When We Argued All Night

by Alice Mattison

  But now, at last, his arms aching, he was at the boat. He grasped the gunwale and pulled himself up, and the boat tipped toward him. Nobody was lying in the bottom. The shore closest to the boat looked almost as far away as the shore he’d just swum from, and nobody waved from the edge of the water. He turned to swim back to the cabin, but his arms ached, and now the wind was against him. The rain caught in his throat, and tiredness made him take a breath at the wrong time. He made himself slow down and hang, resting, his arms loose, until he caught his breath. If Artie was underneath, he was dead, and Harold knew no way to find out. He continued to hear thunder.

  Artie had some trouble poking the boat away from the shore with his stick. It looked like rain but maybe not yet. For the second time in two days he took off his shoes and socks outdoors. Then he rolled up his pants, so he could step into the water and push the boat off again as it bumped its way along the shore, past the cabin and beyond it, along the side of the lake that was roughly parallel to the road. Frogs he never noticed until they jumped, splashed into the water at his approach, and Artie tried to remember if he’d ever before seen a living frog. For a minute he’d thought they were big bugs. He couldn’t have said what he was looking for, but as he slogged, poled, and dragged his boat along the shore, his camera bag still bumping on his chest, he liked the intense feeling the dense trees gave him, as if they were dangerous, or in danger. The air had become heavier, grayer.

  —You had better reconsider, he sang, to the tune of a line in “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Then he remembered what the line came from. It was a song the protesters had made up, trying to prevent the layoffs from the WPA project where he’d worked. The boss was a bad man named Ridder. Poling his boat, bumping the shore here and there, Artie sang the whole thing, timing the phrases to fit the rhythm with which he jabbed the pole at the lake bottom.

  Here’s our answer Mr. Ridder,

  You had better reconsider.

  Stop the layoffs, Mr. Ridder,

  Or [waving his stick in the air] we’ll get rid ’er you!

  The layoffs in question—of clerical workers—had not stopped, and Artie was among those laid off, but Mr. Ridder, the administrator, was gone. Only last week—Artie had plenty of time now—he’d participated in yet another demonstration, the death watch for Mr. Ridder, when the demonstrators lay on the ground around his car.

  Something caught his eye. Farther along the lake, past a tangle of water lilies that kept snagging him, was some scrap or rag, something white that didn’t belong. Soon—as he tried to make his way to the white scrap, at last having a destination—he got tired of the boat, which was sloshing with water anyway. The edge of the lake was so dense with reeds and bushes that he couldn’t walk along the shore to see what the white thing was. He yanked the boat up a little way, so it would stay put, tied his shoes together with their laces and draped them around his neck. He felt like a donkey with the shoes bumping against the camera case, but he began to wade toward the scrap of white, using his pole as a walking stick and continuing to sing with occasional winces and stumbles. His pants were getting soaked. He was having a wonderful time, and when, years later, he’d tell his children the story of the cabin, he emphasized this outing: the boat, the frogs, the weeds, and the water. Forever he would advocate going outside and getting your feet wet, would always see himself as an outdoorsman, while other people—especially Brenda and Carol—might need to be reminded that nature was just out the window.

  The white scrap was Virginia’s bathing suit. She was sitting as she’d sat near the cabin, knees drawn up, watching him.

  —Whatcha doing? he said.

  —Just looking. She clutched her sweater. Now big dark gray clouds moved across the sky. The wind was stronger, and maybe its direction had changed.

  —How did you get here? You’re dry.

  —I walked from the road. There’s a path.

  —You just took a path into the woods? he said. He’d been congratulating himself on his affinity with the wilderness, but he wouldn’t have done that. He was envious. But he said, You could have gotten lost but good.

  —Eaten by bears, said Virginia.

  It was the first lightness he’d seen in her. Mind if I join you? he said.

  —There’s no room, said Virginia. This was true. The path she’d taken was almost closed in by reeds on either side, and it ended at her rock. He stepped around her and sat down on the path, turning up the soles of his feet to dry them. He plucked a long blade of grass and laid it across his lips, trying to make a noise. Artie had fooled around on a lot of instruments, some in high school, where he’d played saxophone in the band, and some in music stores.

  —What’s it like to live in New York? Virginia said. He ignored her. He was trying to figure out why she irritated him. You’re an attractive girl, he said after a while, wrapping his blade of grass around his fingers, weaving it among them, shredding it, then plucking another. There’s nothing wrong with your looks, he continued.

  —But? said Virginia. There’s something wrong with the rest of me? She stood up. Then she gestured in a way he hadn’t quite noticed before, except that he had: it was what had made him dislike her. It was a little flutter of the fingers, all ten, a deliberately foolish gesture of incapacity. It seemed to say, How should I know what you mean? and for a second it made him dislike her again, but then it almost made him love Virginia because he could help her.

  He could show her what she was doing, and then she’d stop doing it, and though he’d never see her again—she wasn’t his type—other men would be drawn to her. Artie was now sprawled on the ground, leaning on his elbows, looking up at Virginia, her legs and thighs followed by her body and head—which was far away, and not a large head to begin with. He scrambled to his feet, his damp pants catching and releasing, and seized both her hands like a suitor.

  —Look what you do! he said. Look! I’ll show you what you do, and you’ll stop. You’re not really dumb; you’re just pretending to be dumb!

  —So just because I’m getting paid for this, you think I’m dumb?

  —Getting paid? For what?

  —For this. She gestured—the lake, the sky. It thundered, and they both looked around. You think I’m not as good as you?

  —I don’t know what you’re talking about, Artie said. I mean what you do with your fingers. Look. He imitated the gesture, wiggling all his fingers, but that wasn’t exactly right. He couldn’t quite reproduce it.

  Virginia said, Why would I do that? You just think I’m stupid because I work for Myra.

  —You work for Myra? he said. Doing what?

  —Never mind, she said, and began running along the path to the road. She was quickly out of sight, but then he heard her shout. He put on his shoes and socks and followed. When he caught up to her, ten feet from the road, she was on the ground, saying, Don’t touch me, don’t touch me. She’d tripped and fallen headlong, breaking a fingernail and scraping her knees. Look what you did to me! she said. And I’m so cold! He helped her stand up and put on her sweater, still trying to explain what he’d meant. Now it was raining.

  —Will you stop it? she said. She said her foot hurt and leaned on him. In the rain and thunder, they began the slow walk back to the cabin. She wouldn’t talk, and Artie was freezing, but he didn’t care. Artie loved self-discovery, and he decided that he’d discovered something about himself when he’d noticed Virginia’s habit. He could tell people truths they didn’t know, and that would be fun. Artie Saltzman, he said to himself, you were born to teach.

  Harold swam back across the lake into the wind. His arms were tired, and he did the sidestroke instead of the crawl. As he stroked, he went back and forth between thinking it was the worst day of his life and thinking again that he was stupid. When he stumbled from the water, after a long, long time, the storm had ended and the sun was out. He saw no one. Then he noticed that the car was gone. He picked up his wet clothes and went inside in his dripping shorts. Artie was asleep on
the sofa in the fetal position, his chin hidden in a blanket. It was not the worst day of Harold’s life. He was only stupid.

  He started to walk toward Artie in his clinging underwear, to kneel at his side and take him in his arms like a child, but stopped himself. In the bedroom, he put on dry clothes and a sweater. As he pulled his arms through the sleeves, he noticed a sheet of paper on the floor at his feet. It might have been left on the suitcase. He remembered that he had left the suitcase closed, but now it was open. The paper was a note, in large well-formed handwriting.

  Dear Harold,

  I’m sorry we have to go. Artie doesn’t know where you are, and Virginia is anxious to get on the road. I’m borrowing The Portrait of a Lady. You brought so many books, I guess you won’t mind.

  I enjoyed meeting you and hope you feel the same. Thank you for being kind when I was down in the dumps.

  Very truly yours,

  Myra Thorsten

  Under the name was a Manhattan address.

  A narrow stripe of rage, jagged like the lightning bolts that might have killed him just now, began in Harold’s stomach and traveled to his fingertips. He did not lend books. He had not brought too many books, whatever he’d said earlier. And The Portrait of a Lady was not only the book he was in the middle of but a valuable and important one. She had gone through his suitcase. The woman was unaware of anyone but herself. Yet underneath his anger—there was no time now to figure out how this could be—Harold felt something else: he was glad he’d have a chance to see Myra once more, to explain to her the many ways in which what she had done was wrong. Meanwhile, he walked into the living room. Wake up, he said. Wake up, damn you. It seemed he might cry.

  —What? Artie looked around, then dropped his head again and burrowed more deeply into the smelly sofa.

  —Wake up. Wake up, damn it. I just nearly died because of you.

  —What are you talking about? Artie said.

  —Where are those women? Harold said. What’d you let her take my book for?

  —What book? said Artie. They left. I had enough of those dames. Tonight we can sleep. At least they didn’t eat up all the eggs.

  He stood. He was in his underwear, and wet clothes were in a pile beside him. His suitcase was near the sofa, and he pulled out clothes and put them on. But we have to eat hot dogs instead of steak.

  —Don’t you realize what you did? Harold said, wondering what exactly Artie had done. I thought you drowned. I swam all the way out to that boat.

  Artie had forgotten about the boat. Where is it? he said. He led the way outside, in his socks. What do you mean you swam? Wha’d you do that for?

  Harold could not explain. He pointed until Artie saw the boat. He didn’t want anything to do with Artie. He wanted to go inside, lie down, read, but he didn’t have his book, and Harold hated to put a book aside before he’d finished it. Even if he didn’t like a book or couldn’t understand it, he read all the way to the end. And he would stay in this cabin for a week, as well, whether it was what he had imagined or not. And in a way it was what he had imagined. It was wild. It was even dangerous. It was cold. Maybe he should have come alone. He had an idea about Henry James. But he knew he would never have come alone. This awareness made him angrier than ever.

  —The boat was gone, he said. The oars were still here.

  —What oars?

  —Never mind what oars. I could see the boat in the middle of the lake. I couldn’t see you.

  —You thought I drowned? What the hell? Why would I drown? I was right here.

  Harold had started back to the cabin, but he turned, his blue eyes bulging. You were not right here! You were not right here!

  —Well, sure, not all the time. But now I’m right here.

  —What were you doing? Shtupping that pathetic woman in the woods?

  —What? That crazy dame? I had to carry her back here in the rain! I had to listen to her! Do you know Myra pays her?

  —Never mind, said Harold. Yes, I know. He walked back into the cabin. Artie picked his way down to the shore and stared at the boat. How the hell did it get across the lake? How would they get it back? This was the part of the story his children would be left with. How would they get it back? Because they never did get it back.

  Chapter 2

  Henry James and the Communists

  1936–1939

  1

  When Myra Thorsten drove away from Gus Maloney’s cabin in the Adirondacks with Harold’s copy of The Portrait of a Lady, he was so upset he scared himself. He had thought about making love to Myra, but brooding on the porch after corn flakes for lunch, he imagined himself hitting her, though not in the uncontrolled, frightening way the policemen in his memory of the Union Square riot still beat women, all but smashing their faces to pulp. In his fantasy, Harold solemnly administered punishment to Myra in a decadent ritual in which she accepted her shame for borrowing a book without permission, and he pronounced sentence, then stepped toward her to carry it out, wielding a shadowy weapon—perhaps a thin cane—which he applied, not hard but firmly, to her shoulder as she bent her head, to her outstretched hands with their polished fingernails, and finally to her buttocks in its snug skirt, as she turned and bent humbly, her hands on her knees. What he imagined embarrassed and aroused him but made him less angry, and he began to notice the smell of the pine trees. Birds cried and a sound made him think a car was coming again, but it was the wind in the trees. He left the porch, stooping to gather brown pine needles and crush them in his hands.

  The weather warmed up, and in the days that followed they sat reading at the edge of the lake, going into the water when they were hot. Artie learned to float. They hitchhiked into Schroon Lake. Harold made notes for something, maybe an essay.

  Back in New York, he delayed getting in touch with Myra. He borrowed The Portrait of a Lady from the library and finished it, horrified but impressed when Isabel Archer, James’s bright, lively, innocent American heiress, returned to her evil husband at the end, though she could have gotten away. At last he wrote Myra a note. He wondered if the book would arrive in a package but discovered that he preferred a meeting.

  Weeks passed. He decided she’d given him a false address. Then a postcard came, setting a time and place: a bar and grill near Grand Central Station, a Saturday night. Harold took the subway from East New York, where he and Artie still lived, and arrived early, but Myra was already in a booth, wearing black gloves and drinking what looked like bourbon, her red hair under a small black hat. Her purse, a black pouch with a metal clasp, was on top of the book. The table did not look clean, and it was difficult for Harold to refrain from snatching the book even before he sat down.

  Myra raised her glass in greeting, flicking an ash from her cigarette, and he slid into the booth with its sticky table, opposite her. She wore bright red lipstick. She had on a stylish gray jacket. A white blouse gleamed from under open lapels.

  —Aren’t you drinking? Myra asked. She’d dressed carefully; apparently she cared how he saw her. He reluctantly turned his back on his book, went to the bar, and bought a bourbon and water. Almost before he was seated and reaching for his own cigarettes, Myra lifted her glass again, touching his, and began to talk. I can’t stand it that she goes back to him, she said. What’s wrong with her?

  Harold lit his cigarette. He put his hand on the book, moving her purse slightly. It had not occurred to him that Myra would read the book, much less have an opinion about it. He was charmed, though he disagreed. He tried to explain what he believed to be true about James’s ending: that in making Isabel Archer return to her husband after being away (she had turned down estimable suitors to enter a disastrous, imprisoning marriage), James considered her heroic, not weak—someone who had learned to confront evil.

  He tried to explain. If James thinks she should stay away, what is the book about? Why would it end just there? What has she accomplished?

  Myra scoffed. What does anyone accomplish? She should have stayed away. She could mana
ge.

  In college, they did not speak as if characters in books could have chosen to do something else. Harold couldn’t think how to explain that this wasn’t the proper way to read.

  Now Myra took the book (Harold winced but didn’t stop her) and began flipping through it. She’d left bits of paper as bookmarks. At least she hadn’t written in it. He hoped she hadn’t written in it. She turned pages vigorously, weakening the binding. She asked questions, pulling her gloves off and putting them on again. What does he mean by this? How can you like an author who’d write something like this? At last she admitted she liked The Portrait of a Lady. She couldn’t stop reading it. What else do you recommend? she said.

  Harold liked being an expert. The American?

  —Can we talk about it after I read it? Myra said. He hadn’t had the chance to scold her for taking the book in the first place. Somehow that incident had become fixed and could not have taken place in any other way, although Isabel Archer, in the book, might have behaved differently if only Henry James had had Myra to consult.

  As they stood to leave, Harold said, Do you have a job? Where do you work? Something about the way she picked up her bag and straightened her jacket made her seem like a working woman. He hadn’t thought of her working, as if she were a child who would naturally be cared for by others.

  —Of course I have a job, Myra said. She was a commercial artist and worked for department stores. I’m good, she said. I’m in demand. With her long right hand, she swiftly drew a series of curves in the air. She smiled at him. He understood her stylish clothes. She was in the business—it had nothing to do with him.

  Harold agreed to meet and talk about The American. As he made his way back to Brooklyn with his book—Myra refused to be escorted, and he wondered if she was meeting another man—he scolded himself for an assumption he’d made about her. He had believed that a woman who’d have an affair with a married man couldn’t be intelligent enough to argue, even erroneously, about Henry James. In the coming days, he stared at the elegant shapes of clothes in newspaper ads, the long sweeping skirts and narrow busts, wondering if he could detect Myra’s hand.