When We Argued All Night

by Alice Mattison

  The book he consulted was old, interesting, and useful. He read into the late afternoon, making careful notes on the 4 x 6 index cards he preferred. When he left the library, it was dark. He started walking down Fifth Avenue, then jumped on a bus, but when he got off, close to the restaurant—downtown on the East Side—he realized he was much too early. He’d lost track of the time in the wrong direction, which was a little embarrassing. He was near Nelson’s apartment—if Nelson still lived in the apartment—and though he hadn’t been there, he thought he remembered the address and had it in the little leather book he carried in his briefcase. He was afraid to ring the doorbell, if there was a working doorbell, but he could walk past the place. The apartment was in a poorly kept-up brownstone, and he didn’t know which floor it was on. He felt overdressed in this neighborhood with its shabby, colorful shops smelling of incense: as always, Harold was conspicuous. What if Nelson had seen him walk by his house and keep going? At that thought, he took his address book out to check the address—he was right—and returned. He mounted the front steps and tried all three doorbells, none of which was labeled. After a wait, he heard sounds inside, and the door was opened by a girl with loose hair and overalls.

  —I’m looking for Nelson Abrams—I mean Abramovitz, Harold said. Nelson had pointedly refused to change his name.

  —Are you his father?

  —That’s right. I’m Harold Abrams.

  —Hi, the girl said.

  —Does he live here? Harold persisted.

  —Sort of. He’s here now.

  She led the way up a staircase with loose treads and squeaky boards, to a dark landing, then into an apartment. He was in a living room like various shabby living rooms of his youth, and four or five young people sat on sofas and a bed and on the floor. There were a lot of filled ashtrays. These kids were accustomed to dropping in on one another. It would have been more awkward if he’d tried to set up an appointment. There was insistent music he didn’t recognize. Nelson was one of the kids sitting on the floor, leaning back against a sofa, with a gray tiger cat in his lap. Except Nelson was too old to be considered a kid. He looked up and smiled. Dad? He wasn’t surprised enough.

  —I was in the neighborhood, Harold said.

  —Trying to score some good stuff? one of the kids said, and Harold didn’t know if he was seriously offering him a deal or not.

  —Just in the neighborhood.

  —You’re not a narc, are you? someone said, then smiled.

  The girl made room on the sofa against which Nelson leaned, and Harold sat down.

  —Do you know anything about cats? Nelson said. I’m worried about this cat.

  —Is it yours? Harold said, looking down at his son’s hair. It was an unexpectedly tender view of Nelson. His brown hair was clean.

  —I brought him home to feed him, Nelson said. I bought cat food, but he won’t eat.

  The girl said, He wants to be outside—he’s an outdoor cat. He’s going to spray too—you know, Nelse, a male cat that hasn’t been altered can’t live in a house.

  —Just giving him a chance for a decent meal, Nelson said. But he won’t eat. Maybe Ralph fed him.

  —Who’s Ralph? Harold said.

  Nelson tipped his head back to look at him. He looked better than when he had come to Harold’s house. A very cool guy I met, trying to end the draft. He might give me a job, but he can’t pay.

  —That’s wonderful, Harold said, with unconvincing enthusiasm. Volunteer. End the draft. He felt as if he was on display. He asked more questions. Let me know the address of the organization, he said. I’ll make a contribution.

  —Sure, Nelson said, but kept stroking the cat.

  Harold continued asking questions: When had Nelson seen Paul? He didn’t remember. Then he described his afternoon at the library. At last it was time to go and meet Naomi. Where is it? Harold said, as he stood. The place where you might work. Where’s the office?

  Nelson pointed vaguely.

  —Downtown?

  —Downtown.

  —I’ve got to go, he said.

  —You don’t think the cat is sick? Nelson said, reaching the animal in Harold’s direction.

  Harold stood. He reached down to stroke the cat. It was bony. I don’t know. Maybe.

  —No, you’re not an expert on animals, are you? Nelson said.

  The girl didn’t stand up and Harold let himself out. He was late now and hurried to the restaurant. His hand felt unclean from touching the cat. No, he was not an expert on animals. He found Naomi at a table in the back. It was an Indian restaurant they liked. Naomi had learned to eat Indian food in England and had introduced it to Harold. She looked up as he came along—amused at what she seemed to see in his face.

  —Nelson’s all right! he said, with sudden certainty. I found his apartment. It’s not so bad—it’s an apartment. It’s true, he hasn’t figured out his life yet, but he’s all right.

  She looked doubtful, but she smiled and patted Harold’s hand—the one that had stroked the cat. He pulled it back.

  —I’m glad to hear it, she said.

  —You don’t think I’m right.

  —I didn’t say that.

  He sat down, and a smiling waiter rushed forward with a napkin and a menu. Naomi was delicately eating the spicy Indian crackers they always served at the start of the meal.

  —You think I’m deluded. You’re probably right.

  —Why should I think that? Tell me about it. He excused himself to go to the men’s room. When he came back, his happy excitement was gone. Nelson lived in Harold’s upper abdomen—maybe where his diaphragm was. It had loosened, just because Harold had found him and his face looked better, but while he washed his hands, it was as if someone behind him had tightened a band around his body.

  On Christmas morning Brenda found a grocery bag on her front step, which proved to contain a bottle of good Scotch, a salami, a book of crossword puzzles, and a handmade bead necklace. The Scotch made her know that this was Richie’s present, and Brenda was soothed and cheered by the combination— crossword puzzles because she liked words? She’d eaten much of the salami and drunk some of the Scotch before he turned up again, and he seemed to think she should have kept them for his visits, as if she might have been entertaining other men, not just nibbling salami for lunch.

  It was February before he hit her again. In the intervening weeks, Richie fucked her with tenderness and intensity, leaving her spent and joyful. Other times he was playful, staying for a couple of hours to drink and tease. Brenda bought a television set and they watched the news together like married people. Richie speculated aloud about the start of the Nixon presidency. He never said what excuse he gave Lee when he visited Brenda, and she approved of that. Sometimes he was coming from work, and a few times he told her about the projects he had lined up or the ones his crews were working on. She talked about her students and her classes, and he listened, staring as if everything shocked him a little. Youthfulness would cross his face briefly and be gone.

  He hit her again on a Thursday in February when the dean had left a note in her mailbox asking her to come to his office a few days later. Richie showed up unexpectedly, late that evening, tapping on the glass pane in the door. Brenda was in her bathrobe. He seized her by the shoulders and began propelling her toward the bed. She was usually delighted by such an interruption of the long evening she’d otherwise spend in her big chair with a stack of papers—it was funny, it was fun—but this time she put up a hand to stop him and said, I need to ask you about something. I’m glad to see you.

  —Ask.

  She told him about the note from the dean, and his neck stiffened. Why are you asking me?

  —I don’t have anyone else to ask.

  —So you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel?

  —No, that’s not what I mean. You’re sensible. You run a business. And you grew up here. Should I be worried?

  He glared at her, his arms in a long-sleeved polo shirt—which
seemed a little short for his body when he held them at his sides, as he did now—rigid. Isn’t it a little late to ask?

  —What do you mean?

  —You have a wild party, God knows what you do with all these men, you serve booze to underage kids—and then you ask me if you should worry? I don’t know what I see in you, baby. You’re stupid if you ask that question.

  She straightened her bathrobe and tied the belt more tightly. It was light blue, a present from her parents years ago, stained now. She looked dumpy and boring in it, but Richie seemed to have no complaints about her looks. I’m not stupid, she said. She shouted it. I’m not stupid. Now her voice shook. I may be naïve, but I’m not stupid. It was something her father might have said, calling her stupid or, more likely, asking her if she was stupid, if she was pretending to be stupid, or if she thought maybe he was stupid for putting up with her.

  She took a step back from him. You may not come here and call me stupid.

  Richie swung his right arm back and socked her across the side of her head, socked her again on her shoulder, so she fell to one knee. He stepped back and looked at her. The phone rang. Had the landlord heard something?

  She let it ring.

  Is it your boyfriend? Richie said, in an ugly voice. Aren’t you going to answer it? Answer it.

  —I’m not going to answer it. It had to be the landlord, complaining about noise. Everyone she cared about was in New York, and it was the middle of the night there. But what if something was wrong in New York?

  It rang and rang. Answer it, Richie said, and she was afraid not to. Her shoulder and face ached and she was crying. She crawled to a chair and supported herself, standing up, then made her way to the phone, holding the edge of a table as she went. It was her father’s voice that said, Brenny? Brenny?

  The nickname made her miss him even before she knew what was happening. Dad? What’s wrong? But his voice sounded happy.

  —Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. You’re an aunt, that’s what!

  —Carol had the baby? Is everything okay? Carol’s due date was weeks off.

  —Everything’s great. It’s a boy—we finally got a boy, not that there’s anything wrong with girls!

  —And Carol’s all right?

  —She’s fine. She just had it. Lenny called me. Woke us up—I even woke you up, didn’t I? You sound confused. I’m your father. I’m a grandpa!

  —What’s his name? Brenda said.

  —I forgot to ask. Your mother’s telling me I should let you sleep. Isn’t that great?

  —It’s wonderful, Daddy.

  —And I’m getting my job back.

  —What? Your job?

  Richie wore no coat. Now he turned—she saw him as if he was far away, like someone three or four rooms away in a museum where gallery followed on gallery—opened the door, and slammed it behind him.

  —What was that? her father said.

  —What?

  —That sound. Did you drop something?

  —Yes, I dropped something, Brenda said. Daddy, I’m so happy. I’m coming to visit the baby. I’ll come soon. She had to climb out of this trouble, this life. She couldn’t get on a plane—she’d have a black eye and bruises. But she had to see her parents and her sister.

  —What about your job? she said.

  —It’s a long story. I’ll tell you in the morning. I should hang up, in case Lenny calls again.

  —Okay. She put down the phone carefully. The papers she’d been reading were scattered on the floor, and she bent, in pain, to pick them up. She wanted her nephew to have nothing like this pain in his life, never for a moment. But she knew that every life includes pain, and the thought that this baby was already destined for trouble and hurt made her weep yet again as she took herself to bed.

  She was awakened by a tap on the window behind her, and she knew it was Richie again. The tap was repeated. Aching, she got out of bed. If she turned on the light, he’d see her clearly. She went into the living room, and he must have heard her because she heard him walk around the house and tap again on the pane of the door. She turned on the porch light and, yes, it was Richie. She wasn’t afraid he’d hurt her. Something made her want to open the door, something confusing, something to do with the baby, with the thought she’d had earlier that life isn’t life without pain.

  She opened the door just an inch.

  —I’m sorry, baby, Richie said. I am so sorry. I am so sorry.

  She let him in. He said, I know it’s wrong to hit you. I should not hit you.

  —That’s right, she said.

  —But you’ll forgive me, won’t you? You’re not going to throw me out? I’ve been walking around town all this time.

  —What will Lee think?

  —I don’t care what she thinks, but you have to love me, he said.

  —I have to love you? He had used the word love only once before.

  Richie’s sturdy body paced through the living room in the dark, where the only illumination came from a strip of light from a nearby streetlamp. He was walking carefully, not to make noise, and that calmed Brenda. He cared about not waking the landlord. I don’t know why I did that, he said. I had no call to do that. But, baby, he said, and turned and stopped. Put on the light, would you?

  She turned on a lamp, and they sat down. She was cold and went into the bedroom and returned with her blanket and wrapped it around herself.

  —I will never hit you again, Richie said, and she knew that was not true. But she waited to see why she was not just throwing him out. But, baby, what we have is not just hitting. And you know, you could hit me sometime too, if you’re really mad—I would hit you back, maybe, but—

  He paused and she was stiff with horror, expectation, and pleasure.

  —Don’t you think we’re better that we do things this way? Other people are boring, he said.

  —Because they don’t hit each other?

  —Don’t you see? he said. We do things in a big way, you and I.

  —You mean, Brenda said, you mean we are passionate.

  —I mean we are passionate. We take a risk. We live the way people should live. The other people in this town—they don’t live like this, and they wouldn’t understand. I knew you would. Because you’re from somewhere else—I knew that the first time I saw you, in the market. Then when I found out you’re from New York, you’re Jewish—I knew you wouldn’t be like other people, that whatever happened, you’d understand, you’d know it’s worth it.

  —You think it’s worth it to me to be hit if I can be your lover?

  —Isn’t it? I mean being the kind of people we are.

  She didn’t have the courage to say no, and she didn’t want to say no. She couldn’t say yes.

  —Maybe, she said.

  —Oh my love, my lovey, my loving lovey, he said, and he guided her into the bedroom and made love to her roughly and gently, and spent most of the night. She woke to see him carrying his shoes, tiptoeing out of the room. She felt some satisfaction in what they had, their daring, her own daring, her capacity to see the good in this man. She thought it was funny that he expected her to be open to violence because she was Jewish.

  The faculty had an association, and someone represented Brenda when the dean, in April, brought witnesses against her who swore that she’d served beer to students at her party, and that students had smoked illegal drugs.

  —Did you see Miss Saltzman smoke illegal drugs?

  —I don’t think so. The boy who spoke was the boyfriend of the girl who had hugged Brenda and said she never, never, never. What had she meant?

  The faculty representative said little and passed Brenda a note that read, I’m not sure there’s much we can do about this. Brenda, shamed and frantic, knew that what was being tried was her politics as much as anything else, but what could she say? It was her own fault. Grace, at Brenda’s request, sat at the back of the classroom where the meeting was being held. Brenda had spoken of her as a friend, though this term she was her student. The clas
ses were going so well she thought maybe she was actually a teacher. Students wrote pages she read with interest and even pleasure. They read poems and stories, and some even wrote poems and stories. Someone wrote a novella. Research papers on Southeast Asia and the wine industry of California appeared, among others, and only one was visibly plagiarized (the student who claimed to have written it copied the words See Illustration, Page 48 when they appeared in his source). Now, to her surprise, Brenda wanted to stay.

  But two weeks later she received an official letter in the mail terminating her employment at the end of the semester in June, and then she wanted to leave right away. She phoned Grace, who drove over to Brenda’s house, and they stayed up late, drinking wine and talking about it. Grace said if Brenda left now, it would be disloyal to the students. How much do they have? she said. You’d be abandoning them. Brenda was touched that she left herself out. She’d be abandoning Grace too.

  —I’m not abandoning them; the administration is forcing me to abandon them. The administration has decided they’re better off without me.

  —That’s not the way they’ll see it. And it’s not true. Anyway, you have a job until the end of the term. You’ll get paid. Maybe you need the money.

  —Of course I need the money.

  —Where will you go? Grace said then. I’ll miss you. I wanted to be friends—after I get my A. If you don’t stay, I won’t get it.