When We Argued All Night

by Alice Mattison

  —Oh, I wouldn’t have left without telling you, she said. You can come to the ship with a bottle of champagne. Yes, it’s a terrible life. She laughed. Then she said, Nobody in my family marries. I’ve told you that. She finished her dinner—she always cleaned her plate—and folded her arms on the table, wineglass in hand.

  —Somebody must.

  —Well, my parents married, but their brothers and sisters still say it was a mistake. She frowned. I don’t mean a problem; I mean an error. They walked into the Municipal Building looking for a bathroom and, by mistake, went to the room where the clerk who performs marriages sits, so they had to get married.

  She could go on this way, making up stories about her relatives, who sounded like rabbits or field mice in a Beatrix Potter story, with little harmless arrangements and childlike ideas of what adults do. She would not—would not—turn the conversation to Harold’s failings, Harold’s troubles, Harold’s boring, lumpy burden of grief at how badly he’d managed his life. A conclusion, anyway, at which she scoffed. You wanted to go to graduate school, she would say, you’re in graduate school. You wanted to bed a sexy French teacher, you got that. You know just what you’re doing.

  2

  When Evelyn Saltzman had been in college, she didn’t know what work she wanted to do, and then it was the Depression and she sold shoes. What she was good at, Artie knew, was knowing what had to be done immediately and what could wait. Of course, the bastards at the home where she worked weren’t slow to discover that Mrs. Saltzman, who was hired part-time to keep records, also knew when to start planning the fund-raising dinner.

  —They’re not paying you for that, Artie said, when she came home late and tired. Evelyn ignored him, and soon she had a full-time job.

  —It’s up to you, Artie said when she told him her new salary. But don’t tell me it’s because I complained about money!

  —Did I say that? said Evelyn, and went into the bedroom to take off her shoes. He followed. They still found sex a fine game, but even with the door closed, she wouldn’t do it when the girls were awake.

  She wore her hair pulled back with two barrettes and had never stopped having the look of a girl who might giggle or run away if you surprised her. Artie sometimes put down what he was doing and stared, watching Evelyn walk through a room, looking as if anything at all might be in her mind—something amusing, something easy to think about. When Artie noticed that look, he promised himself never to yell at her again, and one night he made up a limerick for her.

  There once was a guy with a wife.

  They had plenty of trouble and strife

  But her hair was so curly

  Although she was surly

  He loved her for all of his life.

  —Who’s surly? Evelyn said. Anyway, it’s wavy, not curly. She was piercing potatoes with a fork, preparatory to baking them, and she pretended to throw one underhanded at his head. Artie waited for Brenda to come home, to recite his limerick for her.

  Brenda was late. It was spring 1956, she was in high school, and she had stayed after school to try out for the tennis team. She didn’t know much about tennis because what she did know, her father had taught her, which meant that she knew one thing well. Brenda still played the recorder and had even gone with her father to a meeting of the American Recorder Society, at which an auditorium full of recorder players—brandishing their soprano, alto, tenor, and bass recorders—played music together. Brenda tootled along on her soprano, biting the inside of her cheeks to keep her mouth from opening in laughter at the sound she and her earnest neighbors produced.

  He’d never taught her the alto recorder, never taught her the trickier ornaments on the soprano, and in the same way, in tennis she’d learned nothing but a basic forehand. But it was a lovely forehand. She practiced in the park, batting balls against the handball courts after school. A good forehand might impress the coach, who would teach her the backhand and how to serve. How hard could it be?

  Artie had laughed when she mentioned at breakfast that she’d be home late because she was trying out for tennis, and his laughter made her lose her temper. Then she cried.

  —It’s about time you learned to be realistic about what you can do and what you can’t, he said, ignoring her tears. That made her sure she couldn’t do it, but now she couldn’t back down. And she hated to give up her image of herself, darting across a court, slamming a ball—backhand—just over the net, as a stymied opponent scrambled for it.

  Brenda knew it would be better not to pay attention when her father criticized her, better to feel angry instead of ashamed. But she could sustain her anger only so long, and when she was alone after an argument with him, she frightened herself with imagined rituals of worthlessness, torments inflicted on herself, not by her father but by godlike authorities. Alone in the bedroom she shared with Carol, Brenda might conclude that she ought to be killed or turned out to starve. Her father didn’t say it, he didn’t think it, but something in his ridicule met something in Brenda that consumed his laughter with terrifying eagerness. Her mind turned on her, and her thoughts were too big for her head.

  So she had to try out. And anyway, what could the coach say that would be worse than the cruel, laughing voice she sometimes heard as she deposited coins to ride the bus, or tied her shoe? It spoke inside her ear—not her father’s voice, not anyone’s—high-pitched, not quite clear.

  Brenda didn’t make the team, but her forehand got her into an advanced after-school class that the coach, Mrs. Broward, said was another way of making the team. Mrs. Broward was short, powerful, and blond, not young but younger than Brenda’s parents. When she volleyed with Brenda—leaning forward, positioning her racket and grinning, then meeting any ball without stretching—Brenda felt protectiveness coming toward her, along with the tennis ball and, to tell the truth, a hint of disdain. A couple of girls had crushes on Mrs. Broward and informed the others of the progress of their passions, but Brenda hated the word crush and would never have spoken of the yearning delight she took in the coach, who sometimes dug in her pocket, thrusting her hips forward slightly, to ease a man’s handkerchief from the shorts that hugged her thick midsection. Her voice was critical but never sarcastic. Someone said Mrs. Broward had once sung in a Christmas show in the auditorium, and Brenda would have given much to have heard it.

  Her father was not surprised that Brenda didn’t make the team—after all, she didn’t know how to play tennis. At supper, he detailed all she didn’t know. Brenda sometimes went along on a Saturday or Sunday when Artie met Harold to play. She’d watch or take her racket to the handball court and practice. Artie would interrupt his game with Harold, which he nearly always won, to go over and give her some pointers.

  —Leave her alone, Brenda heard Harold say, the second time he did this. She has a teacher. Let the teacher handle it.

  —What does that dame know? Artie said. He and Harold rarely talked about anything but tennis these days.

  Mrs. Broward didn’t teach as Artie did. Her after-school class learned forehand, backhand, and serves, all within a few days. Brenda stood to demonstrate service with an imaginary racket, flinging her arm at the kitchen ceiling.

  —This is asinine! Artie shouted, and Brenda burst into tears.

  —Artie, said Evelyn.

  —Artie, Artie, he said, imitating her. Every time I give these kids something to think about, something to consider, it’s Artie, Artie. What’s wrong with letting her see her teacher isn’t God in heaven?

  —Mrs. Broward is an excellent teacher, Brenda said, though she didn’t know if Mrs. Broward was a good teacher or not.

  For a year, Artie heard about the after-school tennis class and Brenda’s beloved Mrs. Broward. When Brenda came to the park, he could see right away that her form was lousy. One night when he got home from work she was arguing with Evelyn about how to cook meatloaf. It’s disgusting, Brenda said.

  —You’ve eaten it this way for years, Evelyn said.

  —It should b
e crisp, Brenda said.

  —For God’s sake, now what? Artie said. She wants caviar?

  —I’m having a conversation with Mother, Brenda said, if you don’t mind. It ended with her refusing to eat anything but toast and jelly, which she prepared ostentatiously, several times that evening, crunching the toast crudely.

  As Artie and Evelyn were turning off the television and moving toward bed, Carol came out of the bedroom. She said, Brenda got thrown out of the tennis class.

  —What are you talking about? Artie said.

  —She said she could come home earlier now, and I said, Did you quit tennis, and she said, Not really.

  —Not really! Artie said.

  —Leave it alone, said Evelyn.

  Artie ignored her. Brenda! That dame threw you out? What happened? He strode into the girls’ bedroom without knocking, something they made a fuss about. Brenda was in bed, but he could see she was only pretending to be asleep.

  —Tell me what happened!

  —Would you leave me alone?

  —She threw you out?

  She sat up. If you must know, yes, Mrs. Broward said I’m out of the after-school class.

  —Did she give a goddamn reason? Did she offer the slightest explanation?

  Brenda started to cry. Leave me alone. I stink, that’s all. Forget it.

  —For crying out loud, Artie said. I’ll go talk to this Mrs. Broward with her fancy ideas and total incapacity for education.

  Brenda leaned forward and screamed, Don’t you dare! Then she said. It’s not her fault. I can see I’m no good.

  —Well, whose fault is that? If the pupil can’t learn, the responsibility goes to the teacher. You wouldn’t have found me telling some kid he can’t learn! I just tried a little harder. He was leaning in the doorway, getting interested. Carol was in bed, and now Brenda lay down and turned her back to him under the covers. Artie kept talking. One method doesn’t work, you try another one. I should have talked to her a long time ago.

  Brenda had pulled her head under the blankets.

  Carol said, Daddy, Brenda doesn’t want you to say things like that.

  —And what do you know? Artie said.

  —Artie, come to bed, Evelyn was calling.

  There once was a guy with three women, Artie said. There once was a guy with three women . . . Oh, to hell with it.

  He had worked out the limerick by morning. Hey, Bren, he said, how about this? Brenda was eating corn flakes and hadn’t yet spoken.

  He recited,

  There once was a guy with three winnimen

  As delicious as sugar and cinnamon,

  But they cried all the time

  Though he plied them with rhyme

  And sooner or later they DID HIM IN.

  —For God’s sake, Brenda said. At least she’d spoken.

  —I’m taking the morning off and coming to school with you, Artie said.

  —You are not.

  —Of course I am. What kind of a father— He didn’t finish the sentence. Brenda stood up, her cereal half eaten, and left the room. Before he knew what was happening, she was gone, not saying good-bye.

  Artie could find the goddamn school on his own. He put on his tie and called the store to say he had to talk to one of Brenda’s teachers and would be late. Evelyn asked what was going on, but he didn’t say anything, and she was in a hurry herself.

  Artie walked into the first school office he saw, hat in hand, and asked how to find Mrs. Broward. The building smelled so much like a school that he was shaky, though it didn’t particularly resemble the junior high where he’d worked. He was directed to another office, where the dean of students decided they’d go and speak together to Mrs. Broward, and sent for Brenda as well.

  In Artie’s mind Brenda was a child, but as he sat in the dean’s office, nervously waiting, he heard steps that sounded familiar but sounded like a woman, and when he turned, Brenda looked different. At home her gestures were histrionic, chosen to communicate outrage as often as not, but here she had the efficient, sturdy walk and movements of a short woman going about her business, expecting to be left alone. Seeing her father, she stopped and said, Oh, for heaven’s sake, what is this all about? She told the dean that she understood perfectly why Mrs. Broward had dismissed her, that she didn’t mind, and that she was more interested in other activities.

  —What activities? Artie said.

  —I haven’t decided yet.

  The dean, who was pleased to have a parent taking an interest, led the way to the girls’ gym, where Mrs. Broward was teaching a large phys ed class. Through an open door Artie glimpsed long rows of girls in green uniforms doing jumping jacks, and the dean asked them to wait while he went inside. Brenda wouldn’t look at Artie. Then the dean returned with Mrs. Broward, a stocky woman, not much taller than Brenda, in a white polo shirt and white shorts.

  —Bren, she said, you know why I cut you from the group, don’t you?

  —I tried to tell him, Brenda said.

  —It simply seems to me, Artie said, in what he knew was a loud voice that seemed to get louder when he tried to modulate it, It simply seems to me that if a pupil has trouble learning, that’s the signal for the teacher simply to redouble her efforts. This is your failure, not my daughter’s.

  —No, Mr. Saltzman, Mrs. Broward said. Sorry to put it this way, but other girls are better. I don’t keep anyone in that class for long. It’s onto the team or out of the group. Mrs. Broward looked straight at Artie as she spoke, then took a step in his direction, raising one arm and holding it, palm down, just above his own arm, as if she owned the space between them and reserved the right to touch him.

  Artie didn’t know he was going to do it, and his right arm moved, in response to the movement of her arm, before he spoke. It swung backward as if to meet a good shot with his forehand, and he said, Don’t you touch me! and then—to his horror, as rage seemed to course through his body so he felt all his veins and arteries at once—he delivered a blow to Mrs. Broward’s white-clad shoulder that knocked her back against the tiled wall. She fell to the floor.

  The dean sprang between them and grabbed Artie by the wrists. He struggled, he heard a sound that was Brenda shouting, and then he understood what had happened, and stopped moving, and began to sob.

  —I lost my job, he said through sobs, so nobody heard him. I know how to teach, but they took away my job.

  Brenda knelt over her teacher, looking like a child after all. She turned and said to her father, I will never speak to you again, and helped Mrs. Broward stand and walk away.

  The dean led Artie to his office, where the police interviewed him, then brought him to the station house. Mrs. Broward had said she would press charges. Artie could go to prison. After some hours they sent him home with a summons, which he showed Evelyn. She was too embarrassed and frightened to speak.

  For many weeks Artie did not shout. He called Harold, did not tell him what he’d done, but picked a fight with him. Forget the tennis, he said. I can’t have a decent time, you’re turning into such a snob—telling me how to teach my kid, sounding like a fancy professor.

  —That doesn’t make sense, Harold said.

  —Well, I’m so stupid I don’t go to Columbia, so I don’t make sense, Artie said, and hung up.

  But he wrote Mrs. Broward several letters of apology, and in the end she decided not to press charges. Brenda blamed herself for the whole incident; she shouldn’t have loved her teacher.

  3

  Myra left her job and became the art director of a glossy women’s magazine Harold had seen in supermarkets, but of course never read. Now she was paid so much there was not much reason for him to work. He stopped feeling that he was depriving his children of shirts and raincoats to feed his craving for literature. As a graduate student, he taught composition, and he continued writing reviews and articles: his professors said he had an ideal life. He wasn’t ashamed of being a man supported by his wife, and Myra liked having more money than he did—
it was always helpful when Myra liked something—but Harold thought his father, who had died recently, would have been ashamed. Sometimes he seemed to catch the old man watching him sorrowfully from a point just beyond Harold’s peripheral vision. A few times he turned swiftly, looking for him, and then winced to picture his big blond self whirling.

  He missed Artie. Myra had found out from Evelyn that Artie had gotten into real trouble. Of course, he didn’t want Harold to know. Harold’s life had only improved with the loss of his job. Artie’s was harder. Harold waited. He felt clumsy, angry with Artie for his childishness, angry with himself for being unable to help.

  During most of the year, Myra didn’t read books, only magazines resembling the one where she worked. Harold felt guilty that their life had deprived her of reading, what he believed in most: as if the wife of a divinity student had no time to pray, he told Naomi. Myra insisted she didn’t miss books, which made him feel worse. When he’d first known her, she’d read incessantly. Now he closed the bedroom door in the evenings and stretched out on the bed with his notebooks, reading and rereading books he’d loved for years—he had started his dissertation, on Henry James—while Myra watched television. Once a year they spent as many weeks as she could take off from work at the cabin, and then she did nothing but read, looking up dazed at times, not quite recognizing him. The look of her face then—the unplanned simplicity—stopped his heart. She’d sit in a canvas chair at the lake, always with more than one book beside her, in case she got tired of the one she’d begun. Before their trips, she gathered what she called green books—books to be read, apparently, when surrounded by trees—and there would be a pile of books in the trunk when they drove north, mostly new bestsellers, sometimes older books she mysteriously deemed green. She would never read Jane Austen in the mountains, she said, as if anybody could see why, but F. Scott Fitzgerald qualified. The distinction had nothing to do with urban versus rural settings; he thought possibly it had to do with sexual openness, but he didn’t ask.

  At the cabin—which Artie no longer rented for a few weeks each summer—Harold and the boys swam or put together jigsaw puzzles, or they drove into Schroon Lake. Myra looked up and waved when they drove off. It was 1961, the summer when Nelson at fifteen grew taller than his mother, and he finally stopped mashing himself into her body when she’d let him. Harold didn’t notice until weeks had passed and he realized he had stopped hearing Myra tell Nelson to leave her alone. Harold was always trying to make friends with his older son, as if Nelson was somebody else’s child he thought he should know better.