One winter day Harold received a square envelope in the mail with Myra’s name on the flap in back, and he waited a bit before opening it. It was an invitation—in an Art Deco design he liked—to a cocktail party. For a moment he thought he wouldn’t go, but only for a moment. The good design reminded him of the ways in which Myra was reliably smart. She had a telephone, and he had to go to a candy store to phone and say he was coming.
On the day of the party he dressed carefully and arrived on time. Myra’s black dress was tight at the waist, with a wide skirt and a swoosh of shiny fabric at the neckline. She brought Harold a martini and introduced him to her friends. He had known her for three years but had met only Virginia, who wasn’t at the party and had never been mentioned after their encounter in the mountains. But here was a crowd: older than Myra, substantial, managing cigarettes and drinks while talking.
As always, Harold was conspicuous, and a man and woman began asking him questions. They were skeptical but intrigued to learn he worked for the Writers’ Project. Harold had written part of the section on Negro Harlem in the New York City guidebook, and the man wanted to know whether Negroes answered his questions. When they moved on, Harold thought he’d go home rather than try to start another conversation, but Myra came over and linked her arm in his. I can’t do this, she whispered, smiling falsely but sounding frightened.
—Do what?
—Have this party.
—It’s fine.
—I’m going to start crying, she said. Get rid of them.
—Get rid of them? How could I do that?
—Do something or I’ll start screaming, and they’ll think I’m crazy, Myra said.
—All right, Harold said. Give me a chance. Go get more ice cubes.
Myra obeyed. He walked to the drinks table and poured something into his glass. He couldn’t think how to make people leave unless he walked up to each of them and quietly asked them to do so, which would be unpleasant, might not work—and would make them think Myra was crazy. He sensed that she was really just trying to make him do what she asked, and he couldn’t help liking that.
—What did she say? said a woman’s voice at his elbow. She was fast-moving and small, with sharp elbows. You’ve never been to one of her parties before, have you?
Harold introduced himself.
—I’m her cousin, said the woman. She needs to eat.
—What? said Harold, but he was grateful. He followed Myra into the kitchen, where she was already weeping. Is there food? he said.
—People don’t care about food at a party like this.
—I care, said Harold. Myra had no food. Let’s go buy some, he said. Where’s your coat?
—If I put on my coat and leave, said Myra, they’ll all leave.
—Isn’t that what you want? He persuaded her to get her coat, and he put on his own.
—Are you going? said a man standing near the door.
—Shopping for food, Harold said. Back in a minute. He held Myra’s coat for her and they left.
—Let’s not go back, she said.
—I think we’d better, Harold said. Where’s a delicatessen? She lived in Greenwich Village, a few windy blocks west of Washington Square.
—Oh, who cares about those people? she said. I don’t even like them. At this point Harold became so confused that he had to stop walking, stand still, take long breaths, and try to know what he thought.
—Come home with me, he said then. Myra had never been in his apartment. It was dirty and messy. I’m going to cook some eggs, he said when they got there. They ate eggs and went to bed for the first time. It felt right to take her under the rumpled sheets, to stroke and kiss her limbs, her neck, and the back of her head where the hair began. They made love and he turned aside, then turned back and began stroking and touching her again. He’d never felt such tenderness toward another person. The bones stood out on the nape of Myra’s neck, and it seemed as if he could snap them. He was ashamed to have such a thought, and he kissed her generous breasts and her flat belly. She stayed all night.
After that, every week or so, Harold took Myra to dinner (he remembered the lesson of the party and tried to make sure she ate, but often she scarcely touched food), and sometimes to a play or a concert at Lewisohn Stadium or the City Center. Then they went to his messy apartment and spent the night. Harold didn’t tell his friends he was seeing her again—not his friends in the party, not Artie. In Harold’s imagination Artie told him that Myra was spoiled and selfish, giving him one of his quick, thick-browed glances, his mouth moving as he whistled. Harold preferred Artie’s other look, a still, surprised searching look from behind his glasses. It came when he wanted to photograph something but hadn’t yet seen how, or couldn’t return a shot in tennis he had been sure of, or hadn’t yet thought of a joke or a limerick. But he and Artie didn’t see each other much during the winter of 1939—Artie was busy—and when they did, he didn’t mention Myra.
In the spring, she offered again to ask Gus to let them use the cabin. He didn’t like thinking of Myra and Gus in those bunk beds or maybe on blankets on the floor. But he wanted to go back there, as if he’d left an idea under a rock between the cabin and the lake, almost three years ago, and might find it again. He had lost the essay he’d started that week. When he thought of going to the cabin with Myra, she wasn’t exactly present—maybe driving around looking for steaks and liquor again.
In July, they went. Harold couldn’t yet drive, but Myra borrowed a car, and Harold liked watching her drive, with the window open and a scarf blowing across her face. She promised to teach him how. They stopped for groceries and arrived in the dark. As before, Harold was entranced by the smell of the woods, the quiet. He was surprised to see changes in the cabin: there was a double bed in the main room now. Fully dressed, they tumbled onto it, grappling and kissing. He was freer than in his apartment. They pulled off their clothes, and he grasped her buttocks, her arms, squeezing her flesh, reveling in the touch of her. They were children in a make-believe house. To his surprise, the thought of Gus—the hint of the presence of Gus—made it better, as if Harold had won some sort of contest, just being here with Myra, and Gus had lost. Harold scolded himself for his usual belief that everything was complicated and hard.
In the morning he woke up first, dressed, and went outside, tense with excitement. He began walking. He always had paper and pencil in his pocket, and before long he was resting one foot on a rock, leaning on his thigh while making notes. He had more to write about than what his various assignments—book reviews, essays for the guidebooks he worked on—gave him a chance to say. What he wanted to write had something to do with his father, something to do with books. The moment when characters in literature saw something larger than themselves thrilled him (the same moment that still, despite everything, excited him at party meetings). He returned with a little plan for an essay. He’d seen this coming and had brought some books: Hawthorne, Stephen Crane. Myra was still asleep.
When they went swimming, Harold was surprised to see two cabins across the lake under the trees. A long dock stretched into the water. He saw no cars or people. Myra nodded when he pointed. Did she already know? Harold wanted the cabin and lake to be his secret. Myra returned to the book she was reading, by Pearl Buck. As he had imagined, she was not quite present at the cabin. She slept, or stared at the lake with a book in her lap, or read. Now and then she became needy and weepy, but Harold was used to that and he liked cheering her up, coaxing her to eat. It was a game, if a slightly embarrassing game. By the end of their few days, he had a draft of an essay, written at the table in the main room.
8
Artie and Evelyn were married in August 1939. It took them a while because they both lived with their parents and couldn’t afford an apartment. Twice during those months, Evelyn broke it off. You tire me out, she said. Both times, he waited a few days and called, and they went to the movies, or took yet another walk, or found a time when they could be alone in her parents�
� place or his, where they kissed and groped. Meanwhile, Artie took the exam and got a regular teaching job, not just a WPA job, and with the extra money they were able to rent an apartment. By then Hitler was threatening Poland, playing with the French, defying the British.
Artie and Evelyn arranged to be married in a rabbi’s study. Artie borrowed a suit from one of his brothers, and it was too large. His head looked small between broad gabardine shoulders, and his rumpled hair and wild eyes, behind his glasses, added to the impression that he’d spent some time lost inside the jacket and had only just managed to emerge with his face at the front.
Only their families were at the ceremony, but Evelyn had sisters, and they put together a nice spread at her parents’ house, so friends could come too. To Artie’s surprise, Harold brought Myra Thorsten. He hadn’t mentioned her in a long time, and at first Artie didn’t recognize her. He was additionally confused when Myra took his face in her hands and squeezed it, shaking her head in disbelief, as if she knew him well and could scarcely credit their present situation. Artie, Artie, you were the one I liked first, she said.
—What’s this Artie, Artie? he asked Harold when they found themselves alone in the kitchen.
—She’s good for me, Harold said. I think too much.
—What’s wrong with thinking?
—Do you know what just happened? Harold said.
—Sure. I got married. Artie leaned back against the windowsill in his in-laws’ kitchen. He liked that sill: it was higher than some, and he could rest his behind on it, stick his legs out, and perch, half-standing, dancing his feet in time with his whistling. He’d done it many times, but now he did it married, and that was amazing.
—Stop whistling, Harold said. You haven’t heard a radio. I know—you didn’t have a chance.
—What’s going on?
—Hitler and Stalin, said Harold, and his voice cracked, then got oddly high, almost a falsetto. He was enunciating carefully, like someone who knows he’s too drunk to speak. One of Artie’s brothers had poured Harold a glass of schnapps, but that wasn’t why. Hitler, Harold said, and Stalin . . . have signed a non-aggression pact.
—What are you telling me? said Artie. What?
—My friend. Don’t, Harold said. His voice was stronger. Von Ribbentrop is in Moscow. He flew there—his car, with the swastika, passed under the red flag. They agreed to divide up Poland.
—Well, well, said Artie. Well, well.
—Don’t, Harold said.
—What’s going on? Evelyn came into the room. She wore a light gray suit. Artie had stopped by in the morning to walk her and her family to the synagogue. Not a long white dress and a veil? he’d said, when he saw Evelyn. I don’t rate a long white dress?
—You rate anything, Evelyn said seriously. She had looked straight at him and kissed him. No joking, Artie, no joking.
And Artie had teared up, kissed her back. No joking, he said. That was all the wedding they needed, but they’d gone through with the rest of it.
The suit was pretty and showed off her breasts. Evelyn put one hand on Artie’s arm and one on Harold’s. They’d met a few times. Is something wrong?
Artie said, It sounds like Harold’s Soviet friends may have let him down. It sounds like things aren’t quite what we thought over there in Europe. It sounds like our highminded Communist brethren . . .
—Stop it, Harold said. I’ve already had an argument with my neighbor. I see him at meetings. He says it’s a trick, nothing to worry about. But I’m finished. I’m finished. He began to sob, and for the second time that day, Artie had to point out to himself that sometimes foolery and whistling and teasing aren’t enough. He said awkwardly, You want to bring Myra to dinner, come. We’re married—we’ll have a kitchen, a table. Just a couple of blocks from here. We bought a table, right, Evvie? Right? We can make dinner for my old friend?
—Of course, Evelyn said. Come soon.
Artie couldn’t resist. My formerly Red friend. My sadder but wiser friend. Evelyn put her hand over his mouth, and Harold looked her full in the face, Artie noted, as if he’d never seen her before.
—Your friend Myra, Evelyn said, using her head to point to the living room, is talking to my sister. She might be feeling shy. Go stand with her. Harold left the kitchen, not saying anything more.
—And you—you go talk to my father, Evelyn said to Artie. Tell him . . . what? Tell him I’m beautiful. Artie didn’t think she was beautiful at that moment. He thought that despite the suit she was a little funny-looking but in a way that delighted him. She was the funny answer to a secret riddle. Whistling, he walked up to Evelyn’s father and said, You raised a bossy woman.
—You never noticed? said his new father-in-law. You maybe blind or something?
—Stalin made a pact with Hitler, Artie said. They’re going to divide up Poland.
—And throw away the Jews, said Evelyn’s father. Throw them away.
Chapter 3
Drives Away All Adversity
1940–1945
1
Pregnant, Evelyn banged pots and wept at what she heard on the radio, cooking barefoot because all of her many shoes now hurt her feet. Artie didn’t know if she was angry at Hitler today or at him. He had had no idea about marriage—no idea that a woman who was humorous and resourceful when they took a long walk might not invariably be humorous and resourceful. But also no idea about sex. Evelyn loved sex, and though she had been a virgin until their wedding night, she was not shy or modest. Artie was shy for about a minute. Then he discovered that sex was the best possible way to play, to fool around. He made love, Evelyn said, like a monkey, and he said, So that’s where you are when I can’t find you—with your boyfriends in the zoo.
Yet one startling afternoon, Evelyn screamed at him—with no affection in her voice—not for being messy or careless, which he knew he was, but for being fussy, which he was not. And even if he had been, why was fussiness something to scream over? He had corrected her grammar.
—You could be drafted, she said now, turning from the stove. She wasn’t angry with him: she was frightened. Then she said, They wouldn’t let you do that in the army! He was helping her cook dinner, trying to peel a potato in one long strip. She took the potato out of his hands and did it quickly.
—I won’t be drafted, he said.
—What’s so special about you? Her voice sounded as if she did consider him special, and he took that in.
He said, We’re not going to war. Harold had been arguing with him about this. It was well into 1940 and Europe was bloody.
—We’re going to let them die there? Evelyn said.
—They won’t die. But they were dying. Is the baby moving? He liked to put his hand on her belly and wait for movement. She nodded, abandoned the potato, raised the hem of her maternity smock, and laid his hand across her middle. He felt her skin, her blood coursing and lunch digesting, and his child. He said, He’s not kicking, just moving this way and that way.
—That’s right.
—So you’re such an expert, he said, which way is he facing?
She guided his hand. This is her backside.
—Her? Her little tuchas, he said. I’ll give it a squeeze.
—Artie, she said. Artie. I think there’s going to be a war.
Brenda Saltzman was born a stubborn and cranky girl with a square face and sparse light hair in January 1941, a few months into the bombing of London. The United States was still at peace. A long, difficult labor wore out Evelyn, and Artie disgraced himself, screaming at nurses, terrified and furious. When he wasn’t allowed to be with his wife, he was sure she had died. He saw Brenda for the first time through a window into the nursery as she lay crying in a bassinet. A nurse picked up his daughter, but she wouldn’t stop yelling. Her cries delighted her father. He liked her.
But two weeks later, Evelyn shouted, How should I know what to do? when the baby—in her bassinet in the kitchen because they had so few rooms—wouldn’t stop crying and go t
o sleep. You figure it out, if you’re so smart!
She went into the bedroom and closed the door. The crying became louder. Artie wondered if music might soothe a baby. He went into the kitchen, picked her up, and tipped her against his shoulder. He put his finger into her hard toothless mouth because he liked the way that felt, and rubbed her gums. He took her into the living room and began dancing to the music on the radio—Duke Ellington. Brenda yelled hard—her face was dark red—but maybe she’d like different music better. He turned off the radio with his free hand, then put Brenda down on the rug on her back, and began looking for the record he wanted: Villa-Lobos’s Bachianas Brasileiras 5, a piece of music so strange—wordless, gorgeous wailing over the sound of cellos—that it might sound normal to a baby. He hurried to put it on the turntable of the Victrola.
When Evelyn came out of the bedroom, Brenda was still screaming, while Artie held her and danced a slow, creative dance to Villa-Lobos, oohing along with the ululations on the record. What are you doing? she said.
—We have to be patient.
—Why don’t you give her a bottle? Evelyn said, though she herself had insisted the baby couldn’t possibly be hungry.
—She’s not hungry, Artie said.
—How do you know? You’re in her mind? Evelyn had become solidly round with pregnancy, and that or something else seemed to make her move more directly than before, as if she hurled her weight against obstacles. She flung herself into the kitchen, and he heard the sounds of warming up a bottle. Brenda continued screaming, and Artie took her into the bedroom to remove the evidence of his failure. Without taking off his shoes, he lay down and arranged Brenda facedown on his stomach, pulling the bedspread over both of them. The baby’s chest heaved rapidly against his and he was overcome with joy. He rubbed his hand down her bony back and rear end, singing his old school song, while Brenda’s saliva soaked his shirt and he smelled urine from her leaky rubber pants. Her cries were softer.
When We Argued All Night Page 7