When We Argued All Night

by Alice Mattison

  Paul—author of two books on early nineteenth-century American history—finally persuaded him that they should sit down together and try to make sense of what Harold’s editor wanted. Paul said, You like her, remember?

  Harold had known the editor, Jennifer, since she’d started at the company, right out of college. Indeed, how had she become someone Harold was afraid of? Paul spent every free weekend and his long professor’s summers at the cabin in the Adirondacks—after finally talking his father into letting him fix the place up and use it—and one Friday in spring, about a year and a half ago now, Paul had driven to the city, picked Harold up—Naomi was if anything pleased to be left alone for a weekend—and brought him, late at night, to the cabin with a trunkful of groceries, Harold’s manuscript, the editor’s letter, and a laptop computer. Paul took the luggage and said, Wait, but Harold—despite his dimming sight and stiff legs—didn’t want to wait. He walked to the back of the car and around it, his palm flat on the roof, then the trunk. The chilly mountain air and the smell of the evergreens brought a catch to his throat, and he made a surprised sound that caused Paul, ahead of him with his arms full, to turn abruptly and put down the bags.

  —Dad, stop, he said.

  —No, I’m all right. It had made no sense not to come. It made him think of Nelson, but there wasn’t anything that didn’t make him think of Nelson. Once again, he had been a coward.

  The next morning Paul sat at the kitchen table with the manuscript, the letter, and the laptop, while Harold sat and sometimes dozed in the rocker Paul had placed near it. Harold was delighted to be where he was, proud of himself for owning it, for providing a country retreat for Paul.

  The sounds and smells were right. The cabin brought Nelson back, but it brought back the pleasure and oddness of Nelson as much as the pain—his quirky goodwill, his tense alertness.

  —This isn’t hard, Paul kept saying, looking over the editor’s suggestions. You should have seen the corrections on my last book. Harold’s book was autobiography—memoir—and so most of it came from Harold’s memory and couldn’t be checked. But facts about history could be checked, and Harold had to check them. He had never had trouble before. With this book, he couldn’t begin to think what to do. But Paul knew. You’ve forgotten how to get organized, he said, halfway through the morning. That’s all that’s wrong with you.

  —I was never good at that, Harold said.

  They took a break and walked slowly to the lakeshore in fleece jackets Paul’s wife had bought for both of them. They sat carefully on the dock. The surface of the lake glinted as it always had.

  By the end of that weekend, much had been done, and Harold knew what else was needed. Soon the revision was accepted, but then Jennifer phoned with two more requests. Everybody hates the title, she said cheerfully. This was new! The title had always been Autobiography of a Fool. Think about it, Jennifer said.

  —What’s the other thing? Harold said.

  —Could you write a little preface? It needs a preface, she said. She rarely sounded so firm. Harold knew at once that she was right: it needed a preface. It started with his birth, but why would anybody care if they didn’t know anything about him? A month’s thought had led to the new title: A Fool and His Principles. And that led—this morning, with not much time left before his deadline—to the new first sentence, the first sentence of the preface.

  So that is where Harold Abrams was, that fall morning in 2002: he was writing a preface to his new book, A Fool and His Principles, and the first sentence of the preface was—he read it again and didn’t hate it yet—A fool and his money are soon parted, but a fool and his principles are harder to separate. He still didn’t know what came next, but Naomi was standing in the doorway behind him.

  —What? he said. He wouldn’t mind being interrupted. She hardly ever interrupted him, maybe a little more these days, when she’d become so intent on a thought that she’d forget they weren’t already in a conversation about it.

  —What? Nothing what.

  He swiveled his chair. Small but with sturdy shoulders, Naomi peered at something in her hand. She said, I was just trying to see in the light, tilting her head toward the window in his study. The corridor was long and dim. That was why she’d stopped where she had.

  —See what?

  —My gloves. I got wax on my gloves last night. How can I get it off? I can hardly see it. White wax.

  —Let’s see. He got up. The night before, Naomi had worn black woolen gloves to a candlelight vigil to protest President Bush’s plan to go to war in Iraq. He had stayed home.

  —Standing still is harder than walking, she said when she came home. She sat down in the nearest chair, still in her coat. Harold, I can’t believe it. I saw people tonight I haven’t seen since the Vietnam years. I can’t believe we have to do this again. Everybody got old. The kids with peace symbols have gray hair. Everybody my age is a wizened little troll, except for the ones who are dead or in nursing homes.

  Harold was older than she was. He took the gloves and sat down, trying to flake off the wax with his thumbnail. Could you melt it?

  —Wouldn’t that just make it worse?

  —I don’t know.

  —We didn’t use to carry candles, she said. It’s a nuisance, but it did look nice. What are you doing?

  —The preface.

  —Oh, she said, I’m sorry I interrupted!

  —That’s okay, he said. I’m stuck, after the first sentence. He read it to her. Before she could speak, the phone rang. There was a phone on his desk, but Naomi usually answered the phone—she had many friends—and she left the gloves and went into the bedroom. He heard her voice—surprised, excited, not faking it, but couldn’t make out the words. Then he heard a tone that suggested Naomi was going to ask the other person to hold the phone while she consulted Harold. Sure enough. She made her slow way back to the doorway, while he worried that she’d trip on the cord. She had broken her hip a year earlier.

  —It’s Amanda.

  —What’s wrong?

  —Nothing’s wrong.

  —The baby’s okay? he said. Paul’s youngest child, his daughter Amanda, had married young. Harold and Naomi had defended her decision on illogical grounds that Harold knew were illogical, but he wanted to be on Amanda’s side.

  —I didn’t even think of marrying your mother until I was getting old, he had said to Paul. Young isn’t so bad. If I’d been young, I’d have had the nerve to break her heart. It’s not good to wait until your conscience kicks in.

  —That only makes sense as a decision not to marry, Paul had said.

  Amanda hadn’t cared what either of them thought. She married and had a baby. Paul and Martha had hoped she’d go to medical school. She’d expressed interest in that, and she had the grades, but so far she just took care of her daughter, Nell. She and her husband—at least he earned a living; Harold had forgotten what he did—lived in Boston. Naomi said Amanda was in New York for a couple of days and would like to see them. Harold saved the sentence he’d typed and picked up the phone.

  —Amanda?

  —Grandpa. I’m in New York. Her voice was confident, a little raspy. She sounded like the boss of a small company or maybe a high school girl with a mild case of stage fright playing the boss of a small company in the senior play.

  —So I hear. How’s the baby, honey? She had interested him from the first—always a little more troublesome and unpredictable than her brothers.

  —She’s a monster. Aren’t you a monster, Nellie?

  —Where are you? he said. How long are you staying?

  —Well, said Amanda, here’s the thing. I should have called you before. I’m leaving in a few hours. I was going to call you, but things kept coming up. But I want to see you so much! I don’t want to leave without seeing you.

  —Where are you?

  —I’m at my friend’s house, but I’m leaving. I thought I’d take Nellie to a playground and hang around there until it’s time for my train. Is th
ere a playground near Penn Station?

  —When is your train? Your friend—where does she live?

  —Um, Astoria, but we’re right near the subway.

  —But you’ve got bags, Harold protested. And a stroller. Don’t you want to take a cab? I’ll come and get you. Could he do that? Which train went to Astoria? He knew there was a good train to Astoria.

  —No, I got here fine. I’ve got a backpack for Nell and a suitcase with wheels—it’s easy. But do you know a playground?

  He wasn’t hurt that she hadn’t called before—he knew that Amanda liked him. She’d gone to NYU and had dropped in now and then in those years. She’d bring her friends and would pull Harold’s books off the shelves to show them. He liked her independence—but he liked it even more that when she needed something, she turned to him. He couldn’t think of any playgrounds near Penn Station. How should he know? He remembered a playground where he had taken his kids—or maybe he and Paul had taken Amanda and her brothers—near the southwest corner of Central Park. He directed her to meet him on Central Park South in half an hour.

  —Let me give you my cell, she said. Do you have one?

  He did, but he didn’t remember the number. He hurried to find it while she stayed on the line. He rarely used it, but he did find it and it was charged up. We’re in business, he said.

  —We’ve got a date, he said to Naomi, but she had a hairdresser’s appointment. Harold put on an overcoat and a scarf and set out alone for the subway station, elated.

  He was a little tired when he came up the stairs, but only a little. He thought he saw Amanda at a distance and hurried toward the girl with the shaggy light hair and a big baby on her back. Yes. While she waited, she’d walked over to show Nellie the horses, waiting to pull tourists in carriages. She turned, saw Harold, and hurried to meet him, her wheeled bag clattering on the paving stones. She was tall and sturdy, and Nell bounced and frowned over her shoulder. She was named after Nelson. Nell and Amanda both had shaggy light hair.

  When they reached him, Amanda threw her arms around him and he staggered. Oh my God, I’m going to knock you over and break your hip, and my dad will shoot me! she said, grasping his arms above his elbows, while the bag fell over. Nell cried.

  —This is Grandpa, Amanda said. No, Great-Grandpa!

  —Horsie! Nell wailed.

  —We could go back, Harold said.

  —No, let’s go to the playground. She should run around before she’s cooped up in the train.

  He insisted on pulling her bag, and they found the playground soon enough, with an unoccupied bench in the sun. She complimented him on the kind of New Yorker he was. My friend Steve’s like that, she said, squatting to set the baby carrier on the bench and shrugging out of it. Steve moved here years ago and he knows everything. He told me all the stations we’d pass.

  Harold noted, startled, that the friend Amanda had stayed with was a he. Well, maybe part of a couple.

  Amanda lifted Nell out of the carrier and kissed her face, then settled her on the ground. Let’s go on the swing. She carried the baby, and Harold followed, pulling the suitcase. The carrier was slung on his arm. Yeah, I guess we’d better keep an eye on that stuff, Amanda said. I never think of that.

  Harold was a little out of breath. The swings would keep a toddler safe: rubber buckets with holes for her legs. Amanda stuffed her daughter into one of them and began pushing her vigorously. The day was bright and chilly, and the gray buildings around them surrounded this tiny light-haired child, her feet in little red sneakers with Velcro closers, her legs in pink corduroy. Harold wasn’t dead yet and could still walk and talk and read and write. After so many deaths I live and write, George Herbert had written. I’ll wait on the bench, Harold said, and once again hoisted the baby carrier and grasped the suitcase by its handle, then made his way back to the sunny bench.

  Nell tried what the playground had to offer. At last Amanda led her back to him. She’s cold, she said. I’m freezing. Aren’t you?

  —A little, Harold said.

  —You’re not hard of hearing, she said. My other grandparents can’t hear me.

  —I wear an expensive hearing aid, he said.

  —They’re afraid I’ll say something they don’t want to hear, Amanda said, still parked in front of him. You’re not like that.

  —I don’t know, he said. Say something bad and see if I pretend not to hear you. Without much consultation, they started down Seventh Avenue in search of a place to warm up and have something to eat. Everything would be expensive in this neighborhood, but he didn’t care, as long as it wasn’t too crowded. Amanda bounced along at his side, seemingly unaffected by the weight of this big baby, who spoke inaudibly. She was telling herself stories, Amanda said. They found a Jewish delicatessen. Harold excused himself to go to the men’s room, and then Amanda carried Nell off to change her diaper. They ordered lunch. With his heart condition, Harold couldn’t order the pastrami he’d have preferred, but he didn’t mind turkey. Then Amanda ordered the same—she didn’t eat red meat. The baby would eat scraps from their plates, and they got her a bowl of applesauce.

  —The people you stayed with, Harold said, as Amanda dug out toys to amuse Nell, who was in a high chair. Do they have children?

  —What people? Amanda said.

  —In Astoria, Harold said.

  —Oh, you mean Steve—no, he lives alone, Amanda said. He’s divorced.

  A bowl of sour and half-sour pickles was on the table, and Amanda ate a pickle with her free hand. Her other hand danced a small plastic animal up and down to amuse Nell. She was looking at Nell, not at Harold, but her shoulder, the side of her face—something—looked self-conscious. How do you know him? Harold said, coming to the slow understanding that Amanda had phoned him not just because he knew his way around New York.

  It hadn’t occurred to him before to wonder what Paul had told his children about Harold’s divorce from Myra. Myra had died when Paul’s children were small, but they might remember her; in any case, Paul remembered her. Amanda knew not only that Harold wore a hearing aid because he preferred to hear, she knew how Harold had lived. He’d even written about it—well, tangentially, except for this book he was trying to finish. Which Amanda might read. He didn’t know what reader he’d imagined until now, but now he imagined Amanda reading about his infidelities, his uncertainties, his clumsy use of politics to guide his private life and also justify the private life he felt like leading. Harold had never concluded—he didn’t conclude in this book either—that because he’d been a fool, he was sorry about his life. It seemed all of a piece. He didn’t regret the politics, wrong as they sometimes were. Was it impossible for a lefty to be faithful to a woman? In the book he argued that it would have been impossible for him, that the nerve to break rules made many rules breakable, and made him understand and sympathize with rebellious young people in the sixties.

  —Is Steve your lover, Amanda? he asked the side of her face. She focused more intently on Nell, and he wondered how much the little girl understood. But that didn’t seem to be the issue.

  —I kept asking myself if I was going to tell you, Amanda said. I don’t know who else to tell—what a crazy thing to say to my grandpa.

  He could think of no answer. The food came and Amanda fed Nell applesauce, then turned to her sandwich, offering the baby bits of bread and french fried potatoes.

  —He was my professor at NYU, she said. He’s nine years older than I am. He was junior faculty then. Biology. Now he has tenure. We had an affair my junior year—he was married then. I didn’t break up his marriage. Are you shocked by all this? I was careful not to tell you at the time!

  —I thought nowadays teachers didn’t do that, he said.

  —It wasn’t sexual harassment, Amanda said, and though he hadn’t been particularly shocked by her news, he was shocked at her easy use of the sociological, legal, distancing term. Then she said, Oh, maybe it was. How should I know? But it was harder on him than on me, that’s w
hat I mean. It wasn’t like, I’m weeping in the dorm and he’s callously making me go to bed or he’ll fail my lab report. He was the one who did all the weeping. Now he weeps because it’s the other way around—I’m married. He says to me, I’m a grownup; I should know better. As if I was a child.

  —You are a child, Harold said, before he thought, and was afraid she’d say nothing more, as she shook her head in impatient dismissal.

  —Sorry, he said. Of course you’re not. You’re a mother.

  —Children can be mothers, but I’m not a child, she said. She faced him now, and he saw that her eyes were close together, not crossed but just slightly out of sync. They were not blue or brown—hazel, did they call that? Flecks of gold in them.

  —Eat, he said. Shall I take the baby? Nell was getting fussy now, crying a little. He stood and lifted her out of the high chair. But he did it wrong, and her leg was caught and she yelled. Amanda reached to open the high-chair tray, but she didn’t take the child. She put the tray back on the high chair and began eating her sandwich rapidly. He’d finished half of his. He stood Nell on the seat next to him, on the window side, and said, Look, Nellie, a baby! And a dog. Nell pressed her dirty hands to the glass and commented. He wasn’t sure she didn’t want to go through the window to the dog and the baby. Maybe this was the wrong idea. The little girl wriggled in his hands, firm and vigorous. His right arm hurt—it often did—holding her by the waist as she shoved against his grasp.

  —So do you think I’m a horrible person? she said. I shouldn’t have told you.

  —Don’t be silly. It was hard to think with this baby pulling so. Now she was trying to go under the table, and if he wasn’t careful, she’d bump her forehead on the table’s edge. Finally Amanda took Nell back. To his surprise, she twisted around in the seat and pulled up her sweatshirt to nurse her. He looked around, but nobody seemed to be watching, and Amanda’s breast was covered by the sweatshirt. Now Nell was quiet and Harold was free to give a better answer. He hadn’t had a conversation like this in years—a conversation in which it was this uncertain what would be said, what he and the other person would feel. He had forgotten about this kind of thing.