One-four-nine is the school for me
Drives away all adversity . . .
Evelyn came in, moving more slowly now, testing the milk on her wrist. She put the bottle down, picked up Brenda, and took her to the waterproof pad on the dresser.
—Poor baby, Evelyn whispered, as she unpinned the diaper. Artie turned on his stomach and hid his face. He wanted his life back: his funny wife with the jiggling lump in her belly, his own competence. He was a teacher, but he couldn’t teach his daughter how to be a person.
—I’m not mad, Evelyn said, but she sounded mad. He got up and went for his camera, which was in the living room. He’d piled his photography equipment on a chair when Brenda was born. It had been in a cabinet in the bedroom, but they needed the space for her clothes and diapers. He’d already taken many pictures of her. Now he brought his lamp and set it up. Evelyn was sitting on the bed, holding the baby and feeding her the bottle, but when he came in with the lamp, she watched him set it up and then heaved herself and her daughter up and went into the living room. When he came in, she was on the couch, still feeding the baby. You don’t want me to take your picture?
—The light will disturb her.
—You want to comb your hair? Evelyn had always loved having her picture taken. You’re so beautiful, he said. Her wavy hair was rumpled, longer because she didn’t have time for a haircut. You don’t need to comb your hair.
Evelyn stood, handed him the baby—who began to cry again—and wept against his chest. I don’t want a baby, she said. I don’t mean that. I don’t mean that.
—Should I stop taking pictures? Artie said. It was unthinkable.
—I don’t want you developing them in the apartment. She stopped crying and stepped away from him. You’re locked in the bathroom for hours. The smell, the chemicals. It’s not good for her.
He’d known this was coming but also had not known. But she’s so pretty, he said. Your parents like the pictures.
—Don’t make me decide now, Evelyn said.
Two weeks after that, she did decide. Artie had set up his lights and tried to get Brenda to follow his hand with her eyes, taking picture after picture. Her changing face fascinated him, its unmediated honesty. But Evelyn didn’t trust him unless the baby was smiling. Brenda knew how to smile now but didn’t do it often.
—It’s not just the space or the smell, Evelyn said, walking into the living room from the bedroom, where she’d been folding laundry, as if picking up on a conversation they’d been having a moment ago. I don’t like the mood you get into. I don’t like the way you get when they don’t turn out the way you want.
—For crying out loud! Artie shouted, so loudly that Brenda started to cry. Would you stop it? he shouted—at the baby. He’d never before shouted at the baby.
—Be quiet! Evelyn said, and snatched Brenda up. I have to say this. I’ve given it a lot of thought—
—All right, I’ll just go. I see where this is going, Artie said. He folded his tripod and unplugged his lamp, with its clean smell of heat and light that he loved, put his precious camera into its case, then bundled everything in his arms. He had much more equipment—he developed and printed his own pictures—but this would make his point.
—Where are you going? said Evelyn.
—What difference does it make? Artie said. His arms were full, but it was winter. His coat was on a chair, and he managed to stuff it under his arm and walk out of the apartment, leaving the door open. Oh, for God’s sake! he heard her say. He expected Evelyn would follow, but as he ran down the steps, he heard the door close behind him. He stopped in the lobby to reorganize, trembling, and put on his coat. He had no hat or gloves. There was no time for this—he had papers to mark and lesson plans to write. He could dig his keys out of his pants pocket and go back upstairs or even ring the doorbell, but he began trudging toward the elevated train that would take him into the city. He didn’t know what he’d do with all this stuff if Harold wasn’t home.
Harold had rented his second apartment, on an undistinguished block in Murray Hill, for one reason: the front windows. He had one room on the second floor of a brownstone—two stories up from the ground, up staircases diminishing in grandeur—with a bathroom made out of a former closet and kitchen equipment in an alcove. The front windows weren’t as large as the ones on the first floor, but they were large enough, and the apartment faced south, so in winter the sun warmed and brightened it. On Saturday afternoon Harold was drinking coffee he had just percolated, sitting opposite a woman buttoning her sweater. She’d come in from the bathroom, where she’d retreated to dress. This was the first time he’d seduced her. A week earlier they’d struck up a conversation at an art gallery and had met by arrangement at a different gallery earlier that afternoon. Her name was Naomi; she was bright (and Jewish) and she had turned out to be a virgin. Naomi wasn’t especially pretty, but she was honest and funny, with a worried crease between her eyes that smoothed out when she wasn’t nervous and thus gave Harold an interesting challenge. He was feeling kindly, elderly, and erotic. Naomi, with no experience, apparently considered him a dignified, confident lover. Now he was being charming on purpose, listening with sympathy to a story she was telling that she’d begun an hour earlier, before he’d interrupted her with a hand that lingered on the center of her back for quite some time before it moved farther. Because she was so smart (she taught French in a public high school in a rich neighborhood in the Bronx), he could be himself. If he didn’t call, this woman would write no pathetic letters. Virgin or no, she took her coffee black and drank it with her feet drawn up under her, telling him how she’d gotten lost in Paris when her aunt and uncle gave her a trip to France as a graduation present. At the thought of Paris, her eyes grew large, as if she was stretching the lids up so as not to cry, and he knew they’d have talked about the war, but the doorbell rang and the crease returned between her eyes. Her eyes were blue, like his, and close together.
Harold considered not answering the door: he could signal Naomi to be quiet and not move until they heard departing footsteps. The visitor was right outside—the downstairs door was never locked. But nobody as suave as Harold was pretending to be would be afraid to answer a door. He rose, frightened but interested to know what would happen if Myra was his guest. But it was Artie, his arms full of photography equipment.
—What are you doing here? Harold asked, making his voice jocular so Naomi wouldn’t worry.
—That’s a fine way of saying hello, said Artie, crouching to set his bundle on the floor. Sorry to interrupt. He nodded curtly in Naomi’s direction as he stood, his possessions clattering as they settled.
—What’s this stuff?
—Can’t you see? Two cameras in cases, a tripod, a lens in a case, a light on a pole, and a screen to focus the light. Any further questions? Artie remained standing between them. Harold had closed the door and was now perched on the bed. He was glad he’d made the bed while Naomi was in the bathroom. He didn’t feel like inviting his friend to sit on the edge of the bed next to him, and Naomi was in the only chair. Artie’s long, thin face was tense, his cheeks sucked in as if he was ready to whistle at any moment, his heavy brows squinting with outrage over his glasses. Harold murmured their names, and both guests nodded. How’s the baby? Harold said then.
—Evelyn threw me out.
—Really?
—She said I can’t keep this stuff at home. Apparently she’s the president now. I thought we reelected a guy named Roosevelt. Artie sat down on the rug, leaned over on one hand, and let his legs sprawl to his side. He took up most of the room. Can I have coffee?
Harold stood and so did Naomi. You don’t have to go, he said.
—I should do some things today. She followed him into the alcove with her cup and saucer and set them down. Then she touched his arm, and he stopped reaching for the coffee pot and kissed her quietly on the mouth. I’m sorry, he said in a low voice. I’ll see you soon. He brought her coat from the hall closet and held
it for her, then saw her out to the landing.
—And what was that all about? Artie said when the door was closed. He had moved to the bed, where he sprawled as he had on the floor. He had a cup of coffee with no saucer and he’d already drunk half of it.
—Don’t put your shoes on the bed, Harold said.
Artie kicked them off. All over with Myra? he said. I can’t say I’m sorry.
—You don’t know Myra, and you have a superficial idea of what she’s like, Harold said.
—It’s not over? You’re skipping out on her? Artie finished his coffee and began twirling the cup between his hands.
Harold had lost all his confidence. We don’t have a formal arrangement, he said. We’re not promessi sposi.
—Ooh la la, Artie said, his usual response to any foreign word. So that gives you the right to lure little girls into your cave? Did you tell this Naomi about Myra?
—I didn’t do anything wrong, Harold said.
Artie said nothing. His silence was more effective even than his sarcastic speech, and Harold had an uncomfortable sense that something he had believed to be true was not true. He even glanced around as if Naomi might not have left after all. Sometimes, in the shower or late at night, Harold understood that the game he played was indeed a game: he pretended he did no harm to the women he slept with, that he was such a clown, such an oaf, that at best they pitied him. But this was pretending. Then the thought passed.
—Myra’s not the girl for you, Artie said.
—Why, because she’s not Jewish? Because her family has money?
—Myra’s trouble, that’s why, Artie said. You don’t want to spend your life with Myra, and that’s why you run around with all these Naomis. Tell Myra good-bye and keep Naomi. I like Naomi.
—You don’t know a thing about it.
—I have eyes, Artie said. There’s a lot I could tell you that you need to hear.
—Such as what? Harold said mildly. Don’t you think you’d better solve your own problems first?
—Such as your job.
—My job? Harold still worked for the Writers’ Project, though many people had been let go.
—I’m telling you, there’s no future. Sooner or later you’ll not only be fired, but you’ll be in the paper as a Commie Red.
—I told you, I tore up my membership card.
—You think anybody will care about that? Artie stood, put his cup down in the alcove, picked up a kitchen towel, and began playing with it, twisting it and snapping it loose. He said, You think the American people are going to check the expiration date on your membership card? This stuff is getting worse and worse, this Dies and his committee. You don’t need it.
—I don’t want to teach children, Harold said. He knew what Artie thought he should do. He wanted to teach, but in a college. He wanted to get a doctorate in English literature. He couldn’t teach until he’d done that.
—What’s so terrible? Long vacations, you’re home early, the kids are funny.
—I don’t think so, said Harold.
—I don’t think so, Artie mocked, making the words sound weak and uncertain.
Myra had made the same suggestion. You like the sound of your own voice, she had said. If you teach, you’ll hear it all day long. Nobody had much respect for him, Harold reflected, but remarks like that kept him with Myra. This Naomi—all these good women. They didn’t have the nerve to say things like that.
—I’ll think about it, he said, feeling as if by some kind of elaborate logic he owed it to Naomi, the teacher he’d just seduced and would probably never see again, to think about teaching. He could take education courses at night. It was true that the Writers’ Project wouldn’t last. He stood up. I’ll see about it, he said.
—You won’t be sorry, Artie said.
—I said I’ll see about it. Now what about all this stuff? He pointed.
—Just for a week or so, until she calms down?
—You want to leave it here? For God’s sake!
—What’s so terrible? I didn’t bring the baby and leave her for a week.
—What’s she like?
—Come see her. She’s smart. She’s driving me crazy, but she’s smart. Artie replaced the kitchen towel on the table, furled into a long cloth tube. Come back with me. Come eat with us.
—You’re in the middle of a fight.
—Evelyn will be nice if you come with me.
—It’s trouble for her.
—She won’t care. What’s trouble? Another plate? I’ll set the table. I’ll wash the dishes. Come on.
They left Artie’s beloved photography equipment in a tangle on the floor and took the subway to Brooklyn.
2
On November 25, 1942, the New York Times reported that Dr. Stephen Wise, the chairman of the World Jewish Congress, had confirmed that half the estimated four million Jews in Nazi-occupied Europe had been exterminated. The story was on page 10. Harold had bought the paper on the way to work, read the first pages, and put it aside. He picked it up that evening to read on a subway ride to Brooklyn.
Artie’s photographic equipment had now been sitting on Harold’s floor for more than a year and a half, and Harold had phoned to complain about it. He didn’t complain, but he did mention it to Evelyn, who had answered the phone. She invited him to dinner. She liked him and often invited him. On his way, Harold read the story about the Jews.
—My God, he said to Artie and Evelyn, carrying the paper in, folded back to page 10. My God. He had intended to demand the retrieval of Artie’s belongings once he was there, but now that he’d read the newspaper story, his wish to clear his floor had become selfish and trivial. He put down the paper to take off his overcoat. Brenda stood in her overalls in the middle of the room. She had a chunky, square face and her lips looked as if she might cry or complain, but she was quiet, holding something. When Evelyn turned away with the coat, Brenda came toward Harold and held it up for him to see. It was a stuffed horse. Is that your horse? he said.
—Baby, said Brenda.
—Your baby.
They sat in the living room. He lit a cigarette and Evelyn brought him a drink. When he tried to talk about the story, Artie and Evelyn shook their heads and looked shocked but wouldn’t speak. Brenda was surely too young to understand, but they didn’t seem to want to talk in front of her about such a thing. Evelyn was pregnant again, and when Harold spoke of the newspaper story, she put her hand over her protruding stomach.
—We haven’t seen you, Evelyn said. It had been a few weeks. You’re all right?
—I was rejected, Harold told her. Pearl Harbor had turned war and the draft from discussion into fact—as if frightening figures on a movie screen had stepped into the theater, three-dimensional. Artie had expected to be rejected because of his nearsightedness, his fatherhood, or both, and was glad about it. Death? he had often said to Harold. Who needs it?
But Harold had always told himself he’d go and fight. True, since the day the police had beaten him up in the Union Square riot in 1930, his right hand trembled at times and became weak. Sometimes it hurt. His hand made him drop things and kept him from doing anything precise—he couldn’t have drawn the fine, shapely lines in Myra’s illustrations, even if he had the talent—but he could almost control it if he tried. He hadn’t thought it would keep him out of the army. He’d imagined being drafted, even enlisting. Then, when the war started, he was startled to find himself hoping to be rejected: afraid. Soon enough, he’d received a draft notice, but he failed the medical exam. His hand was too disabled. He thought he might have exaggerated the weakness on purpose. Were the doctors smart enough to detect that kind of deception? He was afraid to be a soldier, but when he’d received his 4-F notice, he’d been depressed for days. He’d told few people he’d been turned down, not Myra.
—That’s good news, Artie said.
Harold shrugged. Not really.
—You’ve got better things to do with your life, Evelyn said.
—B
ut with this going on? Harold pointed at the newspaper.
Artie waved his hand dismissively, but Evelyn nodded.
A few weeks later came a front-page story. The members of the United Nations had issued a joint declaration protesting the Germans’ cold-blooded extermination of the Jews. This account was full of detail. Jews were taken to camps in Poland; nobody returned. Healthy people worked as slaves, and the rest were systematically exterminated. The United Nations, the paper reported, was making plans to bring the perpetrators to justice—which wouldn’t bring dead people back to life, Harold pointed out. This time he said it to Myra. The story was two days old when he met her in the garment district on a Saturday. She had to see someone in an office. Harold had waited in Herald Square; he liked watching the iron statues on the big clock that had recently been installed there. Mechanical men lifted their arms and struck, and their hammers crashed against the big iron bell. At last Myra came along, annoyed at her assignment. A few days earlier, he had finally told her he’d been rejected from the draft. I assumed, she had said.
They went to see Casablanca for the second time. The war was going badly in real life, and the movie first cheered Harold, then depressed him: the French national anthem, the courage of the characters, his own cowardice. Later, they sat in a luncheonette and he began to talk about the extermination camps.
—Do you think it’s true? she said. Her lipstick was a new color, darker, and it or something made her skin look dark and flushed, healthy with purpose but a little brutal. She rarely read a newspaper.
—Of course it’s true. They’ve been investigating for months.
She considered. She had ordered only coffee—though he urged her to eat, as he always did—and had drunk it quickly, getting lipstick on the rim of the cup, and now she took out her compact and lipstick, blotting her lips on her napkin, stretching her mouth open and then pressing her lips together like a fish. Harold watched her, sipping his coffee and eating a cheese danish. He didn’t like the way she repaired her lipstick, but he wanted to see her do it.
When We Argued All Night Page 8