The Sacrifice

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Much of this interview Byron would not recall afterward. The shock was too great, like a blow on the head with a hammer. His hand shook as he lifted the whiskey to his mouth—so clumsy and uncoordinated, he couldn’t locate his mouth with the glass.

  Already the phone was ringing. Quickly Byron removed the receiver from the hook.

  Imagining a phone ringing, ringing, ringing in some vast empty space—a morgue.

  In the paralysis of that terrible hour foreseeing: professional shame, disbarment, public and sustained pillorying in the (responsible) press, the disintegration of his marriage and the embarrassment of his children. Worse, a defamation lawsuit brought by Julio Ramos against the Mudrick brothers that would leave them both penniless and their reputations shattered.

  At least, Byron Mudrick penniless and his reputation shattered.

  He swallowed a large mouthful of whiskey. With a shaking hand he poured another drink.

  The Martyr

  First glance, he was a young white man in tight dark clothes, with a shaved head. Out of nowhere veering purposefully in the Reverend’s direction.

  Second glance, as the Reverend was to see him, close-up from a distance of less than three inches, he was a very light-skinned black man, easy to mistake for Caucasian; not young, but so slender and lithe as to seem young, like a dancer, or a skater. He was just slightly taller than the Reverend. His eyes were tawny lynx-eyes. His nose was a Roman nose just slightly flat and broad at its tip. On his upper lip a thin mustache and beneath his lower lip a small triangle of a goatee of scarcely more substance than a shadow. He appeared to be smiling with unusually white, small teeth—Rev’end Mudick? This person, this stranger, whom Reverend Mudrick seemed to recognize, the kind of hip mixed-blood black boy, Caribbean most likely, and not an urban-American-born black like the Reverend himself, for whom the Reverend felt a confused but pleasurable swirl of emotion, and to whom he was (irresistibly, inexorably) drawn. Rev’end Mudick? This for you as out of the stranger’s tight dark-suede coat there came a swift-flashing blade of twelve inches of which at least ten inches were sunk into the fatty flesh between the Reverend’s ribs in less time than was required for the breathy message murmured kiss-close in the Reverend’s ear The Prince tell you, man—God is good.

  Abruptly on his knees on the cold unyielding pavement. In utter astonishment as pain came too quick and too vast for the stricken man to realize. Initially he’d thought that he had been hit—struck—by a boy’s tight fist—which would have wounded him sufficiently in his pride, for he’d imagined that in the stranger’s lynx eyes there had been a sly look of recognition, and of desire; fumbling his hands to clutch at the stranger wiping with rude expediency the bloodied knife blade on the Reverend’s clothing (the camel’s hair coat which the youngish-seeming man had managed to tug open just enough to thrust the blade inside). He tried to call for help but no words came—a hoarse croaking sound as of asphyxiation. Tried to heave himself to his feet, to assure staring observers that Reverend Marus Mudrick was unharmed, had not been stabbed to the heart by one for whom he’d felt an unwise instant’s attraction.

  Tried to heave himself to his feet, though now blood was flowing down his trouser-leg, and onto the pavement, that he might relive those last, incomprehensible several seconds, and comprehend them; and reverse his fate; his brain brightly flooding with ideas, alternatives—how descending the ten or so concrete steps at the conclusion of the rally he might have turned to the right, and not to the left; might have walked with aides from the Care Ministry, and not by himself as he often preferred at such public moments amid a battery of flash cameras that then, inexplicably it seemed, hardly a minute later, had abandoned him to the dark-clad smiling stranger who’d seemed at first glance to be white and to be extending his hand to be shaken—a friendly white. And his limousine at a curb at least thirty feet away. (Why wasn’t the driver outside, and attentive to him? Didn’t he pay Manuel to act as a kind of bodyguard, as well as a part-time chauffeur?) There were individuals awaiting him with whom in the triumphant adrenaline-surge following the applause of the rally Reverend Mudrick didn’t much want to speak—the good, boring faithful, converts to the Reverend’s cause, black faces shiny with tears, white faces hopeful that the revered Reverend would pause as he sometimes did to warmly shake their hands, embrace them and call them Brother, Sister!

  But—he’d turned away. Away from safety. Away from those who were known to him, and whom in his complacency Reverend Mudrick might take for granted to continue to revere him, even if, fairly obviously, he was ignoring them, or at least pretending not to see them—their smiling faces, their tears of sympathy and hope.

  Turned away, feeling vigorous, terrific—buoyed up by waves of applause, and a mostly adulatory (if somewhat small) audience (though fewer media people than he’d anticipated, and most of these black). Broad smile aimed at cameras, hand uplifted in victory. He’d worn a new suit tailor-made for his “unique” figure, at J. Press in Manhattan—svelte dark wool-flannel, double-breasted coat, waistcoat tight-fitting and “slimming.” He’d been lavishly barbered earlier that day. In his rich strong baritone he’d led the chant at the conclusion of the rally—Crusade for Justice for Sybilla Frye! Crusade for Justice for Sybilla Frye! His sense was that the ad hoc collection had been a generous one—(he’d check later that night). Not a major rally—Thursday evening in the Newark-North Community Center—sponsored by local non-profit “Good Neighbors Mission” whose director Reverend Mudrick knew well, from previous crusades; neither Sybilla Frye nor her mother Ednetta had shared the stage with Reverend Mudrick tonight; nor was Reverend Mudrick’s attorney-brother Byron with him. (Marus had to smile: his younger brother was furious with him. See how long that lasted! Byron Mudrick was of zero interest to the world without Marus Mudrick promoting him, and he knew it. And stuck-up Klarinda knew it. They all did.) Not a major rally but the following Sunday he’d be taking the Crusade to a new, other level in conjunction with the New York City–based activist organization CUAR—Citizens United Against Racism—at the New School where there was the possibility—(Marus would know in another forty-eight hours) that Norman Mailer might appear to introduce Reverend Mudrick . . . And then, turning to the dark-clad stranger, expecting his hand to be vigorously and warmly shaken, he felt—instead—

  Such shock! On his knees, and clutching at the arm of the stranger, as if to forestall falling to the pavement; clutching at the man’s legs, absurdly stretching his fingers, as the assassin leapt away.

  Yet not thinking assassin. In the shock of the moment confusing the dark-clad stranger with the homeless alcoholic white man whom he’d paid twenty-five dollars to “heckle” him in Pascayne a few days ago—memorably, he’d thought—very convincingly; so convincingly, no one on his staff apart from the staffer who’d hired the man, and certainly no one in the audience, had known that the “heckler” was shouting prepared words.

  Even Byron hadn’t known. Though possibly, Byron had suspected, since Marus had occasionally hired white individuals to heckle him at public events, always with dramatic results, and if Byron learned, he’d disapproved.

  Marus smiled bitterly, thinking of his brother. Marus you are going too far. This is hubris, Marus. Do you know what hubris means?

  And Marus had replied with scarcely disguised contempt Yes, Brother. I know what hubris means. Do you know what cowardice means? Do you know what prig means? Do you know what race-traitor means?

  But—this stranger was not in the Reverend’s hire. This stranger was not a white man but one chosen perhaps because he resembled a white man. Insolently wiping his bloodied knife on the Reverend’s coat and concealing it then inside his own coat as he walked with that air of almost gravity-less grace to a waiting minivan, and was driven away south on Ferry Street in the direction of the Passaic River visible only as a wide dark band emptying into further darkness.

  He a white man, we all saw him!—happened too fast for anybody know what was happenin he just come
up to the Rev’end an it look like the Rev’end knew him an was goin to shake his hand, then next thing the Rev’end on his knees and on the sidewalk an the man gone—he just gon like some ghost. And he white—we saw that.

  The Broken Doll

  She say, You find some answer to this. Some way to explain this. Whatever Anis do to you, he aint the one hurt you bad as you is, you hear me? Some other ones came along and did this to you, hurt you worsen he hurt you, ’cause he your daddy and he aint gon hurt you so bad, that’s a fact. So you find it.

  Find what, Ma?

  She’d heard the screams upstairs. Just come into the house and the younger children with her, she’d sent them back outside to run play in the alley and not come back till she called them. Hearing the man’s shouts overhead. The girl’s screams and pleas. Starting up the stairs she’d felt the violent thuds and thumps and heard the sound of something breaking. And she thought He will kill me, too. And in terror hanging back not knowing what to do until the screams came so bad, she rushed blindly into the room and there came Anis head-on charging her—struck her with just his body, blind drunk fury in his face as he propelled himself at her to exit the room and next thing she knew she was on the floor, blood drops like dark rain falling from—where, she wasn’t sure—between her teeth? Head ringing and buzzing but she pulled herself to her feet, and was all right. Saying to herself ’Netta you all right.

  He’d slammed out of the house. He was gone, she knew he would not return for a night and a day at least and possibly a second night and a second day. And desperately she thought He will get hisself killed. They will shoot him dead.

  The sobbing girl she found huddling in a corner of the room behind the torn-apart bed. Wedged between the bed and the wall. One of the girl’s old dolls split-headed, broken and crushed on the floor like the man had set his heavy foot upon it, and his weight.

  The soft blue-wool blanket splotched with blood, Anis had dragged over her, to hide her.

  A sign that he loved her, Ednetta knew. Hide her shame, and keep her from cold. And from the sight of somebody staring inside the room, to see her how she would not want to be seen.

  Ednetta gripped Sybilla’s head in her hands. Turned her head, to see how bad it was.

  Blood in the girl’s hair like grease. And blood down her face like tears. Her eyes beginning to swell. Lips cracked and bleeding. In his rage she understood had been a despairing rage he’d torn the girl’s clothes, battered her with his fists. He’d been cursing and sobbing, she knew. Hated the rage that came over him like liquid fire how the rage came into him and how it hurt him, he could not prevail against it.

  This girl Sybilla was her most vexatious child. Sassy-mouth daughter she’d had to love but it was a hurtful love like a pebble in your shoe.

  Ednetta screamed at the girl she’d provoked him! God damn you look now what he done, you know Anis have a hard life, now they will send him to prison the rest of his life. Anis die in that nasty place, girl it will be on your head.

  Your stepdaddy he love you, girl. He try to love you. He help support you, like you his own daughter. And this how you thank him actin like some slut.

  Girl, you open them eyes. You look at me.

  She’d been with that boy, that was it. That Jaycee Handler the girls always talking about, nudging Sybilla in her ribs like it was a joke. And Anis not happy with Sybilla staying out of school and the kind of people she hangin with. Anis saying, if that girl gets pregnant, ’Netta, ain’t no joke. If that girl shames us, that ain’t no joke you know that.

  People never knew, Anis took family serious. Anis took the responsibility for the kids serious. Looking at Ednetta like he’d be hurting her, she didn’t control the daughter. She’d told Anis she thought that the boy was incarcerated, she’d heard it was Mountainview, talk was maybe Jaycee wouldn’t survive, havin enemies there. But that never happened. What happened was, Sybilla went to see Jaycee with his sister Shirley, and Ednetta the last to know. And Sybilla fourteen years old!—just havin her birthday, so she was fifteen. This news that came (belatedly) to Ednetta, she had to know that Anis knew, too. Worse then, Sybilla had stayed away from the house overnight fearing Anis, and when she came back like a sniveling little dog with his tail between his legs there was Anis. She knew, Anis had to discipline her. He’d warned her enough times and all the kids knew, the girl disrespecting him would have to be punished. That big girl of Ednetta’s always sassing Anis Schutt behind his back or without any actual words only just thinking, he could discern this. That cast in her left eye seemed always to be mocking him Fuck you asshole-stepdaddy, you don’t know shit what I’m doing.

  Wasn’t Anis’s fault, such provocations.

  Ednetta believed that was the way it had been.

  Sybilla lay shuddering in Ednetta’s arms on the bed, where Ednetta dragged her up. Maybe a mistake, the blood would get in the bed worse than it was soaking down into the mattress already brown-blood-stained and urine-stained, but she had to comfort the girl—that beating was bad. Sybilla smelling of her body where she’d wet herself and maybe worse. Girl was sweaty and had vomited on herself. He’d had to discipline her, but he had not used a strap this time. There were no strap-welts on the girl’s chest, buttocks, back Ednetta could see. If she had to take the girl to a doctor nobody would ask about the strap. Other questions they would ask, Ednetta had worked out ways to answer. If no bone was broke, only maybe a rib sprained, that would be OK. Ednetta thought it would be OK. But she would have to take her for some kind of medical treatment—like stitches in her eyebrow where it was all bloody and the skin kind of loose—anybody seeing Sybilla would know there’d been a bad beating, and cops might find out. And if the girl went back to school, damn teachers askin questions! They put away Anis for the rest of his life and he die in that nasty place and Ednetta in her bed alone mourning him. Or, Anis die on the street if the cops tried to take him.

  The father of Sybilla, he die like that on the street like a dog. But not in Pascayne, in New York. Some street in the Bronx where he end up, only age thirty-six or -seven. But Ednetta had set her heart against him, the shit he’d done to her. And Sybilla never knew that father, or any of the younger children. And Anis never ask.

  In Ednetta’s arms Sybilla lay snuffling like something was broke in her nose. Like a guilty beat dog, that has given up. Swollen eyes, swollen mouth, Ednetta hoped no teeth were loose. Didn’t want to think of how the girl was beneath her torn clothes that Anis complained of through the summer, his stepdaughter out on the street like some slut, and people knowing she was his. Then this last straw, Jaycee Handler he knew to be a punk selling crack to hooker crackheads. Anis in such a fury he hadn’t known what he would do, like bringing a match to a curtain, see how the fire flare up—nobody to stop it, once it start. She was shivering bad herself. She was tasting blood in her own mouth. She said, S’b’lla, we got to find some way. It up to us. When she was feeling strong enough she half-carried the girl out into the hall and to the bathroom, kicked aside the mess and ran hot water into the tub. Hoped to hell the younger children weren’t sitting on the stoop. Or hanging at the back door like hungry pups. Last thing Ednetta wanted was some damn nosy neighbor coming over. Hard to get Sybilla into the tub without her slipping and falling. Like something broke in her head, she can’t stand without teetering. Even her littlest right toe looked like it was crooked. Then in the tub Sybilla lay stiff with pain, moaning like some kicked dog. With a washcloth Ednetta washed between her legs. Gentle as she could but the girl started whimpering. A swirl of blood, fading into the water. Ednetta didn’t ask how bad it was there, had to hope there wasn’t something torn inside, she’d have to be taken to the clinic to have fixed.

  Thinking A girl is yourself. A daughter is yourself one more time. You got to love her no matter how vexatious she is, she ain’t got nobody but her mama.

  After the bath that was steamy-hot and left them both dazed and sleepy Ednetta dried the girl in the biggest, best towel and whis
pered some baby talk in her ear and slipped her arm around the naked skinny waist where the bruises were starting, and walked her back to the bedroom, straightened the bed and another time the two lay together in each other’s arms exhausted and drifting off to sleep.

  Sybilla whispered Mama, you gon forgive me?

  The Convert

  FEBRUARY 19, 1988

  NEWARK, NEW JERSEY

  Thereby are you baptized in the name of the Prophet—‘Aasia Muhammad.’”

  She was kneeling at the altar of the First Temple of the Kingdom of Islam of Newark, New Jersey, as the Black Prince baptized her into the faith. She was kneeling trembling and scarcely daring to breathe her eyes fixed upon the altar floor and the Black Prince’s rather small, narrow feet in black leather boots visible beneath the hem of his white silk robe.

  The ceremony in the Temple had been lengthy. The small gathering of the faithful murmured prayers and responses in a language she could not comprehend, that seemed wonderful to her. Several times she’d become light-headed from having fasted and slept only a few hours the previous night and from the excitement of the occasion.

  “As you are ‘Aasia,’ so you are hope. And you are a vessel of hope for others.”

  With his fingertips the Black Prince touched her bowed head. She felt that touch through her being—like an electric current rendering her helpless. The Black Prince who was a “soldier” of Faith—a “warrior” of Allah—was praying over her in the strange, startling language that came to his tongue as readily as the more common, English language she’d been hearing all her life.

  She’d been instructed how to reply. Faltering, determined to prevail, she murmured the responses she’d memorized that were incomprehensible to her except as words of magic. This, the very speech of Allah.