The Look of the Lake
1
Brenda Saltzman picked her way barefoot over grass and pine needles between the house in the Adirondacks and the beach. Paul had put in a beach. Did one have sand delivered? She laughed at herself for thinking Paul Abrams’s improvements fussy and tame. She was Paul’s guest and happy to be comfortable: he and Martha were doing something important in Prague for the month of July, and he’d invited her in an e-mail to use the cabin whenever she liked, giving her the code to the combination lock that padlocked a little wooden box in an inconspicuous corner of the porch, where the key was kept. Jess had come only once, but Brenda owed herself vacation days and didn’t mind the drive. She was glad to be near hiking trails, and that sand felt good on her toes. Now she seemed to be the only person at the entire lake. For the moment. In a little while David would arrive from New York—where he lived now—with her father.
Artie was sturdy but creaky, hard to talk to in the years since Evelyn had died. He lived in a little apartment in an assisted-living facility. She wasn’t sure he understood from her phone call where David was taking him, and he might have forgotten about her call by the time David arrived. But she thought that once they’d packed some of his things and had driven here, he’d recognize the place and be glad to be back. Brenda had driven into Schroon Lake that morning and bought food for supper, and now she had time for a swim. They’d be another hour or two, depending on how long a lunch stop had taken.
She dropped her towel. It was hot enough that she walked three or four steps into the lake before she got cold and stopped, liking the chill circle of water around her thighs and the warm underneath, squeezing mud between her toes. She stood taking in the sun on her shoulders. Something, a memory, pulled at her, a memory from way back. Though Artie had rented or borrowed the place year after year, the two families had been here together only rarely. She remembered Harold floating serenely on his back, his fleshy chest above water, and Nelson, a little boy, shouting. During this month she’d often thought of Nelson, thought of their single quiet coupling, which was all kindness, without anxiety or need. Or that was the way she remembered it. It was the only time she’d been with a man without trying to be different from the person she was—and even with women, for a long time she’d wanted to seem other than she was: more beautiful, less needy, or better at waiting. She was exactly herself with Jess now, and their going to bed was full of laughter but maybe less romance. Did romance require anxiety? Turning that question over, Brenda walked in up to her waist, leaned forward, accepted the first cold shock, and began stroking toward the middle of the lake. The stretch in her arms, the thrust of her legs, felt good.
She had just finished her swim and was wiping water out of her eyes when she heard a car, and then the front of it pulled into view: David’s green Honda. She put the towel around her shoulders—a big, cushy blue one, one of a pile she’d found in the linen closet—and picked her way across the rough ground in front of the house, where Paul and his wife had put in a bit of a garden that she was supposed to water and weed. David was already leaning over the opened passenger door, apparently listening to Artie, his arm outstretched as he grasped the top of the door, his legs in shorts. These days David shaved his head. The position of his back seemed amused—tolerant—and Brenda, as she walked toward her son and her father, tried to decide if that was possible: if a back would look different if its owner was impatient or tense or worried. Yes, it would. She knew what she saw. She had always known what she was looking at and what she felt.
David lived in Brooklyn. He saw her father more often than she did: one of the ways he’d changed his life in the last few years. He’d stopped writing fiction and, at the last minute, applied to graduate school in nonfiction. Brenda had asked what nonfiction would consist of. History books?
—Personal essays, David had said. Remember that story about the kid at the lake with his mother’s girlfriend?
She wasn’t sure. She remembered others better.
—It was partly based on something that happened. I made up the exciting part because I thought what really happened wasn’t exciting enough. Now I want to learn how to make what happened exciting.
He’d begun to send her essays, and she’d braced herself—but they weren’t titled The Faults of My Mother. David went to graduate school, two frenzied years. When he graduated, he quit his job, moved to Brooklyn, and began working in a coffee shop and dropping in unannounced on his grandfather. He’d published essays, some on the Web, some in print. Some were about his personal life, others about topics or people who interested him. Brenda wasn’t even sure she’d seen them all.
Now the grandson backed up a little and let go of the door, shifting to support his grandfather as Artie stood up, grasped the top of the door in his turn, and stepped away from the car.
—Hi, Brenda said, coming up behind them.
—We made it, David said. He has to pee.
Calling Hi, Dad, how was the trip? Brenda scrambled to open the front door, and then said, Watch the step, Daddy, as Artie and David approached, David looking carefully ahead, Artie staring at the ground. Inside, she hurried to open the bathroom door. Her father didn’t greet her. How are you? she said as he went by.
—Gotta go, he said.
While her father was in the bathroom, she excused herself and went into the bedroom to dress.
—We didn’t have lunch, David said, when she came out.
—Why not?
—Too hard. He shrugged toward the bathroom door. Artie was still in there.
It was almost three. We’ll eat now, she said. She was caught unprepared. It was too hot for the evening meal she’d planned: boneless chicken breast, boiled potatoes, carrots. A meal her father would like. But she hadn’t thought of anything else, so that was what they’d eat. She was taking things out of the refrigerator when her father came in behind her. You’re the daughter with the wife, he said. The other one’s the daughter with the husband.
She let that go, except that she wondered if he’d forgotten her name. And was he attempting a joke or reassuring himself that he knew who she was? Do you remember this house? she said, her back to him.
—Do I remember this house! No. I never saw this house, he said, sitting down at the table. She started peeling carrots.
—Sure you did. We came here when I was a kid. You came here with Harold when you were young.
—Not the same house. Maybe the same lake, not the same house.
—It’s been renovated, she said. Several times. She sliced the carrots, annoyed that she’d have to eat dinner in the middle of a hot afternoon.
David had quickly changed and gone for a swim. That wasn’t easy! he’d said on his way out, shrugging toward Artie.
When everything was ready, Brenda was hot and frazzled. Several times, as she cooked, Artie said, Couldn’t you have cooked something simpler?
—Harold owns this place? Artie was saying, as David came in again, rubbing a towel over his bald head. How come he never invited me before?
—I don’t think he comes much. Paul uses it. She looked at him. Lately, he was always smaller than she expected. She said, It’s the place where you came when you were young, Dad. Where we all came.
—No, that was different.
—Maybe he means it doesn’t have the same feel to it, David said.
—Is that what you mean?
—It’s completely different, Artie said.
—Let it go, said David. He took his clothes into the bathroom and returned, dressed. They sat down. Picking up his knife and fork, Artie asked, This is Harold’s too? His hair was all white and hadn’t been cut for a while, and it hung over his face as in photographs Brenda had seen of Carl Sandburg, someone her father had once admired.
—The plates? The house? she said. Yes. Dad. Wiping sweat off her forehead with her napkin, Brenda spoke more slowly and precisely than she usually did. This is the house you and Harold stayed at, during the Depression, when you were young. Later, somebody added this kitchen. Somebody put in a bathroom. You used to bring us here when I was a child.
Artie didn’t look up from his plate, and Brenda became more expansive, nodding vigorously as she spoke. It had the kitchen, when I was a kid, but it didn’t look the way it looks now. The counters. The cabinets. She gestured. Harold’s son—Paul—put those in.
—A professor, Artie said. He grasped his knife tightly and sawed his chicken into tiny pieces, several at a time. Then he put down the knife, lifted his fork, and leaned over his plate to impale one bite at a time, and bring each to his mouth. He ate audibly, and bits of chicken spotted his lips and chin. Artie had an uneven white beard. He had begun growing it a few months after Evelyn’s death, during a time of almost wordless misery, as if he thought he’d feel better if he made himself look different.
—What? Brenda had stopped speaking and was watching him. Oh, Paul. Yes.
—You should have married him, Artie said.
David let out a bark of a laugh.
—What? said Brenda. She decided to make a joke of it. She said, He never asked me. He’s ten years younger.
—The girl can ask. Artie looked up and all at once could put words together. It’s good if the girl is older. Women live longer.
It was silly to take him seriously, but Brenda couldn’t stop herself. I’m gay, remember? I like women. Paul’s nice—we’re friends. He invited me to stay here. Again, she vowed to weed and water Paul’s garden. Mostly marigolds. She noted that once more she was talking in overly simple, emphatic terms to Artie.
—If you married him, Artie said, this would be your house.
—Well, that’s true, Brenda conceded. You could come here all the time.
—This is my point. Artie went back to his chicken. If my friend hadn’t been so stupid, he said, partway through his carrots, then stopped. Brenda and David were silent; she was trying to think what she’d feed them all later. They’d need something at night. It was too hot for canned soup. She resented the fact that because of her father’s presence she was cooking and eating differently, and she couldn’t even say so: he was old, and this was what he liked. She had gray hair and should be used to him.
Artie continued. If he wasn’t stupid in the first place, marrying that dame, he would have had this house all along.
Brenda thought this was not true, but she couldn’t remember the history of the house and the history of Harold and his first wife well enough to be sure. Everything he did, stupid, Artie said. He has to go and join the party, we lose our jobs. I told him at the time.
—Wait a second, Brenda said.
—It’s always wait a second, Artie said. That’s what he tells me his whole life. Everything has to be his way, and all he wants is attention. Who told him, teach? I told him. And what does he do—he loses both of us our jobs.
—But you got it back, David said. He took more chicken.
—Aah, it was never the same.
—But Dad, it wasn’t like that, Brenda said. Harold didn’t cause you to lose your job.
—What do you mean? Artie’s voice was raised. He’s out in the street, calling attention? Of course he did!
—But you lost your job because that woman lied about you, remember? It had nothing to do with Harold, Brenda said.
—Let it go, Mom, said David. What difference? He was pushing his chair back, suddenly wanting to move. He’d eaten half of his second piece of chicken.
But Artie, eyes flashing, was shouting at Brenda. How the hell do you know?
—I was there.
—You were a kid. What does a kid know?
—I knew. Mother knew.
—Mom, forget it, David said.
—Aah! Artie waved away what Brenda said with his fork, dropping it on his plate.
—Let’s go, Grandpa, David said. Let’s go look at the lake.
—Don’t rush me, Artie said. He picked up his fork, wiped it on his napkin, and left the napkin on the table. Now Brenda stood. Maybe she should give them dessert. She had ice cream. Artie sat alone, stabbing his fork at what remained on his plate, his head down. He looked old, unhappy. David stood behind his chair. Brenda, trying to think of something to propose, stood behind hers. But Artie stabbed his fork in the air toward David, not his remaining carrots. I asked you what’s the rush! he said. You got something to do? Always rush rush rush. Rushing me out of the bathroom. No lunch. I’m supposed to eat, my doctor says eat.
—I’m sorry, Grandpa. I couldn’t figure out a good place for lunch, David said.
—What’s so difficult? You’ve got something better to think about, maybe something you’re writing? Artie’s voice, all of a sudden, was heavy with sarcasm, with rage. You write that trash—I read that thing. You think I don’t read, but I found it on the computer and I read it.
—Yeah, I heard you read it, David said. Gabe told me. He told me he showed you it was there. He thought you’d just be proud it had my name on it, but you read it.
—Did I read this? Brenda said.
—It’s the one about Julie. I don’t use her name.
—Pornography! All that money. Graduate school! Where he learns to write trash—people going to bed, every goddamned detail. All those girlfriends of yours—you see what he learned from you? Sex, sex, sex, nothing else matters.
—Okay, Dad, enough, Brenda said, trying to keep her voice steady. You want to take a nap? You’re tired. She began clearing the table. She was angrier than she’d been for a long time. Maybe it was because they were here together—there had been plenty of screaming matches between her and him, here in this kitchen, down at that beach. She used to wonder if people on the other side of the lake could hear. She’d finally take a book and escape into the woods.
Artie stood up. I am not tired! he shouted. I am talking about your son that you didn’t bother to bring up so he could even get a decent job! No—excuse me. He had a decent job and he quit. Gave it up. And for what. Pouring coffee, that’s what. Do you want cream and sugar? This is my grandson? His grandson is a lawyer, and this is my grandson! His son is a professor, and my daughter works in a factory!
—Stop it! Brenda screamed. She was screaming. Jess would hate it. She was screaming and starting to cry as she had forty years ago, fifty years ago. Stop it! Leave my son alone. My son is fine. He is doing fine. And you don’t know anything about my business.
And David turned and faced her, speaking in a low, tense, furious voice. Mother, would you just stop it, please! I can take care of myself! He left the room, saying over his shoulder, I’ll wash the dishes. Tonight. I’ll be back. His backpack was on the sofa, where he’d have to sleep—there were only two bedrooms. As she watched, he dug hiking boots and heavy socks out of his pack.
—Where are you going? she said.
He didn’t answer.
—David, what?
—I’m taking a walk. Now would you leave me alone? I can’t stay in the house with the two of you, that’s for sure.
—But where are you going?
—Giant.
—Giant? She’d expected he’d name one of the hikes near the cabin.
—Up 87.
—The High Peaks? It’s too late. Are you crazy?
—Look, I’m not going to hang around here listening to the two of you screaming at each other.
In moments he had filled two water bottles. He dumped his pack out on the sofa—a book, clothes—and put a few things back.
—Wait a minute!
—Where the hell are you going? Artie said.
—I’ll see you later. David waved lightly and was out the door. She heard his car start.
David had begun writing true essays instead of invented stories because he was disgusted with himself. Though he considered his life uneventful—at that time it consisted primarily of biking to work in Silicon Valley, sleeping late on weekends in the bed of a girlfriend, disliking an unreasonable boss, and failing to phone his mother—he experienced as much rage, shame, desire, and sorrow as if he was in the habit of hurling his relatives off cliffs or losing his women to murderous pirates. His stories were not dramatic, but they were more dramatic than his life, and that felt like cheating. He’d never be a good writer until he told the truth. Somebody else might become a writer by learning how to make things up, he conceded, but not he. He had to find out how to tell the truth and yet convey to the reader the feelings that were stupid to feel but that David Saltzman did feel. And so he’d begun to write essays, timid essays that got him into graduate school but had teachers asking, But what’s at stake here? And then maybe better essays, true stories about himself or other people.
He drove up the Northway, not wanting to look at the dashboard clock because he’d be shocked at how late it was, definitely too late to start a hike, start one when he was already tired. But nothing could calm him except walking up a mountain. He’d hurt his mother; his grandfather had hurt them both. David had refused to see why she was angry when he knew perfectly well why—and at the same time, he scorned her for being angry, for never having grown up, for needing at sixty-two or whatever she was to squelch and silence her admittedly obnoxious father. Only fast driving followed by fast walking would help.
And in truth, it was July, when daylight lasted. He had decent hiking shoes, water, guidebook, a first-aid kit, and trail mix. He had a rain poncho and a warm jacket. Hell, he was as much of a worrier as his terrified grandfather, who had inherited the fears Jews had held for centuries without inheriting the rituals they used to calm themselves. David would not fall off the mountain, would not die, even though he had hurt his mother and probably his grandfather.
He’d picked out a few hikes at home, choosing them for proximity and promised views. A line of cars was parked along Route 73 when he got there, and even before he reached the trail, he met people coming down. It was hot even under the trees, but the glare of the day receded as David began to walk. The trail register showed that dozens of people had gone up this mountain that day. He’d imagined being alone. Many had descended, checking off their return. Some included a comment: Good walk. Nice walk. Nobody admitted to being tired.
Walking felt good, but the trail was steep. He didn’t want to fail. Now and then he’d hear a descending party above him, and then they’d pass him with greetings. There were children and dogs, babies on their parents’ backs. He was breathless, but it got easier. More people descended.
—You’ve got a long way to go! a woman said, but she looked as if she’d never hiked before—no pack, flimsy shoes. The woods were dense with heat, but they were woods, and he could scarcely believe he’d been in New York that morning. Finally, he looked at his watch: it was 5:30 PM. He couldn’t get down before dark. Well, he couldn’t get down before twilight. When he came to a lookout, he was disappointed to learn he’d gone only seven-tenths of a mile, but the next time he checked the guidebook, he’d walked a mile. He’d been walking through deciduous trees, but now he entered an evergreen forest, and as always it seemed quiet, strange. He saw fewer descending hikers. The trail became steep again, but now and then he had glimpses of distant peaks—clouds were coming in—and small ponds and lakes. He let himself drink some water. He climbed.
Artie returned to the bathroom. He’d been reluctant to make this trip—to this house that might or might not be the house they used to go to—because there would be only one bathroom, and when he needed to go, he couldn’t wait. Now the door was open, so he went. Brenda was washing the dishes. It was hot, but he no longer minded that.
Once when David was three or four, Artie had taken him by the hand and brought him to the playground. He had to keep slowing his pace. David let him hold his hand the whole way, though he had to hold his arm up. They had to stop and look at every construction project or truck. Best of all was a garbage truck. Artie had joked for days about his grandson who came to New York and wanted to see a garbage truck. Broadway show? Nah. Radio City? Nah. Garbage truck.
He’d tried to teach David to play the recorder, but he was too little. Evelyn yelled at him to cut it out, leave the baby alone. She let David help mix cookies, and he ate the dough and wouldn’t eat his supper. They kept him for a whole day, maybe two. Some dame his daughter was chasing.
No point sitting here anymore. Why was he sitting here? What had he been doing before he came into the bathroom? He remembered shouting at Brenda and David. He didn’t remember why. Time and again, the last few days, he thought of the old guy in California, just last week, who put his foot on the gas instead of the brake and killed people in a market. Artie hadn’t driven a car in a while and wouldn’t try, but he had the strange feeling, at times, that he too, because he was old, could kill. He didn’t think he had killed anybody. He stood, flushed the toilet, reassembled his pants.
Nobody was on the top of the mountain when David got there. Clouds were dense, but the place—one of the higher of the High Peaks—was spectacular. It had taken him three and a half hours, and it would be dark long before he got down. But now he could hear thunder and see what looked like a storm on a nearby peak. He stayed at the summit for only a few moments. Then a spit of lightning formed above the distant storm, and David hurried back down the trail. Rain overtook him a third of the way down, first only a few drops. It was dark, but he had a flashlight, and he could see the trail, different from the shrubs and trees on either side. He was drenched in sweat, hot, and rain was welcome. He didn’t want to stop and take out his poncho. He was hungry and thirsty, bitten up—his bug spray wasn’t strong enough—dirty. Happy. No longer angry.
Brenda wanted to follow David: take her car, her guidebook, drive to the mountain. But she couldn’t leave her father. He managed in his apartment, but it was familiar and there were staff and alarm systems. She was furious with him at the moment, blaming him for being the kind of father who had taught her to manage by shouting. She heard him stumping around in the bathroom—the flush, the water in the sink. It had been her idea to have him brought here, where he and Harold had been happy in their youth, where she and her parents and sister had spent slow, hot vacations in her childhood, dawdling in and out of this lake or Schroon Lake.
She left the cleanup when she heard him come out. Let’s walk down to the lake, she said.
—Too far.
—It’s not far. It’s right outside the door. She opened the screen door and held it.
—You’re letting the bugs in.
Of course, that was what he’d say. She waited.
Shuffling the little distance from the porch to the lake, he tripped on a tree root. He fell forward before she could grab him and landed on his hands and knees.
—Dad, my God, are you okay?
He was silent. After a pause he rolled into a sitting position, knees up. He was stiff but also supple, if that were possible, still with a tennis player’s sense of where his limbs were and what to do with them.
She leaned over and brushed the dried pine needles off his knees and each hand, taking his hands in her own, one at a time. He didn’t think to brush off his own hands. They were ten feet from the lake.
—New boat, he said. It was a red canoe, upside down on the shore.
Brenda stood over him. He shifted to face the lake squarely. It’s beautiful, he said. She sat down next to him. It was still hot. Storm clouds made fantastic dark shapes over the lake. She knew that thunderstorms came up quickly in the mountains, and just because there was a storm in one place didn’t mean there was one somewhere else. Still. The clouds moved over their heads. Her father didn’t seem to notice.
It was impossible to know where David was right now or whether there was a storm there. She heard distant thunder. Dad, she said, with an indefensible feeling that if she could straighten things out between them—difficult as it would be to apologize to a man who never apologized—then everything would be well. David would make it up and down his mountain, and no storm would harm him. Artie didn’t look at her.
—I shouldn’t have yelled, she said. I know you don’t think I brought up David wrong. You understand why he’s working in a coffee shop, and it’s so good that he’s written these things and gotten them published. You didn’t mean what you said.
Artie looked at his knees for a long time. I certainly do mean what I said. His voice had the rasp it took on before it got loud. Your kid gave up a perfectly good job. What kind of thinking did you teach him? It’s the parents who have to do that. When there are parents. He paused. Par-ents, I said. Plural. And I have never been here before.
Rain began. Artie looked up but made no move to go inside. His hoarse voice sang, One-four-nine is the school for me, Drives away all adversity . . .
2
The sound Harold heard was the phone. The voice said, This is David Saltzman. David waited for him to remember who that was, but Harold was waiting in his turn: he was afraid.
—Your grandfather, Harold said. Did Artie die?
—Oh my God, David said. No. That’s not why I’m calling. I’m sorry.
—It’s my fault. I always expect bad news. How is he?
—Not too bad, David said. He’s got some problems. I wanted to talk to you about your book.
—Oh, my book. Harold sat down. He was in the living room. Naomi was cooking, and he had been on his way to keep her company.
—Congratulations. It was early in 2004, and A Fool and His Principles had just come out. There had been two reviews. Harold hadn’t asked about sales. He didn’t like to think. What I wonder, he’d said to Naomi, is how many people bought it whom I have never met? My guess is two. And the people I know—I’ve outlived them.
—Not all, Naomi had said.
—What I’m calling about, David said, is I was wondering if I could interview you. I don’t know if you ever look at Bad Weather?
—Bad weather?
—It’s an online magazine—news, politics, arts. I write for it. We’d like to run an interview about the book.
Harold laughed. No kidding!
—So would that be okay?
—Sure. Want to talk now? I’m not so good on the phone. He had to strain to hear.
—Actually, I was thinking I could come over? Maybe several times? I’d like to run something substantial.
—Who’s going to read it? Harold said.
—Who’s going to read it? said David. Lots of people. If the book continues to sell . . .
—Continues?
—You know about amazon dot com? Your book has a low rank. That’s good. Low is good. It’s getting attention on blogs. It’s kind of controversial.
As Harold tried to take this in, David said, So if I could come over, maybe three or four times in the next couple of weeks?
—Sure, Harold said.
Your father is abusive, said the director of the assisted-living facility. Brenda felt ashamed, defensive, and a little excited—vindicated. Carol’s husband had become the rabbi of a congregation in Michigan, and suddenly she in New Hampshire was the local daughter. The director said that Artie shouted at the staff. They didn’t want to keep him, but they would if the family hired aides round the clock. It would still be cheaper than a nursing home.
The daytime aide Brenda found sat in Artie’s little living room, listening and talking. He seemed to understand her despite her Jamaican accent. The nighttime aide said Artie was rude. Artie insisted he couldn’t understand a word she said, though her accent—also Jamaican—was less pronounced than the daytime aide’s.
Artie was obsessed with the toilet and spent an hour at a time sitting there, trying to squeeze the last urine from his bladder. The nighttime aide, like Brenda, seemed embarrassed that when Artie’s mind narrowed, it had narrowed to urination; the daytime aide smiled and nodded, surprised by nothing. Maybe that was kinder and maybe it was condescending. Brenda drove to New York and slept on David’s couch once a week, and she always dropped in on the director of the facility to demonstrate that the Saltzman family was cooperative. She hated these trips. Jess wondered if they were truly essential, and David was too busy to spend much time with her.
Once, she didn’t even see David, but he left an elaborate note: they had to get Artie’s power of attorney, and he had consulted with a friend who was a lawyer and printed out forms he’d found on the Internet. The next week he met her in the lobby. The forms had to be notarized, and he’d arranged for a notary to meet them.
Artie was in the bathroom when they arrived, but he came out when cajoled by the daytime aide. He had to initial many pages of forms, and he did so with appalling meekness, signing away his right to sell property, pay taxes, or make decisions without the consent of Carol and Brenda. The effort was all in the action itself. His A. S. kept getting larger. The notary brought out her seal.
At three the next morning the phone rang in David’s apartment, where Brenda slept. It was Jess. The nighttime aide had called. She says she called 911, Jess said.
—What’s wrong?
—She just gave me her cell phone number. Honey, I don’t know, Jess said. She said she couldn’t tell me, only you.
Brenda dialed like a robot.
—He went crazy, said the nighttime aide.
—How did he go crazy? He’s always been crazy.
—He screamed. I called 911. I don’t have to put up with violence.
—What’s happening now?
—They took him.
—They took him?
—He’s at the ER. She named a hospital. Brenda hung up and asked David if she had to go now.
—You’ll go in the morning.
She called Jess and asked the same question, and Jess too said she should go in the morning. Brenda slept.
Bad Weather: You call yourself a fool in your title. Do you really think you’re a fool?
Harold Abrams: Yes.
BW: That’s all?
HA: Well, I suppose in one sense I am not a fool. I have a doctoral degree. I supported myself for many years. But I trust the reader will understand that someone who writes a book who calls himself a fool does not mean he is too stupid to write a book.
BW: Then what do you mean?
HA: I mean [coughs] . . . I mean that in most instances I am less kind, less sensible, less unselfish than I would like to be.
BW: What do you regret most in your life?
HA: I was going to say, marrying my first wife, but then I would not have had my children, so I regret being unfaithful to her, but then I would not have my second wife, so I regret nothing.
BW: What are you most proud of?
HA: Proud? I don’t know. I should have done everything a little differently, you know what I mean?
BW: Do you believe in God?
HA: No.
BW: What world event had the greatest effect on your life?
HA: I have to think. The Depression, of course, but I managed. Not the war. The killing of the Jews—that had the greatest effect on my thoughts but not my life. I would have to say McCarthy.
BW: Because you lost your job?
HA: Because I got to start over.
BW: What is your hope for the 2004 presidential election?
HA: It looks like it will be Kerry. I don’t care much, as long as we get rid of these idiots.
BW: So they are worse than fools?
HA: I’m a genius compared to George W. Bush.
BW: And do you think he’ll lose?
HA: [coughs] [long pause] I think he’ll lose.
Brenda found her father under a white blanket, his face looking shrunken. She took his hand. Hi, Daddy, it’s Brenda.
—Bathroom.
—You need to go to the bathroom?
—Bathroom.
—Did they bring you a bedpan?
—Bathroom.
—Did they give you breakfast? Did you have something to eat?
—Bathroom.
No, the nurse told her, he didn’t mean he had to go to the bathroom. Sometimes they just say the same thing over and over, she said. They don’t know what they’re saying. Brenda tried to distract him, talking about David.
Artie said, Did he go to the bathroom? Did you go to the bathroom? You have to go to the bathroom.
Hours passed. Nobody looked at her. Maybe they were giving her privacy, which was not what she needed. Nobody could tell Brenda what was wrong, nobody seemed to understand that it had happened all of a sudden. But had it happened all of a sudden?
BW: Looking back, why do you think you joined the Communist Party?
HA: I joined to impress my friends. But sometimes we do the right thing for the wrong reasons.
BW: Why was it the right thing?
HA: Things were different. It was the right thing. Later, Communist turned into a dirty word. The Russians didn’t do it. Stalin—you can’t imagine.
BW: What can’t I imagine?
HA: Ideals turning to blood. The loss. We have never regained—maybe in the sixties, for a minute—the optimism. There’s no protest without optimism. You protest—do you understand me?—when something could change.
BW: But we still have antiwar marches—protests . . .
HA: No, nothing like that. Nothing. When I lost my job—
BW: As a teacher?
HA: Nobody knew why. We should have been heroes, but the time was over. We were just dirt to be mopped up. Later, they said, Oh, you weren’t the dirt; we made a mistake. Big deal.
BW: Is that why you didn’t go back to teaching?
HA: Didn’t go back? I was a teacher all my life.
BW: In college. I guess you weren’t going to give up a college teaching job to go back to teaching high school.
HA: I suppose I should have. I’m not a good person, never was. I had to do what I could as an essentially selfish person. That’s what I should have called the book. Fool has nothing to do with it. I should have said, A Selfish Man and His Principles.
Artie was sent from the emergency room to a nursing home, then back to the hospital two weeks later when he seemed to be having a heart attack and dying. Carol flew in from Michigan, and she and Brenda sat by his bed. After three hours of silence, Artie said, There’s no question the reduction of problems will increase.
Brenda laughed.
—He’s alive? Carol said, looking at Brenda. He’s going to stay alive? Carol was slim and blond; her hair was dyed and curled, and her tears were more touching, Brenda felt, than the tears that fell down her own square face, under her short gray rumpled hair. Artie didn’t die, and the doctors decided it hadn’t been a heart attack after all, but an infection. Carol left.
He lay in a sunny hospital room, where Brenda spent day after day, phoning Jess each night. One morning Artie said, I want to be that same old age as Harold.
Harold’s birthday had already happened. Artie’s would come in a week. She said, Ninety-four?
—Yes. Then, enough. Living like this is no fun.
BW: Was there anything you could have done to prevent your son Nelson’s suicide?
HA: When he was two. When he was ten. Sometimes you shouldn’t tell yourself there was nothing you could have done. Sometimes there are things you could have done. I can say I didn’t know it would happen, but from the time he was a teenager, I knew it would happen.
BW: Do you have advice for the parents of children with mental illness?
HA: Such as, don’t beat up on yourself? My advice would be, Beat up on yourself. But nobody needs advice to do that. Everybody can do it already.
BW: In your book, you say that the best thing in your life has been your wife, Naomi, but that falling in love with Naomi caused Nelson’s death.
HA: Do I say that?
BW: You imply it.
HA: So what do you want from me?
Clothing that’s halfway between theirs and ours, Artie said to Brenda. She’d gone home for a few days and had returned. Then, When your women and my women are together, what is the relationship?
She was baffled. What do you think?
—What do you think, and what do the girls think?
She decided they were combining their staffs, like King Lear and Goneril, but perhaps with less friction. She said, I think they’ll get along, and we can deal with problems as they arise, and he nodded and quieted. The days were boring but pleasant. David came when he could. She and her father conversed—how urbanely and politely!
He said, All night it came to me that I was going between Evelyn and . . . trigger finger. Do you know who trigger finger is? Trigger finger is Brenda.
That afternoon he was tired and petulant. The room felt small and stuffy. Artie said, Confusion, confusion, confusion.
Later, Why did they play so many tricks on us?
Later still, Green paper, green paper, green paper.
—Do you want green paper? Brenda said. Do you remember something about green paper? She hushed herself.
—Sick, Artie said. No sick. Sick. No sick. Sick. No sick. Confused.
—You’re confused.
Time passed. Brenda, he said. Brenda, Brenda, Brenda, green paper Brenda. Green paper, green paper . . . really happened.
Then, Yellow paper, yellow paper . . .
A nurse took his vital signs. I don’t want to live, he said.
The next day he said, Yellow, yellow, yellow, and circled his hand in the air as he said it. Brenda Saltzman, he said then. Pink paper. Carol. Green paper. No release. Green medicine in red paper. Must bus. Green paper.
—Who are you? Artie said abruptly, looking right at Brenda. David had stopped by after work and stood near the window.
—Brenda.
—Who?
—Your daughter.
He said, Daughter has d, g.
—Yes, d-a-u-g-h-t-e-r.
—So why didn’t you give me the d g medicine?
—I don’t know how, Brenda said.
He laughed weirdly.
—Are you laughing?
—It’s funny. David, take over. Be smarter.
The next day there were more words. What do I do now? Artie said.
—Just rest.
—Where do I rest? How do I rest? My right foot is locked up. Then, No, he said. Terrible feeling. Oh, my God. This is the worst.
BW: You are primarily interested in political life, but you taught literature and wrote books about literature. Why is that?
HA: I am interested in literature. I hate public life. As citizens, we must pay attention to public life, just as we must pay attention to private morality as human beings, whatever our interests.
BW: You hate public life? Really hate it?
HA: Yes.
BW: Does literature relate to politics?
HA: Literature is dangerous. It tells us things are more complicated than is convenient. You can’t make policy if you think all day about literature. Literature professors who won’t sign the petition because they don’t like the semicolon.
BW: But doesn’t literature teach us how to be moral?
HA: No.
BW: That’s not true! You’re not telling the truth about what you think.
HA: How do you know what I think?
BW: I read your book. I read all your books.
HA: I am tired.
BW: Is it too much? Should I come another day?
HA: How is my friend?
BW: My grandfather? He’s in the hospital.
HA: What does literature tell me to do when my friend is sick?
BW: You could go see him.
HA: Does literature tell me to do that?
BW: I don’t know.
HA: Are you crying?
As Brenda walked through the corridor toward Artie’s room, a nurse said, He’s pretty wild.
—Could I tell you something? she said, when she came in. It was his ninety-fourth birthday.
He said, No, no—not now. I’m in a very difficult game.
Artie had been taken out of bed and put into a lounge chair with a tilted back. A tray table crossed his lap, maybe to keep him in one place. His legs were stretched out on the footrest, and Artie flexed his feet alternately, rhythmically, with the agility and control of an athlete. He said, I want to tell you how I got into it. It’s very bizarre.
Brenda sat opposite in the straight chair. Artie never stopped flexing and straightening his legs and feet, alternately. Then he said, Quarter.
Then, You can make a day’s pay out here. I saw five quarters.
She understood something. You’re picking up quarters?
—Yeah. He paused, concentrating. Then he said, Look at that fish!
Finally, Brenda understood. He was in a pedalboat. What’s the fish doing? she said.
—Not that, the way it looks. So tempting, he said. But after a while, he said, Well, I want to get out. Suppose you wanted to go somewhere right now, what would you do?
—I’d take the subway to David’s and pick up my car.
—Forget I asked you. He called to invisible people to his left and right. Do you want a boat? Do you want this boat if I get out?
After another pause, he said, I had no idea this was competitive—but they’re scoring.
—Is it a race? Brenda said.
—No, but they’re always counting time. People were watching. One gave me a white paper, one gave me a black mark . . .
When a nurse came in, he demanded to get out of the boat.
—It’s a chair, Mr. Saltzman.
—So how can I get out of this chair? A minute later it was a boat again. You want this boat?
To Brenda, Is this boat riding or staying put?
Brenda said, It’s tied up.
He said, Let me sit on it for a while. His feet stopped. Then, What do they charge for it? Is your boat sitting or perched on a small boat? I seem to see something underneath.
It was compelling. She said, Do you think we’re in a lake or a river?
—A pond, but I’m just wondering if those little boats are going to move. Rapidly and lucidly, he explained that it wouldn’t be a problem if the boats were going to stay where they were, but if they were going to move, he needed to know so as not to collide with them. What is the usual ride? he asked.
—An hour, Brenda said.
—How are my touches?
When she asked for an explanation, he said, One boat touches another. Is the guy going out behind me to the left?
—He’s at a good distance, she said.
—This is comparable to playing tennis on Sunday morning. Brutal. Absolutely brutal. As a matter of fact, I think I wouldn’t do this on Sunday. She could see the pond, the boats going back and forth, the difficulty of moving without colliding with another boat. When the aide came in with lunch, she seemed to be from another plane of existence, but her father said agreeably, I had orange juice and Jell-O and a combination of a sandwich that was quite good.
Next he said, Try to move a boat over and open up a space for boats. It would be good if you could take yours and move it over.
Suddenly, after a silence: The number of faces I recognize but really don’t know just who they are—but I know they’re from New York—is unbelievable.
After another silence, he said, I don’t have the patience for this. Then, I don’t understand this peculiarity. When it’s very warm and I’m speaking a lot, my voice goes down and I can’t whistle.
—Try, Brenda said. He pursed his lips in the old way, but there was no sound.
She had worked out that the game was something like bumper cars: he had to avoid being touched by other people’s boats. But it was good to be on the lake. She said, Remember the lake in the Adirondacks?
—Oh yeah. Those were lovely years . . . The look of the lake . . . Why don’t we move a few of the boats? There’s a big space here.
At last, Brenda agreed they should move the boats. He tried to get up, and she suggested that he supervise while she did it. She said, Okay, I’m moving the first boat. Now I’m moving another boat . . . He was calm. They discussed the weeks at the lake. The most refreshing feeling, Artie said.
Someone knocked at the open door. It was Harold. Brenda jumped up to kiss him. Shall I leave you two together?
—Oh, no, Harold said. I won’t stay long. He carried a newspaper and a book, and he put them on Artie’s bedside table. Brenda saw that it was his new book, A Fool And His Principles.
—Artie, Harold said, leaning over the lounge chair that was a pedalboat.
—How are you? Artie said.
—How are any of us? said Harold. How are you?
—Who needs it? said Artie.
—I know what you mean. Harold took his hand and held it with both his hands. Happy Birthday, he said. I brought you my book. He moved Artie’s hand up and down, then leaned forward and held it to his cheek. When he let it go, he sat down on the bed. His head was down, and he brought out a small package of Kleenex from his pocket and blew his nose.
BW: What do you want people to remember about your life and your ideals?
HA: No one will remember them.
BW: But if they did?
HA: I’m sorry. You make me think of my dear, difficult friend, your grandfather, and I become difficult because he no longer knows how. I will give you a straight answer. I would like to be remembered as someone who was worth the trouble. I would like people to read Henry James and the rest. I would like people to think about trying to make things better, even though it’s complicated and there is another way to see everything. People suffer. We must end suffering, when we can. When we can without lying.
Tentatively—experimentally—Artie died. It was as if his body had rolled off the edge of a cliff, then come to rest on a short ledge over water. Something might have brought him back; he even knew as much. Desire was gone, anger was gone, but knowledge (without words for what he knew) continued. Nobody came, nobody touched him, and after a time his body tipped off the place where it had paused, and he was nowhere.
3
We could stop for coffee, Brenda said.
—Do you want to? said Jess.
—I don’t have the energy to get out of the car.
—I’ll bring you some, Jess said. She was driving. Brenda knew every place between New York and Concord, New Hampshire where you could get a decent cup of coffee not too far from the road. I think at the next exit, she said. They were somewhere in Massachusetts.
When they stopped, Brenda wanted to get out. It was a cool day for July, and a damp wind blew into her face. They walked together through the parking lot. Then she said, I need to get back into the car. Is that okay?
—Sure, Jess said. Brenda had imagined someone asking them what they wanted. She couldn’t speak to one more person.
Jess brought coffee and an enormous cookie. They broke off chunks, handing it back and forth. Brenda said, Harold is so sad. He had spoken, that morning, at her father’s memorial service, looking as if any touch could knock him down. His wife handed him into and out of his chair, but his voice was sure. He told stories about Artie that Brenda had never heard. She said, I didn’t think there was anything I didn’t know.
—I thought even I knew all the stories, Jess said. Artie used to call her Daughter-in-law, as if it was her name. Hey, Daughter-in-law. He had never stopped finding it interesting that he had a daughter-in-law, though he had no sons.
Jess put her cup into the holder and pulled out of the parking lot.
—Do you want more cookie? Brenda said.
—You finish it.
—It’ll make me fatter.
—Medicinal purposes. She signaled to return to the access road and then to the highway.
They were silent. I thought he’d be there, Brenda said. When I pictured my father’s memorial service, I imagined him at it.
—That’s funny.
—Or at least I thought there would be trouble—people quarreling, misunderstanding each other on purpose.
—Mmm, Jess said. That he’d be there in spirit. She changed lanes. They were in the part of Massachusetts where the traffic thinned out. She said, It was a tame gathering. A little boring.
—That’s all the family I have left now, the nice ones, Brenda said. My perfect sister and her perfect husband and children and grandchildren.
—David’s another one, Jess said.
—I’m the only disreputable family member left, Brenda said. But even I was good. I was good to all those cousins.
—I love your family, Jess said. I want family. Jess’s parents were dead. She had a brother she rarely saw. She hardly knew her cousins. Brenda got e-mails from cousins whom she liked. They’d turned up; they’d spoken politely to Jess. What did she want, criminals insulting one another? I don’t know what I want, she said.
—You want your dad.
—Oh, I don’t think so. It’s a relief. She couldn’t put it into words, what was missing, what she couldn’t do without. I don’t feel alive if nobody’s yelling, she said, though that wasn’t it.
Before going home, they picked up the dogs at the kennel. Brenda waited in the car. There were three, big old Abby and two middle-sized, younger dogs, one brown, one yellow. They bounded into the car, licking her and thumping their tails at her face and breasts. Okay, guys, okay, she said, but she was smiling and crying, her sunglasses knocked off into her lap.
At home, they carried their bags into the house, the dogs running ahead. Brenda set her bag down. They’d been gone for two nights, but the house felt as if it had been empty longer. She sat in the chair nearest the door. Jess went through the house and opened the back door so the dogs could go into the yard, which was fenced. While they were outside, she brought her bag upstairs. She came down again. Her footsteps on the stairs sounded old. Then she went out the front door to the mailbox. Brenda was hungry. Jess returned with a fist of mail, catalogues and flyers. One of the dogs was barking: Lulu, the young brown dog. Jess didn’t go to the door, and Brenda didn’t get up. Lulu barked some more, and then the other two joined in. Still Brenda didn’t get up, and Jess leafed through the mail, brushing her hair off her face. Jess had worn a suit to the memorial service but had changed into shorts for the drive. As she grew older, she was bonier, rangier, like an old New England farmer’s wife. At last, Brenda stood to let in the dogs.
—You don’t have to do that, Jess said.
—They’re barking.
—So they’re barking. Nobody cares. Brenda and Jess lived in town, but there were only three houses on the block.
Brenda opened the door and the dogs shouldered their way in. She liked the look of their muscular bodies coming forward almost as one body, their different colors and textures. She returned to the same chair. They had a little dining room and she was there, but the dining room led into the kitchen. Jess was still at the counter, gathering envelopes to recycle. It made Brenda desolate that Jess didn’t turn and look at her, didn’t say something affectionate, didn’t offer to feed the dogs or go and buy takeout for their own dinner. This was unfair: Jess had driven home. Jess had brought in the mail. Jess had let the dogs out. Jess had put up with months of Brenda’s absences.
Artie had not done well at noticing other people’s needs, so it didn’t make sense to miss that today, but she wanted, at the moment, not a lover, not a wife, but someone who’d let her be a child.
Jess put the empty envelopes and the catalogues into a wastebasket they kept in the kitchen for recycling, and went upstairs again. Now Brenda heard her tread crossing and recrossing their bedroom. Was she unpacking? How compulsive was that? Then she heard Jess take a shower. All she needed was for her longtime lover and wife to come down the stairs and say, Are you hungry, sweetie? Or even just, Are you hungry? Maybe even just, I’m hungry.
It was a long shower. Brenda continued sitting where she was. When Jess came down at last, she was wearing a robe and her hair was wet. She came into the dining room and sat down in the chair she sat in at meals, which meant her back was to Brenda. She pushed the chair back and began rubbing her head with a towel she’d brought down. Jess had shoulder-length hair, blond, not gray, because she said she’d look old at work. She said nothing.
Brenda stood up and moved to where she faced Jess. Don’t you care about me? she said.
—What are you talking about? Jess said. I drove to New York. I was friendly to your relatives. I drove back. Now I am worn out. Taking a shower felt great. Go take a shower.
—I took one this morning. Aren’t you hungry?
—We had that cookie.
—That was hours ago. Don’t you want dinner?
—I don’t know, Jess said. Maybe some cold cereal.
Brenda walked to the window and looked out. The yard was a mess. The grass hadn’t been cut in too long. I cannot bear this, she said.
—Bear what?
—You think my father dies and that’s the end of it?
—Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jess said. She went upstairs again with the towel. This time she was gone for a long time. When she came down, she was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt again, with sandals on her feet. She put her arms around Brenda, who had been turning the pages of a catalogue from which she would never buy anything. You are an impossibility, she said. You want me to go pick up food?
—I don’t know, Brenda said.
Jess went to look in the refrigerator. Leftover chicken, she said. I forgot this leftover chicken.
—Is it still okay?
It was okay. Brenda washed her face. She said, Okay, I’ll cook. Now she wanted to. She cut up the chicken and put water on to boil for pasta. She went outside, and there were ripe tomatoes—the first ones. They were warm to touch. She brought them into the house and cut them up. It was night. Jess poured red wine, and they carried their food into the living room and turned on the TV. The Democratic National Convention was on, but everybody knew that Kerry and Edwards would be the candidates. Now it was time for the keynote address, and the commentators were talking about the man who’d give it. Brenda sat in an old upholstered chair near the TV, her plate on her lap, her wineglass on the arm of the chair, though she’d spilled wine on that chair before. Jess was on the sofa, her plate on the coffee table. One commentator said the speaker’s name, which was something like Baracco Bama—an Italian pol from Massachusetts or Rhode Island? No, he was running for the senate from Illinois.
—Oh, yeah, Jess said. He’s black.
Barack Obama was a good speaker, and nobody would forget how to spell his name because suddenly the whole convention waved signs with it.
—You think at every session each one gets a bunch of signs with instructions? Brenda said. I never heard of this guy until one minute ago.
—He’s gotten a lot of press lately, Jess said, but yeah.
Brenda ate her spaghetti and drank her wine. We’ve got some gay friends in the red states, Barack Obama said, and Brenda said, over her shoulder, He said gay.
—I heard, Jess said. Then she said, Honey, I care about you!
—I know, Brenda said. Oh, sweetie, I know. She abandoned her spaghetti and Barack Obama and went to sit next to Jess, squeezing her shoulder. Jess’s fingers just grazed the back of Brenda’s neck.
Now the speaker was saying something about Iraq. I read a book recently that put it well, Barack Obama said. This writer—his name is Harold Abrams—
(Brenda gasped, and wine spilled on her shirt.
—What? Jess said.)
points out that though we mean well, we don’t always do the best thing for our children—we’re young, we’re inexperienced—but by the time our grandchildren come along, most of us are pretty good at looking after others. We’ve learned some wisdom. Abrams says we should resolve to treat other people’s grandchildren—in our own city or country or anywhere in the world—as we treat our own grandchildren. Maybe it’s that simple.
The speech ended and the commentators talked.
—What was that book? one said, and a photograph of Harold’s book—black letters on white background—flashed on the screen. Brenda glanced to her left, where the book itself—the copy Harold had inscribed to her father—sat on a lamp table. For a second she thought it might not be there, as if there were only one copy, and to appear on TV it would have to disappear from her living room.
—Harold’s famous, Jess said. What would your father have thought?
—Oh, he’d be mad. And excited. He’d buy ten copies of the book and give them to everyone he knew. He’d show them his name in the index. That thought made her pick up the book and turn to the back, checking for Arthur Saltzman, who apparently appeared many times in the book. She stopped and turned off the TV.
—Are you looking for the quote? Jess said.
Brenda looked up grandchildren in the index but it wasn’t there.
—It sounds like something from the first page or the last, Jess said, and she was almost right: there was a preface, and Brenda looked at the first page of the preface, and then the last page of the preface, and there it was.
—This will sell copies, Jess said.
—It will please Harold, Brenda said. Will it make him less sad?
—About your father? Jess said. No. Sadder.
—They can’t talk about it, Brenda said.
—Argue about it.
—Argue.
Brenda’s cell phone rang. She took it out of her pocket and looked at the screen. David, she said. She took the call.