Read Online When We Argued All Night by Alice Mattison - Free Book Online
Authors: Alice Mattison
Tags: Historical
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teacher next door, an older guy, had not persuaded the cop to forget it. Beatrice London made Artie sign a long description of this incident.
S heâd do anything to get me in trouble, Artie said, after telling Harold this story. It was another of their late walks, this time in the fall of 1937. Harold had recently moved to a small apartment in Manhattan. Tonight heâd somehow gotten free tickets to a play, and Artie had come into the city to meet him. Afterward they had coffee. But Artie got angry when Harold first mentioned Beatrice London, and Harold wouldnât let him get away with it. They had been asked to quiet down, then to leave. Ridiculous! Artie said as they made their way out. They walked. When Artie was bored, he stopped to take a photograph, using the light of a street lamp, trying to pick up the shimmer of a puddle.
Now he had returned to the subject. Sheâd love to get rid of me, he went on. But sheâs too timid to do anything.
âShe might work up her courage, Harold said.
Artie said nothing for quite some time. Then he looked up at the sky, as if for approval, and recited:
A fella who taught for a living
From Labor Day right past Thanksgiving
One day went too far.
Heâs as dead as the czar!
If only heâd had a misgiving!
âThatâs not as bad as some, Harold said.
âAnd the joke is, said Artie, Itâs all because she thinks Iâm good-looking. Sheâs in love with me.
âThat would make it worse, Harold said.
3
H arold would finally marry Myra Thorsten in 1943, and during the intervening years he considered himself someone women laughed at or pitied. Still, once he had his own place, he felt he should seduce them, making this decision all but grimly. One afternoon he invited a young woman he had met at the Forty-second Street library to have a sandwich with him. Working for the Federal Writersâ Project, he spent many days in the main reading room. The womanâs name was Mary, and she was an assistant to a historian. At a delicatessen they ate corned beef sandwiches and sour pickles. Mary told stories about her family; there were uncles younger than their nephews, and each story included two or three characters named my cousin . At first he listened, enjoying it. Then his impulse was to convince her that her opinions were wrong. Nobody had such simple motives as she ascribed to her relativesâbut he stopped himself: what mattered was taking her to bed. Someone as muddled as Mary would forgive his awkwardness or would not even notice. He invited her to his apartment, a few blocks away.
She hesitated, then agreed. She had a habit of looking up at the ceiling when asked a question and then smiling before speaking. It might have been either annoying or adorable; Harold determined to consider it adorable. As he brought her into his apartment, he remembered that his bed was unmade, the room was cluttered, and he had nothing to offer but coffee. They talked, and he took her home.
The next timeâhaving made the bed and bought a bottle of liquorâHarold stood, crossed the room, and laid his wide hands on Maryâs shoulders so heavily she flinched. He expected her to laugh or be offended, but she didnât laugh, and they went to bed. It was clear to him that Mary had lost her virginity earlier, and he wondered if it was as obvious to her that he had not. Maybe one of the uncles or nephews had taken advantage of her. Maybe she was relieved to be approached by someone who bought her a sandwich and touched her gently.
Harold thought of himself not as a good lover but as an emergency lover: someone who could perform if preferable men were unavailable, a kind of understudy. Even if Mary didnât laugh openly, he assumed she laughed when she got home, laughed when telling the story to her girl cousins. It was embarrassing, but heâd learned that to become the kind of man he wanted to be, he had to endure embarrassment. He
S heâd do anything to get me in trouble, Artie said, after telling Harold this story. It was another of their late walks, this time in the fall of 1937. Harold had recently moved to a small apartment in Manhattan. Tonight heâd somehow gotten free tickets to a play, and Artie had come into the city to meet him. Afterward they had coffee. But Artie got angry when Harold first mentioned Beatrice London, and Harold wouldnât let him get away with it. They had been asked to quiet down, then to leave. Ridiculous! Artie said as they made their way out. They walked. When Artie was bored, he stopped to take a photograph, using the light of a street lamp, trying to pick up the shimmer of a puddle.
Now he had returned to the subject. Sheâd love to get rid of me, he went on. But sheâs too timid to do anything.
âShe might work up her courage, Harold said.
Artie said nothing for quite some time. Then he looked up at the sky, as if for approval, and recited:
A fella who taught for a living
From Labor Day right past Thanksgiving
One day went too far.
Heâs as dead as the czar!
If only heâd had a misgiving!
âThatâs not as bad as some, Harold said.
âAnd the joke is, said Artie, Itâs all because she thinks Iâm good-looking. Sheâs in love with me.
âThat would make it worse, Harold said.
3
H arold would finally marry Myra Thorsten in 1943, and during the intervening years he considered himself someone women laughed at or pitied. Still, once he had his own place, he felt he should seduce them, making this decision all but grimly. One afternoon he invited a young woman he had met at the Forty-second Street library to have a sandwich with him. Working for the Federal Writersâ Project, he spent many days in the main reading room. The womanâs name was Mary, and she was an assistant to a historian. At a delicatessen they ate corned beef sandwiches and sour pickles. Mary told stories about her family; there were uncles younger than their nephews, and each story included two or three characters named my cousin . At first he listened, enjoying it. Then his impulse was to convince her that her opinions were wrong. Nobody had such simple motives as she ascribed to her relativesâbut he stopped himself: what mattered was taking her to bed. Someone as muddled as Mary would forgive his awkwardness or would not even notice. He invited her to his apartment, a few blocks away.
She hesitated, then agreed. She had a habit of looking up at the ceiling when asked a question and then smiling before speaking. It might have been either annoying or adorable; Harold determined to consider it adorable. As he brought her into his apartment, he remembered that his bed was unmade, the room was cluttered, and he had nothing to offer but coffee. They talked, and he took her home.
The next timeâhaving made the bed and bought a bottle of liquorâHarold stood, crossed the room, and laid his wide hands on Maryâs shoulders so heavily she flinched. He expected her to laugh or be offended, but she didnât laugh, and they went to bed. It was clear to him that Mary had lost her virginity earlier, and he wondered if it was as obvious to her that he had not. Maybe one of the uncles or nephews had taken advantage of her. Maybe she was relieved to be approached by someone who bought her a sandwich and touched her gently.
Harold thought of himself not as a good lover but as an emergency lover: someone who could perform if preferable men were unavailable, a kind of understudy. Even if Mary didnât laugh openly, he assumed she laughed when she got home, laughed when telling the story to her girl cousins. It was embarrassing, but heâd learned that to become the kind of man he wanted to be, he had to endure embarrassment. He
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