Lovely, Dark, Deep: Stories

by Joyce Carol Oates

A fizzing sensation in her nostrils, from the Champagne. In rapid succession she’d sneezed, squeaky little sounds of the kind a child might make.

  Gesundheit! God bless you.

  It was an idiotic custom. Leanda hated it. Some sort of holdover from a primitive superstitious past in which no one believed any longer and yet strangers intruded upon your privacy daring to wish you good health, succeeding only in embarrassing you.

  The man who’d wished her good health leaned in upon her. Towering over her. He seemed to know her—a family friend? One of those admiring men her mother had gathered around her, in an earlier phase of her marriage when she’d still been young, and had been livened by the company of admiring men.

  “Dance, dear? It’s ‘Leondra’—is it?”

  She didn’t bother to correct him—Mr. Hurst. Her smile was fixed to her face like plastic. She stumbled a little, in Hurst’s awkward arms. The five-piece band was playing music with a hip-hop Latin beat to which the man was wholly unsuited.

  She was feeling relief, Nick wasn’t here. Very possibly, she would never see Nick again.

  When they made love, at Nick’s initiation, they were both very quiet. They were both very solemn. Nick’s concern was with Leanda’s comfort—he was concerned about hurting her, lying too heavily upon her, crushing her. Leanda’s concern was with seeming not to feel the discomfort and pain she invariably felt.

  You can tell me, Leanda—is there someone else? You’re in love with someone else? Your mind is on someone else?

  No! It is not.

  Yet he’d seemed to know. Though he couldn’t have known that the man on Leanda’s mind was her father.

  He professed not to understand why Leanda was so helpless when the Johnstons summoned her. It wasn’t just Jayson, it was any of them.

  If her mother called, Leanda hurried to her always expecting the worst—the woman lived alone except for a succession of houseguests in a sumptuous condominium on Central Park South. Relatives were always calling Leanda to plead with her, or berate her, about taking care of her father, and Leanda usually gave in. She told Nick that she was grateful to the Johnstons, they were her family. He said they were exploiting her good nature.

  She had to think he meant your servile nature.

  Nick said they’d probably bought her from her birth mother. He knew what private adoptions were: poor unmarried girls, well-to-do Caucasian couples. He told Leanda about a TV program he’d seen on the subject of American couples arranging to adopt Russian children, of whom a good number were “sent back” when they failed to “adjust.”

  Stubbornly, pointlessly Leanda said she wasn’t Russian.

  She’d said, the last time they’d been together, “I can’t say no to my father! He’s injured himself, he can barely walk. He’s been depressed. He’s capable of the most remarkable work, but he’s been depressed.”

  “You have to assert yourself, Leanda. This has been going on for years. Your family will eat you up alive. Tell your father you’ve made other plans for this fall—you’re going to Camden.”

  “I don’t have a residency at Camden yet.”

  “You won’t have one if you don’t complete the application. I can help you.”

  “He doesn’t want anyone else to assist him, now. He’s feeling abandoned. He says he’s convinced he will die, if he leaves the Vineyard.”

  “That’s ridiculous! He’s blackmailing you emotionally. It’s what he’s been doing since I met you. You should realize that you aren’t a kid any longer, Leanda, who can throw away a year of her life.”

  He asked Leanda if she’d like him to accompany her when she explained to her father that she was going to Camden, Maine, for the fall and winter, to work on her own photography. “Tell him you’ve made other plans, that can’t be changed. With me.”

  Leanda stammered yes—she would do that. Or—no. She could not do that.

  Nick had taken hold of Leanda’s hands. Now she eased her hands from his. She was laughing nervously. Nick said:

  “You want to come with me, Leanda, don’t you? To Camden? No one will bother you there, you can work twelve hours a day uninterrupted.

  “Then—that’s what I’ll be doing.”

  He’d kissed her. She’d clutched at his neck, her thin arms around his neck, kissing him, desperate and elated.

  COME HELP ME! I’m so afraid, Nick. I love you—if there is anyone I can love. Please help me, I don’t want to die alone.

  AT THE START of his drinking he was mellow, maudlin. Drawing his rough-calloused fingers across her cheek.

  I hope you forgive me, Leanda. I know I’ve been a terrible father taking advantage of your sweet nature and your generosity.

  You are my darling, you know that don’t you?

  Her older sisters, her brother Casey—he’d been disappointed in them. Even as children they’d eluded him. By traveling so much when they’d been young he had broken the bond between them—the bond between father and children. It had been painfully clear, he was capable of forgetting them for weeks, months. The gifts he brought to them were, in Casey’s words, “airport gifts”—expensive “souvenirs” he’d picked up in airports, hastily, on his way home.

  (Leanda didn’t think that was always so. Her father had brought very nice things for her purchased on his travels, especially for her. She was sure of this.)

  Tramping in the dunes. Miserable rainy weather on the Cape. The morning after a blizzard had left power out through most of the Vineyard. Yet as a girl of twelve she’d been Daddy’s assistant-apprentice as he fondly called her. She was taking pictures, too. Daddy had bought her a good camera, and helped her with the settings.

  Snow-draped dunes, foaming waves, rivulets on the wide sandy beach, driftwood, litter. Skeletons of once-living sea-creatures, washed ashore. Spines, vertebrae. Gliding across the coarse sand at their feet, shadows of gulls, hawks.

  It was as Virginia Woolf had observed: there is so much more to be seen in a photograph than in the actual subject from which the photograph has been taken.

  HERE WAS THE SURPRISE he’d wanted to tell her: the curator at the International Center of Photography had approached him to assemble a retrospective of his photographs. With his broken foot, his creased face, his eyes glistening in excitement—“Good news! But not possible without you.”

  She would help prepare the photographs. She would arrange for framing, which was expensive. She would label the photographs and she would write the catalogue copy which her father would then edit.

  She’d studied the history of photography at Yale, to prepare for such tasks.

  Shuffling with his broken foot in a cast, steely-gray hair in ridges above his forehead, tender-seeming, smiling like any proud father he’d escorted the bride into the Old Whaling Church and down the aisle to the altar where the bridegroom and the minister awaited her.

  Leanda thought That will never be me.

  A profound melancholy eased over her. She ceased to see what was before her.

  Afterward at the Chilmark farm she’d been urged to drink Champagne. There were many toasts, and much laughter. Mr. Hurst had asked her to dance. Leanda had been too gracious, or too cowardly, to detach herself from him. He’d asked her about her college courses: the last time he’d spoken with her, Leanda had been an undergraduate at Yale. Yet, he was confusing her with someone who’d gone to Wellesley. His thinning white hair had been meticulously combed over his head. He wore black tie, and his starched white shirt was wine-stained. Soon, he would spill wine onto Leanda’s dress. There is something so sad about a man who requires a woman, the desperation of such need. But he’d offended Leanda by asking, with a smile of admiration, how much she weighed.

  Mr. Hurst was one of the Island’s quasi-famous figures. There were many of these, who had achieved prominence in New York, or in Boston, in an indeterminate past.

  “Jesus! I’m sorry . . . Let me see if I can wipe this with . . .”

  Clumsily he’d dipped a napkin into a glass of
ice water. But Leanda was departing, and would not return.

  She’d gone into another part of the house with the excuse that she wanted to change her clothes. But she hadn’t returned. Instead, she took two Ambien tablets and went to bed. And early next morning while the house was asleep—how many sleeping, in how many rooms, she had no idea—she slipped away without telling anyone.

  Called a taxi, took Cape Air to Boston and Jet Blue to Kennedy, a taxi to West Tenth Street. She hadn’t said good-bye to anyone even the bride. Even her father.

  IT WAS A KIND of open secret, she was Uncle Jayson’s daughter—actually. The mother was probably a cleaning woman, or—maybe—he’d been having physical therapy for some back problems—a physical therapist. Like I say it was a kind of open secret in the family but you never talked about it of course. He and Marilynne had been divorced, he’d married Gabriele, she’d had miscarriages and around that time the “adopted baby” came on the scene. They pretended it was adopted—or maybe Gabriele never knew. Anything Jayson Johnston wanted to do he more or less did.

  He’s a genius, they say. We see his photographs in museums and they look pretty good. It’s hard when you know the man—the “genius.” It’s hard comprehending.

  Sure it made sense, otherwise why’d Uncle Jayson adopt a baby when he already had so many kids, and didn’t get along with any of them? A Filipina-American? Why’d his new, young wife want to adopt, except she couldn’t get pregnant, and he maneuvered her into it, choosing the “adoption agency” which was really just a lawyer negotiating with them.

  Did the girl ever know? Probably not.

  Maybe when he’d gotten really old, he would’ve told her. Maybe he’s revealed it all in his will. But that won’t help her now, and it won’t help him. He’ll find someone else to be his “assistant,” and he’ll be distracted suing for malpractice. Maybe he’ll even get married again but it won’t be the same.

  SHE WAS DESPERATE. She was begging. The blondes she’d adored, and feared. They’d called her li’l dude, li’l dago. They’d petted her like a little dog. She was begging Carroll.

  Please will you answer Carroll? please will you please

  I’m afraid I am alone and I—I am afraid. . . .

  Please answer? Hello it’s me. . . . Carroll are you listening?

  (She seemed to know that Carroll was listening. But no amount of begging could make one of the blondes do anything she wasn’t in a fucking mood to do.)

  SOME TIME LATER she called 911.

  She’d thought (mistakenly) that this would be the end of it, in this way she could save herself though (also) she would humiliate herself. But calling 911 was not so routine.

  The female voice at the other end sounded bored, cranky. Yeh? What’s your problem?

  She tried to speak. She stammered. She was sweating, and she was feeling nauseated. Her voice was so faint and thin, it might have been a child’s voice. She’d taken Tylenol capsules, for pain, and for fever, but maybe—too many? And a single OxyContin she’d found in the medicine cabinet.

  The cranky voice sharpened. Hello? What is your age? What is the situation there?

  I—I—I—don’t k-know . . .

  Like water emptying through a drain. At first slow-seeming, you scarcely notice. Then, near the end, ever-faster.

  Swirling down a drain counter-clockwise.

  Sharply the voice said Ma’am you got to speak up. What’s your problem? What’s your address?

  She was sweating, and she was shivering. She’d felt that thrill of sheer childish vengeance, that she’d left the wedding party, she’d left her father and all of the Johnstons without saying good-bye. As if they’d given a God-damn for her saying good-bye. But now, she was being punished for that blunder.

  The 911 dispatcher was asking if there was anyone she could call, to come help her: mother, sister, friend. She seemed doubtful that Leanda needed an ambulance. She seemed to be warning Leanda that calling an ambulance was a serious matter. How bad you feelin? Sound to me like you got some stomach upset. We don’t send out ambulances for just like somebody sick to she stomach, see?

  She was whispering Please! I’m afraid—afraid I am—dying . . .

  All right Ma’am tell me the address there, an ambulance will come for you.

  SOMETHING BLACK AND hot in her brain. Black butterfly-wings fluttering open but the secret was—once the wings were open, they could not be shut.

  MY CELL WAS TURNED OFF. I’d needed privacy. And when I was alone again, I went to bed without listening to my voice mail. Must’ve slept for ten hours. And there was my land phone ringing . . .

  Or maybe, no. Maybe I’m remembering wrong.

  Maybe it was my land phone she’d called, and I wasn’t out—I was home. And there was someone with me, I didn’t want to overhear anything private like in the family—that was it.

  And I heard her voice, and I thought—Oh God! What’s my cousin want, bellyaching about her God-damned tattoo not healing right. And I was feeling kind of anxious, I’d be blamed for this. My Uncle Jayson isn’t exactly the forgiving kind. Hot shit, she’d gone to Yale and graduated summa like that was some major deal. I wasn’t actually listening, only just heard her saying please would I pick up, if I was there please would I pick up, she was feeling sick, really sick, she didn’t want to call her mother who’d be hysterical—“Please can you call me back Carroll? Maybe you could come over”—and—and I was feeling like I didn’t have time for this right now—just let her leave the message and next morning didn’t wake up until late and I guess I forgot about Leanda.

  Yes I guess that was it. I forgot about Lee-lee.

  How her message got deleted, I’m totally confused. Sometimes I just press DELETE and get rid of a lot of messages at once—it’s easier that way.

  HE WAS DEVASTATED. More than just his heart was broken.

  The God-damned foot still in a cast. Unbearable pain sometimes despite painkillers washed down with Scotch.

  Jayson Johnston hired his lawyer-friend who’d negotiated the agreement with the young Filipina physical therapist twenty-seven years before, when Leanda had been adopted. His lawyer-friend would work with a leading Manhattan malpractice attorney, filing a wrongful death suit on behalf of the grieving parents of Leanda Johnston who’d died in the Magdalen Hospital ER. Named in the $12 million suit along with the hospital were the resident physician who’d admitted Leanda into the ER and had overseen her cursory examination, a nursing supervisor, and the nurse who’d failed to take Leanda’s vital signs as the young woman struggled to breathe over a period of forty-eight hours, lapsed into a coma and died.

  WHAT IS IT—something lacy-black on the girl’s shoulder?

  Sexy black butterfly, wings invitingly spread.

  Evandela sees the tattoo and registers this is a junkie OD’ing. She knows. Coke, or heroin—these are the “cool” downtown drugs, for people like this, living in an apartment like this her daddy probably pays the bills for, fancy computer and fancy art-works on the walls.

  Evandela has seen plenty of junkies OD’ing. She’s disapproving. Disgusted. Folks taking up hospital beds needed by the legitimately sick. Shoot up and kill themselves if that’s what they want but not take up hospital time needed for decent sick people.

  At the trial, Evandela testifies for the defense, vehement, shining-eyed. Evandela makes a strong impression on the jury which is a mixture of ages, skin colors, eight women and six men.

  I WAS JUROR number five. I’m not ashamed of how we voted.

  See, some of us have to work for a living. Some of us don’t come from a fancy “New England” family. I’m sorry for the girl, and her family, but I’m not sympathetic with the artsy type. These kids you hear about, they put their trust funds up their nose, they don’t give a damn for how their lives impact on others. The hospital lawyer said, it was a tragedy she brought on herself. How was the hospital to blame for a lifestyle. Even without the tattoo she was the type.

  TATTOOS! DON’T GE
T ME WRONG, I think tattoos are cool. I’m not against tattoos, there’s people in my family, kids, with tattoos, piercings they call them, but that lifestyle, like the girl had, a downtown kind of lifestyle, you take your chances OD’ing and wind up dead.

  All the drugs she had in her, the hospital doctor listed. Some kind of Oxy-drug, which is basically heroin. Make your God-damn bed now lay in it. That’s what my mother told us kids.

  I WAS JUROR ELEVEN. My daughter works at Roosevelt, she’s a nurse’s aide got to put up with the most shit and she a good hardworking girl with two young kids, she don’t complain. They work damn hard those aides and orderlies. They take the worst shit from the hospital you can imagine. They can’t even park at the hospital, they got a car. Any nasty thing go wrong, they blame them. But this case, it clear who’s at fault—that girl with the tattoo taking drugs, winds up in the ER and she’s brain-dead and whose fault? Her fault! Her damn family thinking they so special on some island in the ocean.

  We went through like ten ballots and we quarreled but in the end, the holdouts who wanted to make the hospital “negligent” gave in. There was a lot of sympathy for that nurse—the one singled out by name, and her reputation ruined. Like, a person makes one mistake in her life, which she did not see as a mistake. Like the hospital lawyer said, nobody can prove the girl would not have gone into a coma no matter what kind of medical care she’d received. If your time is up, it’s up.

  Jesus it got to be really late and we were really tired but some of us, we were not going to give in. So the others, they gave in. It was maybe twelve ballots. One thing we could agree it was a fact the prosecution didn’t prove, she didn’t die of an overdose. She was partying, she OD’ed on a mix of drugs and her heart gave out. They said her blood showed high amounts of—like, an infection. It’s a tragic fact, she brought it on herself. Nobody makes anybody else take drugs or get slutty tattoos. My daughter tells me these things all the time, there’s gangsters brought into the ER all shot up and dying and the hospital is supposed to save them?—no way. And no way we were going to give that rich family all those million dollars.