Eventually she would tell him the not-quite-true I never believed you were the one to take Marissa, Mikal. Never!
The little family, as Zallman wished to think them, ate their picnic lunch, and what a lunch it was, on a wooden table on the bank of a pond, beneath a willow tree so exquisitely proportioned it looked like a work of art in a children’s storybook. He noted that Marissa still had trouble with food, ate slowly and with an air of caution, as if, with each mouthful, she was expecting to encounter broken glass. But she ate most of a sandwich, and half an apple Leah peeled for her, since “skins” made her queasy. And afterward tramping about the pond admiring snowy egrets and great blue herons and wild swans. Everywhere lushly growing cattails, rushes, flaming sumac. There was a smell of moist damp earth and sunlight on water and in the underbrush red-winged blackbirds were flocking in a festive cacophony. Leah lamented, “But it’s too soon! We’re not ready for winter.” She sounded genuinely hurt, aggrieved.
Zallman said, “But Leah, snow can be nice, too.”
Marissa, who was walking ahead of her mother and Mr. Zallman, wanted to think this was so: snow, nice. She could not clearly remember snow. Last winter. Before April, and after April. She knew that she had lived for eleven years and yet her memory was a windowpane covered in cobwebs. Her therapists were kindly soft-spoken women who asked repeatedly about what had happened to her in the cellar of the old house, what the bad girls had done to her, for it was healthy to remember, and to speak of what she remembered, like draining an abscess they said, and she should cry, too, and be angry; but it was difficult to have such emotions when she couldn’t remember clearly. What are you feeling, Marissa, she was always being asked, and the answer was I don’t know or Nothing! But that was not the right answer.
Sometimes in dreams she saw, but never with opened eyes.
With opened eyes, she felt blind. Sometimes.
The bad girl had fed her, she remembered. Spoon-fed. She’d been so hungry! So grateful.
All adults are gone. All our mothers.
Marissa knew: that was a lie. The bad girl had lied to her.
Still, the bad girl had fed her. Brushed her hair. Held her when she’d been so cold.
The sudden explosion, flames! The burning girl, terrific shrieks and screams—Marissa had thought at first it was herself, on fire and screaming. She was crawling upstairs but was too weak and she fainted and someone came noisy and shouting to lift her in his arms and it was three days later Mommy told her when she woke in the hospital, her head so heavy she could not lift it.
Mommy and Mr. Zallman. She was meant to call him “Uncle Mikal” but she could not.
Mr. Zallman had been her teacher in Skatskill. But he behaved as if he didn’t remember any of that. Maybe Mr. Zallman had not remembered her, Marissa had not been one of the good students. He had only seemed to care for the good students, the others were invisible to him. He was not “Uncle Mikal” and it would be wrong to call him that.
At this new school everybody was very nice to her. The teachers knew who she was, and the therapists and doctors. Mommy said they had to know or they could not help her. One day, when she was older, she would move to a place where nobody knew Marissa Bantry. Away out in California.
Mommy would not wish her to leave. But Mommy would know why she had to leave.
At this new school, that was so much smaller than Skatskill Day, Marissa had a few friends. They were shy wary thin-faced girls like herself. They were girls who, if you only just glanced at them, you would think they were missing a limb; but then you would see, no they were not. They were whole girls.
Marissa liked her hair cut short. Her long silky hair the bad girls had brushed and fanned out about her head, it had fallen out in clumps in the hospital. Long hair made her nervous now. Through her fingers at school sometimes lost in a dream she watched girls with hair rippling down their backs like hers used to, she marveled they were oblivious to the danger.
They had never heard of the Corn Maiden! The words would mean nothing to them.
Marissa was a reader now. Marissa brought books everywhere with her, to hide inside. These were storybooks with illustrations. She read slowly, sometimes pushing her finger beneath the words. She was fearful of encountering words she didn’t know, words she was supposed to know but did not know. Like a sudden fit of coughing. Like a spoon shoved into your mouth before you were ready. Mommy had said Marissa was safe now from the bad girls and from any bad people, Mommy would take care of her but Marissa knew from reading stories that this could not be so. You had only to turn the page, something would happen.
Today she had brought along two books from the school library: Watching Birds! and The Family of Butterflies. They were books for readers younger than eleven, Marissa knew. But they would not surprise her.
Marissa is carrying these books with her, wandering along the edge of the pond a short distance ahead of Mommy and Mr. Zallman. There are dragonflies in the cattails like floating glinting needles. There are tiny white moth-butterflies, and beautiful large orange monarchs with slow-pulsing wings. Behind Marissa, Mommy and Mr. Zallman are talking earnestly. Always they are talking, it seems. Maybe they will be married and talk all the time and Marissa will not need to listen to them, she will be invisible.
A red-winged blackbird swaying on a cattail calls sharply to her.
In the Valley of the Shadow of Death I will protect you AMEN.
*Note The Sacrifice of the Corn Maiden is a composite drawn from traditional sacrificial rituals of the Iroquois, Pawnee, and Blackfoot Indian tribes.
BEERSHEBA
Just injected the shot—the insulin—when the phone rang—as if whoever was calling was being courteous, or mock-courteous, and had waited until he’d retracted the needle—and he’d answered grunting “Yeh? Who’s it?”—he wasn’t expecting any calls, this time of evening. And the voice on the line was a female voice—a woman, or a girl—familiar—but hushed, breathless—“Brad Shiftke?—is that you?”
“Sure is. Who’s this?”
A moment’s hesitation—as if whoever it was had to consider this question seriously—then the voice turned coy, playful—“Guess!”
“Guess? I can’t.”
“Hey Brad c’mon—you’re not even trying, man.”
His heart gave a little kick. So quickly the voice had lurched into a teasing sort of reproach—sounding more familiar now—someone he’d known well? Someone—intimate?
Whoever it was wasn’t from any recent time in his life, Brad was sure. Not one of the women he’d known these past five, six years—the women still speaking to him—would be addressing him like this.
Those years in his younger life—mid-twenties to thirty-eight, -nine—there’d been women who’d addressed Brad in such a tone. He’d married young, and separated; divorced, and married again; and in the interstices of domestic life in Florida and upstate New York, for which he’d been no more suited than a wild animal—raccoon, chimp—that can’t be tamed, he’d seen women in secret. Overall he’d had a good time. He’d taken for granted that women liked him, and liked what he did with them and probably it could be said he’d had the whip hand in any relationship. First he’d been stationed at the Pensacola naval base where it was discovered he was good with computers then after his discharge moved north to Carthage, New York, which was close by his hometown but not too close he had to see his family often. But girls he’d known from high school and after—plenty of these. And this woman—girl—definitely, he knew her. The teasing way she was speaking like ghost-fingers stroking his hair, the nape of his neck which no woman had touched in a long time.
“C’mon try to guess, Brad—there was a time you’d know me right off .”
“You going to give me some hint? Like—how long ago?”
“‘How long ago’—you tell me.”
“Or—you don’t live around here, you’re back visiting? That’s it?”
“What about you, Brad?”
“M
e? What’s there about me?—you’re the subject.”
“Nooo Brad c’mon, man—you’re the subject. That’s why I called you, man.”
What all this was about, Brad couldn’t guess. All he knew he was becoming excited, aroused. The woman—or girl—had to be a mature woman he supposed—but sounded like a girl, breathy and giggly—was saying she’d called him hoping he’d remember her name at least and she’d been thinking if so, if Brad remembered her name, that would be a sign she should see him, and she’d been wanting to see him for a long time: she’d come to Carthage to look him up, or—maybe not entirely just for him—but she’d made a long drive and was staying at a motel out on Route 11 and for sure, Brad Shiftke was a primary reason she’d come but now—well now she didn’t know what to think—“Seems like you don’t have a clue who I am, Brad.”
“Well—your voice is familiar. It’s a voice—I know.”
“But not my name, huh?”
“Well—almost. I can almost—”
“Your voice is a voice I know, Brad. Your voice is a voice in my dreams, I would not likely forget.”
This stilted manner of speech was familiar, too—made him uneasy, recalling—not a recent memory but one that stirred him. He was wondering—was this woman taunting him? Some woman who’d had a disagreement with him, or a misunderstanding, he’d forgotten? He’d been accused of careless behavior, from women. Not mean or malicious—he’d never lay hands on any woman, no matter how provoked—but more like thoughtless, hurried in his manner—pushy, bossy—but good-hearted, protective—he’d had a drinking problem since high school—that was under control. Until he’d put on weight in his forties he’d been what you’d call fit—chiseled chest, biceps, and upper arms—wore his faded-carrot-color hair in a crew cut—good posture from his navy days and not bad-looking when he took time to shower and shave and wear clean clothes which, being chief computer techie at the community college, and pretty much his own boss, he could skip sometimes.
“How’re you doing, Brad?” the woman was asking and Brad said, “Good. I’m doing good” and the woman said, “Really—I want to know, Brad. I heard some things,” and with a quick laugh Brad said, “Heard some things from—who? Somebody stalking me?”
This annoyed him. Any thought of people discussing him. Worse yet feeling sorry for him.
Brad was on his feet now. He’d heaved himself up from the sofa sculpted to his heavy body, clicked the TV on mute. It was his mobile phone he had where the caller ID revealed WIRELESS CALLER NY—not much help. He was beginning to feel edgy, anxious—what had this woman been hearing about him?—couldn’t be the drinking, that was five-six years back—the DWI and the other, a bullshit charge of second-degree assault—later dropped—had to be the diabetes—that was what the woman meant. He felt a flamey sensation of shame, fury—what right did she have, whoever it was, a stranger to him—alluding to that? Brad didn’t discuss his God-damn health with anyone even his family, friends. Zero interest he had in that.
Early last year, he’d been diagnosed—after he’d blacked out more than once, and the last time while driving his SUV on the thruway—what the doctor told him felt like the dull edge of an ax slammed against his head when he hadn’t been prepared for such a blow but insulin injections kept it under control, insulin lispro was what the doctor prescribed for him, the fast-acting insulin so you don’t have to plan too much about when you’re eating. Hated injecting himself like some strung-out junkie but he’d learned to prepare the shot, sink the syringe needle into his midriff , fatty-flaccid flesh straining against his belt—even with shedding thirty pounds, he was still overweight—and after eighteen months still his fingers were clumsy as hell, it was easy to fuck up, drop the needle into his crotch or onto the floor cursing Jesus! This is not me. So ashamed, embarrassed he’d never told his closest friends or any woman about the diabetes but at his mother’s house he didn’t hesitate to lift his T-shirt and inject the needle in the living room watching TV or even at the dinner table with people looking on—“Uncle Brad that’s gross.” He’d just laugh, what the hell—it was a vague simmering resentment of his, he’d inherited the condition from his mother’s side of the family where all the years he’d been growing up he’d hear of older relatives—uncles, aunts—with some weird infirmity called sugar diabetes.
Now came a surprise. Just when he’d been worried the woman was going to hang up on him suddenly her voice dropped, drawled—“Well Brad my man—why I’m calling—how’d you like to get together tonight? Or—you tied up tonight?”
“Sure. I mean—no.”
“There’s nobody there?”
“No. There’s nobody here.”
“Heard you got married—more than once, was it?”
“That was a while back.” “No kids?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Jesus yes—I’m sure.”
“No kids you know of, you’re saying.”
Brad came to a full stop. Gripping the phone against his ear. Was this some kind of joke? Some girl calling him claiming she’s his daughter?
“Hey Brad—you still there?”
“Sure . . .”
“Didn’t mean to scare you, man. I’m not any kid of yours or anything nor am I aware of any kid of Brad Shiftke I’m just, like—y’know—making inquiries. What you know.”
“What I know? About—what?”
“About whatever subject this is, Brad, we’re talking about.”
“You said—you wanted to get together?”
“Yes! That’s what I said.”
The plan was to meet at the Star Lake Inn which was about five miles from Brad’s place in Carthage and a place where people tended to know Brad Shiftke, or had known him when he’d gone out drinking more, and Star Lake was one of his weekend stops. In the bar he didn’t see her—a solitary woman—figured she’d be a good-looking woman but all of these he saw were with guys or other people and out back on the veranda which was where you could sit with drinks if you bought them inside there was a woman smiling at him—hands on her hips as in a pose, backs of her hands resting against her hips which were fleshy, solid—and her head tilted to one side, where a thick glossy braid fell over her shoulders. “Brad Shiftke—that’s you? Hi!” Before Brad could register any reaction except a startled smile the woman stepped forward and thrust out her hand to be shaken, her fingers were solid and strong, handshake firm as a man’s and the way she presented herself before him, bemused and open-faced, feet apart, looking him in the eye, reminded him of a man. He thought Is this someone I know? It is not. Trying not to show the disappointment he was feeling the woman wasn’t very attractive—not like what her voice had hinted—though she was young, in her twenties—large-boned girl with a head that looked small, hair pulled back tight into the coarse braid, plain darkish-tan face like an Indian-girl face, broad mouth and heavy eyebrows, ironic eyes and skin roughened at the hairline as if with a rash or the remnants of acne. As they shook hands—exchanged bantering greetings—Brad saw that the girl had unusually large breasts—watermelon-breasts—straining at the fabric of an ice blue satin T-shirt with a man’s face on it—Hispanic-looking, with a mustache—some kind of guerrilla cap, uniform—a T-shirt face or tattoo-face familiar as Elvis but Brad couldn’t place it—and the girl’s jeans were designer jeans with brass studs. She had broad hips, thighs. On her large splayed bare feet were leather sandals durable enough for hiking but her toenails were painted frosted green—meant to be playful, Brad supposed. Her ears were intricately pierced, there was a curved glinting pin in her left eyebrow and another in her upper lip. Some kind of New Age hippie, the kind Brad and his friends sneered at, seeing on TV. In person you rarely saw them in this part of the Adirondacks.
“Still don’t recognize me, Brad?—now I’m kind of hurt.” Brad stared at the girl. Those eyes—did he know them? Hazel-brown with thick lashes. She was laughing, her face was mottled with heat. It did seem to be so, Brad’s confusion about wh
o she was seemed to hurt her, unless she was pretending. Warmly Brad said, “Let me get us drinks, OK? Beers? You’re not underage—are you?”
“Underage? Hell, no. I’m a big girl all growed up, Daddy.”
At this—Daddy—Brad stopped dead in his tracks. Took a second look at the girl and saw—Jesus, was this Stacy Lynn? The daughter of Linda Gutshalk, who’d been Brad’s second wife? Now it made some kind of sense—the mysterious girl resembled Linda, to a degree. It was coming back to Brad now—Linda had died in a car wreck, he’d been out of her life by that time. Stacy Lynn was just a little girl then. Linda’s parents had taken her and had custody of her—she’d been theirs, and not Brad’s. Brad had only been step-Daddy. And Brad hadn’t been a very devoted step-Daddy during the four or five years he’d been married to Linda—the role had not come easily to him, no more than the husband-role had.
The girl was laughing, breathless. Wiping tears from her cheeks with both hands. Brad saw that her body wasn’t fat so much as solid-packed like hard rubber. Sure she had to be someone worked out in a gym—he’d watched girls like this, half-repelled, fascinated by the way they inhabited bodies that, if a man woke up in, Jesus he’d blow off his head with a shotgun.
“Oh hey Brad. You didn’t remember ‘Stacy Lynn’—did you?”
“Hell yes. I did—I do. Just, you took me by surprise . . .”
Brad covered his embarrassment by hugging the girl. Her body was just as hard-rubbery as he’d thought but the big breasts were soft, like milk-filled sacs. Coming so close to her was disconcerting. Awkward. True that Brad hadn’t remembered her—not exactly. But he’d been remembering her mother, hearing the girl’s voice on the phone. Why he’d been feeling both excitement and anxious. Sexual excitement yet wariness, apprehension. Linda Gutshalk! Linda was one of the women he didn’t care to think about especially when he was in a down mood like tonight. Like lots of nights recently. Most he had to do—most important thing—was to remember to take his insulin at the right time which was an indication of how things stood with Brad Shiftke these days, he didn’t care to think about. Linda Gutshalk was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen in actual life when he’d first met her, he had to concede that. Both of them drunk they’d gotten married in Niagara Falls one weekend shortly after he’d been discharged from the navy and moved back north—it hadn’t exactly sunk in on him, Linda had been married before and had a little girl—meaning responsibility. Still less had Brad grasped that Linda was difficult to live with, to put it mildly—she hadn’t liked being touched in any way she considered “over-familiar”—a problem in a marriage. And in the close quarters in which they’d had to live in Chautauqua Falls, in a mobile home.
The Corn Maiden: And Other Nightmares Page 11