And I also disliked myself and saw through my posturings. I found reasons to tell my friends that I was a Communist, explaining to myself that I told them in order to proselytize, to win converts; but I knew why I told them: because it made me seem mysterious and bold. Women liked it. They’d spend time with me—go to bed with me—in order to talk me out of my politics, or that’s what they told themselves they were doing. We were all in a game together, a play.
Later in life, I worked as a New York City high school teacher, only to lose my job when my past connection to Communism—long ago disavowed—came to light. I was guilty then, too, of vanity. I taught, and worked for civil rights, in a poor neighborhood. I secretly told myself I was a hero, but the greater secret was that I was of small or no utility to the people I supported, just someone entranced by the idea of himself.
Brenda, shamed and thrilled, knew what he meant. She thought he should have mentioned his friend, her father, but that thought disappeared in her pleasure. She felt the same way. She too had been a vainglorious fool, standing up for civil liberties and admiring herself for doing it, facing down the evil dean. But Harold continued:
But what I have just confessed is not the whole story, and that’s what gives me hope—hope for myself but, more important, hope for the hirsute present generation of advocates for justice, who in their own way are surely as self-conscious, as self-satisfied, and as hungry for the romance of opposition as my friends and I were. I knew when I became a Communist that I was, in part, ridiculous, and I have to trust the person who, even then, writhed with shame in the night but kept his membership card current: if I had not been sincere as well as ridiculous, I would not have joined the Communist Party, would not have remained in it for several years. The party has long since lost its glamour for me, but the reasons I joined were good reasons, and the ideals that made me join are ideals I hold today: justice for the poor, justice for the working man, reward for labor. The Communist Party, it turned out, had no idea how to go about achieving these ideals—and, worse, it was in love with authoritarianism, but its desires were the desires I still hold. I can’t, finally, blame myself for joining the Communist Party, however many girls it enabled me to lure into my shabby digs.
This was a new thought for Brenda. Her father had invariably spoken of Harold’s membership in the Communist Party as foolishness, and she had assumed Harold had come to agree with him.
I gave up Communism when Stalin agreed with Hitler to share Poland: when they signed a nonaggression pact in the summer of 1939—which did not dismay everyone I knew in the party. Some shrugged, insisting it was a trick, and held out until the terrible revelations of 1956, but to me—a Jew already terrified for European Jewry—having anything to do with Hitler was unthinkable. I was true to what I believed—as I was true, later on, when I taught and tried to help my ghetto students survive (literally—one was killed by police) their difficult lives.
We are lucky enough to live in a country in which protesting is usually not fatal—in which it is often fun and sexy—but when the times command dissent, we must protest anyway. So I raise a glass to the kids who fill the streets today, shouting down this abhorrent war, and sometimes you’ll see me in the rear, in those worn-out shoes, trying to keep up with young people spryer than I.
Brenda sat thinking about Harold Abrams and what she had read for longer than she should have, with a party to prepare for. Then, abruptly, she wanted to be outdoors, even if it was raining. She thrust her arms into her jacket sleeves and was out the door before her jacket was buttoned. The rain had increased, and as she drove, the windshield wipers swept noisily back and forth, with a syncopated squeal as the right one, which must have been bent, lagged. The immediate effect of reading Harold’s article was to make Brenda generous: she bought more food, more beer and soda than she would have. She seemed to have something to celebrate.
She expected eight or ten kids, but fifteen showed up, one bringing a plate of Christmas cookies in different shapes, decorated with colored sprinkles, and another a dish of guacamole and a bag of tortilla chips. Several brought records. She put on The White Album and the students nodded shyly when they recognized the music, as if they had wondered about her taste. She left the beer in the refrigerator and put bottles of Coke out on the table with the food, but after an hour or so, she noticed that beer—her own beer and some in brands she hadn’t bought—was on the table. She wanted a beer herself but had taken Coke because she was the teacher. Conversation had begun slowly and shyly, as if they weren’t exactly the people they were at school, but now there was more talk, louder when it was hard to speak over the sound of the records—someone had turned up the volume. More people came in and the group divided, so there were several conversations at once. Grace arrived with her husband, a beaming man who looked like a minister. Again, talk slowed, but finally everyone—even Brenda—took beers, and that helped. She forgot to think as a teacher and became a hostess, worrying that her party was boring and stiff. So she was pleased to see young people she didn’t know and tried to get them into conversation. Some didn’t know she was a teacher, and some were probably her age. One girl said no, she wasn’t a student at the JC, but her boyfriend was, and she nodded at a couple of young men near the food table, neither of whom Brenda knew. She smelled a joint, excused herself, and went to speak to Grace. Should I try and stop people from smoking dope? she said.
Grace looked at her in a funny way, and said, It might be too late.
Brenda wondered what Grace’s husband thought. What do you do? she said. He wasn’t a minister, at least. He sold insurance. I know a lot of these kids, he said. Our kids are younger, but I’ve seen these around. He pointed. I know that girl. Nice girl.
Grace laughed, but she looked uncomfortable.
—You think I should make them stop smoking dope, don’t you? Brenda said.
—Don’t go by what I think, said Grace, which was not what she’d have said at school, where she spoke her mind. There was no one else to ask.
Brenda went over to the two boys passing a joint back and forth. I have to ask you to stop, she said.
—Stop what?
—I’ll get in trouble with my landlord, Brenda said. Take the dope outside. No, don’t. She pictured them smoking—all of them smoking—lined up in front of the house. Just put it away until you’re somewhere else, okay?
—Sure, one boy said, but he looked annoyed. They soon left.
Toward midnight, a drunken boy tried to kiss her. You’re the nicest teacher I ever had, he said, and then she realized that he was, indeed, her own student: a quiet boy named Neil in the back row of a remedial English class. Neil, honey, no, she said gently, and she was afraid he’d cry.
—Come in the kitchen, she said. Help me make coffee. He was blond, skinny—he probably weighed less than she did—with tight shoulders. In class she had wished she could rub his shoulders and make his neck look less taut, and now she wondered nervously if she’d been attracted to him and if he’d sensed it. The thought embarrassed her and she opened another beer. When she saw three more kids smoking a joint, she didn’t stop them. She and Neil made coffee, and she made him drink some. I don’t really like coffee, he said. She carried cups and mugs into the living room—she had not thought about coffee and hadn’t bought paper cups—and then brought the milk container and sugar. She began throwing out beer bottles. She took the needle off the record on the turntable—Richie Havens—and turned on the overhead light. Only six or eight kids were left, and now they began to look for their coats. A small blond girl threw her arms around Brenda. She was a stranger and had come with two other strangers. I never, never, never thought, she said. When Brenda was finally alone, she was suddenly depressed and didn’t try to clean up, but went to bed.
She was awakened by the doorbell, frightened before she was fully awake, as if the ringing was the next event in a bad dream. She never thought of ignoring the bell. The ring was prolonged, and in her dishevelment, blinking and holdin
g her head down because a headache was overtaking her, she struggled into her bathrobe and to the door. It was light out. Her breath tasted unpleasant, and she held her hand to her mouth. Richie stood outside, and if he hadn’t already seen her, Brenda might have called an apology and gone back to bed. But her heart was tumbling in her chest as well; she was happy to see him. She’d feared, the night before, that Richie would never come back and that if he didn’t, she was somehow not the person she was claiming to be, not the person the party guests thought they were looking at.
When she let him in, he put his arms up as always, but she didn’t move into them, embarrassed.
—What went on here? he said. The room smelled of stale beer and crushed potato chips.
—Give me a minute, you woke me up, she said.
—What have you been doing?
—Richie, I need to pee.
—Who was here?
—Students. The Speak Out group—you know, the kids who want to put out a magazine. Not all kids.
—Not all kids? In his coat, he began gathering paper plates. Where does the garbage go? he called.
—Stop! Sit down. Let me just wash my face. She went into the bathroom, peed, washed her face, brushed her teeth. She would have liked to shower, but she was afraid he’d leave.
—I’m sorry! she said, coming out. Let me do that. Want coffee?
He shrugged and withdrew to the window, standing with his back to it, so when she looked into his face she could see only shadows and the planes of his nose and chin. It felt as if she would gain points in some game she hadn’t agreed to play if she could get him to sit down, that he would gain points if he didn’t. She removed the obvious clutter and started coffee.
When she returned to the living room while the coffee perked, he had moved out into the middle of the room. His mouth twitched oddly, and for a moment he looked frightened. Nobody’s here? he said.
—What do you mean?
—Nobody’s here, I mean—is anybody here? Now he sounded impatient.
—Except us? Why should anyone be here? She looked around. Had one of the kids gotten so drunk he’d passed out? Was someone in the apartment with her?
—I mean, he said, in the bedroom.
She understood. No, of course not. You think I slept with them?
—One would be enough, I presume.
—Of course not! she said. For heaven’s sake. I go crazy waiting for you.
—And you know I come when I can. And you take it out on me when I can’t, by coming on to one of those students. You said they weren’t all kids. Again, she glimpsed that tipped head, the look of someone younger, more unsure—only for a moment.
—I don’t do that, she said, but she felt ashamed, as if she had done it, as if what she’d done while simply leading her life—thinking each action was the next logical one—might somehow have fallen into a shape she hadn’t planned or wanted.
He’d had a haircut and his hair was shorter this time. Now, she said, you don’t look the least bit like an antiwar person. It seemed that she could fix this morning if she could get him to relax his neck, his jaw.
—What are you talking about? I don’t look like what I think.
—You had long hair. I thought you were against the war the first time I saw you.
—I happened to like the way I look in long hair, he said resentfully, and I happened to get tired of it. So you don’t want to sleep with me anymore because I don’t look like one of your scruffy friends?
—Richie, she said as gently as she could. Of course I want to sleep with you. I don’t even have friends.
—Oh, yeah, so who were you having fun with last night? Your enemies? And obviously you gave them stuff to drink, he said.
Now she was worried. I didn’t mean to, she said, but I let them come here, and I bought beer. I thought they wouldn’t take any unless they were of age, but things got away from me.
—Got away from you! You didn’t mean to buy beer, but somehow—somehow or other— His voice rose to a falsetto, Oh my gosh, I seem to have bought some beer! In his own angry voice he said, You never were running it. I can see from here you didn’t show a goddamn grain of sense! He sounded like a father, not exactly like her father, though it was an accusation her father might have made, but like a father more sure of himself than hers was, one who knew the rules and enforced them. And like the kind of father she knew of but didn’t have, Richie stepped toward her, his hand raised, and smacked the side of her head and her ear. How can you be like that? he said, his voice high again now, almost teary. What am I risking, with someone who can’t think?
When he connected, Brenda cried out and stepped backward. Her face stung, and the shame was worse, mixing with the headache. Don’t! she said, but it sounded more like a plea than a command. She ran into the bedroom and flung herself on the bed, sobbing, and he followed.
—Aah, what do you do things like that for? You think you can come to a town like this and have that kind of party? You haven’t noticed how people think around here? I hope what I just did is the worst of it.
There was some solace in giving way to the sloppiness of tears. At last he began stroking her back and shoulders and her hair, and his voice turned soft. It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. Maybe nothing will come of it. We’ll hope for the best. Come on, baby.
She turned, and after a while, she opened her arms to him and felt the comfort of his solid, expressive body. His body was more nuanced, more able to express complex feeling, than his talk. It cherished her convincingly. Lovey, he said, as he was getting out of bed, reaching to stroke her shoulder again. You know why I did that? I had to do it. I had to wake you up. Do you understand?
—Yes, Brenda said.
—Maybe nothing else will happen, he said, and she didn’t know whether he meant maybe nothing bad would come of her party—and what would that be?—or whether he meant he might not have cause to hit her again. She pulled the blankets around her, bruised, shamed, comforted, afraid and not afraid. So it had happened.
Harold phoned a lawyer. He had to phone several before he found someone who was interested in taking Artie’s case against Beatrice London on a contingent fee basis. Simply writing a letter and asking the Board of Education to restore Artie’s job had no effect. Artie had not been surprised—he was almost triumphant—when his letter was answered by someone who obviously didn’t know what he was talking about.
—I should change my name, like you, he said, and apply to teach for the first time. Hello, this is Artie Saltz. Can I teach Social Studies? I’ve heard it’s fun. My first unit will be freedom of speech in the classroom.
—You probably wouldn’t have to change your name, Harold said. Nobody there would think about who you might be. But if it ever came out, you’d lose your job again.
—I was kidding. It’s no fun these days. Kids pull knives on you. Why should I bother?
—You’ll never be happy until you do. Harold had no classes that day and had met Artie for lunch at the Chinese restaurant. He was reaching his chopsticks into the middle of the table for shiny eggplant cubes, looking up now and then at his old friend, who still used a fork but who ate a lot and never gained weight, unlike Harold. Maybe fitting shoes all day kept him slim.
—What do you know about happy? Artie said. Living alone in that place—like a doctor’s office. Bare, white, and cold. At least when I go to visit, you don’t make me wear a johnny coat that shows my tuchas. He pushed his chair back. I don’t know which would be worse, teaching or this. My back is a wreck from all the bending in the store. I’ll be a cripple before I can retire. I had to stop playing the recorder at night—I can’t stand up after a day in the store. But teaching again? All those kids? I’m not the same guy.
Harold thought that might be the truth. Maybe he was being foolish, telling all these lawyers that justice required putting his friend back into the classroom. Maybe it was too late.
Then Artie said, Okay, give me the name of the lawyer. And now tell me
, how are your kids? And Harold, do you ever get to the cabin these days? Is it still there?
Harold bent over his briefcase, looking for the notebook in which he’d written the name and number of the lawyer. His head was down, and he was glad Artie couldn’t see his face when he mentioned the cabin. Harold had to compose himself before he could speak again. Paul’s fine, he said. Writing for the student newspaper. He wants to go away next year—maybe Berkeley. He’s caught up in this stuff, but he’s not crazy. I think he’ll be okay.
—And Nelson? Artie’s face tensed.
—The same as ever. He heard anger in his own voice and Artie waved as if to say, Never mind. No, Harold said. I’m not ashamed of him, but Artie, what can I do? He’s in the street, in some apartment—I don’t know. I’d go back and change everything if I could, but I wouldn’t even know what to change.
It was the thought of the cabin that had upset Harold. The lake and the woods around it didn’t enter his thoughts for weeks at a time, but when the memory came, it was intense. The cabin and even its surroundings were diminished these days, with those other cabins on the lake. Paul said he was bored when he went with his mother and grandparents, but when Harold thought of being there, it wasn’t even the lake and the mountains that came to mind first; it might be walking out of Grand Union with a bag of groceries and across a rainy parking lot to his car. He didn’t know why his brain had bothered to keep that memory.
Harold took leave of Artie, urging him to phone the lawyer. That bitch owes you something! he said. He took the subway to Times Square and walked over to the library, the wind puffing out his raincoat as he passed Bryant Park. He was writing an article about Delmore Schwartz. His mood improved. He felt lucky to have the day—it was exam week at the college—to have the city, the freedom to go into the reading room and consult an obscure book, as he’d been doing all his life. He began feeling his usual guilt: Artie’s life had been narrowed, not broadened, by their dismissal from the school system. Harold put that feeling aside. He could feel guilty about any number of topics, and what good did that do anyone? He was having dinner with Naomi, meeting her at a restaurant downtown. Naomi enjoyed good food but didn’t want more than health required, as she enjoyed other people without craving anyone. He was shy about touching her. She was at ease, watching others and commenting on them. Her heart wasn’t constantly breaking and mending, and she didn’t have to protect herself. Naomi had the luxury to be clever, to be wise. He could marry her now, but she didn’t need him any more than she ever had.
When We Argued All Night Page 21