Two or Three Things I Forgot to Tell You

by Joyce Carol Oates

  He had never texted her before. He had never emailed her. It did not occur to Nadia that Mr. Kessler didn’t have her cell phone number, nor was he likely to send her an email, for in the exigency of the situation she was not thinking clearly.

  Yet she could envision his message to her.

  “DANI A.”—WHAT A BEAUTIFUL SURPRISE!

  THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, DEAR “DANI A.”

  PLEASE COME TO SEE ME IN MY OFFICE AS YOU DID YESTERDAY.

  I WILL THANK YOU IN PERSON.

  Or maybe Mr. Kessler would write PLEASE CALL ME, NADIA. AS SOON AS YOU RECEIVE THIS MESSAGE. MY CELL IS . . .

  But there were no new calls or messages.

  Compulsively Nadia checked, and rechecked—sliding open the little panel at the bottom of the iPhone screen to unlock.

  But no one had texted her.

  But Nadia wouldn’t think of this just now. In High Ridge Park in the snow-crusted grass she searched for the lynx-cat to feed her—and save her life. And maybe, if there was a way that her father wouldn’t know about it, bring the little cat home with her to live.

  “Kitty? Don’t be afraid of me! Kitty—please . . .”

  Finally, it was getting too late: Nadia had to leave, to half walk, half run to school to arrive just as the first bell, for homeroom, was ringing.

  “Nadia? Hi . . .”

  Whoever it was—a girl, a girlfriend, someone in Mr. Kessler’s science class—Nadia didn’t know, too distracted to glance back.

  She breathlessly entered Mr. Kessler’s classroom in a haze of anticipation, dread—looking quickly to Mr. Kessler, who wasn’t in his usual position by his desk, but in a corner of the room with his back to the students, speaking on his cell phone.

  Usually, Mr. Kessler talked with students before class, but this morning he appeared to be distracted. Even his necktie was slightly askew.

  Nadia knew something was wrong: Mr. Kessler didn’t glance over at her.

  After he shut the cell phone, Mr. Kessler seemed to rouse himself, smiling wanly at students gathered around his desk. Nadia wasn’t one of these; she took her seat numbly.

  Something is wrong, wrong, wrong.

  Class began. Mr. Kessler spoke. The subject was—(Nadia couldn’t concentrate: What was the subject?)—and Mr. Kessler glanced about the room as often he did, pushing his glasses against the bridge of his nose, except he was frowning now, and did seem distracted.

  He wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t acknowledging her.

  He only glanced at Nadia once or twice, as he glanced at others in the class. But there was nothing special in his eyes. There was nothing special he was trying to convey to her, an indication of the secret bond between them.

  Nadia was beginning to feel faint. She’d forgotten to bring anything in her backpack to eat between classes—she’d been too distracted that morning in her desperation to get to High Ridge Park.

  Now she could barely remember High Ridge Park.

  He doesn’t know it was me. He must think it’s from someone else—“Dani A.”

  Nadia sat rigid in her seat, scarcely aware of the classroom that surrounded her. She heard laughter—good-natured laughter. So Mr. Kessler was joking. She had no idea what he and the others were saying. It was like the morning after the night that her mother had gone away—she’d heard voices but had no idea what the words meant.

  Mr. Kessler didn’t call on Nadia Stillfinger that day.

  He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t love me.

  The bell rang. Nadia stumbled to her feet, snatched up her backpack, and left without a backward glance.

  So hungry!

  In a girls’ restroom far from the senior corridor, where she wasn’t so likely to encounter anyone she knew, Nadia hid in one of the stalls to eat—try to eat—the canned tuna she’d brought for the little lost cat. Clumsily she managed to open the can with an opener she’d brought from home, but the strong fishy smell was unappetizing—though Nadia was faint with hunger, she couldn’t eat more than a mouthful.

  Making sure that no one was in the lavatory to see, she tossed the can and its smelly contents in the trash.

  How bizarre it would seem, to girls entering the restroom! Such a strong smell of canned tuna fish! If Nadia hadn’t been so miserable, she’d have laughed.

  The remainder of the long day passed in a blur. Fifth period, sixth period, seventh . . . Nadia was so distracted with worry about Mr. Kessler and the painting she scarcely noticed people glancing at her curiously—some of them, rudely.

  Boys? Boys she knew? Or—boys she didn’t know, but who seemed to know her?

  A guy named Hawkeye—that was his nickname, a friend of Rick Metz’s, standing in front of Nadia, blocking her way on the stairs, she wasn’t sure why.

  Her natural response was to smile back—to say Hi!

  But no, better not. Hawkeye was not a friend.

  The guys’ smiles were not friendly smiles but bared-teeth smiles like the smiles of robots in video games.

  Felt too sickish to go to girls’ chorus rehearsal—this was the third time in a row Nadia was skipping practice. Hannah texted her WHERE R U? but Nadia shut up her phone without replying.

  And on her way out of school, on the walk behind school where, almost twenty-four hours before, she’d stood pondering whether to leave the gift for Mr. Kessler in his Subaru, Nadia saw several senior guys looking at her and slyly smiling—“Hiya, Nad-ee—how’s it going?”

  Nadia turned quickly away. A blush rose into her face.

  Walking quickly away. Blindly.

  Not hearing a derisory chanting in her wake—How’d Nad-ee like suckee my cock?

  Nadia didn’t hear this. Rude laughter drowned out whatever she might have heard, except she was walking so quickly away and without a backward glance.

  Did not hear the chanting after her—Slut-tee Nad-ee. Hey-hey, slut-tee Nad-ee like suckee?

  Did not hear. Not any of it.

  Just to help me sleep, honey. Sleep, sleep, sleep is the most wonderful gift you can give another.

  It isn’t that Mommy doesn’t love you. Mommy loves you.

  But Mommy is so very tired now, honey.

  If you love Mommy, please do not wake Mommy. Please promise!

  Nadia had promised. Nadia had wanted to sleep curled in Mommy’s arms on Mommy’s bed beneath the beautiful hand-sewn quilt from Mommy’s mother that looked like apple blossoms, but Mommy had sent Nadia away this time, for Mommy was so very tired, and needing to sleep.

  Nadia had promised, and so she did not wake Mommy up, and in the morning of the next day—or was it the next day—or another day—the housekeeper came to take Nadia away because Mr. Stillinger was just returning from Bangkok and his plane had been delayed for several hours. And still, Nadia did not break the promise she’d made to Mommy, she had never broken the promise she’d made to Mommy, nor did she confide in anyone the promise she’d made to Mommy; and soon, she forgot the promise she’d made to Mommy, for it was safest that way.

  In this wintry time of the year when Mommy went away.

  “Nadia, where the hell have you been? Are you always so damned late?”

  Amelie spoke so harshly to Nadia, her eyes glared with such undisguised dislike, Nadia was stunned. She’d just entered the house—as usual, through the kitchen—though noting, absentmindedly, that there was something wrong in the kitchen, something not right—only a single light burning above the sink, and—where was Mariana?—having been preoccupied with a growing sense of shame, misery that Mr. Kessler didn’t care for her really—(unless there was some mistake, some misunderstanding, and Mr. Kessler really did care for her but knew he must not show his feelings in public)—when her stepmother came rushing into the kitchen, furious as Nadia had never seen her.

  “There’s an emergency situation here! There’s been a theft here! Your precious Mariana—always pretending to be so goddamned nice!—has been stealing from us! I’ve asked her to leave our emp
loy.”

  Nadia stared at Amelie, uncomprehending.

  Mariana? Stealing? And had she been—fired?

  “Don’t look for her—she’s gone. She’s been stealing from us, and she denies it—lying to my face. Your father will deal with her; I can’t. And she won’t be paid for this week!”

  In her fury, Nadia’s stepmother no longer spoke with her charmant French accent. How confusing this was!

  Numbly Nadia set her backpack on the counter. Numbly moving her fingers, fumbling with the zipper of her quilted dark-rose jacket as her stepmother raged:

  “Imagine! Stealing right out of my closet! And I’m sure she’s taken jewelry of mine, too—a pair of earrings I’ve been missing for months, and it never occurred to me that Mariana might have taken them—and my Dior scarf, remember, when we came back from Nantucket—”

  Horror washed over Nadia. Her heart began beating so hard, she felt she might faint.

  “What—did Mariana t-take?”

  “My beautiful bag! The gold bag—it was one of my favorites. I went to look for it and couldn’t find it anywhere, and I asked Mariana, and the way she looked at me—I can detect guilt when I see it—and subterfuge—and of course she denied it, she said she has never taken anything from any house she has worked in, ever. And she kept denying it, that’s what makes me furious. I can see that someone like Mariana, who has so little, might be dazzled by such a bag, and thinking that I haven’t been using it lately, thinking, ‘Maybe Mrs. Stillinger won’t miss it,’ but I’m not that naive.”

  Nadia was feeling faint. And she was feeling sick to her stomach.

  “I—I—took the bag. Not Mariana . . .”

  “You? You did not. You’re covering for Mariana, I can see it in your face.”

  “No—I’m not c-covering for Mariana. I—took your bag . . . I’m so sorry, I didn’t think you would c-care. . . .”

  “Believe me, ma petite amie, your room was the first place I searched—and the bag isn’t there. And I can see in your face, you’re lying now.”

  “Amelie, no—I did take your bag. It wasn’t Mariana—please believe me.”

  “Where is it, then?”

  “I—I don’t know. . . .”

  “You took the bag, but don’t know where it is?”

  “I’m not s-sure. . . .”

  “Well, if you took it, and you don’t have it, where did you see it last? Where did you leave it?”

  Nadia stood frozen, staring at the floor. Her brain seemed to dip, whirl, sink.

  “I—I d-don’t remember. . . . But maybe I can get it back. . . .”

  “You ‘don’t remember’ where you left it—but ‘maybe you can get it back’?” Amelie laughed harshly. Nadia could see that her usually composed and très chic stepmother would have liked to seize her shoulders and give her a very hard shake.

  “Just, it wasn’t Mariana. Please don’t fire Mariana. I—I’m so sorry. . . .”

  “No. I don’t believe you. You and precious Mariana—I hear you laughing together in the kitchen, and when I come in, you both go silent. Well, she’s no saint—she’s no more a mother to you than—than—anyone else.” Amelie began to stammer, so angry. Before Nadia could plead with her further, she turned and stalked out of the kitchen. Nadia stood forlorn and abashed, not daring to follow.

  Upstairs in her room Nadia sank onto her bed. Her backpack fell to the floor; her cell phone tumbled out and she made no move to pick it up. A gathering roar of angry hornets in her brain. She was trying to remember—what? Trying to hear—whose words?

  Sleep, sleep, sleep is the most wonderful gift.

  It isn’t that Mommy doesn’t love you.

  Mommy loves you. . . .

  6.

  SHAME

  “Nadia? What on earth are you trying to tell us?”

  Nadia tried to speak—but could not. Nor could she bear to look at her father’s face, contorted with incredulity and anger.

  Summoned by his hysterical wife, Mr. Stillinger had driven home from work early. He hadn’t believed the situation to be the emergency Amelie called it until on a sudden impulse he searched the house to see if any of his own valuable possessions were missing—and soon discovered that the Kandinsky painting was gone.

  “Whoever stole my painting was trying to be clever—covering her tracks by putting another work of art in its place. But only an idiot would confuse a pastel drawing by Prendergast with an oil painting by Kandinsky.”

  “But why—why would Mariana take a painting? And why that painting?” Amelie was still determined to believe that Mariana was the thief.

  “Well—she isn’t very bright. Obviously! She’s just barely a ‘legal’ alien—she isn’t educated. Maybe she thought she could sell it—somehow. Still, it doesn’t seem like something our housekeeper would take, like your Neiman Marcus bag.” Mr. Stillinger’s fingers were twitching as if he’d have liked to get hold of someone. “We’d better call the police and report it now.”

  And so, Nadia had no choice except to tell her father what she’d done.

  Provoking the red-faced man to turn his fury on her.

  Nadia tried to summon the right words, stammering and faltering. That she’d wanted to give a gift to her science teacher, Mr. Kessler—that she’d taken a painting that resembled a photograph of protozoa. Mr. Stillinger stared at his daughter, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “You couldn’t have thought of this theft on your own, Nadia! Who is this science teacher? Did he put you up to it?”

  “No! Oh, no. Mr. Kessler doesn’t even know. . . .”

  “I’ll call him. I’ll call him first, and then I’ll call the police. This isn’t petty theft, this is grand theft. Do you know how much that painting is worth, Nadia?”

  “N-no . . .”

  “At least three million dollars.”

  “Th-three million dollars?”

  “Wassily Kandinsky is a major artist of the twentieth century! What were you thinking?”

  Nadia could barely think, there was such a roaring in her ears. Her father was looking at her with such hatred, she wanted to hide her face and run from the room.

  “I—I wasn’t t-thinking. . . . I didn’t think you would miss it, and Mr. Kessler would—appreciate it. . . . He likes beautiful things.”

  “Oh, he does, does he—like ‘beautiful things’?”

  “He has photographs of the Earth as a biosphere. And colored plates of single-celled organisms, and the human brain. . . .”

  “And you took Amelie’s bag, to put the painting in? To give to him? Why on earth?”

  “I—d-don’t know. . . .”

  Because the bag looks like gold. Because the bag is beautiful too and was discarded in the closet with other expensive things and no one ever saw it.

  And the painting on the wall—no one ever saw.

  Because I love Mr. Kessler and wanted him to know. And I don’t love you.

  Nadia begged, “Please don’t call anyone, Daddy. Please! Especially not the police—please!”

  “You don’t seem to understand, Nadia. This Kress—Kressler—received stolen goods from you, a minor. This isn’t a misdemeanor, this is a felony. The man must have encouraged you—urged you on—you wouldn’t have thought of such a thing yourself. You’re just a girl—a very young, naive, impressionable girl. But it isn’t like you to be dishonest, in any way—that, I would swear to. You agree, Amelie?”

  Glowering, Amelie, taken by surprise, had no choice but to agree.

  “This man—this science teacher—has had a corrupting influence on you. I will certainly call him, and I will call the headmaster at that fancy school of yours—the tuition and fees we pay, we might as well be sending you to Princeton!”

  It had long been a household contention that Quaker Heights Day School was an expensive school, even more expensive than the Quincy Academy in Connecticut. Yet Mr. Stillinger would not consider allowing his daughter to enroll at the public school, though it had an excellent repu
tation. Nadia had had no choice about which school to attend, since her father had been transferred to Quaker Heights, but she was made to feel guilty about the situation.

  “Oh, Daddy, please—don’t call anyone! It’s all my fault, not Mr. Kessler’s fault at all. He doesn’t even know that I—that I’m the one—I didn’t s-sign my n-name—exactly. . . .”

  “Didn’t sign your name—exactly? What are you trying to say?”

  “I l-left the painting in Amelie’s bag in the back of his car—with a card—but I signed the card with another n-name. . . .”

  “You didn’t even sign your name? You gave away a three-million-dollar painting by Wassily Kandinsky to your science teacher? Without even telling him who you are? Whose painting it is?”

  “I—I had a reason. . . . I’m so sorry! I’m so very sorry! Just let me call him, Daddy—I can explain—please don’t call him, or the headmaster—it might get Mr. Kessler in trouble, and he’s such a wonderful man. . . .”

  Nadia saw that her father was both furious and thrilled—Mr. Stillinger had a penchant for strife, combat, and litigation. He had not ascended the highly competitive hierarchy of the corporate world by being reasonable and forgiving of wrongs committed against him.

  Always it had seemed to Nadia, as far back as she could recall, when her mother was still alive, that her father had taken a kind of grim satisfaction in “wrongs” committed against him—whatever action he took then was justified.

  “It was Mr. Kessler’s birthday this week, so I thought I would give him something. And I wanted it to be s-special. . . .”

  “His birthday? How on earth did you know that?”

  “He mentioned it in class.”

  “Mentioned in class—his birthday? What kind of arrogant behavior is that? Telling adolescents—susceptible adolescents—that it’s his birthday? So his students will bring him presents? This is outrageous.”

  “Oh, no, Daddy—you’re misinterpreting it. Mr. Kessler only just happened to mention his birthday, I can’t remember why—he’s always talking about personal things if they are ‘representative’ and relate to scientific ideas somehow. It’s the way all our teachers teach, they’re not arrogant, they’re friendly. . . .”