When We Argued All Night (37 page)

When she asked for an explanation, he said, One boat touches another. Is the guy going out behind me to the left?

—He's at a good distance, she said.

—This is comparable to playing tennis on Sunday morning. Brutal. Absolutely brutal. As a matter of fact, I think I wouldn't do this on Sunday. She could see the pond, the boats going back and forth, the difficulty of moving without colliding with another boat. When the aide came in with lunch, she seemed to be from another plane of existence, but her father said agreeably, I had orange juice and Jell-O and a combination of a sandwich that was quite good.

Next he said, Try to move a boat over and open up a space for boats. It would be good if you could take yours and move it over.

Suddenly, after a silence: The number of faces I recognize but really don't know just who they are—but I know they're from New York—is unbelievable.

After another silence, he said, I don't have the patience for this. Then, I don't understand this peculiarity. When it's very warm and I'm speaking a lot, my voice goes down and I can't whistle.

—Try, Brenda said. He pursed his lips in the old way, but there was no sound.

She had worked out that the game was something like bumper cars: he had to avoid being touched by other people's boats. But it was good to be on the lake. She said, Remember the lake in the Adirondacks?

—Oh yeah. Those were lovely years . . . The look of the lake . . . Why don't we move a few of the boats? There's a big space here.

At last, Brenda agreed they should move the boats. He tried to get up, and she suggested that he supervise while she did it. She said, Okay, I'm moving the first boat. Now I'm moving another boat . . . He was calm. They discussed the weeks at the lake. The most refreshing feeling, Artie said.

Someone knocked at the open door. It was Harold. Brenda jumped up to kiss him. Shall I leave you two together?

—Oh, no, Harold said. I won't stay long. He carried a newspaper and a book, and he put them on Artie's bedside table. Brenda saw that it was his new book,
A Fool And His Principles
.

—Artie, Harold said, leaning over the lounge chair that was a pedalboat.

—How are you? Artie said.

—How are any of us? said Harold. How are you?

—Who needs it? said Artie.

—I know what you mean. Harold took his hand and held it with both his hands. Happy Birthday, he said. I brought you my book. He moved Artie's hand up and down, then leaned forward and held it to his cheek. When he let it go, he sat down on the bed. His head was down, and he brought out a small package of Kleenex from his pocket and blew his nose.

B
W: What do you want people to remember about your life and your ideals?

HA: No one will remember them.

BW: But if they did?

HA: I'm sorry. You make me think of my dear, difficult friend, your grandfather, and I become difficult because he no longer knows how. I will give you a straight answer. I would like to be remembered as someone who was worth the trouble. I would like people to read Henry James and the rest. I would like people to think about trying to make things better, even though it's complicated and there is another way to see everything. People suffer. We must end suffering, when we can. When we can without lying.

T
entatively—experimentally—Artie died. It was as if his body had rolled off the edge of a cliff, then come to rest on a short ledge over water. Something might have brought him back; he even knew as much. Desire was gone, anger was gone, but knowledge (without words for what he knew) continued. Nobody came, nobody touched him, and after a time his body tipped off the place where it had paused, and he was nowhere.

3

W
e could stop for coffee, Brenda said.

—Do you want to? said Jess.

—I don't have the energy to get out of the car.

—I'll bring you some, Jess said. She was driving. Brenda knew every place between New York and Concord, New Hampshire where you could get a decent cup of coffee not too far from the road. I think at the next exit, she said. They were somewhere in Massachusetts.

When they stopped, Brenda wanted to get out. It was a cool day for July, and a damp wind blew into her face. They walked together through the parking lot. Then she said, I need to get back into the car. Is that okay?

—Sure, Jess said. Brenda had imagined someone asking them what they wanted. She couldn't speak to one more person.

Jess brought coffee and an enormous cookie. They broke off chunks, handing it back and forth. Brenda said, Harold is so sad. He had spoken, that morning, at her father's memorial service, looking as if any touch could knock him down. His wife handed him into and out of his chair, but his voice was sure. He told stories about Artie that Brenda had never heard. She said, I didn't think there was anything I didn't know.

—I thought even I knew all the stories, Jess said. Artie used to call her Daughter-in-law, as if it was her name. Hey, Daughter-in-law. He had never stopped finding it interesting that he had a daughter-in-law, though he had no sons.

Jess put her cup into the holder and pulled out of the parking lot.

—Do you want more cookie? Brenda said.

—You finish it.

—It'll make me fatter.

—Medicinal purposes. She signaled to return to the access road and then to the highway.

They were silent. I thought he'd be there, Brenda said. When I pictured my father's memorial service, I imagined him at it.

—That's funny.

—Or at least I thought there would be trouble—people quarreling, misunderstanding each other on purpose.

—
Mmm
, Jess said. That he'd be there in spirit. She changed lanes. They were in the part of Massachusetts where the traffic thinned out. She said, It was a tame gathering. A little boring.

—That's all the family I have left now, the nice ones, Brenda said. My perfect sister and her perfect husband and children and grandchildren.

—David's another one, Jess said.

—I'm the only disreputable family member left, Brenda said. But even I was good. I was good to all those cousins.

—I love your family, Jess said. I want family. Jess's parents were dead. She had a brother she rarely saw. She hardly knew her cousins. Brenda got e-mails from cousins whom she liked. They'd turned up; they'd spoken politely to Jess. What did she want, criminals insulting one another? I don't know what I want, she said.

—You want your dad.

—Oh, I don't think so. It's a relief. She couldn't put it into words, what was missing, what she couldn't do without. I don't feel alive if nobody's yelling, she said, though that wasn't it.

Before going home, they picked up the dogs at the kennel. Brenda waited in the car. There were three, big old Abby and two middle-sized, younger dogs, one brown, one yellow. They bounded into the car, licking her and thumping their tails at her face and breasts. Okay, guys, okay, she said, but she was smiling and crying, her sunglasses knocked off into her lap.

At home, they carried their bags into the house, the dogs running ahead. Brenda set her bag down. They'd been gone for two nights, but the house felt as if it had been empty longer. She sat in the chair nearest the door. Jess went through the house and opened the back door so the dogs could go into the yard, which was fenced. While they were outside, she brought her bag upstairs. She came down again. Her footsteps on the stairs sounded old. Then she went out the front door to the mailbox. Brenda was hungry. Jess returned with a fist of mail, catalogues and flyers. One of the dogs was barking: Lulu, the young brown dog. Jess didn't go to the door, and Brenda didn't get up. Lulu barked some more, and then the other two joined in. Still Brenda didn't get up, and Jess leafed through the mail, brushing her hair off her face. Jess had worn a suit to the memorial service but had changed into shorts for the drive. As she grew older, she was bonier, rangier, like an old New England farmer's wife. At last, Brenda stood to let in the dogs.

—You don't have to do that, Jess said.

—They're barking.

—So they're barking. Nobody cares. Brenda and Jess lived in town, but there were only three houses on the block.

Brenda opened the door and the dogs shouldered their way in. She liked the look of their muscular bodies coming forward almost as one body, their different colors and textures. She returned to the same chair. They had a little dining room and she was there, but the dining room led into the kitchen. Jess was still at the counter, gathering envelopes to recycle. It made Brenda desolate that Jess didn't turn and look at her, didn't say something affectionate, didn't offer to feed the dogs or go and buy takeout for their own dinner. This was unfair: Jess had driven home. Jess had brought in the mail. Jess had let the dogs out. Jess had put up with months of Brenda's absences.

Artie had not done well at noticing other people's needs, so it didn't make sense to miss that today, but she wanted, at the moment, not a lover, not a wife, but someone who'd let her be a child.

Jess put the empty envelopes and the catalogues into a wastebasket they kept in the kitchen for recycling, and went upstairs again. Now Brenda heard her tread crossing and recrossing their bedroom. Was she unpacking? How compulsive was that? Then she heard Jess take a shower. All she needed was for her longtime lover and wife to come down the stairs and say, Are you hungry, sweetie? Or even just, Are you hungry? Maybe even just, I'm hungry.

It was a long shower. Brenda continued sitting where she was. When Jess came down at last, she was wearing a robe and her hair was wet. She came into the dining room and sat down in the chair she sat in at meals, which meant her back was to Brenda. She pushed the chair back and began rubbing her head with a towel she'd brought down. Jess had shoulder-length hair, blond, not gray, because she said she'd look old at work. She said nothing.

Brenda stood up and moved to where she faced Jess. Don't you care about me? she said.

—What are you talking about? Jess said. I drove to New York. I was friendly to your relatives. I drove
back
. Now I am worn out. Taking a shower felt great. Go take a shower.

—I took one this morning. Aren't you hungry?

—We had that cookie.

—That was hours ago. Don't you want dinner?

—I don't know, Jess said. Maybe some cold cereal.

Brenda walked to the window and looked out. The yard was a mess. The grass hadn't been cut in too long. I cannot bear this, she said.

—Bear what?

—You think my father dies and that's the end of it?

—Oh, for heaven's sake, Jess said. She went upstairs again with the towel. This time she was gone for a long time. When she came down, she was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt again, with sandals on her feet. She put her arms around Brenda, who had been turning the pages of a catalogue from which she would never buy anything. You are an impossibility, she said. You want me to go pick up food?

—I don't know, Brenda said.

Jess went to look in the refrigerator. Leftover chicken, she said. I forgot this leftover chicken.

—Is it still okay?

It was okay. Brenda washed her face. She said, Okay, I'll cook. Now she wanted to. She cut up the chicken and put water on to boil for pasta. She went outside, and there were ripe tomatoes—the first ones. They were warm to touch. She brought them into the house and cut them up. It was night. Jess poured red wine, and they carried their food into the living room and turned on the TV. The Democratic National Convention was on, but everybody knew that Kerry and Edwards would be the candidates. Now it was time for the keynote address, and the commentators were talking about the man who'd give it. Brenda sat in an old upholstered chair near the TV, her plate on her lap, her wineglass on the arm of the chair, though she'd spilled wine on that chair before. Jess was on the sofa, her plate on the coffee table. One commentator said the speaker's name, which was something like Baracco Bama—an Italian pol from Massachusetts or Rhode Island? No, he was running for the senate from Illinois.

—Oh, yeah, Jess said. He's black.

Barack Obama was a good speaker, and nobody would forget how to spell his name because suddenly the whole convention waved signs with it.

—You think at every session each one gets a bunch of signs with instructions? Brenda said. I never heard of this guy until one minute ago.

—He's gotten a lot of press lately, Jess said, but yeah.

Brenda ate her spaghetti and drank her wine. We've got some gay friends in the red states, Barack Obama said, and Brenda said, over her shoulder, He said
gay
.

—I heard, Jess said. Then she said, Honey, I care about you!

—I know, Brenda said. Oh, sweetie, I know. She abandoned her spaghetti and Barack Obama and went to sit next to Jess, squeezing her shoulder. Jess's fingers just grazed the back of Brenda's neck.

Now the speaker was saying something about Iraq. I read a book recently that put it well, Barack Obama said. This writer—his name is Harold Abrams—

(Brenda gasped, and wine spilled on her shirt.

—What? Jess said.)

points out that though we mean well, we don't always do the best thing for our children—we're young, we're inexperienced—but by the time our grandchildren come along, most of us are pretty good at looking after others. We've learned some wisdom. Abrams says we should resolve to treat other people's grandchildren—in our own city or country or anywhere in the world—as we treat our own grandchildren. Maybe it's that simple.

The speech ended and the commentators talked.

—What was that book? one said, and a photograph of Harold's book—black letters on white background—flashed on the screen. Brenda glanced to her left, where the book itself—the copy Harold had inscribed to her father—sat on a lamp table. For a second she thought it might not be there, as if there were only one copy, and to appear on TV it would have to disappear from her living room.