Because It Is Bitter, and Because It Is My Heart

by Joyce Carol Oates

Graice re treats. The telephone is still ringing, so on her way out she snatches up the receiver listens a moment, says, No, she isn't here! Nobody's here! Sorry! Try somewhere else!

  ays, he's getting in the habit of prowling the world with his camera, too restless and excited to stay in that sad little studio on North Main Street, the CLOSED sign hanging in the door, no one to answer the telephone Nights and the nights are long he sips Scotch and is back to reading St. Augustine, whom he'd first re ad as a young man, a lifetime ago, beset by lust and idealism and dreams of worldly grandeur.

  What, then, do I love when I love God? Who is this Being who is so far above my soul? If I am to reach him, it must be through my soul. But I must go beyond the power by which I am joined to my body and by which I fill its frame with life.

  In middle age Leslie Courtney has become increasingly convinced that, by way of his camera, he can locate God. he can at least love God.

  For is not God evident in all His images, shining forth in splendor in every visible form? Leslie knows better than to speak too casually about such things, however. People think he's crazy enough: lanky, on stork's legs, two day beard, scuffed enoc casins and rumpled trousers and gold rimmed schoolboy glasses, popping up everywhere in town with his camera, asking May I? Do you mind?

  On a given day Leslie Courtney will strike up conversations with as many as twenty or thirty people, most of them strangers.

  The conversations are preliminary to, often accompanying, his taking of their photographs. But he tries to keep his talk casual, breezy, attuned to the latest news, or sports, or weather. local scandals, if any. Like many shy people his shyness can be turned inside out, exploding in bright gouges of talk. it s remarkable

  Then he returns to the natural silence of his being.

  The big hefty Kodak slung around his neck on a worn leather strap, the solace of its weight.

  Yes, but you're a hypocrite, a fool.

  You'd surrender God if you could love, and be loved by, Persia Courtney. don't deny it!

  Now that the divorce is official she isn't Persia Courtney but Persia Daiches, and Leslie makes an effort to think of her as Daiches.

  to imagine her re stored to a condition not simply of unmarriedness but of virginity.

  An absurd sort of gallantry. But he tries.

  Though he knows. must know. about Persia's numerous men friends, knew a good many unwanted details about Virgil Starling, how could he not know? Hammond, New York, is a small town.

  Of course, he calls Persia frequently. Is there anything she needs?

  Can he be of help? How is she? Undiscouraged by the fact that they seem to be forever busy, he invites Persia and Graice out to dinner, to the movies, to the Orleans County Fair where Leslie Courtney's photograph of ice locked bodies of water wins a blue ribbon in the Professional Photographers' Competition , to picnics in Cassadaga Park.

  It seems he's always in the Jewett Street neighborhood camera on its strap around his neck, he'll ring the door bell at Persia's just in case. a risky venture, courting humiliation.

  At the end ofJuly, it happens one evening that things work out ideally: when Leslie Courtney drops by at 927 Jewett he has come at a magically opportune time: Persia home, Graice home, mother and daughter in reasonably good moods and unusually considerate of each other. which isn't invariably the case now that Graice is growing up.

  Seeing him on the doorstep Persia cries, Just the man! Just the man we were missing! and he's invited for supper, and afterward he and Persia sit in the living room watching television and sipping the tart California wine Leslie brought, laughing at Red Buttons, Ernie Kovacs, Jack Paar, and then it's 1:30 A. M. and time for Leslie to leave and at the door above the stairs saying good night he squeezes Persia's hand in sudden desperation, begins to speak, smiles the smile of a man about to throw himself into flames. but Persia, quick and shrewd, forestalls him.

  Les, no.

  This is the season Leslie Courtney's impromptu conversations with strangers, which in the past have given him such pleasure, begin to take on a new, troubling urgency. shade sometimes into quarrels. It seems he wants to explain himself, defend himself, hold himself up as an object of curiosity: Without this damned thing, just holding it in my hands, I don't see somehow.

  An airless August afternoon in the shabby square facing the Orleans County Courthouse, and he's talking so strangely passion lately, holding captive a rheumy eyed derelict to whom he has given $5 for the privilege of taking his picture. As if, without it, I wouldn't have the power, somehow Leslie Courtney says.

  Wouldn't have the eyes.

  The derelict on the park bench squints grinning up at Leslie Courtney as if he suspects a joke. a joke in which he isn't interested. The $5 bill in his hand, there's a powerful sunburst of craving in his throat, chest, belly, for the sweetest Mogen David he can find in the wine and liquor store just across the street.

  Eh? he says, to be polite. How's that?

  Leslie Courtney laughs, gripping the Kodak. If I knew, I'd know!

  In Hammond, though, he's becoming increasingly restless

  Drives to other cities in the state, in Pennsylvania, across the border in Canada. no particular destination. Wasting rolls of film. One delirium of a night at Olcott Beach, on Lake Ontario, he gets so drunk in the company of several newfound friends male and female he's incapable of driving back home and spends the night passed out in his car. in the morning wakened by two small boys tapping on the car window close beside his head, grinning and giggling.

  Hey, mister! You dead or alive?

  In Buffalo, in a sleazy strip off Main Street, he buys a woman a woman with black dyed hair, olive skin, nothing at all like the other.

  Most of the time, though, he's drawn to Lake Ontario: walking along the bluff, along the pebbly shell strewn beach, though the water and the vast mountainous overreach of the sky above it cannot provide him with more than commonplace picturesque photo graphs. a further waste of film.

  But he's happy here, can lose himself for hours. Hours, days, weeks.

  Sometimes the air has the taste of autumn already: scalpel sharp winds slicing down from Canada. Other days, it's still summer a region of torpor and deadly peace, the stench of rotting fish, broken oyster shells, tangled seaweed lifting to his nostrils.

  What, then, do I love when I love?

  Who is this Being who is so far above my soul?

  Whether he pauses to take pictures or not, Leslie Courtney requires his camera. All the time. Without the hefty Kodak slung around his neck on a strap, he'd be blind.

  and there's the day deep in winter January 1959, when Graice Courtney writes in her secret journal, She's an alcoholic.

  As if testing out the words: alcoholic, alcoholic. Daring to commit them to the terrible authority of ink on paper, its impersonality I despise her. can't wait to escape her. Gouging the paper with her pen's sharp point as she hears the anguished sounds of her mother emptying out her guts in the bathroom beside Graice's room spasms of helpless vomiting, sobs and vomiting, that go on and on and on. I love her too OH JESUS WHAT CAN I DO.

  It isn't the first time of course, and it certainly will not be the last, that Graice Courtney is interrupted late at night by her mother stumbling into the apartment, stumbling to the bathroom. and the re st.

  The narrow rectangular journal in which Graice Courtney scrupulously records the side of her life she thinks of as in eclipse that is, the secret side she doesn't speak of, ever, to anyone is an old financial ledger with a marbleized cover and crinkling yellowish pages she'd found in a trash can in a neighborhood alley, years ago. The first twenty pages were covered in meticulous penciled notations and these Graice tore out, claiming the remainder of the pages as her own.

  Graice Courtney is the mostfrugal ofpersons, Graice Courtney boasts of herself in the journal.

  Like most boastful statements, it's an acknowledgment of defeat.

  All her life Graice Courtney is going to re member: stooping to remove th
e overflowing trash bag from beneath the kitchen sink and discovering behind it a tipsy little cache of empty bottles Persia must have been intending to dispose of herself but forgot. as, in these final years of her life, she forgets so much.

  Three empty gin bottles, two empty bourbon bottles, one empty Scotch bottle, several empty wine bottles.

  Their shapes, sizes, labels are wholly familiar to Graice Courtney, of course: she has been seeing them all her life.

  The gin bottle, though empty, is still fairly heavy. Gordon's Distilled London Dry Gin. With the eerie drawing on the label of a wild boar, meticulously rendered with double tusks, small malevolent eyes. the orange coloring suggests that the drawing is a cartoon but if you look closely you see that it isn't a cartoon.

  Graice jams her knuckles against her mouth, stifles a sob.

  Oh, Momma. Oh, my God. Why?

  As for beer: the accumulation of empty Schlitz bottles must not seem to Persia a matter of particular embarrassment or shame, since these numerous bottles Persia doesn't try to hide but keeps in plain view in the kitchen, ranged along the floor in the six pack card board carriers they come in. There's a deposit of three cents on each bottle so Persia takes care to re turn them, week following week, to Ace's Beer, Wine & Liquor around the corner: re turning empties, buying Schlitz six packs, re turning empties, buying Schlitz six packs. week following week. Ace's has many faithful customers and none more faithful than good looking cheery smiling Persia.

  Why doesn't Persia hide her empty beer bottles? She's so seasoned an alcoholic, Graice realizes that, to her, beer doesn't count.

  How dare you? You. Have you nothing better to do with your time than spy on me? Persia cries, furious when, after days of hesitating, Graice finally brings up the subject of Persia's drinking. My own daughter spying. like every busybody and asshole in this neighborhood Are you so perfect?. Little Miss Honor Roll!. Little Miss Smart Ass!. I do what I do and what I damn well want to do I deserve some happiness m the one who pays the bills around here on my feet every night at that damned place required to smile at every son of a bitch who comes in, pinches my rear, sometimes the bastard will squeeze my breasts. what you do then is smile, sugar, smile, smile, SMILE, cause if you don't you re out on your ass what do you know about it?. Such disrespect. such selfishness. Little Miss Perfect!

  .

  If I hear you're spreading tales of me, to Maddy or Les or any of my friends, or to your goddamned father especially him I'll slap your mean little face so hard you won't know what hit you My own daughter.

  spying on me. after all I've sacrificed for you.

  after all I've sacri'icedfor you you little bitch.

  So, each time, Graice Courtney is overwhelmed.

  Defeated, demoralized, obliged even to apologize.

  Momma, I'm sorry Momma, you know I didn't mean More and more frequently Persia flies into such rages and Graice shrinks before her as before a giant woman. as if Persia were no longer her mother, no longer an individual human being but a force of nature, splendid and terrible as a hurricane, storming through the cramped rooms of their life, slamming doors in her wake, churning the very air to madness.

  And Graice re treats, hides away in her room, trembling, in tears.

  In such circumstances it seems a truly petty matter that Persia pours herselfa drink, or two, or three, out in the kitchen. lights up cigarettes , tries to re lax. As she says , she does what she does and what she damn well wants to do. She deserves some happiness.

  It's only 12:20 A. M. but it feels later. Not Saturday night any longer but Sunday morning.

  Alone for just a few minutes, she's so lonely it scares.

  She's singing, under her breath. One of Duke Courtney's old habits.

  Persia's in the pink lit powder room of the Golden Slipper Lounge out on Route 63. again. taking another five minute break. A quick Chesterfield, a vodka she's sipping slow as she can, she's freshening her makeup that's caked and creased and primping her stiff piled hair with fingers there's no sensation in at the tips, unless she's imagining it. her mind plays all kinds of tricks on her these days.

  No customers in the powder room just now so she's singing in her sweet, thin, slightly nasal voice, trying to keep ahead of something she hopes won't happen, Blue skies smiling at me and in comes Molly McMillan clattering in her spike heeled shoes, just a girl in Persia's eyes, twelve years younger than Persia. Hey, you sound happy tonight, Molly says with her prissy little smile that can be a sneer too, and Persia says quickly, Why shouldn't I be happy, I try to be happy. it s the least thing you can do not to drag other people down, and Molly laughs, only half hearing, staring at her face in the mirror, her dilated eyes like dime store jewels glaring out of her face. Uh huhhhhhhhhhh.

  Jesus, yes.

  Molly doesn't have a drink but Molly lights up a cigarette so fast her hands fumble. Exhales smoke in a furious cloud. She's one of the cocktail waitresses always angry about something. Tap tap tapping on the floor with the toe of her spike heeled shoe.

  Both women are wearing black satin dresses that fit their bodies snugly, with tiny gold stitched slippers on their right breasts, plunging V necklines, puffy little girl sleeves; black spike heeled shoes with sharply pointed toes; black fishnet stockings.

  There's the beginning of a run in Molly's stocking.

  Persia's hair is upswept and lacquered around her head like a crown, an ashy tawny red; Molly's hair is platinum blond, pale as Marilyn Monroe's.

  In the flattering fleshy pink light of the powder room it isn't immediately evident that Persia is so many years older than Molly McMillan. unless you look closely.

  Says Persia, bright and edgy, My ex husband, he'd go around most days in a good mood too. High flying. At least so you could see. on the surface. Guess I picked it up from him. The habit.

  Molly's eyes swerve onto Persia's, in the mirror. Duke, you're talking about?

  'Actually in a way he always was in a good mood. in a way.

  Yeah. I know Duke. He's fun.

  Like things never went deep in him, you know?

  Do I know! They're all that way.

  The ventilation's so poor in here, even with the fancy simulated velvet wallpaper and the giant mirror that glitters as if it's been sprayed with specks of gold, Persia has trouble breathing hasafit of coughing.

  She's sick. Going to be violently sick.

  She's been sick for months: can't keep anything in her stomach, makes appointments to see the doctor then cancels out at the last minute, the telephone receiver trembling in her hand.

  Now Persia is steeling herself, waiting for Molly McMillan with her brash careless mouth to inquire after Duke Courtney who's so much fun.

  She's standing very still waiting for the question, so still and apprehensive she loses track of what she's waiting for only that she'll have to answer the question. an answer that won't shame her, that can be repeated around town. She knows people talk about her, spy on her, have their theories about her. But she has never been one of those embittered divorcees forever whining and complaining with whom people pretend to sympathize then ridicule behind their backs.

  Her voice is shaking suddenly. It seems she's angry. My daughter I'm worried about. How to keep her from harm.

  Molly murmurs a vague assent.

  So much harm in the world. so much shit.

  She's so angry suddenly, so incensed, Molly McMillan's eyes swing on her face again in the mirror.

  Persia has more to say but somehow it happens that she has begun to vomit: so quickly she can't set her drink down on the ledge in front of the mirror, can't stumble into one of the toilet stalls in time, she's vomiting onto the floor, into one of the sinks. her vomit hot and searing, liquidy in part, pure vodka, but in part thick as oatmeal and so abrasive her throat feels scraped and she's sobbing too, she's humiliated and helpless and she knows she's going to die, it's Death she's trying to vomit up, her stomach failing her and her nerves tight strung as wires, and she hears Molly McMillan
exclaiming in disgust, Oh, shit, oh, no, because some of the vomit has splashed on her dress, her fishnet stockings. but Molly helps Persia too, feels damned sorry for the woman, steadying her shoulders as you would with a small scared child, murmuring, Going to be all right, lion, just hold on. going to be all right.

  Molly McMillan's cigarette slanted at an upward angle between her reddened lips, half her young face screwed up against the smoke and the stink of Persia's vomit.

  Persia hopes Molly won' tell tales on her, endanger her job at the Golden Slipper. It's all she has, right now.

  /wanted not to be lonely. That's all I ever wanted.

  When you were born I thought I'd never be lonely or unhappy again my heart swelled almost to bursting.

  It was like God made me a promise. I would never be lonely or unhappy again in my life with my baby girl my sweet little baby Graice.