enough. He loved literature too much and believed what it implied: all life is interesting, even life made possible by capitalism.
What made Harold join was a conversation with his father, who admitted that as a young man heâd wanted to be a rabbi or a Hebrew school teacher. But I couldnât go to school, he said. Money was everything.
At last Harold understood. Money was everything; the leisure to read books was stolen leisure. The New Deal gave people hope, but only a revolution would make a big enough difference. He approached the groupâs leaders.
âFinally? they said. They laughed at him, but they accepted his dues.
N ow Harold was alone in the cabin with Myra, who had returned from her walk as he was trying to clean the iron skillet, and had gone into the bedroom. Virginia sat on the lakeshore waiting to be loved. Artie, the last time Harold had checked, was fooling around with the busted rowboat. Harold thought he heard thunder. He tidied restlessly, though that was pointless. The place was appealing but not clean. The walls were wooden planks, and the floor was also wood, with years of ground-in dirt. The skillet was greasy and rusty and would stay that way. The windows were dirty. But Harold liked the cabin. He was impatient for Myra and Virginia to leave so he could get a book and sit on the dilapidated sofa. He was reading Henry Jamesâs The Portrait of a Lady . His suitcase was still in the bedroom, with all his books in it.
He looked out the window. Virginia no longer sat on the ground outside, and he didnât see Artie or the boat. Heâd noticed oars behind the cabin that morning. Probably Artie had found them and taken Virginia rowing.
He knocked softly on the bedroom door. Myra? he called. I just want a book from my bag.
There was no answer. He knocked again, then opened the door.
The bedroom was narrow, not much longer or wider than the bunk bed. Opposite the door was a wooden chest of drawers, with Haroldâs battered suitcase on top. He saw nobody.
âMyra? In the bottom bunk was nothing but an army blanket, left haphazardly on the bare mattress. In the top bunk, a dark shape. He tiptoed across the room and opened his suitcase, regretting the sound of the spring releasing the catch.
âCan you help me? said Myra, sounding different: not mocking.
âMyra? Harold said once more. Whatâs wrong?
âIâm frightened. Virginia went off somewhere.
Harold looked over the iron rail that would keep a sleeper from rolling out of the top bunk. Myra lay with a blanket pulled up to her chin. Her hair was loose on the pillow and on her face. Without thinking, Harold reached to smooth it and position it behind her ears, then pulled his hand back. But heâd touched her hair, which was soft, like a childâs.
âThereâs nothing to be afraid of, he said. Was she worried about the woods? About bears, orâhe didnât know what animals might live in these woods.
âI need Virginia, Myra said.
âWhy? I think she went rowing with Artie.
âThatâs what I pay her for, staying with me, Myra said.
âYou pay Virginia?
âIâm the one with the money, Myra said, with a low laugh. And sheâs the one with the brains.
âI doubt that. What do you need her for?
âI promised my parents, she said. They worry about my nerves.
Harold looked at this woman with her red hair. He thought she probably could be talked or joked out of these nerves. So thatâs what this is, he said, this huddling in the bed? Nerves?
âI had a dream, she said.
He did and didnât want to find out what sheâd dreamed. Myra had been dressed when they ate breakfast, but the arms holding the blanket to her chest were bare. She seemed newly awake, rumpled, more attractive than before. Harold was additionally shocked that Gus had carried on with a woman who had nerves, but his discomfort made him want to help Myra. Gus wouldnât
What made Harold join was a conversation with his father, who admitted that as a young man heâd wanted to be a rabbi or a Hebrew school teacher. But I couldnât go to school, he said. Money was everything.
At last Harold understood. Money was everything; the leisure to read books was stolen leisure. The New Deal gave people hope, but only a revolution would make a big enough difference. He approached the groupâs leaders.
âFinally? they said. They laughed at him, but they accepted his dues.
N ow Harold was alone in the cabin with Myra, who had returned from her walk as he was trying to clean the iron skillet, and had gone into the bedroom. Virginia sat on the lakeshore waiting to be loved. Artie, the last time Harold had checked, was fooling around with the busted rowboat. Harold thought he heard thunder. He tidied restlessly, though that was pointless. The place was appealing but not clean. The walls were wooden planks, and the floor was also wood, with years of ground-in dirt. The skillet was greasy and rusty and would stay that way. The windows were dirty. But Harold liked the cabin. He was impatient for Myra and Virginia to leave so he could get a book and sit on the dilapidated sofa. He was reading Henry Jamesâs The Portrait of a Lady . His suitcase was still in the bedroom, with all his books in it.
He looked out the window. Virginia no longer sat on the ground outside, and he didnât see Artie or the boat. Heâd noticed oars behind the cabin that morning. Probably Artie had found them and taken Virginia rowing.
He knocked softly on the bedroom door. Myra? he called. I just want a book from my bag.
There was no answer. He knocked again, then opened the door.
The bedroom was narrow, not much longer or wider than the bunk bed. Opposite the door was a wooden chest of drawers, with Haroldâs battered suitcase on top. He saw nobody.
âMyra? In the bottom bunk was nothing but an army blanket, left haphazardly on the bare mattress. In the top bunk, a dark shape. He tiptoed across the room and opened his suitcase, regretting the sound of the spring releasing the catch.
âCan you help me? said Myra, sounding different: not mocking.
âMyra? Harold said once more. Whatâs wrong?
âIâm frightened. Virginia went off somewhere.
Harold looked over the iron rail that would keep a sleeper from rolling out of the top bunk. Myra lay with a blanket pulled up to her chin. Her hair was loose on the pillow and on her face. Without thinking, Harold reached to smooth it and position it behind her ears, then pulled his hand back. But heâd touched her hair, which was soft, like a childâs.
âThereâs nothing to be afraid of, he said. Was she worried about the woods? About bears, orâhe didnât know what animals might live in these woods.
âI need Virginia, Myra said.
âWhy? I think she went rowing with Artie.
âThatâs what I pay her for, staying with me, Myra said.
âYou pay Virginia?
âIâm the one with the money, Myra said, with a low laugh. And sheâs the one with the brains.
âI doubt that. What do you need her for?
âI promised my parents, she said. They worry about my nerves.
Harold looked at this woman with her red hair. He thought she probably could be talked or joked out of these nerves. So thatâs what this is, he said, this huddling in the bed? Nerves?
âI had a dream, she said.
He did and didnât want to find out what sheâd dreamed. Myra had been dressed when they ate breakfast, but the arms holding the blanket to her chest were bare. She seemed newly awake, rumpled, more attractive than before. Harold was additionally shocked that Gus had carried on with a woman who had nerves, but his discomfort made him want to help Myra. Gus wouldnât
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