8

Autumn came quickly. It was cold and in Jersey the leavey turned and fell overnight. The following Saturday I took a ride up to see the deer, and did not even get out of the car, for it was too brisk to be standing at the wire fence, and so I watched the animals walk and run in the dimness of the late afternoon, and after a while everything, even the objects of nature the trees, the clouds the grass, the weeds, reminded me of Brenda, and I drove back down to Newark! Already we had sent our first letters and I had called her late one night, but in the mail and on the phone we had some difficulty discovering one another; we had not the style yet. That night I tried her again, and someone on her floor said she was out and would not be in till late.

Upon my return to the library I was questioned by Mr. Scapello about the Gauguin book. The jowly gentleman had sent a nasty letter about my discourtesy, and I was only able to extricate myself by offering a confused story in an indignant tone. In fact, I even managed to turn it around so that Mr. Scapello was apologizing to me as he led me up to my new post, there among the encyclopedias, the bibliographies, the indexes and guides. My bullying surprised me and I wondered if some of it had not been learned from Mr. Patimkin that morning I’d heard him giving Grossman an earful on the phone. Perhaps I was more of a businessman than I thought. Maybe I could learn to become a Patimkin with ease…

Days passed slowly; I never did see the colored kid again, and when, one noon, I looked in the stacks, Gauguin was gone, apparently charged out finally by the jowly man. I wondered what it had been like that day the colored kid had discovered the book was gone. Had he cried? For some reason I imagined that he had blamed it on me, but then I realized that I was confusing the dream I’d had with reality. Chances were he had discovered someone else, Van Gogh, Vermeer … But no, they were not his kind of artists’. What had probably happened was that he’d given up on the library and gone back to playing Willie Mays in the streets. He was better off, I thought. No sense carrying dreams of Tahiti in your head if you can’t afford the fare.

Let’s see, what else did I do? I ate, I slept, I went to the movies, I sent broken-spined books to the bindery—I did everything I’d ever done before, but now each activity was surrounded by a fence, existed alone, and my life consisted of jumping from one fence to the next. There was no flow, for that had been Brenda.

And then Brenda wrote saying that she could be coming in for the Jewish holidays which were only a week away. I was so overjoyed I wanted to call Mr. and Mrs. Patimkin, just to tell them of my pleasure. However, when I got to the phone and had actually dialed the first two letters, I knew that at the other end there would be silence; if there was anything said, it would only be Mrs. Patimkin asking, “What is it you want?” Mr. Patimkin had probably forgotten my name.

That night, after dinner, I gave Aunt Gladys a kiss and told her she shouldn’t work so hard.

“In less than a week it’s Rosh Hashana and he thinks I should take a vacation. Ten people I’m having. What do you think, a chicken cleans itself? Thank God, the holidays come once a year, I’d be an old woman before my time.”

But then it was only nine people Aunt Gladys was having, for only two days after her letter Brenda called.

“Oy, Gut!” Aunt Gladys called. “Long distance!”

“Hello?” I said.

“Hello, sweetie?”

“Yes,” I said.

“What is it?” Aunt Gladys tugged at my shirt. “What is it?”

“It’s for me.”

“Who?” Aunt Gladys said, pointing into the receiver.

“Brenda,” I said.

“Yes?” Brenda said.

“Brenda?” Aunt Gladys said. “What does she call long distance, I almost had a heart attack.”

“Because she’s in Boston,” I said. “Please, Aunt Gladys…”

And Aunt Gladys walked off, mumbling, “These kids…”

“Hello,” I said again into the phone.

“Neil, how are you?”

“I love you.”

“Neil, I have bad news. I can’t come in this week.”

“But, honey, it’s the Jewish holidays.”

“Sweetheart,” she laughed.

“Can’t you say that, for an excuse?”

“I have a test Saturday, and a paper, and you know if I went home I wouldn’t get anything done…”

“You would.”

“Neil, I just can’t. My mother’d make me go to Temple, and I wouldn’t even have enough time to see you.”

“Oh God, Brenda.”

“Sweetie?”

“Yes?”

“Can’t you come up here?” she asked.

“I’m working.”

“The Jewish holidays,” she said.

“Honey, I can’t. Last year I didn’t take them off, I can’t all—”

“You can say you had a conversion.”

“Besides, my aunt’s having all the family for dinner, and you know what with my parents—”

“Come up, Neil.”

“I can’t just take two days off, Bren. I just got promoted and a raise—”

“The hell with the raise.”

“Baby, it’s my job.”

“Forever?” she said.

“No.”

“Then come. I’ve got a hotel room.”

“For me?”

“For us.”

“Can you do that?”

“No and yes. People do it.”

“Brenda, you tempt me.”

“Be tempted.”

“I could take a train Wednesday right from work.”

“You could stay till Sunday night.”

“Bren, I can’t. I still have to be back to work on Saturday.”

“Don’t you ever get a day off?” she said.

“Tuesdays,” I said glumly.

“God.”

“And Sunday,” I added.

Brenda said something but I did not hear her, for Aunt Gladys called, “You talk all day long distance?”

“Quiet!” I shouted back to her.

“Neil, will you?”

“Damn it, yes,” I said.

“Are you angry?”

“I don’t think so. I’m going to come up.”

“Till Sunday.”

“We’ll see.”

“Don’t feel upset, Neil. You sound upset. It is the Jewish holidays. I mean you should be off.”

“That’s right,” I said. “I’m an orthodox Jew, for God’s sake, I ought to take advantage of it.”

“That’s right,” she said.

“Is there a train around six?”

“Every hour, I think.”

“Then I’ll be on the one that leaves at six.”

“I’ll be at the station,” she said. “How will I know you?”

“I’ll be disguised as an orthodox Jew.”

“Me too,” she said.

“Good night, love,” I said.

*  *  *  *  *

Aunt Gladys cried when I told her I was going away for Rosh Hashana.

“And I was preparing a big meal,” she said.

“You can still prepare it.”

“What will I tell your mother?”

“I’ll tell her, Aunt Gladys. Please. You have no right to get upset…”

“Someday you’ll have a family you’ll know what its like.”

“I have a family now.”

“What’s a matter,” she said, blowing her nose, “That girl couldn’t come home to see her family it’s the holidays?”

“She’s in school, she just can’t—”

“If she loved her family she’d find time. We don’t live six hundred years.”

“She does love her family.”

“Then one day a year you could break your heart and pay a visit.”

“Aunt Gladys, you don’t understand.”

“Sure,” she said, “when I’m twenty-three years old I’ll understand everything.”

I went to kiss her and she said, “Go away from me, go run to Boston…”

The next morning I discovered that Mr. Scapello didn’t want me to leave on Rosh Hashana either, but I unnerved him, I think, by hinting that his coldness about my taking the two days off might just be so much veiled anti-Semitism, so on the whole he was easier to manage. At lunch time I took a walk down to Penn Station and picked up a train schedule to Boston. That was my bedtime reading for the next three nights.

*  *  *  *  *

She did not look like Brenda, at least for the first minute. And probably to her I did not look like me. But we kissed and held each other, and it was strange to feel the thickness of our coats between us.

“I’m letting my hair grow,” she said in the cab, and that in fact was all she said. Not until I helped her out of the cab did I notice the thin gold band shining on her left hand.

She hung back, strolling casually about the lobby while I signed the register “Mr. and Mrs. Neil Klugman,” and then in the room we kissed again.

“Your heart’s pounding,” I said to her.

“I know,” she said.

“Are you nervous?”

“No.”

“Have you done this before?” I said.

“I read Mary McCarthy.”

She took off her coat and instead of putting it in the closet, she tossed it across the chair. I sat down on the bed; she didn’t.

“What’s the matter?”

Brenda took a deep breath and walked over to the window, and I thought that perhaps it would be best for me to ask nothing—for us to get used to each other’s presence in quiet. I hung her coat and mine in the empty closet, and left the suitcases—mine and hers—standing by the bed.

Brenda was kneeling backwards in the chair, looking out the window as though out the window was where she’d rather be. I came up behind her and put my hands around her body and held her breasts, and when I felt the cool draft that swept under the sill, I realized how long it had been since that first warm night when I had put my arms around her and felt the tiny wings beating in her back. And then I realized why I’d really come to Boston—it had been long enough. It was time to stop kidding about marriage.

“Is something the matter?” I said.

“Yes.”

It wasn’t the answer I’d expected; I wanted no answer really, only to soothe her nervousness with my concern.

But I asked, “What is it? Why didn’t you mention it on the phone?”

“It only happened today.”

“School?”

“Home. They found out about us.”

I turned her face up to mine. “That’s okay. I told my aunt I was coming here too. What’s the difference?”

“About the summer. About our sleeping together.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“…Ron?”

“No.”

“That night, you mean, did Julie—”

“No,” she said, “it wasn’t anybody.”

“I don’t get it.”

Brenda got up and walked over to the bed where she sat down on the edge. I sat in the chair.

“My mother found the thing.”

“The diaphragm?”

She nodded.

“When?” I asked.

“The other day, I guess.” She walked to the bureau and opened her purse. “Here, you can read them in the order I got them.” She tossed an envelope at me; it was dirty-edged and crumpled, as though it had been in and out of her pockets a good many times. “I got this one this morning,” she said. “Special delivery.”

I took out the letter and read:

PATIMKIN KITCHEN AND BATHROOM SINKS
“Any Size—Any Shape“

Dear Brenda—

Don’t pay any Attention to your Mother’s Letter when you get it. I love you honey if you want a coat I’ll buy You a coat. You could always have anything you wanted. We have every faith in you so you won’t be too upset by what your mother says in her Letter. Of course she is a little hystericall because of the shock and she has been Working so hard for Hadassah. She is a Woman and it is hard for her to understand some of the Shocks in life. Of course I can’t say We weren’t all surprised because from the beginning I was nice to him and Thought he would appreciate the nice vacation we supplied for him. Some People never turn out the way you hope and pray but I am willing to forgive and call Buy Gones, Buy Gones, You have always up till now been a good Buck and got good scholastic Grades and Ron has always been what we wanted a Good Boy, most important, and a Nice boy. This late in my life believe me I am not going to start hating my own flesh and blood. As for your mistake it takes Two to make a mistake and now that you will be away at school and from him and what you got involved in you will probably do all right I have every faith you will. You have to have faith in your children like in a Business or any serious undertaking and there is nothing that is so bad that we can’t forgive especially when Our own flesh and blood is involved. We have a nice close nitt family and why not???? Have a nice Holiday and in Temple I will say a Prayer for you as I do every year. On Monday I want you to go into Boston and buy a coat. Whatever you need because I know how Cold it gets up where you are … Give my regards to Linda and remember to bring her home with you on Thanksgiving like last year. You two had such a nice time. I have always never said bad things about any of your friends or Rons and that this should happen is only the exception that proves the rule. Have a Happy Holiday.

YOUR FATHER

And then it was signed Ben Patimkin, but that was crossed out and written beneath “Your Father” were again, like an echo, the words, “Your Father.”

“Who’s Linda?” I asked.

“My roommate, last year.” She tossed another envelope to me. “Here. I got this one in the afternoon. Air Mail.”

The letter was from Brenda’s mother. I started to read it and then put it down a moment. “You got this after?”

“Yes,” she said. “When I got his I didn’t know what was happening. Read hers.”

I began again.

Dear Brenda:

I don’t even know how to begin. I have been crying all morning and have had to skip my board meeting this afternoon because my eyes are so red. I never thought this would happen to a daughter of mine. I wonder if you know what I mean, if it is at least on your conscience, so I won’t have to degrade either of us with a description. All I can say is that this morning when I was cleaning out the drawers and putting away your summer clothing I came upon something in your bottom drawer, under some sweaters which you probably remember leaving there. I cried the minute I saw it and I haven’t stopped crying yet. Your father called a while ago and now he is driving home because he heard how upset I was on the phone.

I don’t know what we ever did that you should reward us this way. We gave you a nice home and all the love and respect a child needs. I always was proud when you were a little girl that you could take care of yourself so well. You took care of Julie so beautifully it was a treat to see, when you were only fourteen years old. But you drifted away from your family, even though we sent you to the best schools and gave you the best money could buy. Why you should reward us this way is a question I’ll carry with me to the grave.

About your friend I have no words. He is his parents’ responsibility and I cannot imagine what kind of home life he had that he could act that way. Certainly that was a fine way to repay us for the hospitality we were nice enough to show to him, a perfect stranger. That the two of you should be carrying on like that in our very house I will never in my life be able to understand. Times certainly have changed since I was a girl that this kind of thing could go on. I keep asking myself if at least you didn’t think of us while you were doing that. If not for me, how could you do this to your father? God forbid Julie should ever learn of this.

God only knows what you have been doing all these years we put our trust in you.

You have broken your parents’ hearts and you should know that. This is some thank you for all we gave you.

MOTHER

She only signed “Mother” once, and that was in an extraordinarily miniscule hand, like a whisper.

“Brenda,” I said.

“What?”

“Are you starting to cry?”

“No. I cried already.”

“Don’t start again.”

“I’m trying not to, for God’s sake.”

“Okay … Brenda, can I ask you one question?”

“What?”

“Why did you leave it home?”

“Because I didn’t plan on using it here, that’s why.”

“Suppose I’d come up. I mean I have come up, what about that?”

“I thought I’d come down first.”

“So then couldn’t you have carried it down then? Like a toothbrush?”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“No. I’m just asking you why you left it home.”

“I told you,” Brenda said. “I thought I’d come home.”

“But, Brenda, that doesn’t make any sense. Suppose you did come home, and then you came back again. Wouldn’t you have taken it with you then?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t get angry,” I said.

“You’re the one who’s angry.”

“I’m upset, I’m not angry.”

“I’m upset then too.”

I did not answer but walked to the window and looked out. The stars and moon were out, silver and hard, and from the window I could see over to the Harvard campus where lights burned and then seemed to flicker when the trees blew across them.

“Brenda…”

“What?”

“Knowing how your mother feels about you, wasn’t it silly to leave it home? Risky?”

“What does how she feels about me have to do with it?”

“You can’t trust her.”

“Why can’t I?”

“Don’t you see. You can’t.”

“Neil, she was only cleaning out the drawers.”

“Didn’t you know she would?”

“She never did before. Or maybe she did. Neil, I couldn’t think of everything. We slept together night after night and nobody heard or noticed—”

“Brenda, why the hell are you willfully confusing things?”

“I’m not!”

“Okay,” I said softly. “All right.”

“It’s you who’s confusing things,” Brenda said. “You act as though I wanted her to find it.”

I didn’t answer.

“Do you believe that?” she said, after neither of us had spoken for a full minute. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, Neil, you’re crazy.”

“What was crazier than leaving that damn thing around?”

“It was an oversight.”

“Now it’s an oversight, before it was deliberate.”

“It was an oversight about the drawer. It wasn’t an oversight about leaving it,” she said.

“Brenda, sweetheart, wouldn’t the safest, smartest, easiest, simplest thing been to have taken it with you? Wouldn’t it?”

“It didn’t make any difference either way.”

“Brenda, this is the most frustrating argument of my life!”

“You keep making it seem as though I wanted her to find it. Do you think I need this? Do you? I can’t even go home any more.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes!”

“No,” I said. “You can go home—your father will be waiting with two coats and a half-dozen dresses.”

“What about my mother?”

“It’ll be the same with her.”

“Don’t be absurd. How can I face them!”

“Why can’t you face them? Did you do anything wrong?”

“Neil, look at the reality of the thing, will you?”

“Did you do anything wrong?”

“Neil, they think it’s wrong. They’re my parents.”

“But do you think it’s wrong—”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me, Brenda…”

“Neil, why are you confusing things? You keep accusing me of things.”

“Damn it, Brenda, you’re guilty of some things.”

“What?”

“Of leaving that damn diaphragm there. How can you call it an oversight!”

“Oh, Neil, don’t start any of that psychoanalytic crap!”

“Then why else did you do it? You wanted her to find it!”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Brenda, why?”

“Oh!” she said, and she picked up the pillow and threw it back on to the bed.

“What happens now, Bren?” I said.

“What does that mean?”

“Just that. What happens now?”

She rolled over on to the bed and buried her head in it.

“Don’t start crying,” I said.

“I’m not.”

I was still holding the letters and took Mr. Patimkin’s from its envelope. “Why does your father capitalize all these letters?” She didn’t answer.

“‘As for your mistake,'” I read aloud to Brenda, “‘it takes Two to make a mistake and now that you will be away at school and from him and what you got involved in you will probably do all right I have every faith you will. Your father. Your father.'”

She turned and looked at me; but silently.

“‘I have always never said bad things about any of your friends or Rons and that this should happen is only the exception that proves the rule. Have a Happy Holiday.'” I stopped; in Brenda’s face there was positively no threat of tears; she looked, suddenly, solid and decisive. “Well, what are you going to do?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Who are you going to bring home Thanksgiving—Linda?” I said, “or me?”

“Who can I bring home, Neil?”

“I don’t know, who can you?”

“Can I bring you home?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “can you?”

“Stop repeating the question!”

“I sure as hell can’t give you the answer.”

“Neil, be realistic. After this, can I bring you home? Can you see us all sitting around the table?”

“I can’t if you can’t, and I can if you can.”

“Are you going to speak Zen, for God’s sake!”

“Brenda, the choices aren’t mine. You can bring Linda or me. You can go home or not go home. That’s another choice. Then you don’t even have to worry about choosing between me and Linda.”

“Neil, you don’t understand. They’re still my parents. They did send me to the best schools, didn’t they? They have given me everything I’ve wanted, haven’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Then how can I not go home? I have to go home.”

“Why?”

“You don’t understand. Your parents don’t bother you any more. You’re lucky.”

“Oh, sure. I live with my crazy aunt, that’s a real bargain.”

“Families are different. You don’t understand.”

“Goddamit, I understand more than you think. I understand why the hell you left that thing lying around. Don’t you? Can’t you put two and two together?”

“Neil, what are you talking about! You’re the one who doesn’t understand. You’re the one who from the very beginning was accusing me of things? Remember? Isn’t it so? Why don’t you have your eyes fixed? Why don’t you have this fixed, that fixed? As if it were my fault that I could have them fixed. You kept acting as if I was going to run away from you every minute. And now you’re doing it again, telling me I planted that thing on purpose.”

“I loved you, Brenda, so I cared.”

“I loved you. That’s why I got that damn thing in the first place.”

And then we heard the tense in which we’d spoken and we settled back into ourselves and silence.

A few minutes later I picked up my bag and put on my coat. I think Brenda was crying too when I went out the door.

*  *  *  *  *

Instead of grabbing a cab immediately, I walked down the street and out towards the Harvard Yard which I had never seen before. I entered one of the gates and then headed out along a path, under the tired autumn foliage and the dark sky. I wanted to be alone, in the dark; not because I wanted to think about anything, but rather because, for just a while, I wanted to think about nothing. I walked clear across the Yard and up a little hill and then I was standing in front of the Lamont Library, which, Brenda had once told me, had Patimkin Sinks in its rest rooms. From the light of the lamp on the path behind me I could see my reflection in the glass front of the building. Inside, it was dark and there were no students to be seen, no librarians. Suddenly, I wanted to set down my suitcase and pick up a rock and heave it right through the glass, but of course I didn’t. I simply looked at myself in the mirror the light made of the window. I was only that substance, I thought, those limbs, that face that I saw in front of me. I looked, but the outside of me gave up little information about the inside of me. I wished I could scoot around to the other side of the window, faster than light or sound or Herb Clark on Homecoming Day, to get behind that image and catch whatever it was that looked through those eyes. What was it inside me that had turned pursuit and clutching into love, and then turned it inside out again? What was it that had turned winning into losing, and losing—who knows—into winning? I was sure I had loved Brenda, though standing there, I knew I couldn’t any longer. And I knew it would be a long while before I made love to anyone the way I had made love to her. With anyone else, could I summon up such a passion? Whatever spawned my love for her, had that spawned such lust too? If she had only been slightly not Brenda … but then would I have loved her? I looked hard at the image of me, at that darkening of the glass, and then my gaze pushed through it, over the cool floor, to a broken wall of books, imperfectly shelved.

I did not look very much longer, but took a train that got me into Newark just as the sun was rising on the first day of the Jewish New Year. I was back in plenty of time for work.