Give Me Your Heart

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Corpses of dead, drowned creatures in the river. Amid storm debris the swollen and obscene carcasses of dogs, sheep, groundhogs, deer, rushing past as in a lurid pageantry.

  Could die here. No one would know. No one would know why.

  There came a cry: "Aunt Liz'beta!"

  John Henry, breathless and excited. He must have sighted Lizabeta and followed her along the river. Early that morning Walter had sent John Henry out to clear away storm damage in the area around the barns and to begin the work of repairing fences; he'd been gone much of the day. His coveralls were splotched with mud and wet to the knee, his battered boy's face shone with sweat and seemed flushed as if with sunburn. As a dog is pleasurably excited to unexpectedly discover its master out-of-doors, so John Henry seemed pleasurably excited to see Lizabeta in this unexpected place. Lizabeta felt a stab of dismay—Don't look at me. Go away and leave me—but of course John Henry was looking at Lizabeta, staring and blinking, his teeth bared in a big smile. His head was bobbing, that shaved head covered in bluish stubble like smudged coal dust.

  John Henry's shaved head! All of Lizabeta's repugnance, her despair, her hurt, her frustration, and her rage, her terror at her predicament, seemed to spring at her from the pathetic sight of the retarded boy's shaved head.

  Years ago Lizabeta had learned why John Henry's head had to be shaved every few weeks: to prevent John Henry from "catching" head lice. (As a boy in Sparta, John Henry had "caught" lice often and had become terrified of the brutal delousing procedure, with a rough haircut and head shave and kerosene scrubbed into the exposed scalp, followed by a scrubbing with lye soap, which had been performed, Lizabeta could imagine with what fury and disgust, by John Henry's nurse's aide mother, Dorothy.) And Lizabeta had soon learned whose task it would be to keep John Henry's head shaved once he'd moved to the Rapids: hers.

  John Henry's poor battered head needed shaving now. Somehow, in those days of pelting rain, John Henry's head had been overlooked.

  John Henry was telling his aunt Lizabeta something about the flooded river, the "angels" in the river, when Lizabeta impatiently interrupted: "Melinda is missing! She ran away—she's gone to the Spill."

  John Henry ceased chattering. His mouth came open, slack in astonishment. Like a deaf man straining to hear, John Henry stared and blinked at Lizabeta and was for a moment speechless. Melinda? The Spill?

  For abruptly it came to Lizabeta, how the three-year-old had run from her and was lost to her, not the six-year-old whom she'd shouted at, Mama with an upraised fist, Mama livid with rage, but Melinda, the child who was beloved, whose loss meant something: "She's got away from me, John Henry. She woke from her nap, she slipped outside, it's the Spill she headed for, Melinda is gone to the Spill." Lizabeta spoke rapidly yet with the air of one trying to remain calm, to keep from screaming. As John Henry gaped at her, Lizabeta repeated: "The Spill! Melinda! Your cousin Melinda! John Henry, Melinda is gone to the Spill, we must save her."

  "M'linda? The Spill? Is?"

  John Henry smiled uncertainly. His teeth were badly discolored, broken. For John Henry could not be taken to Sparta to any dentist, even if his uncle had wished to pay for his dental work, just as John Henry could not be taken to any eye doctor, even if his uncle had wished to pay for prescription glasses for his weak, watery eyes. His low forehead creased like an old man's: Was Aunt Liz'beta teasing? Was this one of the Braams' jokes? It was not like any woman to tease John Henry. Aunt Liz'beta, her voice lifting in alarm, a silvery voice, a voice like a bird's cry, a voice that pierced John Henry's heart like a knife blade, did not appear to be teasing him, and yet—could you know for sure? So often words were surprises, like nudges in the ribs or slaps against the back of the head. Words were shouts, so loud you couldn't hear. What was strangest was how close up, or at a distance, inside a house or out-of-doors, wearing different clothes, at different times of day and in different moods, individuals whom John Henry knew the names of and recognized the faces of, he could not be certain that he really knew. Few things scared John Henry (for John Henry was beloved of God, who dwelled in the sky and watched over him, most days), but this scared John Henry, for it had to be a mistake of his own. There was his uncle Walter, who had taken John Henry in to live with him, who was sometimes kind to him and sometimes impatient with him, greeted him with a smile, a nod of his head, Good work, John Henry, and sometimes stared at him in surprise and disgust, Damn clumsy sod, look at this. Done wrong. And John Henry shrank away in shame like a kicked dog. But a kicked dog is called back in time. For a kicked dog is forgiven by those who have taken him in. John Henry's young aunt Lizabeta seemed to have forgiven him; John Henry was grateful for this. Couldn't recall what he'd done wrong but so grateful to be forgiven. Aunt Liz'beta was speaking to him, leading him to the Spill, where Melinda had run to only a few minutes before, and so it seemed to John Henry, yes, he'd seen his little cousin running along the path beside the river, running from her mama, who stood now on the bank of the frothy stream where spray was blown into their faces, staring and pointing: "John Henry! Look! There's Melinda over there—by that big boulder—d'you see her?" John Henry crouched on the bank craning his neck, gaping open-mouthed, uncertain what he saw or wasn't seeing, for his eyes were blurred with moisture, a din of churning water. Faintly he could make out something wedged between rocks, might've been a broken tree limb, raw greenish pale wood of a broken willow, or might've been a drowned creature, or a live, struggling little girl flailing her arms as John Henry's aunt Liz'beta cried for him to hurry! hurry! before it was too late, hurry! and John Henry obeyed, stepping into the water, which was colder than he expected, needing to grab onto rocks, desperate to grab onto rocks, anything he could grab onto, managing with effort to pull himself up, sharp-edged shelves of granite like gigantic steps in the earth, on all sides misshapen rocks and boulders flung down from the sky by a furious God and barely visible in the sky thin drifting clouds, angels riding those clouds leaning over to spit on John Henry's baldie-head and laugh at him though they'd been his friends just that morning, John Henry was hoping that his aunt Liz'beta didn't hear, how ashamed John Henry would be if any of the Braams knew how his garden angels had turned against him another time. It seemed that only a few days ago John Henry had clambered across the Spill when the streams of water were shallow trickles amid the rocks and he hadn't been afraid then though he'd slipped once or twice on slimy moss, cut the palm of his hand in a fall, but managed to clamber across the Spill and back again and an angel whistling at him from a tall birch had seemed to be praising him for being light-footed and graceful as a cat, but now the angels were withholding their judgment, now John Henry was crouched, now squatting, making his way with painstaking slowness across the the lower part of the Spill, like a great clumsy cockroach making its way, a great scuttling crab, hunched over, grabbing at rocks to haul himself toward, to reach out for Melinda, to take Melinda's hand, but the water came so fast, so blinding fast and so cold, John Henry's hands were becoming numb, John Henry's hands were bleeding from a dozen cuts, recklessly he lunged forward, he could hear Melinda crying John Henry! John Henry! as the water overcame him, splintered into myriad glittery particles like broken glass and each of these water particles a miniature rainbow, there came an unexpected voice, a harsh voice, a din of harsh accusing voices John Henry don't touch yourself John Henry you disgust me damn clumsy sod dirty boy freak blow your damn nose in a tissue not your damn fingers don't stick fingers in your nose keep out of your damn mouth your ears you smell of your body you don't wipe yourself your father is going to discipline you going to cut off your disgusting thing why don't you go away why don't you die nobody wants you he'd swallowed water, coughing, choking, his foot slipped on slimy moss and this time he fell, in astonishment falling, too astonished to cry out in pain, the stubbly head struck a sharp-edged rock and in that instant cracked like an egg, the life pent-up inside the head began to leak from him, how like a broken egg, a messy broken egg cracked in a clumsy hand,
stricken in shame John Henry fell, the mad rushing frothy stream took him as he was propelled forward and down falling as if thrown from a height, his neck was broken, the knobby bones of his vertebrae were broken, his left eye gouged out, he wasn't John Henry now, no one knew his name now, amid a desolation of broken and shredded tree limbs and underbrush he was spinning, taken down, over the edge of the Spill and into the river below, borne away and lost in the swollen rushing mud river below.

  Lizabeta ran.

  In terror of what she'd seen, what she'd caused to happen at the Spill, Lizabeta ran.

  Ran blindly, stumbling in the wet earth. Ran without looking back and without knowledge of what had happened, what had happened to John Henry, where the Spill had taken him. She hadn't seen, immediately she'd backed away, turned, and ran. Seeing how on the path before her the six-year-old Agnes had dared to follow her, but now Lizabeta seized Agnes in her arms, trying awkwardly to run with the frightened child until her arms gave out, she had to let the struggling Agnes down, and now mother and daughter ran together, white-faced Lizabeta clutching at Agnes's small hand as they ran away from the Spill and back to the house a half-mile away.

  5.

  Days later the body was found, three miles downstream in the rubble beneath the Constableville bridge. Walter Braam identified the remains of his nephew John Henry Chrisman, and the body was taken away and quickly buried. In local papers there was no explanation for the "storm accident" in the Spill, to be counted as one of several fatalities resulting from the October 1951 flooding in the western Adirondacks.

  In June 1952 Lizabeta Braam had a fourth child, the last of Walter Braam's six children: a boy named Henry. By this time Lizabeta had become an intensely religious Christian who attended both Sunday morning and Wednesday evening services at the First Methodist Church of Rapids. Though Lizabeta suffered from ill health for the remainder of her life—migraine, lightheadedness, female ailments—everyone who knew her, or knew of her, was emphatic in describing her as a saintly woman like no one else of their acquaintance, utterly selfless, loving, devoted to her family and relatives, and so it seemed she was, in the memories of her numerous grandchildren.

  Grandma Braam, who adored us.

  It was my mother's older sister, Agnes, who told this story of John Henry Chrisman, in the years after Lizabeta died. A story told and retold, so it seemed sometimes that I had known John Henry myself. My mother, Melinda, could not have remembered John Henry very clearly, yet she insisted that she did. Fifty-five years after her cousin John Henry died in the Spill, my mother would say, with an inscrutable expression that might have been tenderness, or merely wonderment: "I can see John Henry plain as day, standing in front of me. His face—his face is a blur. But his shaved head I can see. His hands—his big raw scraped-looking hands that had something in them, for me. John Henry is what we called him."

  Nowhere

  1.

  My mother, I wish...

  The first time no one heard. So softly Miriam spoke. In the din of raised voices, laughter. In the din of high-decibel rock music. She was into the beat, sweating with the percussion. Shaking her head from side to side and her eyes closed. Leaking tears but closed. My mother, I wish someone would ...At the crowded table no one noticed. It was the Star Lake Inn, the deck above the lake. Music blared from speakers overhead. Had to be the Star Lake Inn, though it didn't look familiar. The moon was rising in the night sky. She'd lost her sandals somewhere. Couldn't remember who'd brought her here, six miles from home. Then she remembered: the boy from the marina driving the steel-colored Jeep. Not a local guy. He'd been flirting with her all week. Her heart skidded when she saw him. Big-jawed boy with sun-bleached hair, had to be mid-twenties, father owned one of the sleek white sailboats docked at the marina, but Kevin wasn't into taking orders from the old man like a damn cabin boy, he said. Anger flared in his pale eyes. He was from downstate: Westchester County. Half the summer residents at Star Lake were from Westchester County. He'd thought Miriam was older than fifteen, maybe. Gripping her wrist, not her hand, helping her up into the Jeep. A stabbing sensation shot through her groin.

  Had to be past 11 P.M. The moon continued to rise in the sky above Mount Hammer. She'd gotten off work at the boathouse at 6 P.M. In the Jeep she'd called home on her cell phone. Left a message for her mother: she'd run into friends from school, wouldn't be home until late.

  Please don't wait up for me, Mom. Makes me nervous, okay ?

  The boy in the Jeep didn't know Miriam's brothers, hadn't known Miriam's father. Orlander meant nothing to him. Maybe to his father, who owned one of the new A-frames on East Shore Drive, Orlander meant something. In the Adirondacks there were local residents and there were property owners from downstate. If you were a local male, you worked for the downstate property owners: carpentry, roofing, plumbing, hauling away trash. You paved driveways, you exterminated vermin. You fenced off property to keep out deer hunters like yourself. The expensive new lakeside houses were always in need of upgrading: redwood decks, children's rooms, saunas, tennis courts. Les Orlander had been a roofer. His brother-in-law Harvey Schuller siphoned out waste from buried septic tanks and dug new septic fields. YOUR SHIT SMELLS SWEET To ME was a joke bumper sticker Miriam's father had had printed up, but Harvey kept it displayed in his office, not on his truck. If you were a local female, you might work inside the summer residents' houses: cooking, caring for children, cleaning. You served at their parties. You picked up after their drunken houseguests. Uncomplaining, you wore rubber gloves to retrieve from a stopped-up toilet a wadded Kotex or baby diaper someone had tried to flush away. You wore a nylon uniform. You smiled and hoped for a generous tip. You learned not to stack dirty dishes from the dinner table but to remove each plate ceremoniously, murmuring Thank you! as you took the plate away, Thank you! you murmured as you served dessert and poured wine into glasses. Thank you! mopping up spilled wine, on your hands and knees picking up shattered glass. Your employers called you by your first name and urged you to call them by their first names, but you never did. Ethel laughed to show she thought it was funny, such bullshit. Not that she was a bitter woman, for truly Ethel was not.

  Beggars can't be choosers, right?

  Miriam's mother thought this was an optimistic attitude.

  Three years of his five-to-seven-year sentence for assault Miriam's father served at Ogdensburg men's facility, and during those years of shame her mother worked for summer residents and for a Tupper Lake caterer. Often Ethel stayed overnight at Tupper Lake, twenty miles away. It began to be said in Star Lake that she met men there, at the resort hotels. She took "gifts" from them. At this time Miriam was in eighth grade and deeply mortified by both her parents. Her father she loved and missed so badly, it was like part of her heart was locked away in the prison. Her mother she'd used to love but was beginning now to hate. Wish! Wish to God something would happen to her. When Miriam's oldest brother, Gideon, confronted their mother one day, Ethel shouted at him that her life was her own, not her damn children's. Her "money life" and her "sex life" she said were her own business, not some damn loser inmate's who'd let his family down. Shocked then by the fury of the words roiling from her, Ethel had tried to laugh, saying it was a joke, some kind of joke, anyway isn't everything some kind of joke, the way life turns out? But Gideon would never forgive her.

  Quit roofing, moved to Watertown and impregnated a woman he never married, and a few months later enlisted in the U.S. Marines and got sent to Iraq.

  Even when their father was paroled and returned to Star Lake to live, Gideon avoided the family. Every time Miriam came home she steeled herself for news of him: he'd been killed in that terrible place. Or for the sight of Ethel, disheveled, lying on her bed in the waning hours of the afternoon.

  I wish. Why don't you. Why, when you're so unhappy!

  "Looking lost, Miriam? Where's your rich boyfriend?"

  Miriam was a girl to be teased. A hot blush rising into her face. Her eyes were warm glistening br
own with something shrinking and mocking in the droop of the eyelids. Her hair was streaked blond-brown, the commonest color. Before meeting Kevin after work she'd hurriedly brushed out her hair, pursed her lips, applying dark red lipstick to make her appear older, sexier. Now it was hours later and the lipstick was eaten off and her hair was in her face and so many guys were looking at her, laughing at her, all she could do was shake her head, blushing and embarrassed.

  Oz Newell, who'd been Gideon's closest high school friend, was calling down the table: "What'd he do, the fucker, take a leak and fall in? Want me to break his head?"

  Nervously Miriam laughed, shaking her head. She was scared of something like this. Older guys relating to her like she was their kid sister, wanting to protect her, and somebody getting hurt.