Dis Mem Ber and Other Stories of Mystery and Suspense

by Joyce Carol Oates

  I have not slept well in weeks. I have had very little appetite.

  I have shared a bathroom with unclean persons. I have eaten and drunk food that has been—possibly—tainted; I have not been able to escape drinking water that might be impure.

  All this may have affected my blood work. Isn’t this possible?

  Dr. Liu stares at me as if uncertain how to reply.

  “Oh—yes. It is possible.”

  From the custodian’s closet-sized room in the basement of The Magellan I have taken the (crucial) key to the roof.

  At the hardware store on Pitcairn and Mercer, I have had the key duplicated.

  (Does it matter to the bored clerk that it is stamped on the key Do Not Duplicate?—it does not.)

  At a time when no one will observe me, when the custodian is emptying trash barrels into the Dumpster in the alley, I will return the original key to the drawer in his custodian’s closet-sized room.

  In silence Professor Gee hands the seventeen-page paper to me. As I fumble to take it from him I see, to my shock, that there is a grade of A on the cover page in bright red ink.

  Except, when I look more closely, the grade is not A but A? Seeing that I am unable to speak Professor Gee says with a cold smile, “Very good work, Miss Lucash! In fact, it is quite unlike any term paper on the subject of ‘memory’ which I have ever received from an undergraduate at this University. That’s to say—in twenty-two years.”

  My hands are shaking with excitement, yet dread. I have broken out into a cold, sickish sweat. A part of me wants to smile happily, to think—But this is what I deserve, at last! I have worked so hard.

  Yet, there is no mistaking the? affixed to the grade. There is no mistaking the chill that exudes from Professor Gee—(who is quite the witty lecturer in front of an audience)—and the reason that he has summoned me to his office in one of the Gothic towers of the University’s Psychology Department.

  “You see, it is an A paper—uncontestably. And yet, I am obliged to question: is this A paper the work of ‘AlidaLucash’? Entirely—hers?”

  In the Professor’s face an expression of muted disdain, contempt—Of course, I expect nothing more of you than this. You and your kind disgust me.

  I tell the Professor yes, yes I wrote the paper myself.

  “Speak up, Miss Lucash. What did you say?”

  “I—I wrote the p-paper myself….”

  In my mouth, which has gone suddenly dry, these words are obviously fraudulent. It is no wonder that Professor Gee stares at me with something like hatred.

  Yet, when Professor Gee speaks he is polite, even thoughtful. There is even something playful in his tone.

  “I would like to see your notes for this ambitious paper, Miss Lucash. And if you have early drafts of the paper, I would like to see them as well.”

  I am feeling very strange. In the hard-backed chair facing the Professor across his desk, making every effort not to be upset, or hurt, that the Professor has accused me of—cheating? theft? plagiarism?

  In a weak voice I say: “Yes.”

  But my notes are lost, I think. Early drafts of my term paper have disappeared into my (defective) laptop. I am not sure if I saved them correctly after completing and printing out the paper, with numerous missteps, on a (defective) printer.

  “Or, you can summarize your paper for me now. Present it, as a little lecture. I am particularly impressed with your footnotes, Miss Lucash. Daring of you to quote sources at odds with ‘Herman Gee.’ “

  I have become flushed and confused. That footnote, near the end of the paper, was one that I’d taken out, and restored; taken out again, and restored; for after thinking it over I’d concluded that Herman Gee would find such evidence contradicting his own work on memory (as he has presented it this semester in his lectures) stimulating and interesting, and not a “threat” to his professional reputation—though perhaps, seeing the set of the man’s jaw, I had been naïve about this.

  Hesitantly, in my hopeful voice, I begin to summarize the paper. As Professor Gee stares at me I become hopelessly confused. (Am I allowed to glance at it? I wonder. It would be helpful to read certain of the more difficult passages aloud in order to explicate them.) Mercifully, after less than sixty seconds Professor Gee interrupts me.

  “Very well. Thank you, Miss Lucash. I see you have successfully memorized certain of the passages.”

  I am not sure what to do. What is expected of me.

  Confess! You are dishonest.

  You are unworthy of the University, you do not belong here.

  It is not true that I have plagiarized the paper—”A Biological Theory of Memory.” Much research has gone into the preparation of the paper. One hundred hours at the least, in the University library.

  Yet, a terrible sick guilt suffuses me. I am feeling very tired. I am laughing nervously, which seems to startle and annoy the Professor.

  “Well. Enough. Let me reiterate—I am requesting that you print out your notes and early drafts, and bring them to me, here in this office, by tomorrow noon. Failure to comply will mean failure in the course and the likelihood of your being summoned before the University disciplinary committee.”

  I will not be able to comply. There is no way for me to comply. My heart feels like a sponge that has been squeezed, a filthy kitchen sponge.

  Yet, cravenly I nod at the Professor—”Yes, Professor Gee. I will try.”

  She slips the key into my fingers. Between my fingers, gripped tight.

  With this key, I unlock the door at the end of the third-floor corridor of The Magellan, that leads to the roof.

  On the stairs, she precedes me. A shadow, quicksilver!

  Come with me! Hurry—she is murmuring.

  It is surprising to me: stepping out onto the roof, so close to the (nighttime, overcast) sky. A gust of wind bringing tears to my eyes.

  On the roof, I approach the water tank gigantic as a mountain.

  Surprising too, how familiar the rooftop is. The water tank, and the metal ladder rising against the side of the water tank.

  Though the smell here of creosote and fresh, harsh air is not familiar. Closeness of the sky layered with clouds like putty spread by a trowel but glowering with phosphorescence.

  In the distance, on the farther side of the New York Central train tracks, the long hill to the University, that is not visible by night except as a string of street lights; and at the top of the hill the bell tower like a blank staring mad eye.

  Climb the ladder! Hurry—she is murmuring.

  A sudden unexpected strength flows into my arms and legs as I grip the ladder and climb. For a moment I feel dizzy—but only for a moment. Clearly I am not enfeebled—my blood is not “infected.”

  At the top of the ladder, using every ounce of strength in my upper arms and shoulders, I hope to be capable of lifting the heavy cover—if but for a few desperate seconds.

  My heart is full to bursting. Suffused with happiness in this strange place.

  A touch on my shoulder, and I turn—but there is no one. (The wind?)

  For a moment there is the danger that I might let go of the ladder—a wave of vertigo returns, weakening my knees.

  In the distance, the luminous bell tower.

  Is there a bell tolling? What is the hour? Straining my eyes, I can’t see the clock face—I can’t hear the tolling.

  Ten o’clock? Eleven? Midnight?

  There is the danger that I will not be strong enough to lift the cover after all—for there is no one to help me.

  A danger that I might let go of the ladder, and fall to the roof fifteen feet below, and not be found until morning, or later, when my feeble cries are heard by a stranger passing on Humboldt Street.

  I have decided to leave the University. I will move out of The Magellan without giving notice.

  My rental deposit will not be returned to me. But this is a small price to pay for my life.

  The beautiful old University, I will remember. The long hill t
o the Hall of Languages, the bell tower at the top of the hill, the tolling of (invisible) bells.

  THE SITUATIONS

  1. KITTENS

  Daddy was driving us home. Three of us in the back seat and Lula who was his favorite in the passenger’s seat.

  Lula cried Oh Daddy!—look.

  At the side of the road, in broken grasses, was something small and furry-white, that appeared to be alive.

  Oh Daddy please.

  Daddy laughed. Daddy braked the car to a stop. Lula jumped out of the car. We ran back with her, to discover in the broken grasses three small kittens—white, with black and russet markings.

  We picked up the kittens! They were so tiny, fitting in the palms of our hands, weighing only a few ounces! Each was mewing, its eyes scarcely open. Oh, oh!—we’d never seen anything so wonderful in our lives! We ran back to the car where Daddy was waiting, to beg Daddy to take them home with us.

  At first Daddy said no. Daddy said the kittens would make messes in the car.

  Lula said Oh Daddy please. We all promised to clean up any messes the kittens made.

  So Daddy gave in. Daddy loved Lula best, but we were happy to be Daddy’s children, too.

  In the back seat we had two of the little kittens. In the front, Lula was holding the whitest kitten.

  We were so excited! So happy with the kittens! Lula said she would call the whitest kitten Snowflake, and we said we would call our little kittens Pumpkin and Cinder because Pumpkin had orange splotches in his white fur, and Cinder had black splotches in his white fur.

  For some minutes Daddy drove in silence. We did all the chattering! You could hear tiny mews, if you listened hard.

  Then, Daddy said, Do I smell a mess?

  We cried No, no!

  I think I smell a mess.

  No Daddy!

  Three messes. I smell them.

  No Daddy!

  (And this was so: none of the kittens had made messes.)

  But Daddy braked the car to a stop. At the bridge over the river where there is a steep ramp, outside our town and about two miles from our house, Daddy parked the car and said to Lula, Give me Snowflake, and Daddy squinted at us in the rearview mirror and said, Give me Pumpkin, and give me Cinder.

  We began to cry. Lula cried loudest. But Daddy grabbed the little kitten from her, and reached into the back seat red-faced and frowning to grab Pumpkin and Cinder from us. We were not strong enough and we were not brave enough to keep Daddy from taking the kittens from us, in Daddy’s big hand. The kittens were mewing loudly by this time and quivering in terror.

  Daddy left the car and with big Daddy-strides climbed the ramp to the bridge and threw the kittens over the railing. Three tiny things rising at first against the misty sky, then quickly falling, and gone.

  When Daddy returned to the car Lula cried, Daddy why?

  Daddy said, Because I am Daddy, who decides how things end.

  2. FERAL KISS

  In secret, by foot, he traveled to the Mainland. He lived on an island of approximately eight square miles, boot-shaped like Italy. Between the Island and the Mainland was a two-mile floating bridge. His parents had forbidden him to journey to the Mainland; the Mainland was the “easy, slack life”; the Island was the life of discipline, severity, God’s will. His parents had broken off ties with their relatives who lived on the Mainland, who in turn pitied the Islanders as uneducated, superstitious, and impoverished.

  On the Island there were colonies of feral cats, much inbred, ferocious if cornered or trapped, but surpassingly beautiful—one of the colonies was comprised predominantly of flamey-orange tiger cats with six toes, another was predominantly midnight-black cats with tawny eyes, another was predominantly white, long-haired cats with glaring green eyes, and another, the largest colony, predominantly tortoiseshell cats with intricate stone-colored, silver, and black markings, and golden eyes, seemed to thrive in a rough, rock-strewn area near the floating bridge. It was generally forbidden for Island children to approach the feral cats, or to feed them; it was dangerous for anyone to approach the cats in the hope of petting them, still less capturing one of them and bringing it home; even small kittens were known to scratch and bite furiously. Yet, on his way to the Mainland, as he approached the floating bridge, he couldn’t resist tossing bits of food to the tortoiseshell cats who regarded him from a little distance with flat, hostile eyes—Kitty? Kitty? Such beautiful creatures! One day brashly he managed to seize hold of a young tortoiseshell cat scarcely more than a kitten, very thin, with prominent ribs and high, alert ears, and for a moment he held its quivering life in his fingers like his own heart seized out of his chest—then the cat squirmed frantically, hissed, scratched and sank its small sharp teeth into the flesh at the base of his thumb, he released it with a little cry Damn! and wiped the blood on his pant leg, and continued on his journey across the floating bridge.

  On the Mainland, he saw her: a girl he imagined to be his own age, or a little younger, walking with other children. The coastal wind was shrouded with mist, damply cold, relentless. Droplets of moisture had formed on his eyelashes like tears. Her long hair whipped in the wind. Her perfect face was turned from him in shyness, or in coyness. He’d grown daring, brash; his experience with the tortoiseshell cat hadn’t discouraged but seemed to have encouraged him. He was a boy pretending to be a man here on the Mainland, where he felt to himself older, more confident. And here, no one knew his name, or the name of his family. He walked with the girl, drawing her away from the other children. He asked to know her name—Mariana. He held her small hand, that resisted his initially, as he clutched at it. He kissed her on the lips, lightly yet with much excitement. When she didn’t draw away he kissed her again, with more force. She turned aside as if to run from him. But he clutched her hand, and her arm; he gripped her tight, and kissed her so hard, he felt the imprint of her teeth against his. It seemed that she was kissing him in return, though less forcefully. She pulled away. She snatched his hand and, laughing, bit him on the inside of the thumb, the soft flesh at the base of the thumb. In astonishment he stared at the quick-flowing blood. The wound was so small and yet—so much blood! His pant legs were stained. His boots were splattered. He retreated, and the girl ran to catch up with the other children—all of them running together, he saw now, along the wide, rough beach littered with storm debris, their laughter high-pitched and taunting and not one of them glanced back.

  Gripped suddenly by a fear that the bridge had floated away, he returned to the floating bridge. But there it remained, buffeted by coastal winds, and looking smaller, and more weathered. It was late autumn. He could not recall the season in which he’d started out—had it been summer? Spring? The sea lifted in angry churning waves. The Island was near-invisible behind a shroud of mist. In the waves, he saw the faces of his older, Island kin. Gray-bearded men, frowning women. He was breathless returning to the Island across the rocking, floating bridge. At shore he paid no heed to the colony of tortoiseshell cats that seemed to be awaiting him with small taunting mews and sly cat faces, amid the rocks. The wound at the base of his thumb hurt; he was ashamed of his injury, the perceptible marks of small sharp teeth in his flesh. Within a few days the wound became livid, and with a fishing knife cauterized in flame he reopened the wound, to let the blood flow hotly again. He wrapped the base of his thumb in a bandage. He explained that he’d injured himself carelessly on a rusted nail or hook. He returned to his life that soon swept over him like waves rising onto the beach, streaming through the rocks. There would be a day when he removed the bandage, and saw the tiny serrated scar in the flesh, all but healed. In secret, he would kiss the scar in a swoon of emotion but in time, he would cease to remember why.

  3. HOPE

  Daddy was driving us home. Just two of us in the back seat and Esther who was Daddy’s favorite, in the passenger’s seat.

  Esther cried Oh Daddy!—look out!

  A dark-furry creature was crossing the road in front of Daddy’s car, legs
moving rapidly. It might have been a large cat, or a young fox. Daddy did not slacken his speed for an instant—he did not turn the wheel or brake the car to avoid hitting the creature but he did not appear to press down on the gas pedal to strike it deliberately.

  The right front wheel struck it with a small thud.

  There was a sharp little cry, then silence.

  Oh Daddy please. Please stop.

  Esther’s voice was thin and plaintive and though it was a begging sort of voice, it was a voice without hope.

  Daddy laughed. Daddy did not brake the car to a stop.

  In the back we knelt on the seat to peer out the rear window—seeing, in the broken grasses at the side of the road, the furry creature writhing in agony.

  Daddy—stop! Daddy please stop, the animal is hurt.

  But our voices were thin and plaintive and without hope and Daddy paid little heed to us but continued driving and humming to himself and in the front seat Esther was crying in her soft helpless way and in the back seat we were very quiet.

  One of us whispered to the other That was a kitty!

  The other whispered That was a fox!

  At the bridge over the river where there’s a steep ramp Daddy braked the car to a stop. Daddy was frowning and irritable, and Daddy said to Esther, Get out of the car. And Daddy turned grunting to us in the back seat and Daddy’s eyes were glaring-angry as he told us to get out of the car.

  We were very frightened. Yet, there was no place to hide in the back of Daddy’s car.

  Outside, Esther was shivering. A chill wind blew from the mist-shrouded river. We huddled with Esther as Daddy approached.

  In Daddy’s face there was regret, and remorse. But it was remorse for something that had not yet happened, and could not be avoided. Calmly Daddy struck Esther a blow to the back with his fist, that knocked her down like a shot, so breathless she couldn’t scream or cry at first but lay on the ground quivering. We wanted to run away but dared not for Daddy’s long legs would catch up with us, we knew.