Missing Mom: A Novel

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Nikki be gracious! You know what to do.

  Instead of telling these terrible people to go away inviting them inside. Out back, on the terrace.

  “Oh thank you, Nicole! Just for a few minutes! We know, you are so private here. Everyone says.”

  I let this pass. Briskly I led them through the house to the sliding glass terrace door. I’d been working outside, trying to work, on my laptop. A feature for the Beacon on a Christian punk rock band that performed locally.

  Sonja and Sonny! This was something of a shock. If I’d been shockable. Still my face must have expressed wonderment as the couple excitedly told me of their plans to be married in November. At Thanksgiving because they wished to give thanks. They would be married in the Mt. Ephraim Christian Life Fellowship Church and I was the “first in all the world” to be invited.

  “Married! Oh.”

  “Your mother brought us together, Nicole. We owe this to her.”

  Sonny was setting the yellow rose tree down on the terrace, with a tender gesture. All the buds were open, well into bloom. The tree was a miniature, no taller than Sonny’s belt buckle. For a moment I could not comprehend what it meant, why these exuberant people had invaded the terrace. My heart pounded quickly.

  The visit would pass in a blur. Several times I thanked Sonja and Sonny for the rose tree. Several times I congratulated them on their engagement. Sonja was displaying her ring, which glittered with a fierce proud fire like her lavishly made-up eyes. Sonny spoke of the “serendity” that my mother had brought them together as if knowing how they were meant for each other.

  “…if it is a girl, we are thinking ‘Gwendolyn.’ Such a lovely name, it is not so common is it? But then, if a boy…” Sonja giggled. Her eyes widened like the eyes of one riding a roller coaster, plummeting suddenly downhill. Sonja’s awkward manner of speech made it difficult to know whether she and her beaming fiancé were already expecting a baby or hoping someday to expect a baby.

  Quickly I congratulated them. I told them my mother would have been so happy for them if only she’d known.

  Next door at the Pedersens’ children were squealing and shouting in the above-ground swimming pool. Through the summer I’d been relieved that my father wasn’t here to be upset about noisy neighbors.

  There was that advantage, to being dead.

  “…‘All you need in life for happiness is a family you love, and a garden, and maybe a cat or two,’” Sonny was saying, reverently quoting Mom, as Sonja exclaimed, “—oh but darling, Mrs. Aiten was joking, I think, ‘a cat or two,’ she said such things to tease, knowing I am not one for cats, I am aller-gic to them, and I do not trust them for they are sneaky animals I believe—but I did not tell Mrs. Aiten this, she would be hurt. She was so kind! She said to me, one Sunday after church, ‘You have had a hard life, Sonja, I see in your eyes, but your eyes are beautiful and you have faith, I can see the faith shining in your eyes, you know that every day is a new day, only have faith.’” Sonja’s eyes were dramatically enlarged by mascara and iridescent blue eye shadow, her mouth was lush and crimson as one of Mom’s peonies, even as she spoke in a tumult of heavily accented words I saw how adoring Sonny’s gaze was on her, how inspired Mom had been in bringing these two together, for surely that was what she’d intended. (And I’d imagined that Sonny Danto the Scourge of the Bugs had been invited to Mom’s dinner for me.)

  In the weeks following Mom’s funeral, Sonny had left several phone messages for me. He’d asked if he could see me, if he could “drop by.” He’d offered a free bug inspection and if his services were required he’d have given me a 20 percent discount. I hadn’t gotten around to answering his calls and eventually they’d ceased.

  I had to suppose that Sonny and Sonja fell in love shortly afterward.

  “…your mother said, that day I came here to spray for the red ants, ‘It’s so sad to think, God has created all these creatures and some of them are ‘enemies’ of one another. And all of these are beautiful to one another as to God, you have to imagine.’ I laughed at such a thought, I mean I am not comfortable thinking such thoughts when it’s my job to rid households of bugs, but later I was thinking, your mother was right. In her special way of thinking, she was right. She took us to look at her garden, she said, ‘Suppose we were blind like these flowers? Like those seashells that are so beautiful to the human eye, but blind to one another? But we are not blind, we can see that tree, that flower. And that makes me happy for it is the secret of life.’” Sonny spoke excitedly. His hairline was receding, but his oily-dark hair lifted dramatically above his tanned dome of a forehead. Mom’s wisdom shone in his eyes even if he couldn’t express it very clearly. His fiancée was nodding vehemently, leaning forward so that the neck of her dress fell open to expose the milky white tops of breasts tightly clasped in a lacy black satin brassiere. Sonja exuded a rich perfumy air, baubles and bracelets jingled as she spoke. Earnestly she said, “Until Mrs. Aiten was my friend, I was not happy here. I was so lonely here. This place, it is a place of closed doors, to one like myself. Even at the church, I was not made to feel so wanted. And now, because of Mrs. Aiten, I am so happy. I am a new woman. But it is a heavy cloud in my heart, what was suffered by your mother. Such a good, kind woman! Such a Christian woman! And what justice can there be”—Sonja shook her head gravely, her glossy dyed-black hair shifting and shimmering in a lavish spill over her shoulders—“when it is the ‘lated’—is that how you say?—‘too late’—‘belated’—justice of man and not of God. In my country you cannot trust to it, the justice, it is a cruel joke to trust, in this country too, I think, but maybe not so much for there is more hope here, there is more faith, you are a younger country here, you can forget much. Maybe I am not so clear in my speech, saying such things to you, but you know, this man, this terrible man, who did this things to Mrs. Aiten, must be punished. Oh, I will pray for this! That there will be justice.” Sonja spoke passionately, her voluptuous bosom shuddered.

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  I was stunned. I’d never dreamt that Sonja Szyszko could speak in such a way. I had underestimated the woman, and probably I had underestimated Sonny Danto, too.

  In my smugness. My blindness. My wish to mock.

  Sure, I could mock them now. Sonja’s fleshy breasts, hips, belly swathed in a crinkling kind of midnight-blue material you’d identify as a shower curtain except it had bat-wing sleeves and a V-neck opening for a head. Sonny who wore a biceps-fitting sports shirt open at the neck to show a fistful of grizzled hairs and the glint of a tiny cross on a gold chain.

  Clare! You won’t believe who dropped by the house. Who’s engaged to be married in November in your favorite church.

  “I—I’m very happy for you. Sonja, Sonny. Congratulations.”

  I went away to bring back a wedding present for Sonja: the white ostrich feather boa I’d given Mom for Mother’s Day. It would go perfectly with her hair, her coloring, her overripe showgirl style. Sonja gave a little cry, and hugged me.

  Perfumy Sonja, lavish in crinkly midnight blue, gleaming pale-pudgy feet in spike-heeled cork sandals with spangles. And those big pillowy breasts! And Sonny with his slick greasy hair smelling like motor oil. They were the real thing, I’d been a campy imitation.

  I walked with the happy couple to the low-slung sexy red sports car parked so conspicuously in front of the house. Nothing like this on Deer Creek Drive. At the car Sonja hugged me again while Sonny looked on misty-eyed. “Of course I will come to your wedding. I promise.”

  I waved as they drove away. Sonja trailed the fluffy feather boa out the window, in a festive gesture of farewell.

  Next day I examined the Rose of Remembrance in its clay pot. I tried to see the little tree with my mother’s gardener’s eye. She would have noted it was late in the summer to be buying roses. She’d have hoped that Sonny and Sonja had bought the tree from a reputable nursery and at a discount. That her friends hadn’t paid full price for a rose tree past its bloom.

&n
bsp; avoiding…(I)

  It was true, as Clare had said: people avoided us.

  Not that I blamed them. I guess. Plenty of times in my life I’d avoided people I knew, friends of the family and even relatives who’d lost a “loved one.”

  In our case, it had to be worse. What do you say to someone whose mother has been murdered?

  (Every time there was a new development in the case, however small, local papers would erupt in front-page headlines and photos of Gwen Eaton and Ward Lynch. So often you saw these two faces linked, you’d have thought they were smiling mother and down-looking sullen skimpy-bearded son.)

  Some of the people who avoided Clare and me had known our parents for years. They’d visited our house, they’d come to Mom’s funeral and even Clare’s lunch. Some were old friends and classmates of ours. Some were Eaton relatives!

  Most often it happened at the mall, where it’s easy to avoid people by ducking into stores, hurrying to escalators. A few times it happened at the Mt. Ephraim Public Library where Mom had been a frequent patron. At the Bank of Niagara where we all had accounts and at Wal-Mart, Home Depot, Eckert’s, Pet World, The Whiz, ShopRite, even the Whole Earth Co-Op. Often it happened in parking lots where I’d notice a figure in the corner of my eye hesitating as if he/she had sighted me and was debating whether to acknowledge me, call out hello or discreetly turn away.

  Most of the time out of pride I pretended not to notice. But sometimes I’d glance up smiling and wave energetically calling out, “Hey! Hi! I thought that was you.”

  No escape from such a greeting.

  Reporting to Clare Guess who I saw at the mall today. Who tried to pretend she hadn’t seen me. Your best friend from high school Lynda Diebenbeck…

  Some of these messages were meant to annoy. I was pissed at Clare for not taking time to call me back. Nor did my sister “do” e-mail.

  Actually, I preferred leaving messages. This way my bossy sister couldn’t interrupt or contradict me. Or laugh at me. If she erased my messages without listening to them I couldn’t know and be hurt.

  Clare, you’d never guess who ducked behind the flour bins at the Co-Op this afternoon trying to avoid me: our dear cousin Jill. At check-out she tried to look innocent and surprised when I came up to her and said, Hi! Haven’t seen you and your family all summer…

  Jill Eaton had been a favorite cousin of ours. She’d married a well-to-do local man and had frequently invited the Chisholms, and me, to their larger parties. But not recently.

  Jill had always adored her Aunt Gwen. At the grave site after Mom’s funeral we’d hugged each other and wept. But how long ago that seemed, now. In Jill’s flat gaze and thin forced smile I’d seen the futility of such shared memories.

  Of course, I didn’t tell Clare that Sylvie LaPorte had pretended not to see me, too. Sylvie LaPorte my wild high school girlfriend! She’d been devastated by Mom’s death, for weeks she’d left tearful phone messages for me, sent sympathy cards and miniature inspirational books with such titles as North of Grief, South of Joy and Chocolate Pudding for the Soul. And there was my ex-fiancé Lannie Bishop, I’d been thinking still had a crush on me, clumsily ducking into an elevator in a multi-level parking garage.

  And other Mt. Ephraim men, both single and married, who’d have previously gone out of their way to greet me with a wetly friendly kiss and the suggestion that maybe we could meet for drinks sometime? or dinner? Unless I still had that boyfriend.

  Nor would I tell Clare about the most hurtful encounter.

  Seeing my niece Lilja with two other girls at the North Hills Mall, skinny-beautiful with long shining hair, tiny halter tops and low-cut jeans baring their midriffs, and waving to Lilja, who seemed not to see me, at least not until I called out her name and approached her. And seeing then the reluctance in Lilja’s face as she greeted me, endured a hug from me, mumbled replies to my cheery Aunt Nikki questions. I’d heard from Clare that Lilja was deeply mortified by the publicity surrounding my mother’s death and the upcoming trial and I’d vaguely realized that I hadn’t seen her or heard from her in some time, but until now I hadn’t understood how my niece was estranged from me, too. Clare had told her about my moving back into Mom’s house which must have shocked Lilja, for what “weird”—“freaky”—behavior this was, from the perspective of a fourteen-year-old. Not that Lilja was rude, in fact she behaved with a kind of adult graciousness though clearly the last thing she’d wanted was to be publicly accosted and made to introduce her girlfriends to me.

  It was then I realized that I wasn’t Lilja’s cool/chic Aunt Nikki any longer. I’d crossed over to her parents’ generation. My dyed-purple punk hair had nearly grown out, I was dishwater blond laced with gray at the roots. I wasn’t wearing my funky thrift shop clothes. If I’d smeared lipstick on my mouth that morning, it was probably eaten off by now.

  I knew to compliment Lilja on her lavishly pierced earlobes, though. And not to keep her a moment longer. “Well, Lilja! Say hello to your family for me, will you? And come over to see me, before school starts? You know where I’m living this summer, I guess.”

  Backing off with her friends, Lilja flashed a smile of sheer relief. “Oh sure, Aunt Nikki! I know.”

  “sharing your grief”

  “Ms. Eaton. ‘Nikki.’”

  Fixing his nickel-colored eyes somberly on me. Arranging the lower part of his face in a small sympathetic smile.

  “…terrible shock you’ve had. You and your family. Of course you are still in mourning. You are still in shock.”

  A pause. I fumbled to drink ice water from a crystal goblet and the ice cubes tumbled prankishly causing water to splash onto my face in a way that necessitated a hurried mopping of my face as the nickel-eyes brooded upon me and a waiter hovered in the background.

  “I can only imagine. I can only attempt to imagine. Your grief.”

  Actually it was discomfort I was feeling: a dread of glancing down to see that the front of my shirt had been splattered.

  “You could write about it, Nikki. For our readers.”

  Oh! I was staring somewhere neutral: to my right, through a leaded-glass window, at the Chautauqua River below. Swift-flowing, breaking in a sequence of small frothy rapids.

  The editor-in-chief of the Chautauqua Valley Beacon, Nathaniel Waldeman, Jr., rarely met with staff writers. More rarely did Mr. Waldeman take them to lunch at the historic Fayetteville Inn.

  “You see, ‘Nikki,’ Dale Wilmer and I were discussing the possibility that you might write about your experience for our readers.”

  “Nikki” sounded in Mr. Waldeman’s mouth like the cute, quirky name of a dog. A Pomeranian, a toy poodle. Dale Wilmer was the features editor of the Beacon. My editor.

  “Catharsis of grief”—“sharing your grief”—“healing process.” As in cartoon word-balloons issued from a man’s mouth. The nickel eyes misted over. There was the understanding that, sure this was a cheesy request, or would have been a cheesy request from anyone other than Nathaniel Waldeman, Jr., owner and publisher, as well as editor-in-chief, of the revered Beacon. Instead of wincing, or drawing back in revulsion, or tossing the contents of my wineglass (a California chardonnay Wally Szalla would have scorned) into the gentleman’s face, I smiled gently, to allow my companion to know that of course I understood, his request was a gracious one, generously offered, in the service of doing me, the murder victim’s daughter, a favor.

  “Well! I know, it is a bit early. Maybe you are not quite ready to formulate your thoughts. Dale has been telling me that since, um, the tragedy, you have been living in Mt. Ephraim, in the family home you inherited, you’ve been turning in fewer features for us but those you have turned in have been first-rate, I’ve personally been impressed. Work is the great solace in time of personal tragedy, oh I know!” An inward brooding moment. Sipping of chardonnay. I had to wonder what Mr. Waldeman meant. What my relations with Dale Wilmer were at the moment.

  We wavered from week to week. We were like a fever
chart except not so predictable. It appeared that Mr. Waldeman didn’t know, I failed to complete at least half the assignments Dale Wilmer gave me. “Failed to complete” a euphemism for “never got around to starting.” I had to wonder if my relations with my editor Dale Wilmer were in inverse ratio to my relations with my married-man-lover Wally Szalla. If we were on good terms at the present time or not-so-good. If one of us, or both, were delighted/disgusted with the other right now.

  “…may discover kindred spirits. In the healing process. Those who have lost loved ones, too. Prematurely I mean. ‘Violently.’ We were thinking of a diary format. When the trial begins in December. With tastefully selected photographs. We feel that, given our readership, and a wish to extend circulation, the diary format is the most accessible to the most readers.” A sigh. A lifting of the wineglass. A fleeting vision of most readers hovering in the air before us. “You would provide day-by-day copy. Very easy to e-mail. Dale could edit. No need for you to rein in your observations. Your feelings. ‘Intimate.’ ‘Uncensored.’ Perhaps I will have a hand in editing, too. A daily account of the trial, with the outcome not known. You, as well as your readers, Nikki, would be kept in suspense.”

  The nickel eyes glowed, for a moment almost lewdly.

  Mr. Waldeman was admired/feared/disliked/avoided at the Beacon. Some staff persons claimed never to have seen him. Some, perhaps unseriously, doubted he existed except on the Beacon masthead. I knew that Waldeman existed because Wally Szalla knew him, in the way that Wally knew everyone worth knowing in the Chautauqua Valley.

  Mr. Waldeman was assuring me that payment for the proposed feature would be “considerably higher” than usual. Whenever I wished, we could “negotiate.” Perhaps a “formal contract.” An “advance.”

  My heart was beating slower and slower. Strange! I wondered if it might cease to beat.