Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
New Jersey Noir (31 page)
“No,” she was saying, “let’s not bother her. You’re right, leave her to the church.”
“It’s getting cold,” I said. “Aren’t you cold?”
And we walked back to the car, each embarrassed into silence in our way.
She then waited halfway through the drive to the house before saying, “A-a-after that, I gave him a deadline for moving out.
Wr-wr-writers like deadlines
, I told him. I thought it would light a little fire under his seat. I wasn’t mean about it—you know about the difficulties of dealing with Scott. They had a demo,
Songs for Andi
, so okay, you won’t work, get a proper job, but I’m not going to be around forever, mister.”
I shifted in my seat to get a fuller view of her face, but Dita did not turn. She was keeping her eyes on the road, chin raised, looking out for a calming object in the distance, and I said, “Well, you’ve carried the bulk of the burden with Scott, I know.”
“All of it,” I’d insisted.
I snooped a bit in the downstairs, impressed by the Martha Stewart comfort and carefully coordinated colors that read “mutedly tasteful but unsnooty,” a composition which Scott had brought off. Dita descended the stairs, slinking almost, while rolling up the sleeves of a neatly pressed white button-down—and wearing a type of pants I’d never seen before. They had the color and stitchedlooking design of jeans, but were made of a soft, stretchy material that clung flatteringly to her hips and thighs. Only at that moment did I begin to believe what Scott had always said, that Dita was full of sexy surprises.
“A-a-and I know, even from what Scott said, but also from reading some of your books—yes, you’re shocked that a computer scientist can read words?—but I know that you’re a great teacher. I’m ready for a drink. The rest of the day and the evening, I will go back to my funk, and wait by the phone like a good wife. You know, Scott really could not marry me because, irresponsible as ever, he never saw to it to divorce the Japanese.”
“So that was it,” I said.
“That was it,” she said, and wagged her finger in the air and led me to the kitchen. “I will wait for the mister, but only for so long. He has us as he wants us, on the end of a string. But in time, maybe we learn”—she exhibited a maniacal looseness under her own roof, and her language had rounded another bend—“we can let go. Mister doesn’t count on that, does he? Maybe he’ll be back, maybe not, to see we hold our end of them too?” She swung open a cabinet full of liquor and added, “Please say you’ll join me.”
Some might have called it tempting fate, but judging from Scott’s description of Dita—yes, he was here with me still—she had undoubtedly surveyed the situation and looked at it realistically. Only Americans, he might have said she would say, insisted on the sunniest, most optimistic view, and cleared the fleet of bottles from his thirsty eyes.
“Just one, then,” I said. “I’ll have—”
“This is what we make at home in my family,” she said, unsquatting and coming up with an old Gallo jug filled with a clear yellowish fluid. “Apricot brandy, only it’s not really brandy, it’s just what we say, and it’s peaches. You can’t get good apricots: for that you have to be somewhere else—the closest out in California in a grove, but more ideally someplace in Europe, and most ideally in Galicia,” and hauled down two juice glasses.
She explained the process, involving soaking the fruit in vodka for months before straining off the liquor, and said that of course it was more of a schnapps. “You like it?”
There was that blessed snap, a lick from the first belt of the day. I’d been careful that morning to have only coffee, half a pot, and for some hours had even believed in the fiction that I might extend that practice as a short-term habit, experiment, ease back into a routine I’d eschewed as equally hopeless years ago, bowing before the muse humbly as a man wishing to reform, and sweet-talking her and seeing if that got me anywhere. All of it sank foolishly away, my resolve, my hangover logic. Stupid idea. This was lots better, felt a lot more like inspiration. Seduce yourself and screw the muse. Fickle tramp!
We went down to the basement.
“I—I’m afraid I couldn’t look at it the way it was,” said Dita. “I cleaned it a bit.”
Everything had been straightened—the clothes I knew Scott to drop anywhere he pleased and the things he would pick up and look at before tossing them aside, his books, CDs, had all been put away, returned to place. And the area resembled the dorm room of an unusually finicky and fastidious college student. Dita stepped aside. When I turned to look at her with an ambiguously approving sniff that said either she’d done the right thing or I wouldn’t have known the difference to begin with, she folded her arms over her chest and, blinking rapidly, arranged her face tentatively, as though issuing a meek challenge or opening herself up to polite suggestions for how she might do better the next time.
“He always was a terrible slob,” I allowed, “in that hole down on Rivington.”
“I’ve kept the heat on the whole time,” she said, “in case he comes back.”
Taped to one painted cinder-block wall was the worn Smiths poster he’d kept as a souvenir of his only transatlantic trip, to London. Once Scott and I had argued about the poetic value of rock lyrics (the Smiths had been his first artistic inspiration when he was still rotting in the “juvie bughouse,” as he called it), and guess who’d argued against it.
Our last argument had occurred the fall following that summer he’d described to me over the phone as magical and idyllic, the same sorts of adjectives I’d urged him for years to chase from his writing, though I hadn’t begrudged him them then—when he had been in love and was getting back to his music, right before both enterprises had crashed, and he’d argued with Andi for thinking she might be pregnant (she wasn’t) and Kenny for sabotaging their chances at getting their duo off the ground (I knew who the real saboteur had to be). Ever paranoid, he’d accused me and some of his classmates of a cabal. He’d cooked up a conspiracy theory in which all of us were envious of his upcoming book,
I’m So Sorry
—and we’d seen to it that it had gotten nothing more than an “In Brief” notice in the Sunday
Times
. Never mind that it was enthusiastic, that the book was still in print on a small rock press, and that all of mine were out of print and had never been regarded by any reviewer at the
Times
as anything beyond entertaining oddities at best and stubbornly extruded excrescences, to cite the cruelest review, at worst. And that I’d sat up night after night with him editing and honing the manuscript, wanting to stroke and congratulate him for work we’d done together but that nonetheless had come from his once-tender heart, in order to prepare it for the first eyes in the business that I knew would take a shine to it.
“You’re a pretty ungrateful little bastard,” I’d said before easing the receiver onto the cradle, never to pick it up on him again. “You whine and complain while everyone all around you marches in lockstep to see a hint of the sun, before the inevitable black cloud comes racing up to cover it over again. You suck blood and all you give back is bile. I’m sick of you, and I’m sick of trying to help you. You don’t want help. You want pity, or I don’t know what you want but neither do you, it’s something no human is capable of ever giving another because it hasn’t been invented—which mean it’s absurd, and so are you!”
I smelled the sweetness of mildew—not even Pine-Sol and Air Wick could get rid of it—and I went over to the high ledge of the window above the washing machine where he kept his few books, and where I saw the cracked spines of some of my titles.
“There,” Dita rasped. “He was proud, always proud of his friendship with you.”
When the call came, it was early on a Sunday morning. The strangest thing. I’d been to a play I enjoyed with friends the night before, and after two glasses of wine with dinner and a single digestif returned home and gone straight to bed—all as though to get me ready. Drinking coffee, I sat in my chair reading, just paces from the answering machine.
When it picked up, I thought after she said her name that she’d begun giggling.
“So he’s finally done it,” said Dita, composing herself, “our Scott killed himself.”
I sat there and listened, keeping my place in the book with my index finger. Then I realized that this was something the callous Scott would tell on himself, laughing, and I let the book fall to the floor in a restrainedly cinematic moment that suggested Bergman.
They’d found him in the Raritan near South Amboy. When he was being cavalier and enumerating his upcoming attempts, he’d listed everything from sticking his head in a gas oven to a rematch with the old razor blade in the bath or sedatives and Amaretto to a witches’ brew of every pill he could collect from Dita’s medicine cabinet chased down with a cocktail of household chemicals. “Very funny,” I’d said. “Now shut the fuck up.” But he’d very specifically pointed out that it would not be death by drowning—since he violently disagreed with my taste for Virginia Woolf: “Anything Woolfian’s too corny.”
Of course, I didn’t pick up or call her back. I poured myself another cup of coffee and went into my study and began going through student thesis work.
I was busy all of the following week serving on selection committees and I stayed dry until Friday night, when I went to the movies, where I began crying from the opening credits and heard the first twangs of plaintive pioneer theme music. I wept at the national landscape, and I wept unabashedly when a thief in the story was hanged and townspeople played by extras cheered. When the lights were turned on, I got up and left the theater. I didn’t cry for the rest of the weekend.
A few months later, a package from Dita containing a CDROM with all of Scott’s writings arrived, but it made no difference. I’d already decided what to do in just such an emergency.
Wheel of the tides, wheel of the surf, hot nights.
The clean chrome arms of the taffy-pulling machine
Folding it over and over in figure eights.
Because the politicians decreed all gambling
Illegal without some element of skill,
The Wheel of Fortune got a new name: Skil-O.
Carousel waltzes and polkas, Vito Genovese
On television in his yellow glasses
Denying it all. The shooting of Pussy Russo.
The players who put money on a number
Would get to press a little Skil-O button
That slowed the ticking wheel down, just a little.
Herringbone boardwalk. At night, flourishes of light:
The manic neon chicken in spasms dashing
Into the neon basket, and rising again.
I knew a man whose body wouldn’t start breathing
Again the way his doctors expected, after
They pulled their plastic tube back out of his throat.
Crosswise to Ocean Avenue and the boardwalk,
Under the traffic, a tunnel of perpetual shade
Ran from the beach to the pool across the street.
The two young surgeons couldn’t get the tube
Back into the guy. By chance, a skilled old doc
Passed by and got it back in, and so he breathed.
Down in the tunnel, the bare light bulbs protected
By their steel cages, sand gritty underfoot—
Conduit shaft between brightness and brightness by day
Or darkness and darkness by night, a passage of shades
Enduring after the boardwalk was destroyed
With its merry-go-round, its wheels and sweets and music.
T
ell Daddy hello! Run kiss Daddy.”
He’d been gone from the lake less than an hour but in this new family each parting and each return signaled a sort of antic improvised celebration—he didn’t want to think it was the obverse of what must have happened before he’d arrived in their lives—the Daddy departing, and the Daddy not returning.
“Sweetie, h’lo! C’mere.”
He dropped to one knee as the boy ran at him to be hugged. A rough wet kiss on Kevin’s forehead.
The little girl hesitated. Only when the mother pushed more firmly at her small shoulders did she spring forward and run—wild-blue-eyed suddenly, with a high-pitched squeal like a mouse being squeezed—into his arms. He laughed—he was startled by the heat of the little body—flattered and deeply moved, kissing the excited child on the delicate soft skin at her temple where—he’d only just noticed recently—a pale blue vein pulsed.
“What do you say to Daddy when Daddy comes back?”
The mother clapped her hands to make a game of it. This new family was so new to her too, weekends at Paraquarry Lake were best borne as a game, as play.
“Say
Hi Daddy!
—
Kiss-kiss Daddy!
”
Obediently the children cried what sounded like
Hi Daddy! Kiss-kiss Daddy!
Little fish-mouths pursed for kisses against Daddy’s cheek.
Reno had only driven into the village of Paraquarry Falls to bring back semi-emergency supplies: toilet paper, flashlight batteries, mosquito repellant, mouse traps, a gallon container of milk, a shiny new garden shovel to replace the badly rusted shovel that had come with the camp. Also, small sweet-fruit yogurts for the children though both he and the mother weren’t happy about them developing a taste for sugary foods—but there wasn’t much of a selection at the convenience store.
In this new-Daddy phase in which unexpected treats are the very coinage of love.
“Who wants to help Daddy dig?”
Both children cried
Me!
—thrilled at the very prospect of working with Daddy on the exciting new terrace overlooking the lake.
And so they helped Daddy excavate the old, crumbled-brick terrace a previous owner had left amid a tangle of weeds, pebbles, and broken glass, or tried to help Daddy—for a while. Clearly such work was too arduous for a seven-year-old, still more for a four-year-old, with play shovels and rakes; and the mild June air too humid for much exertion. And there were mosquitoes and gnats. Despite the repellant. For these were the Kittatinny Mountains east of the Delaware Water Gap in early June—that season of teeming buzzing fecundity—just to inhale the air is to inhale the smells of burgeoning life
.