Arthur's Choice

Myra had understood and accepted Arthur from the moment they met. Did she wish he was more mainstream and less constrained by rigid routines and an unusual worldview? Yes, but at that point in her life—after a heartbreaking number of disappointing love affairs—she decided that this strange but brilliant and kind man was not only her way out of a lonely, dreary existence, but the right one for her.

A few weeks after Myra had invited Arthur to move in with her, she used just the right words (Arthur loved words) to convince him to let her brother work at his book store for a few hours each week. She had said, “It’s not good for him to sit around the apartment all day. He’ll do a good job. More than that, hiring him will allow you to take days off to spend with or me or just read.” After much conversation, Arthur finally, reluctantly, agreed to a one-month try-out period for Alex.

At the end of the month, when Arthur reconciled his accounts he discovered that the store had taken in less money than it had during each of the previous months. He compared sales figures for the same month last year. They were higher then. When he compared the sales figures on a day-to-day basis over the course of the past month he saw that on the days that he worked the store took in about the same amount as on a similar number of days during the previous few months, but on the days that Alex worked the numbers were noticeably lower.

That night, Arthur walked into the living room and asked Alex to explain the discrepancy in sales on the days that he worked as compared to the other days. Alex smiled at Arthur and said, “Well, Arthur, I guess I’ve been pocketing too much cash.”

As Arthur strained to think of a reply, Myra said, “Arthur, you do see he’s pulling your leg, don’t you?”

“I have never understood that ridiculous phrase.”

“It means he’s—”

“I know what it means. It is a foolish expression.” Then, after a few seconds of silence, Arthur said, “You must explain why the register receipts are lower on days you work than when I am there.”

“I don’t know, Artie. I’m not a thief. Besides, almost all the sales are by charge card, so how could I be stealing money?”

“Obviously, I am not referring to charge card purchases.”

“I guess people used credit cards more on my days.”

“Why would that be, and, moreover, why were there fewer sales?”

“I suppose there’s a reason.”

“Then you must explain it to me.”

“Nothing to explain.”

“Yes, you must explain. I can show you the exact figures. They’re—”

“Not interested.”

“But, you must—”

Myra interrupted Arthur, saying, “Stop. He said he doesn’t know.”

“I need him to explain the shortfall because—”

“You know what?” Alex said as he stood up and walked over to Arthur. “Just thought about it. Shove your crappy job!” Then he pushed Arthur, knocking him to the floor, and stormed out of the apartment.

Myra gasped and stared at the door. Then she looked at Arthur, and said, “How could you? Now what’s he going to do?”

“It is my store, Myra.”

She ran to their bedroom and slammed the door.

Why would she be upset? Arthur wondered. I am the one who has been cheated … and bowled over. He thought about the dynamics of the situation: obviously, Myra would want to defend her brother, but she had to understand that the bookstore was Arthur’s heart and soul. He had told her that. One Sunday, as they walked along a path in Central Park that was layered with a wild mix of crispy orange, pale yellow, and golden brown leaves, Myra grabbed Arthur’s arm, kissed his cheek, and said that she was very happy. Staring straight ahead, he said that he was too. Then she asked, “Do you know why I’m happy?” Arthur waited. “Because I have you and we have a lovely life.” Then she asked Arthur what made him happy.

“Reading and my bookstore.”

Myra, forcing a smile, looked at him and waited. Then she asked, “What else makes you happy?”

Arthur replied, “Oh, you make me happy, of course.”

Myra held her tongue for two weeks until, one evening, when Arthur said that he would rather not go out because he wanted to stay in and read, Myra said, “I forgot. Your books make you happier than I do.” Arthur was tongue-tied. She added, “I know I make you happy too, especially in bed.”

Myra awakened Arthur. In the middle-of-the-night darkness the only light came from the illuminated dial of the clock on the bedside table. It was 4:15 a.m. “I just checked. Alex isn’t in his room.”

“Maybe he went to your parents’ house.”

Sniffling, Myra said, “That wouldn’t be good. They don’t get along. You know that.”

When Arthur closed his eyes and turned over, Myra thumped him on his shoulders. He turned back and, bewildered, looked at her.

“You don’t understand what you’ve done.”

“It was an existential choice. I chose the financial health of my store and my peace of mind over Alex’s feelings.”

Myra waited. Then, glaring at him, she asked, “Is that it? Another person might say, ‘I’m sorry, but that was what I thought I had to do.’”

“I have not done anything about which I should be sorry.” When Myra began to cry, he added, “I did not cause Alex to steal money and I did not dismiss him.”

“I know, Arthur, but don’t you think you could have handled it better? Don’t you see he felt insulted because you accused him of stealing? Couldn’t you have given him some wiggle room?”

“I did not accuse him. I just asked him to explain—”

“I know.” Then, after wiping away her tears, Myra said, “This is a serious situation. He’s depressed. He drinks. He doesn’t have a place to stay. He probably thinks he can’t come back here.” When Arthur remained silent, Myra said, “Which is probably something that would make you happy.”

“What should I do, Myra?”

Beginning to cry, she said, “There’s nothing to do. He’s gone.”

In her office the next morning Myra called her parents. Their phone rang and rang. After three more calls to them and two to her apartment, she called Arthur at the bookstore. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Alex.”

“I have not.”

“My parents haven’t answered their phone. They’re always at home at this hour. I’m going there.”

“Now?”

“Yes, and I want you to go with me.”

“I will have to close the store.”

“Yes. If you hadn’t upset Alex he could have taken over for you, and, of course, if you hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t have run off and we wouldn’t have to look for him.” When Arthur did not reply, Myra said, “I’m going to the subway station now. I expect you to meet me.”

On the subway ride to Queens Myra sobbed and wiped her eyes. Arthur read a book, occasionally patting Myra’s arm. When they got off the train she ran to her parents’ house.

Arthur followed.

No one came to the door when Myra rang the bell, so she used her key. She called for her parents, but no one answered. As she walked into the kitchen and looked down her stomach dropped. She became overwhelmed with dread. A pillow, a blanket, shattered dishes and mugs, silverware, a messy pile of scrambled eggs, slices of toast, and a puddle of what looked like coffee were scattered across the linoleum; a few cabinet doors were open and in a corner near the refrigerator there was what looked like vomit. Myra, with Arthur following, flew up the stairs to her parents’ bedroom. She moaned when she saw that the bed had not been made. Her mother never walked out of the room in the morning without having done that. Arthur, becoming concerned, searched the other rooms and the area outside the house.

Myra made her parents’ bed and cleaned up the mess in the kitchen while Arthur scoured the neighborhood. When he returned, Myra asked whether he thought she should ask the neighbors where her parents were. Before Arthur could answer, Myra ran her fingers through her hair and said that she would wait. She brewed a pot of coffee and prepared a cup of tea for Arthur. They sat at the kitchen table, sipping in silence. The only sound came from the heirloom grandfather clock in the nearby living room. The front door opened. Myra called out, “Ma, dad, Alex,” and walked anxiously in that direction. Her mother’s face said it all. Her father smiled in an obvious attempt to hide his anxiety.

“What happened?” Myra asked as they walked into the kitchen.

“Oh, you made coffee. Hello, Arthur.”

As Myra took two mugs from a cabinet and spoons from a drawer, her hands trembled. She attempted to control herself because she did not want to add to her parents’ agitation.

“And you cleaned up,” her mother said.

“It wasn’t much.”

“You’re such a good girl.” Then her mother cried and heaved and choked. Her husband put an arm around her shoulders. His eyes were red, but he would not cry. They sat at the table.

“I guess Alex was here,” Myra said.

Once her mother managed to stop crying she explained that Alex had awakened them at about 4 a.m. by pounding on the front door. He was blind with drink, just barely able to stand. In addition, his shirt and pants were torn and he had lost his keys and his wallet. When his parents got him into the kitchen he headed straight for the refrigerator. As he slammed the door shut, beer bottle in hand, he lost his balance and fell to the floor, dropping the bottle. His father helped him to sit on a kitchen chair and refused to give the beer back to him. Furious, Alex tried to stand, lost his balance, and fell again. They were unable to lift him, so they brought a pillow and a blanket and attempted to make him as comfortable as possible on the floor. When he fell asleep, they sat at the table and kept watch over him, periodically checking to make sure he was breathing.

When the sun came up and they were unable to rouse Alex they called 911. Mr. Berenson stood on the front porch, awaiting the ambulance, while his wife sat on the kitchen floor, cradling Alex’s head on her lap. When the EMTs arrived and knelt next to Alex he opened his eyes, looked alarmed, and pushed them away. The two technicians struggled to calm him. Then a police car arrived. When Alex saw the two police officers he angrily demanded that they leave. Myra’s mother wiped her eyes and said, “He refused to go to the hospital. He seemed to be okay, so we asked the cops to get him up. That’s when. …” She stopped talking and looked at her husband, who nodded. She whispered, “He … Alex defecated in his pants.”

“Oh, no,” Myra said.

Arthur, his eyes wide, put his hands over his mouth.

Mr. Berenson explained that once the police and the EMTs left, he helped his son to the bathroom. He stayed with Alex as he tried to clean himself. Finally, he told Alex to take a shower. As Alex did that, Mr. Berenson put his son’s soiled clothing in a garbage bag, tied it closed, and threw the bag in the garbage pail at the side of the house. Then he returned with a shirt and pants, socks, and underwear. While some of Alex’s clothes were in Myra’s apartment, most of what he owned was in the condo in Flushing that he had shared with Ellen; he was not able to enter the unit because she had changed the locks before she emptied their bank account and fled to California. When Alex emerged from the shower he dressed and made his way to the kitchen, looking like a small child in his father’s large-sized clothing. He sat, staring for a long time at the cup of coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast that his mother had placed before him. When she asked what had happened he glared at her and said, “You know, you’re too much! You just had to call the cops and the ambulance. You always have to go and do that kind of crap. My life’s shitty enough. You should both die soon—today—and go straight to hell! And while you’re there, make room for me.”

Mr. Berenson told his son to watch his mouth. Alex, still seated, held up a fist to his father. “I don’t think he would ever hit me,” he said to Myra and Arthur. “He was just acting out. Embarrassed. At least, I hope so.”

Myra, who felt as if she had fallen through thin ice into a bitterly cold pond, shivered. Mrs. Berenson closed her eyes and sobbed. Mr. Berenson sighed deeply. Arthur, stunned and perplexed, just stared.

“Then,” Mr. Berenson said, “I asked if he wanted to go to Alcoholics Anonymous or some other kind of group. At that point, Alex pushed his plate of eggs and toast and his mug of coffee to the floor, threw down the pillow and blanket, which I had placed on a chair, and screamed, ‘Nothing! Not a goddamned thing’s working anymore.’ He opened cabinets and drawers and threw dishes, mugs, and silverware to the floor. Then he stopped, looked at us as if he was going to say something, and he vomited.”

Mrs. Berenson, wiping her eyes with a tissue, said, “We knew that he would run out of the house, as he had done on a number of occasions when he was a child.” She did not add that this time, instead of returning an hour later as if nothing had happened, he was probably gone for good.

“When was this?” Myra asked.

“It was an hour; no, maybe two hours ago. We searched everywhere,” her father replied with a heavy sigh and a suppressed sob as he stared at the coffee in his mug.

Two nights later, when there was still no word from Alex, Myra, who had felt frozen and stomach-churningly upset from the time she first realized that her brother was missing, decided she had to tell Arthur how she felt: “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive you.”

Arthur put down his book and looked at Myra in astonishment. “I did not expect this to happen.”

“I know, Arthur, but it happened because of what you said.”

“I simply asked him to explain what—”

“I know what you asked. It’s just that you don’t speak to people as if they have feelings or ... or even as if they’re people. You act as if real people and the characters in books are the same. That’s wrong.”

“I know the difference.”

Myra studied him for a few seconds. Then she said, “Yes, you do know the difference. In your mind, characters in books are more worthwhile than real people, even me.”

“That is not true.”

After holding her head for a few seconds, Myra looked at Arthur and said, “I’ve put up with a lot because I love you, but I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

“It is clearly not nothing. Tell me.”

After a moment, Myra continued: “I thought we could have a life together, but now, I don’t want you here.”

“You mean you want me to leave?”

“I mean I just don’t know.”

“I thought we were happy together.”

“I was. I guess I would be again if I knew that Alex was all right. I don’t care where he is, as long as I know he’s okay.”

“I did not believe that what I said—”

“I’m so upset. I feel so guilty. I can’t help but believe that staying with you would be like betraying Alex. Your words hurt him, caused him to run out. He’s gone; he’s alone. How could I stay with you?”

“I never thought anything I might say would cause this to happen.”

“You don’t have to explain. I knew from the beginning that you were … are … different. We’re all different. You have some wonderful qualities I wish I had: you’re deadly honest and a hard worker and literate and knowledgeable. I know you’d never knowingly hurt me, but you don’t bend.”

“I know. I have always been intractable.”

“And that’s another thing—your vocabulary.”

“What about it?”

“Sometimes, when you’re talking, it’s like I’m at a lecture. Even in bed, after we’ve made love, you say things like, ‘That was superb.’ I mean, other people say, ‘That was hot, babe!’”

“I have always been picky about language; you know that.”

“Yes, but during intimate moments, you could let your hair down.”

“I understand. I will try.”

“We’ll never have another one of those times together. I don’t think I love you anymore. I can’t even look at you.”

“I will attempt to use the correct words—”

“No, Arthur. Your words flow from your way of thinking, your view of life. They don’t allow for messy situations or feelings. Your books and your store matter more to you than I do … more than anything else. I’m going out. I need some air.”

“I do not know how. …”

Myra said, “You’ll be fine, Arthur, but our life together is over.”

After she left, Arthur pulled off his glasses, wiped his eyes, and thought, Now what? Then he returned to his book.