and he saw that her eyes were close together, not crossed but just slightly out of sync. They were not blue or brown—hazel, did they call that? Flecks of gold in them.

—Eat, he said. Shall I take the baby? Nell was getting fussy now, crying a little. He stood and lifted her out of the high chair. But he did it wrong, and her leg was caught and she yelled. Amanda reached to open the high-chair tray, but she didn't take the child. She put the tray back on the high chair and began eating her sandwich rapidly. He'd finished half of his. He stood Nell on the seat next to him, on the window side, and said, Look, Nellie, a baby! And a dog. Nell pressed her dirty hands to the glass and commented. He wasn't sure she didn't want to go through the window to the dog and the baby. Maybe this was the wrong idea. The little girl wriggled in his hands, firm and vigorous. His right arm hurt—it often did—holding her by the waist as she shoved against his grasp.

—So do you think I'm a horrible person? she said. I shouldn't have told you.

—Don't be silly. It was hard to think with this baby pulling so. Now she was trying to go under the table, and if he wasn't careful, she'd bump her forehead on the table's edge. Finally Amanda took Nell back. To his surprise, she twisted around in the seat and pulled up her sweatshirt to nurse her. He looked around, but nobody seemed to be watching, and Amanda's breast was covered by the sweatshirt. Now Nell was quiet and Harold was free to give a better answer. He hadn't had a conversation like this in years—a conversation in which it was this uncertain what would be said, what he and the other person would feel. He had forgotten about this kind of thing.

—Do you love him? he asked.

—Love Steve or love Zack? He'd forgotten her husband's name—the husband he'd been so quick to argue for, when Amanda suddenly wanted to marry, right out of college. I love them both, she said.

—That's too easy, he said. That's the sort of thing
I
said. He'd had a sandwich, he'd had coffee—coffee, not decaf for once—and it was as if his brain had wandered back into his skull. He knew who they were: a man and a woman who both had trouble with love. He remembered Artie's disgust, his unvarying disapproval of Harold's shenanigans, as he called them. But Harold had been seeing Naomi most of those years—not all, but most—not a flibbertigibbet but the love of his life.

—I can't leave Zack, she said. He's Nell's father. He loves me. We do all these things together. Steve's bored with a lot of stuff I can't do without. I don't mean in bed, just things like dancing. Partying. But Steve is the man I really love.

—You married Zack to stop thinking about Steve? he said.

—No, it's not that bad. I thought it was over. I honestly thought it was over. I didn't think of Steve for years. But the last time I came to New York—well, I knew where he was and I called him. Nell was tiny then.

She hadn't called her grandfather that time. Of course not—she didn't want anybody telling her not to do what she wanted to do. If Nell was tiny, it was a year or more ago.

He looked at his watch. We should get you to your train.

She looked at him, as she eased the baby away from her breast and smoothed her sweatshirt. You weren't wrong, telling my dad he should stop yelling at me about getting married. Getting married was right. It's just—

—Marriage should be different?

—Yeah, marriage should be different.

—Zack doesn't know what you're doing?

—No, and I don't want him doing the same thing, she said, and then she laughed, and her face reminded him of her—no, of Paul—as a child. I'm a hypocrite.

—You need a better grandpa than I am, Amanda.

—No, you're the best, she said. He hadn't meant she needed someone who was better at being a grandparent. He had meant she needed a grandparent who was a better human being. But he let it go. He held the baby while she flagged down a cab, and they were jostled down Seventh Avenue. He paid the cab, and they made their way into the station, now with him pulling the suitcase and the baby on Amanda's back. Her train was half an hour late, and they found a place to sit. Nell sat with her face pressed into Amanda's chest. If I'm lucky, she'll sleep all the way, Amanda said. If not, she'll yell.

—I'm glad you called me, Harold said. He patted Amanda's knee.

—Oh, so am I!

He wanted to come up with something wise—a resolution—but they sat silently, watching people drag their luggage by, eat snacks, study the arrivals and departures board, embrace. Commuters were rushing to Jersey Transit, though it was early. Trains were announced. He felt more like a grandfather now, benevolent and vague, competent to offer money and love. At last the train arrived—forty minutes late—and he kissed her at the barrier, as she scrambled for her ticket and bumped her suitcase behind her, her daughter waving her arm in its white sweater toward everyone who passed.

Harold was tired and did not leave the station for a little, though he didn't like Penn Station and still missed the famous old masterpiece it had replaced. After he sat doing nothing for ten minutes or so, he had an idea and pulled out a little notebook and a pen. Amid the clamor of the station, its bright lights and hard plastic seats and mixture of sounds and smells, he wrote something else that might belong to the preface:

Certain principles are worth any amount of trouble, any error and pain. Many of us carry out a series of mistakes as parents and do terrible things—unwittingly, unconsciously—to our children. There's little to be learned from the way we treat our children. But though we're not much wiser when they come along, we usually do better with our grandchildren. The premise of this book is that even a flawed private life—my own life has been seriously flawed—can provide some guidance for living a public life, for deciding how to live the public life none of us can escape, as we form opinions, join groups, and vote, even if we don't run for office or work for the government. And maybe it is the way we treat our grandchildren that we should regard as a standard for living as citizens of the world. We must resolve to treat other people's grandchildren—in our own city or country or elsewhere—in Iraq and Afghanistan, for example—as we treat our own grandchildren. We may not do well even so, but maybe that's all we can manage.

Chapter 8

The Look of the Lake

1

B
renda Saltzman picked her way barefoot over grass and pine needles between the house in the Adirondacks and the beach. Paul had put in a beach. Did one have sand delivered? She laughed at herself for thinking Paul Abrams's improvements fussy and tame. She was Paul's guest and happy to be comfortable: he and Martha were doing something important in Prague for the month of July, and he'd invited her in an e-mail to use the cabin whenever she liked, giving her the code to the combination lock that padlocked a little wooden box in an inconspicuous corner of the porch, where the key was kept. Jess had come only once, but Brenda owed herself vacation days and didn't mind the drive. She was glad to be near hiking trails, and that sand felt good on her toes. Now she seemed to be the only person at the entire lake. For the moment. In a little while David would arrive from New York—where he lived now—with her father.

Artie was sturdy but creaky, hard to talk to in the years since Evelyn had died. He lived in a little apartment in an assisted-living facility. She wasn't sure he understood from her phone call where David was taking him, and he might have forgotten about her call by the time David arrived. But she thought that once they'd packed some of his things and had driven here, he'd recognize the place and be glad to be back. Brenda had driven into Schroon Lake that morning and bought food for supper, and now she had time for a swim. They'd be another hour or two, depending on how long a lunch stop had taken.

She dropped her towel. It was hot enough that she walked three or four steps into the lake before she got cold and stopped, liking the chill circle of water around her thighs and the warm underneath, squeezing mud between her toes. She stood taking in the sun on her shoulders. Something, a memory, pulled at her, a memory from way back. Though Artie had rented or borrowed the place year after year, the two families had been here together only rarely. She remembered Harold floating serenely on his back, his fleshy chest above water, and Nelson, a little boy, shouting. During this month she'd often thought of Nelson, thought of their single quiet coupling, which was all kindness, without anxiety or need. Or that was the way she remembered it. It was the only time she'd been with a man without trying to be different from the person she was—and even with women, for a long time she'd wanted to seem other than she was: more beautiful, less needy, or better at waiting. She was exactly herself with Jess now, and their going to bed was full of laughter but maybe less romance. Did romance require anxiety? Turning that question over, Brenda walked in up to her waist, leaned forward, accepted the first cold shock, and began stroking toward the middle of the lake. The stretch in her arms, the thrust of her legs, felt good.

She had just finished her swim and was wiping water out of her eyes when she heard a car, and then the front of it pulled into view: David's green Honda. She put the towel around her shoulders—a big, cushy blue one, one of a pile she'd found in the linen closet—and picked her way across the rough ground in front of the house, where Paul and his wife had put in a bit of a garden that she was supposed to water and weed. David was already leaning over the opened passenger door, apparently listening to Artie, his arm outstretched as he grasped the top of the door, his legs in shorts. These days David shaved his head. The position of his back seemed amused—tolerant—and Brenda, as she walked toward her son and her father, tried to decide if that was possible: if a back would look different if its owner was impatient or tense or worried. Yes, it would. She knew what she saw. She had always known what she was looking at and what she felt.

David lived in Brooklyn. He saw her father more often than she did: one of the ways he'd changed his life in the last few years. He'd stopped writing fiction and, at the last minute, applied to graduate school in nonfiction. Brenda had asked what nonfiction would consist of. History books?

—Personal essays, David had said. Remember that story about the kid at the lake with his mother's girlfriend?

She wasn't sure. She remembered others better.

—It was partly based on something that happened. I made up the exciting part because I thought what really happened wasn't exciting enough. Now I want to learn how to make what happened exciting.

He'd begun to send her essays, and she'd braced herself—but they weren't titled
The Faults of My Mother
. David went to graduate school, two frenzied years. When he graduated, he quit his job, moved to Brooklyn, and began working in a coffee shop and dropping in unannounced on his grandfather. He'd published essays, some on the Web, some in print. Some were about his personal life, others about topics or people who interested him. Brenda wasn't even sure she'd seen them all.

Now the grandson backed up a little and let go of the door, shifting to support his grandfather as Artie stood up, grasped the top of the door in his turn, and stepped away from the car.

—Hi, Brenda said, coming up behind them.

—We made it, David said. He has to pee.

Calling Hi, Dad, how was the trip? Brenda scrambled to open the front door, and then said, Watch the step, Daddy, as Artie and David approached, David looking carefully ahead, Artie staring at the ground. Inside, she hurried to open the bathroom door. Her father didn't greet her. How are you? she said as he went by.

—Gotta go, he said.

While her father was in the bathroom, she excused herself and went into the bedroom to dress.

—We didn't have lunch, David said, when she came out.

—Why not?

—Too hard. He shrugged toward the bathroom door. Artie was still in there.

It was almost three. We'll eat now, she said. She was caught unprepared. It was too hot for the evening meal she'd planned: boneless chicken breast, boiled potatoes, carrots. A meal her father would like. But she hadn't thought of anything else, so that was what they'd eat. She was taking things out of the refrigerator when her father came in behind her. You're the daughter with the wife, he said. The other one's the daughter with the husband.

She let that go, except that she wondered if he'd forgotten her name. And was he attempting a joke or reassuring himself that he knew who she was? Do you remember this house? she said, her back to him.

—Do I remember this house! No. I never saw this house, he said, sitting down at the table. She started peeling carrots.

—Sure you did. We came here when I was a kid. You came here with Harold when you were young.

—Not the same house. Maybe the same lake, not the same house.

—It's been renovated, she said. Several times. She sliced the carrots, annoyed that she'd have to eat dinner in the middle of a hot afternoon.

David had quickly changed and gone for a swim.
That
wasn't easy! he'd said on his way out, shrugging toward Artie.

When everything was ready, Brenda was hot and frazzled. Several times, as she cooked, Artie said, Couldn't you have cooked something simpler?

—Harold owns this place? Artie was saying, as David came in again, rubbing a towel over his bald head. How come he never invited me before?

—I don't think he comes much. Paul uses it. She looked at him. Lately, he was always smaller than she expected. She said, It's the place where you came when you were young, Dad. Where we all came.

—No, that was different.

—Maybe he means it doesn't have the same feel to it, David said.

—Is that what you mean?

—It's completely different, Artie said.

—Let it go, said David. He took his clothes into the bathroom and returned, dressed. They sat down. Picking up his knife and fork, Artie asked, This is Harold's too? His hair was all white and hadn't been cut for a while, and it hung over his face as in photographs Brenda had seen of Carl Sandburg, someone her father had once admired.

—The plates? The house? she said. Yes. Dad. Wiping sweat off her forehead with her napkin, Brenda spoke more slowly and precisely than she usually did. This is the house you and Harold stayed at, during the Depression, when you were young. Later, somebody added this kitchen. Somebody put in a bathroom. You used to bring us here when I was a child.

Artie didn't look up from his plate, and Brenda became more expansive, nodding vigorously as she spoke. It had the kitchen, when I was a kid, but it didn't look the way it looks now. The counters. The cabinets. She gestured. Harold's son—Paul—put those in.

—A professor, Artie said. He grasped his knife tightly and sawed his chicken into tiny pieces, several at a time. Then he put down the knife, lifted his fork, and leaned over his plate to impale one bite at a time, and bring each to his mouth. He ate audibly, and bits of chicken spotted his lips and chin. Artie had an uneven white beard. He had begun growing it a few months after Evelyn's death, during a time of almost wordless misery, as if he thought he'd feel better if he made himself look different.

—What? Brenda had stopped speaking and was watching him. Oh, Paul. Yes.

—You should have married him, Artie said.

David let out a bark of a laugh.

—What? said Brenda. She decided to make a joke of it. She said, He never asked me. He's ten years younger.

—The girl can ask. Artie looked up and all at once could put words together. It's good if the girl is older. Women live longer.

It was silly to take him seriously, but Brenda couldn't stop herself. I'm gay, remember? I like women. Paul's nice—we're friends. He invited me to stay here. Again, she vowed to weed and water Paul's garden. Mostly marigolds. She noted that once more she was talking in overly simple, emphatic terms to Artie.

—If you married him, Artie said, this would be your house.

—Well, that's true, Brenda conceded. You could come here all the time.

—This is my point. Artie went back to his chicken. If my friend hadn't been so stupid, he said, partway through his carrots, then stopped. Brenda and David were silent; she was trying to think what she'd feed them all later. They'd need something at night. It was too hot for canned soup. She resented the fact that because of her father's presence she was cooking and eating differently, and she couldn't even say so: he was old, and this was what he liked. She had gray hair and should be used to him.

Artie continued. If he wasn't stupid in the first place, marrying that dame, he would have had this house all along.

Brenda thought this was not true, but she couldn't remember the history of the house and the history of Harold and his first wife well enough to be sure. Everything he did, stupid, Artie said. He has to go and join the party, we lose our jobs. I told him at the time.

—Wait a second, Brenda said.

—It's always wait a second, Artie said. That's what he tells me his whole life. Everything has to be his way, and all he wants is attention. Who told him, teach? I told him. And what does he do—he loses both of us our jobs.

—But you got it back, David said. He took more chicken.

—Aah, it was never the same.

—But Dad, it wasn't like that, Brenda said. Harold didn't cause you to lose your job.

—What do you mean? Artie's voice was raised. He's out in the street, calling attention? Of course he did!

—But you lost your job because that woman lied about you, remember? It had nothing to do with Harold, Brenda said.

—Let it go, Mom, said David. What difference? He was pushing his chair back, suddenly wanting to move. He'd eaten half of his second piece of chicken.

But Artie, eyes flashing, was shouting at Brenda. How the hell do you know?

—I was there.

—You were a kid. What does a kid know?

—I knew. Mother knew.

—Mom, forget it, David said.

—Aah! Artie waved away what Brenda said with his fork, dropping it on his plate.

—Let's go, Grandpa, David said. Let's go look at the lake.

—Don't rush me, Artie said. He picked up his fork, wiped it on his napkin, and left the napkin on the table. Now Brenda stood. Maybe she should give them dessert. She had ice cream. Artie sat alone, stabbing his fork at what remained on his plate, his head down. He looked old, unhappy. David stood behind his chair. Brenda, trying to think of something to propose, stood behind hers. But Artie stabbed his fork in the air toward David, not his remaining carrots. I asked you what's the rush! he said. You got something to do? Always rush rush rush. Rushing me out of the bathroom. No lunch. I'm supposed to eat, my doctor says eat.

—I'm sorry, Grandpa. I couldn't figure out a good place for lunch, David said.

—What's so difficult? You've got something better to think about, maybe something you're writing? Artie's voice, all of a sudden, was heavy with sarcasm, with rage. You write that trash—I read that thing. You think I don't read, but I found it on the computer and I read it.

—Yeah, I heard you read it, David said. Gabe told me. He told me he showed you it was there. He thought you'd just be proud it had my name on it, but you read it.

—Did I read this? Brenda said.

—It's the one about Julie. I don't use her name.

—Pornography! All that money. Graduate school! Where he learns to write trash—people going to bed, every goddamned detail. All those girlfriends of yours—you see what he learned from you? Sex, sex, sex, nothing else matters.

—Okay, Dad, enough, Brenda said, trying to keep her voice steady. You want to take a nap? You're tired. She began clearing the table. She was angrier than she'd been for a long time. Maybe it was because they were here together—there had been plenty of screaming matches between her and him, here in this kitchen, down at that beach. She used to wonder if people on the other side of the lake could hear. She'd finally take a book and escape into the woods.

Artie stood up. I am not tired! he shouted. I am talking about your son that you didn't bother to bring up so he could even get a decent job! No—excuse me. He had a decent job and he quit. Gave it up. And for what. Pouring coffee, that's what.
Do you want cream and sugar?
This is my grandson? His grandson is a lawyer, and this is my grandson! His son is a professor, and my daughter works in a factory!