Little Bird of Heaven by Joyce Carol Oates
His voice began to falter. I was trying to smile, my face ached with smiling and with my attentiveness to what my father was saying which I knew to be crucial, knowledge he was imparting to me for a reason. In my own faltering voice I told my father that it was wonderful he’d done so much work, he’d collected so much evidence, maybe I could help him—somehow, I could help him—
“The God-damned ironical thing is, if they’d arrested me? If they’d ‘tried’ me? Like it’s said—a citizen has the right to a trial?—to ‘clear his name’? Because if they’d done that, they would’ve had to find me ‘not guilty.’” The word ironical was strange in my ears, in my father’s urgent voice; here was a word no one in the Diehl family was likely to utter, except now Eddy Diehl could lay claim to it; as if to punctuate its strangeness, and confirm his claim, Daddy paused to drink, wiping again at his mouth. In these recent years he’d become a transformed man: no longer young. No longer a swaggering good-looking man after whom women gazed with longing in public places. On his jaws coarse dark whiskers had sprouted, unevenly. There was a merriment to these whiskers, Daddy resembled a pirate in a children’s adventure film, you expected such a bewhiskered figure to wink, and laugh. Instead Daddy said, “I asked to be given a second lie detector test—‘polygraph.’ The first one, they said was ‘inconclusive.’ What the hell’s that mean—‘inconclusive’?—means it didn’t show that I was lying, right? But my God-damned lawyer steps in and says no, not a good idea, don’t take a second test. Because I was in a state of nerves, my blood pressure was up, he thought the test might ‘incriminate’ me if it went the wrong way, and I’d be truly fucked. So I never took it, I listened to him. I was in a fog, I wasn’t thinking clearly. And later I realized that was a mistake. Lots of mistakes I made, back then. Now, it’s too late. I would have to pay for a private test, and I can’t afford it, and anyway the fuckers wouldn’t credit it—lie detector results are not ‘admissible’ in court. They won’t even talk to me, now. I mean the Sparta police, the persecutors—prosecutors. Like I have ceased to exist. They never found the guilty man because they never looked for him in the right place. Delray—he had his rotten luck with lawyers, too. Bastards suck you dry like leeches. You get the impression they don’t know what the hell they’re doing, or give a damn, it’s just a job to them. Then you run out of money and they drop you, you’re on your own. Why’d the cops never arrest Delray? He was the one killed her. Who else? Zoe was always saying, ‘Anything happens to me, better believe it’s Delray. But nothing is going to happen to me.’ Then she’d laugh in that way she had, like something was destined to happen, it couldn’t be averted. When you’re high—Zoe loved to get high—you can’t ever comprehend that you will crash. That was Zoe’s mistake. One of Zoe’s mistakes. She thought she knew what was coming but in her heart she couldn’t truly believe it. Like all of us, I guess.” Daddy paused, rubbing his jaws. A thought had come to him like something wedged in his brain, suddenly shifting. “You know—Delray was maybe not the one. I’m remembering now, things I’ve been told, that were a surprise to me, I mean a considerable shock—there were other men who’d been seeing Zoe. Men she’d taken money from. Delray and me, that poor bastard—we needed to talk. Badly we needed to talk and we never did. Just Delray and me, and this gun—Delray might’ve told me what happened that night, you think?”
Daddy laughed. Daddy was not speaking very coherently, his thoughts swerved and lurched like a drunken skier rapidly descending a treacherous slope. Impatiently he’d begun to shove papers back inside folders, as if they were embarrassing to him, he fumbled and dropped some of the yellowed clippings, without thinking I stooped to gather these neatly up and place in his shaking hand.
Daddy’s knuckles were skinned, bruised. As if he’d struck something. Someone.
“Thanks, honey. You’re a sweet kid. Christ! I’m so tired.”
The shaky hand holding the gun—the heavy dull-gleaming ugly gun—relaxed; the gun slipped from Daddy’s fingers and fell softly onto the bed. I thought I can take that from him now. He wants me to take it from him. And yet, I could not move. I was standing less than eighteen inches from the gun where it had fallen but I could not move. Always I would recall, I could not move. Not to snatch up the gun. For if I had—what would I have done with the gun? Would I have turned it on my father?—I would not have turned it on my father. I would not have backed away, lifted the gun in both trembling hands, aimed the barrel at my astonished father. Not ever.
He was oblivious of me, swaying on his feet. The animal-smell lifted from him, my nostrils pinched with a kind of thrilled disgust. Long ago when he’d lived with us my father had sometimes smelled like this returning from work, having sweated through his clothes through the long summer day, and my mother visibly recoiled from him—not rudely, not to insult—yet of course she’d insulted him—“Excuse me, Lucille.” You wanted not to be near them, not to be a witness. In Daddy’s face the instinctive male resentment of the female—the too-fastidious female—he’d have liked to slap with his open hand, in that instant.
He hadn’t slapped my mother. Not ever, that I was a witness.
I would swear to this. When I’d been “interviewed”—not “interrogated” but just “interviewed” with my mother and a Family Court officer present—I’d sworn to this.
Again Daddy was saying Christ how tired he was. With an air of surprise and chagrin and I thought He will lie down now, he will sleep. I can run for help.
On the bedside table a digital clock made a whirring noise like a defective heart: the time was 6:56 P.M.
At home my mother would be awaiting me. And anxious for me. And angry, and hurt knowing that in my innermost heart I loved my father more than I loved her. Despite everything It isn’t anything I can help. Even now. Forgive me!
It was help for my father I could run for. Not for me.
Outside the motel there were uplifted voices, a sound of car doors being slammed shut. On the highway the steady hum of traffic. But no one would come to room 23 of the Days Inn. No one would come to this room registered to “John Cass” to give aid to us, who were in such need.
I must have made a sudden involuntary movement—wiping my eyes with the fingertips of both hands—Daddy’s head jerked up and his eyes were alert and wary and I saw he’d snatched up the gun.
“What’s it—somebody outside? Who’s there?”
“Nobody. Just—somebody parking a car.”
On lurching feet Daddy went to the window. I saw that he was sodden with drink, narcotized. Yet his eyes shone dangerously. Eagerly he licked his lips like a ravenous dog. He poked fingers into the Venetian blind, to peer through the slats. Whoever was out there must have seemed to him of no consequence, finally. Daddy turned back to me, that tremor of merriment in his whiskers.
“Krista, you know that I love you, honey—you know that.”
Yes, I knew. How like doom it felt, to concede this.
“You were always my heart, Krista. My ‘little bird of heaven.’”
We were both remembering how Daddy used to swoop me up in his arms when I was a little girl, toss me into the air light as a cushion, catching me almost immediately as I squealed, kicked. Never was I in danger—Daddy held me safe. If I panicked, began to cry—if I squealed and kicked too hard—Daddy hadn’t liked that.
“I think you should call your mother, Krista. It’s time now. Tell her that you’re with me, and I want her to speak with me, not over the phone but face-to-face. Explain, ‘Daddy will not hurt you.’” Daddy paused, smiling. The effort of that smile was of a man stooping to lift a weight that will shatter his spine.
Nervously I said that my mother might hang up, before I could explain.
Nervously I said I wished that he would put away the gun. It was frightening to me, that gun.
Daddy frowned. He was a daddy who did not like to be told what to do, not ever.
Sometimes you forgot that. When he appealed to you, when he seemed to be softening towar
“She won’t hang up the phone. She will know not to hang up the phone this time.”
“Well, but—You know how Mom—”
“Fuck ‘Mom’! What’s ‘Mom’ done for you. I’m your Daddy, who loves you, right?”
“Yes but Daddy, the gun makes me—”
Wanting to say afraid. But my voice was weak, guilty-sounding.
In reproach Daddy said, “I would not hurt you, Krista. You must know that. It would end in an instant. A heartbeat. It would spare you pain. Honey, life is mostly pain—it’s like the Bible says—‘All is vanity beneath the sun.’ Vanity, and bullshit.” He laughed, like one who has said something witty by chance. With the gun he was indicating the phone on the bedside table. “Your mother is waiting for this call, Krista. Your mother is a smart woman, a shrewd woman, she knows that her ‘former husband’ is in Sparta, and if she knows this she knows why I’m here, and that this is the last time I am going to beg her. This is the last time for all of us. She knows this, I think. I think she knows this. I want my family back that was taken wrongfully from me. I want my life back that was taken wrongfully from me. The decision is your mother’s. It’s her responsibility. She calls herself a Christian—right? She kneels, and prays, and whoever the fuck she prays to, God the Father, or His son the Savior, they’ve got to be giving her good advice—right? ‘Till death do you part.’ ‘In sickness and in health.’ Better do as your husband wants, Lucille. He is your husband! When I signed over the house to her, all of the property, I said, ‘I’m putting this in your trust, Lucille. I hope I will be welcomed back one day.’ Your mother did not say no to this. Between us was the understanding, she would say yes. Because I was sure that my name would be cleared. Because I had not hurt that woman, I had not hurt anyone. Not of my volition, and not ever you kids! That was my trust in her, in your mother. It was true, as she knew—I’d been an ‘adulterer.’ That was true. But not the other.” Here Daddy paused, as if acknowledging the other—the unspeakable act, the irrevocable act of murder—was exhausting to him.
Outside, more car doors were being slammed shut. The Days Inn was moving to evening, night. Families were arriving, couples. A drunk-sounding couple in the adjacent room.
Daddy paid them no heed. Daddy was motioning with the gun, toward the phone, in a way that made me very nervous.
“You will call your mother, Krista and explain the circumstances. How you’ve chosen to come with me. How you are safe with me. How nothing is going to happen to you, or to any of us, if she accepts her responsibility as she has not done yet. If she comes to see me, tonight. Just get in the car, and come here, and see me. If she loves you the way a mother should. I’ll tell you what—you tell her: ‘Daddy says I can leave, if you come.’ Call her ‘Mom’—she’s ‘Mom’ to you. Tell Mom that Daddy will let you leave here if she comes. If ‘Mom’ takes your place. See, Krissie, the marriage bond is the fundamental thing. The vow—‘Till death do us part.’ Lucille comes, and Krista can leave. With a promise not to tell anyone about us—right? A promise not to interfere. All I need is some time face-to-face with your mother, I think we can work things out. I know we can work things out. These papers, I want to show her. She’s got to realize. You’ve got to realize, Krissie—your daddy would never truly hurt you. Nor your brother, not ever. That’s a promise. That doesn’t even need to be a promise, that is understood. That is fact. But Lucille has got to see me, tonight. Tell her.”
I stared at him. He spoke so reasonably. His mouth twisted in a rueful smile, as if everything he was saying was so very obvious, he hardly needed to say it.
“But Daddy, if Mom knows that you’re here—with me—I’m afraid like I said she’ll just hang up the phone. She won’t even listen.”
Daddy’s face flushed with blood. “No. She will not. She wants to speak with me, in her heart.”
Was this so? I didn’t think it could be so. I wanted to think yes but I was trembling with fear, there was Daddy with the gun in his hand, not exactly aiming the barrel at me, but holding the gun in such a way that the slightest movement would turn it toward me, at chest level. Or maybe this was Daddy teasing Krissie. Maybe Daddy wanted me to laugh. Maybe in another moment Daddy would smile, and wink. A daddy can be so funny! I thought Daddy is joking. Daddy is such a tease.
“You know the number, Krissie. Dial it.”
There was my hand lifting the plastic receiver, sticky from strangers’ sweaty hands. Numbly I dialed our home number but all that resulted was a frantic beeping and Daddy said, “Baby, you have to dial ‘nine’ for an outside line, this is a motel.” Daddy laughed, and I tried again, this time I dialed nine and then our home number and I prayed that Mom would answer as the phone rang and on the first ring as if she’d been waiting anxiously by the phone, Mom did.
“Mom? It’s—”
As soon as she heard my voice my mother said sharply, “Krista! Is he there with you?” and I said yes and my mother said, “Has he been drinking?” and I said yes and my mother said, “Is he—dangerous?” and I hesitated, I could not say yes, I could not betray Daddy; and my mother said, “Where are you?” and still I hesitated, for Daddy was leaning close, his eyes shone with excitement, a kind of elated dread, I could feel the clammy heat lifting from his skin, the ugly revolver tilted downward toward the floor and in that instant I thought I can, I must—I must wrench the gun from his fingers, this might be my last opportunity, I must scream at him, I must surprise and frighten him, I must run with the gun to the door—but the door was not only bolted but chain-locked, the door could not have been opened as quickly as I would need to open it, to save my life. Within seconds this man would be on me, this large heavy sweating desperate man would be on me, furious that I’d disobeyed him, flaunted his authority, dared to take something from him to which I had no right. And so I would be punished. I would be hurt. I knew. I stood paralyzed, helpless as at the other end of the line my mother’s voice lifted in anger, agitation, fear asking where? Where had he brought me? and Daddy lost patience and snatched the receiver from me.
“Lucille! We’re in Sparta, Lucille. Come to be with us, all this will be cleared up.” Daddy was cradling the receiver in his left hand in an awkward gesture that required lifting his elbow, bringing the mouthpiece of the receiver close to his mouth at an angle. He spoke in a voice of subdued eagerness, smiling.
I could hear my mother’s uplifted voice but not her words and Daddy said, calmly, “It isn’t like that, Lucille. Maybe it pisses you but she’s with me because she wants to be here. That’s how it is, Lucille. So come be with us, we will clear up these misunderstandings.” And again I heard my mother’s voice but not her words and Daddy listened patiently for several seconds before interrupting, “D’you know the Days Inn, Lucille? On the highway? Sure you do. It’s beyond the Holiday Inn, and Mack’s—you know, the traffic circle. The Days Inn. Can’t miss it, the sign is all lit up. I think it’s a yellow sign. Just past Mill Road. I am in room twenty-three, Lucille. Two-three. I will be awaiting you, Lucille. No need to knock—just walk up to the door, Lucille, I will be watching for you. Krista and I are relaxing here—just waiting for you, Lucille. We need to be a family again. We can call Ben a little later. We’ll begin with just you and Krissie, Lucille. You know how I’ve been wanting this, Lucille. You know my heart. Krissie wants to be here, Lucille. She is not hurt. And she will not be hurt. No one will be, I promise. You won’t be hurt, absolutely not. Just come here, Lucille, come alone, right away and we’ll straighten this out. Tell you what—if you think that Krista is upset, if you’re concerned about Krista I will let her go, as soon as you step into this room. I mean—Krista can step outside. Krista could wait in the car. Maybe later, if things work out, we can call Ben, we can pick him up and all of us have pizza somewhere. How’s that sound? The kids
Daddy listened. Daddy scowled and interrupted: “No, Lucille. Now.”
And Daddy hung up the phone.
THE END, when it comes, comes swiftly.
You can’t foresee. Of course, you have foreseen.
The trouble that came into my life must have an end, simultaneous with that life.
For of course my mother called the police. There was never a glimmer of a possibility that Lucille would comply with my father’s demand to present herself to him at the door of room 23 of the Days Inn, still less a glimmer of a possibility that she would wish to present herself in my place, that I might be allowed to leave. Terrified and near-hysterical my mother called 911 and stammered what she knew, all that she knew, of my father who was “holding their daughter captive” at the Days Inn on route 31; of my father Edward Diehl who’d been “involved” in the murder of Zoe Kruller, in 1983, but never arrested; of Edward Diehl who’d been her husband who’d “threatened my life, and my children’s lives, many times….” And within six minutes of that call Herkimer County sheriff’s officers began to arrive at the Days Inn. And Sparta police vehicles began to arrive. In all, there would be twelve vehicles, in addition to a medical emergency vehicle; there would be, shortly, a van bearing a local TV camera crew; there would be sirens, flashing red lights, the amplified voices of strangers demanding that Edward Diehl open the door—step outside with his hands in the air—drop his weapon if he had a weapon—and do it now.