My Sister, My Love: The Intimate Story of Skyler Rampike

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Yet, closely perusing such fat glossy Mummy-magazines as Self, Moi!, Cosmopolitan, Chic, Glamour etc., for many months, Skyler hadn’t been able to comprehend what “adult’ry” was and what adults, apparently most husbands, did to so upset their spouses.

  After ten or more minutes of futile pleading with his exasperating little sister hiding beneath her bed, Skyler gave up. His own neck was throbbing with pain from his awkward posture and if the pain was real, or only just phantom pain, Skyler didn’t like it.

  “Damn you, Bliss! Everything in this damn house has to do with you.”

  * C.A.A.D.: Compulsive Anti-Authority Disorder. Only just recently recognized by the American Association of Child Psychologists, Clinical Psychiatrists and Mental Health Practitioners yet noted in the New York Times as “a virtual epidemic in American pre-pubescents.”

  B.D.B.S.*

  BRISKLY RUBBING HIS BIG-DADDY HANDS DADDY LEANS HIS ELBOWS ON THE table and hunches down to eye-level: “You kids! You know your Daddy loves you, don’t you?”

  Eager-beaver Skyler nods.

  Sucking at a finger, Bliss stares at Daddy in silence.

  “—just that, damn this is hard to articulate!—there comes a time”—Daddy’s eyes fill with moisture and seem to be losing focus, roughly he swipes at them with the edge of his hand—“in a marriage of—longevity—in a family”—pausing as if unable to continue, Daddy’s throat closing up as Daddy fixes his gaze on his children’s rapt still faces, like mesmerized little rodents they are, mesmerized by—is it a cobra?—swaying, flicking its mercury-red tongue, staring with liquidy basilisk eyes—“a family in which the daddy is very close to his children emotionally and spiritually and yet, a victim of his own ‘corporate success’”—Daddy pauses, laughing sadly, an edge of bitterness in his soft-Daddy-laughter—“and the mother, too, is devoted—a super-mom you could say—a remarkable woman of such verve, imagination, ambition—it has been a privilege and a joy to know—and to love. Except…” Daddy’s halting voice ceases. Daddy drains his glass of Johnnie Walker Scotch on the rocks and with a near-imperceptible shift of dense-Daddy-eyebrows signals to the waiter who has been discreetly orbiting Daddy’s table and in that instant the Rampike children are jarred out of their Daddy-trance to find themselves—where is this?—in the elegantly chilly upstairs dining room of the Sylvan Glen Golf Club?

  Must’ve been, Bix and Betsey Rampike were voted in.

  We know how “exclusive”—“prestigious”—the Sylvan Glen is, and we are impressed.

  Daddy has insisted upon a window table overlooking the gently hilly eighteen-hole golf course said to be modeled after a famous golf coure in Inverness, Scotland. You would never imagine, gazing at the vista outside the plate glass window, that you were so very close to the residential neighborhoods of the Village of Fair Hills. In Skyler’s (mildewed) memory this scene takes place in a wintry season for the sculpted hills of the golf course appear to be covered in something whitely-crinkly like Styrofoam and there is not a golfer in sight. Skyler squints seeing in the distance a tall Daddy-figure brandishing a golf club, a small son-figure uncertainly gripping a child-sized golf club, on the ground there is a small white pellet-like ball that must be struck so that it will fly into the air and roll across the ground and disappear into a hole…You and me, Sky-boy! Out on the links, soon as it’s spring Daddy has promised, though not recently.

  (Unless this is literary “unreliable narrator” stuff? Heavily medicated/emotionally unstable nine-year-old confusing his memory of that very special luncheon-with-Daddy with an actual wintry scene in the world outside the window?)

  What a very special Saturday-with-Daddy this is for the Rampike children who’ve been so anxious lately: not only is their handsome Daddy treating them to lunch in this classy place—“Just the three of us! Like old times”—but afterward Daddy has promised to drive out to the fabled VastValley Shopping Mall, one of the architectural wonders of North Central New Jersey, second-largest luxury mall in the state, to take in a matinee of the new family-comedy hit Benji Goes Ballistic! Though Daddy has done his discreet-Daddy best to downplay the less-than-festive aspects of this Saturday, it isn’t a secret that after today Daddy will not be living in the house on Ravens Crest Drive with Skyler, Bliss, and Mummy. How long Daddy will be gone isn’t clear to Skyler and Bliss—“temporarily, I promise!”—“until things get worked out between your mother and me”—nor where exactly Daddy will be living except “not far!”—“close by!”—“commuting distance!” All that agitated morning Daddy was packing his things at the house, hastily, carelessly, thumping up and down the stairs carrying suitcases and duffel bags out to the dull-gleaming Road Warrior XXL parked squat and triumphant in the driveway like a conquering tank. Ah!—Skyler’s breath caught seeing Daddy’s giant-clothes borne aloft on mere coat hangers, Daddy’s silk neckties slithering off like snakes to twist underfoot. In cardboard boxes, Daddy carried away a selection of books.

  (A hopeful note: among the books Daddy is taking with him is A Daddy’s Guide. And the fact that Daddy isn’t taking most of his books but leaving them behind for the family “library”—where Skyler will help Maria shelve them—suggests that Daddy will be back, doesn’t it?)

  By 7:50 A.M. that morning Mummy was gone from the house. For overnight Mummy seemed to have summoned special—spiritual?—strength to withstand this “marital crisis”—“stunning blow to our family”—and seemed almost cheerful, in dressy-Mummy clothes, high-heeled Italian boots, stooping to kiss Skyler good-bye, with a fierce little hug: “If I’m not home by the time your father brings you and your sister back after that ridiculous movie, Maria will be here of course, and will fix you an early supper. Be brave, sweetie! Be good.”

  For days—weeks?—Mummy had been “upset”—“agitated”—“deeply despondent”—“mad as hell.” But now?

  Skyler supposed that Mummy had scheduled this fateful Saturday to include a merry-go-round of appointments: a session at the Fair Hills Beauty Salon with Mummy’s special hairstylist/colorist Ricki, luncheon with such loyal/supportive/Christian ladies as Mattie Higley, Frances Squires, and “Bibi” Metz at (maybe) the patrician Village Women’s Club; a festive afternoon of shopping to follow in Fair Hills’s “Fashion Square” or/and a “revivifying” session with Dr. Screed (“To remove creases from the soul, begin by removing creases from the face”), or a “revelatory” session with the Berlin-trained analyst/therapist/“trauma specialist” Dr. Helene Stadtskruller, whom many of Betsey Rampike’s women acquaintances have recommended to her in this time of “crisis.”

  (Skyler has overheard his mother declaring bravely on the phone to one or another of her women friends that her “crisis” with her husband—and her “trauma crisis therapy” with Dr. Stadtskruller—may turn out to be the “defining moment” of her entire life: “For which I will thank my deceitful husband, someday.”)

  Daddy had slept in a downstairs guest room the previous night and by the time Daddy stumbled into the kitchen in the morning Mummy had departed in the canary-yellow Buick without a backward glance or a message for Daddy, humming loudly to herself the militant hymn “Come, My Redeemer!” like a TV woman with a secret life.

  Now in the Sylvan Glen dining room Daddy is looking slightly dazed, disoriented. Though this is a festive occasion for which Daddy is obliged to smile, repeatedly. Spiky-haired, bleary-eyed, with shadowy indentations beneath his eyes and a look you might interpret as regretful/remorseful—in a “state of nerves” Daddy nicked himself shaving that morning, and tiny coagulated blood-droplets are just visible on the underside of Daddy’s jaw. But Daddy isn’t wearing his comfortable Saturday-at-home clothes, rumpled khakis, sweatshirts and running shoes, in honor of the occasion Daddy has taken time to dress for “luncheon” at the Sylvan Glen Golf Club, in a navy blue blazer with brass buttons, a pale blue shirt unbuttoned at the throat (brown/graying crinkly chest hair showing), dark trousers with a reasonably sharp crease. Though Daddy is by nature a “warm”—�
��gregarious”—“charismatic” guy, like an ex-athlete, or a politician, yet Daddy is making an effort to focus his attention exclusively upon little Skyler and little Bliss, not allowing himself to glance up at other diners in the room, many of whom obviously know Bix Rampike and have been casting friendly/inquisitive glances in his direction. (Why is Bix alone with those adorable children? Where is the children’s mother? What truth is there to the exciting rumor that the Rampikes are separating? Is there another woman involved and if so—anyone we know?)

  Sucking on a finger, Bliss murmurs something Daddy can’t comprehend. Skyler hesitantly translates: “Bliss is asking—don’t you want to be our Daddy any longer?”

  “Bliss! What a thing to say.” Daddy stares at the child, appalled. Covertly Daddy glances up, to see if anyone has overheard. Daddy is shocked as if the little blond girl in a cherry-red mohair jumper and white blouse, hair prettily plaited (by Maria), a child-sized foam-rubber collar around her neck, has uttered something obscene. “Nothing could be further from the truth. My life as your father is my true life. What have I been trying to explain to you, honey? To you and your brother? Of course Daddy loves you—and Skyler—and Mummy, too. That’s the whole point of this, that I do.”

  Flush-faced, trying not to become upset, Daddy spreads his fingers wide above the table like a magician whose magic trick isn’t turning out quite as he’d expected and he’s wondering has his audience noticed?

  Skyler says, “Bliss feels bad, you don’t want to live with us any more. Mummy said—”

  “Never mind what Mummy said. I don’t give a damn what Mummy said. Mummy’s words—Mummy’s thoughts—are ‘atoms in the void’—* sheer whimsy, illogic. I wish I could shield you two impressionable kids from her! Sure I want to live with you and I hope that you will live with me—I mean, visit with me—weekends—‘school recess’—when I’m not traveling so God-damned much. I hope your mother made it clear that this new arrangement of ours is temporary—what’s called a ‘temporary separation’—no way a ‘divorce’—I’ll be living less than an hour away in Para-mus—that is, temporarily in Paramus—until things are settled with Scor, if I will be remaining at Scor—‘Deputy Chief of Project Development/Domestic’ is the promotion I’ve been offered—it’s been a crazed few months, kids!—as I guess you’ve gathered: Scor, Univers, Vortex competing for your daddy. ‘My kids come first with me,’ is what I have told the negotiators. The thing is, Skyler, Bliss, sometimes, in a household, in a house, no matter how terrific the house is, and how much he loves the people in it, a man—a person—a daddy finds it hard to breathe.” During this lengthy speech Daddy does seem to be breathing with effort, as if his head is stopped up.

  “But Daddy,” Skyler protests, “what does that mean? ‘Can’t breathe.’”

  “What does what mean, Skyler?” Daddy asks patiently. “‘Can’t breathe’—it means what it says.”

  Shrewd/brattish Skyler points out: “If you couldn’t breathe, Daddy, you’d be dead.”

  “Well, Sky-boy. There you’ve said it.”

  Daddy laughs. Not a happy-Daddy laugh but a pained-Daddy laugh. And maybe, just perceptibly, Daddy’s bleary-lidded eyes shift sidelong, to check out Rolex time.

  (What time does laff-riot Benji Goes Ballistic! begin? Daddy has to keep tabs.)

  Hesitantly Skyler asks, “Can we come with you, Daddy? To Para-mus?”

  “Skyler, of course not! Your mother would be heartbroken, she’d never allow it. You’re in school, and Bliss has her skating, and children remain in the custody of their mothers, mostly. Like puppies. You don’t see puppies trailing after their daddies, do you?”

  Skyler persists, “Some kids in my class, they live with their fathers. Or there’s ‘joint custody.’ When people get divorced and then married again—”

  “Whoa, Skyler! Bat-ta. We Rampikes are nowhere near ‘joint custody’ and for sure we are nowhere near ‘married again.’ Please don’t speak of such things in front of your sister, look how you’re upsetting her.”

  For most of the lunch, Bliss has been fidgeting with the clumsy foam-rubber collar around her neck, which chafes her sensitive skin. And Bliss has scarcely eaten her lunch. In a plaintive voice she asks, “Daddy? We could come to Para-mus with you now, couldn’t we? I’m not skating now, until my fantim pain goes away, Mummy says.”

  Alarmed-Daddy swallows a mouthful of his drink and his big chunky teeth click against the glass. A quick glance out into the dining room, in dread of being closely observed, monitored. (For Fair Hills is a petri dish of rumor, Skyler knows from overhearing Mummy on the phone with her women friends.) “Sweetie, haven’t I explained that my living quarters in Paramus will be temporary? It’s a ‘bachelor condo’ in a sleek sterile high-rise just off the thunderous Garden State Parkway. No space for kids! No playgrounds! Plus, I’m still traveling most weekends. If I decide to leave Scor, I won’t be staying in that condo; and if I remain with Scor, I won’t be staying in that condo. If I’m promoted to ‘Deputy Chief of Project Development’ I will want a much larger residence, at least twice the size of our current house, kiddies! How’d you like to invite your little chums to visit a ‘custom-built New Jersey country estate’ with its own ‘family rec center’—swimming pool (outdoor and in), gym, ice rink? For Bliss Rampike, her own custom-built ice rink.”

  How serious is Daddy? Is Daddy serious at all? Skyler recalls the hearty-mock-macho exuberance of mammoth Jeremiah Jericho in his tux, and Skyler feels a tinge of pain in his “weak” leg. Bliss is scratching at already-reddened skin beneath the foam-rubber collar that forces her small chin up at an awkward angle.

  Bliss smiles uncertainly and in the hoarse little voice says, “When I’m strong enough to s-skate again, Daddy, will you come see me? Even if I don’t win?”

  “Why, honey! What a thing to ask. You know I will.” Daddy reaches across the table to stroke his little daughter’s cheek—a gesture meant to be tender, that causes Bliss to flinch. “Sweetie, I was on my way to watch you skate at Philadelphia, wasn’t it?—Wilmington?—the deal that fell through, and the people from People cancelled the interview.”

  Daddy takes care not to sound reproachful, still Bliss feels the rebuke, and even Skyler, who has to be blameless, feels a new tinge of pain.

  Unlike other girls her age—unlike boys her age, too—Bliss rarely cries. As Mummy says, there is something perverse and unnerving about Bliss as if she isn’t a flesh-and-blood girl really but an ingeniously lifelike animated doll, the kind that, as soon as you glance away from it, casts you a look of sheer insolence. In public places, Bliss has learned to keep her expression little-girl-softly-rapt, shy-semi-smiling, and she has learned to be very still, for at any time someone is likely to be observing her (certainly true here in the Sylvan Glen dining room where easily half the female diners have been glancing wistfully/curiously in the direction of our table, at both big-shouldered spiky-haired Bix Rampike in his navy blue blazer and angelic little Bliss in her cherry-red mohair jumper and foam-rubber collar, though no one has been gauche enough yet to sidle over to the table to inquire in a sexy lilt Where’s Bethie?—or do I mean Betsey?) Yet Bliss’s mouth is twitching and so Skyler quickly intervenes, to deflect Daddy’s attention. “You never took me deep-sea fishing in Palm Beach, Daddy! When we were at Grandmother Rampike’s house waiting for you. We were just waiting and waiting, Daddy, you’d promised you would come stay with us, you’d rent a boat and take me marlin fishing, Daddy, and you never came, and nobody ever took me, Daddy. You promised.”