When We Argued All Night

by Alice Mattison

  —And I thought Idaho was just potatoes! her father said.

  She answered their questions briefly: she didn’t know where she’d live or what she’d do when she got back to New York. They didn’t have a chance to ask more about her job: she had piled up only a few quarters. The baby was fine.

  As she drove along the New York State Thruway a day later, through a landscape that looked more midwestern than eastern, she knew that no matter what it looked like, it would be transformed into her parents’ kitchen too quickly. She was almost out of money, and she would have to live with them—fights every day—until she could make some more. They were friendly on the phone, but after a few days they would blame her for everything they knew of, and they’d be right, even if with luck they’d never learn about Richie.

  A sign told her the number of miles to Albany, where she’d turn ninety degrees south, to drive the last hundred miles or so to New York. If only she could turn north, drive to Schroon Lake and out the road to the cabin, which didn’t even belong to Harold anymore, but to his former wife.

  Then it occurred to her that Myra didn’t live in the cabin—she probably used it for a couple of weeks each summer, if that. It was Harold who had loved it—Harold and her father—and Myra had kept it, she’d always heard, just to make Harold and Artie feel bad. Maybe the cabin was empty. She could take a detour. She could stop and look at it, walk down to the lake and see how it looked in spring—it was spring, though she hadn’t thought about that. Trees had new leaves, and one day her coat had felt too warm. Brenda had driven across the country looking around her as little as possible, but even in her present mood she’d noticed one or two things.

  She couldn’t afford to stay in a motel in Schroon Lake. To save money, she’d been buying food in grocery stores and eating sandwiches in the car. But she could look at the cabin, spend an hour or two there, breathing the calm, clear air. When she reached Albany, she turned north, imagining Artie and Evelyn shouting and gesturing: The other way, the other way! How they did love her, and how difficult their love was.

  She remembered the route. The narrow road through woods, after she left the highway, gave her a feeling so strong she drove through tears. Nothing bad had happened to her in these woods, and in these woods she’d done no harm. The drive was longer than she remembered, and she thought she might be lost, but she wasn’t. She drove down the long, bumpy, rutted driveway. The cabin, with an open area between it and the driveway, looked different but not very different. The living room now protruded toward the driveway, and the clapboards were tan with green trim, instead of green all over. There had never been noticeable trim. No cars were parked; there were no lights. Brenda stopped and got out. She walked around the back of the house—it was more of a house than a cabin now—and down to the lake. The ground was muddy. The lake and its surroundings looked messy and wild. The woods reasserted themselves, she saw, when people were gone. The last time she’d come, after her affair with Douglas, she had had no idea how much trouble was inside her, how much harm she could do. What a child she had been. Now she had done worse. She’d abandoned her students—she had lived in such a way that she had to.

  It was too cold and wet now to crouch on the ground and stare at the lake, discovering unforeseen flaws in her own soul. She knew about her flaws anyway. She walked back to the cabin and sat down on the porch steps, facing the lake. At least she’d had the brains to come here, however briefly. The pine trees thrived, the houses receded, and the smell, as always, told her where she was. She was hungry. She had to urinate, and she walked a little way from the house to squat. The air was cold on her bottom, but peeing into the damp leaves was honest, valid. Pulling up her pants, she felt like a dog who had taken possession. She walked around the house and remembered where the key had been kept years ago, in a crevice in the stone foundation, near the ground, left of the door, inside a Band-Aid box. The box was rusted and battered. Myra didn’t seem like the type to leave a key in a rusted box. She probably didn’t come at all. The key stuck, then worked. Inside, the smell was the same, despite modernizing, and the air chillier than outside. In her coat, she lay down on a couch she didn’t remember and slept.

  When she awoke, it was dark. She brought in what food she had, and her bag with pajamas and underwear. The electricity and water were off. She found a flashlight and looked at the books on the shelf. Novels from a few years back, or many years back. Lady Chatterley’s Lover, The Alexandria Quartet, Pearl S. Buck, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Henry James. She sat on the floor and read a short story in an old anthology of humor, but it was hard to read by flashlight. There might be a caretaker who’d discover her. If so, she’d apologize, say she was a friend of the family, and leave. She ate a sandwich and potato chips and drank from a warm bottle of grapefruit juice. She slept. In the morning she dug a latrine in the woods with a shovel she found. She wondered where the old outhouse had been.

  Then she drove into Schroon Lake and, counting her money carefully, bought more food at the Grand Union. She would arrive at her parents’ house penniless, a further humiliation. Twenty-eight was too old for this. She called Artie and Evelyn, but they weren’t home. It was a weekday. She’d have to return here and phone again in the evening. She didn’t want them screaming at her again that she didn’t care if they thought she was dead, and now that the idea of emergencies and death had been raised, she needed to know that they were all right, that Carol and her baby were all right. Back at the cabin, she chose a novel she didn’t know—The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton—and lay on the couch reading. She heard nothing but the occasional scrape of branch against branch in the trees behind the house. There was a wind. She ate a sandwich and read some more, going outside only when she needed to use the latrine. The book was about a woman who spoiled her life out of vanity, and Brenda read it with interest for a while, then lay with it on her lap. Richie would have hurt her again if she had stayed, since she had no power to keep him away. At least she had run away. Like the number of dollars in her wallet, her supply of courage and brains was what it was.

  Around five o’clock, she drove back to Schroon Lake in the cold, light spring air. Her parents would not be home yet, and she wandered around Grand Union, thinking how to conserve money, wishing she could afford ice cream—but she had no refrigerator—and fruit and meat. She bought corn flakes, then went to the pay phone.

  —Where are you? said her mother.

  —I don’t know. I think I’ll be home the day after tomorrow.

  —Are you eating?

  —I’m eating.

  —Honey, are you all right?

  —Sure, she said quickly, and got off before she’d planned to.

  When she got back with her box of corn flakes in a grocery bag, in early twilight, the door of the cabin stood open. She was sure she’d locked it, and the key was in her pocket. Had she left it unlocked after all, and had the wind blown it open? No. She put her head down and breathed slowly, explaining to herself that there was no way Richie could know she was here. She saw no car. Before she could make up her mind what to do, a man’s figure appeared in the doorway. Of course he had heard her car. She put her keys into the pocket of her jeans and got out of the car. She could leave in a hurry if she had to, abandoning her possessions inside. The man was young and looked familiar. He looked Jewish. Nelson? she said. His hair was wild and made his face hard to see, and she hadn’t seen Nelson in years. But she recognized him by the way he stood, with a tentativeness that had infuriated her when she was a child. Of course. It was his mother’s house. Walking closer, she said, Brenda Saltzman.

  —Did someone send you to find me? Nelson said. Then he said, I thought you lived in California.

  —I’m back, she said.

  —Is that your stuff inside? He looked at her as if she could order him to leave, instead of the other way around.

  She said, I knew where the key was. I needed a place to go.

  —I don’t care, he said. I wondered who was squatting
here, that’s all.

  —You don’t have a car?

  —I hitchhiked from the bus stop, he said. Walked part of the way. So you have the key?

  —Yeah. How’d you get in?

  —The bedroom window. He fell silent, and then as if he’d belatedly figured out that he was standing in the doorway, he moved back, and she followed and closed the door. He sat on the sofa. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans.

  —Why did you think someone would be looking for you? she said.

  —I don’t know. Nobody would. I need to turn on the water before it gets dark.

  —You know how to do that?

  —Sure. But he didn’t stand up for a long time. She was hungry. I don’t have money, she said. Do you? All I have is corn flakes.

  —Did you put that bottle of juice in the kitchen? I drank some, he said.

  —Yeah, that was me. He went out to turn on the water, and she followed. It was almost too dark to see the valve. She stood behind him. I don’t suppose you know how to get electricity? she said.

  —No, but I know where there are candles, and I’ve got matches.

  —The comforts of home, she said. She was cold. He took a long time to figure out how to turn on the water. They went back inside. Do you have any food? she said again.

  —I have some weed, and I have money, he said. He had stopped at the Grand Union but had bought only a package of cookies and some bananas. I have a sandwich too, he said.

  —If you’d pay, we could go into town and eat, she said.

  —All right, he said, but he didn’t get up for a long time, and at last she put corn flakes into a bowl, and they ate them dry and shared his sandwich.

  —Probably nothing is open, he said. He lit candles, and then he lit a joint. She was cold and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. They sat at either end of the couch. He fiddled with something he’d taken from his pocket, some little thing. His face flickered in the candlelight—deep eye sockets, fleshy lips that seemed to change shape more than other people’s when he spoke, which made his speech seem a little disdainful, with the elongated vowels of sarcasm. I sort of love this place, he said after a long silence.

  —Me too. I love it a lot.

  —Was California good? Lots of good people, right?

  —Not where I was. They threw me out because I was against the war, Brenda said.

  —No shit.

  —Well, it was complicated, but that was the main thing.

  —So you took off.

  The grass was getting to her. I had nobody to talk to, she said.

  —That’s not how I think of California.

  —How old are you? she said.

  —Twenty-four. I never grew up, he said.

  She remembered that he’d been in a mental hospital. I wish I had some wine, she said.

  —There’s nothing here. My mother hasn’t been here in years, he said. She wants to sell it.

  —I used to love to come here, she said. Maybe it’s not so nice anymore.

  —She never liked it, Nelson said.

  —She should sell it to your father.

  —She’d die first. He laughed. After a silence, he said, I used to be afraid of you.

  —Of me?

  —You weren’t afraid of your father, Nelson said. I was afraid of you because you didn’t seem to be afraid of anything.

  —You mean if I wasn’t afraid of my father, I wasn’t afraid of anything?

  —Something like that.

  —In a way I was very afraid of him, she said.

  —I’ll never believe that. He got out his package of cookies and put them between them, and she took a few. They were Oreos. The first one was delicious, but then the sugar made her jittery. In the dark she could see that he was doing something to his cookie. He separated the chocolate wafers and was licking the icing off.

  —I have to stop eating these, she said. I wish I had a steak and some vegetables. Tomorrow we’re going into town and steal some. She felt happy to have this boy with her. She had been alone for months.

  —We could buy some, but we can’t cook them, he said. Well, I guess we could build a fire.

  —I have to go back to New York, she said. How long are you going to stay?

  —Oh, man, I have to get my shit together, Nelson said. I can’t go back to New York. Or maybe—I don’t know what I’m going to do.

  There was silence again, and he said, Would you mind if I touch you? Sometimes I need so badly to touch someone, and grass does that to me, especially.

  —What do you mean, touch?

  —Just touch. Your hair maybe.

  Brenda’s hair was still thin and short, nothing special, and she hadn’t taken a shower in days. But she stretched out on the sofa with her head toward him, and he stroked it hesitantly. Do you have a lot of guys? he said.

  —No.

  —Nobody? Do you have an old man?

  —I had a bad affair in California, she said.

  —You want to tell me?

  —No.

  She was freezing. She wondered what time it was. Nelson, behind her, continued crunching cookies. You know about me? he said.

  —You tried to kill yourself.

  —I jumped in front of a train. The first time.

  —There were other times? she said.

  —When you’re like this, you don’t stop, you just postpone it. Nelson continued stroking her hair and her forehead, and then he left his hand on her hair. It was scarcely a weight on her head. She turned so as to bring her forehead and face into contact with this childish hand. It was the first time she’d been touched—except maybe by a stranger putting change into her palm—since Richie had hit her the last time. She’d done the only thing she could do. But she’d have liked to be someone who could do other things instead, and she wondered what a stronger, more adult woman would have done, and when. Each occurrence had followed, step by step. She’d never chosen to have an affair with a married man who beat her up regularly. But this cool, young hand on her face. She was crying and he was touching her tears, then began wiping them with his fingers. I need you! he said after a long time.

  —I was in love with your father when you were little, she said slowly. I wished he was my father. I used to imagine that he’d come and save me. I was jealous of how you could stand near him and touch him.

  —Weren’t your parents okay? I mean, even with your father being like that?

  —They’re decent people, Brenda said. They just didn’t know what they were doing. My father is surprised at everything that happens. Now he got his job back, and he’s surprised at that. This was not fair, she decided, but didn’t say so. She was surprised at everything too. She too didn’t know how to do things so life worked out.

  Nelson stopped speaking, and after a while Brenda thought she’d get up and wash her face. How good to have water, even though it was only cold water. She sat down again next to Nelson. There were no towels in the bathroom and her face was wet.

  —We could ball, Nelson said. Would that be incest?

  —Maybe. She laughed. But maybe we should, she said. Then she said, The guy I was in love with was married. And he hit me.

  —That’s heavy, Nelson said after a long pause, and his voice sounded young again. She wasn’t attracted to him in that way, but she wanted to press her body into the body of another person who would not hurt her.

  She said, I found sheets. They made their way in the dark into the bedroom and for a long time lay holding each other in the bed she’d slept in the night before. Then in a sleepy, delicate way he moved on top of her, somehow without resting his weight on her. She perceived that he was naked and didn’t know when he’d taken off his clothes. She stood and removed hers, then lay down next to him and slowly, awkwardly, he moved on top of her again and touched her breast. She lay still, stroking the vertebrae of his back, then brought her hand around his narrow hips to touch his penis. Almost immediately he entered her. Even on top of her, he felt tentative and light. Being wit
h Nelson was sad but good. There were other beds in the place, but they stayed together in this one.

  The next day he was moody and quiet. Brenda said she’d leave the next morning. She was awkward with him and envisioned them reading quietly together or going for a walk, but they did little. She walked a little alone, but he stayed in the cabin. They drove into Schroon Lake and found an open lunch counter, then returned there for supper. Nelson paid both times. They didn’t make love again, and he had no more grass. In the evening, she wished she’d asked him to buy some beer and cigarettes. Early, he took some blankets from a shelf and went into the other bedroom. You’re going in the morning? he said, turning in the doorway.

  —Yes.

  —Wake me before you leave, he said. Okay?

  —You’re sure?

  —Yes.

  She hoped she hadn’t harmed him. She wasn’t sleepy yet. She took one of Myra’s books into the bedroom and tried to read by candlelight, wondering how literature survived the years before electricity. Maybe candles were better in those days. The lost art of candlemaking, she said out loud.

  She slept well and long, and when she woke up, the light told her it was late morning. She got up and washed her arms and face and neck in cold water. She ate corn flakes with milk. They’d bought some milk and left it outdoors in the cool air. Nelson had drunk much of it. Then she began to gather her things and take them out to the car. It looked like rain. She went back into the cabin and into Nelson’s room. He had put something over the window, and it was dark. He was solidly asleep, snoring lightly. She put her hand on his shoulder. Nelson?

  —What?