Sourland by Joyce Carol Oates
She’d frightened Tracy, crying like this. She’d offended him, violated hospital protocol.
She wondered if he’d forgiven her? If he could forgive her?
She had abandoned him, finally. For that, how could he forgive her?
And yet: she was thinking possibly there was a misunderstanding. A mistake. Possibly she’d been summoned to Probate Court by mistake. As the computer data regarding her husband was mistaken, so the “fact” of his death was mistaken, or premature. Her husband hadn’t died after all—maybe. Her husband hadn’t died yet.
“Ma’am! You will come with me, please now.”
The interview with Capgrass seemed to have ended with shocking abruptness. Adrienne had been trying to explain the circumstances of her husband’s hospitalization and the promises the hospital staff had made or had seemed to be making, she’d begun to speak excitably, but, she was sure, not incoherently, and out of nowhere a security guard—a dark-skinned woman with hair pressed back so tightly from her face, her head appeared to have shrunken—was tugging at her arm, to urge her from the room. Adrienne was gripping her handbag, in both arms she clutched at documents. She was distraught, disheveled. A pulse beat in her head like a giant worm, writhing. Had Capgrass pressed a secret button, to summon one of the sheriff’s deputies? Had the widow said something reckless she hadn’t meant to say? She hadn’t been threatening—had she? The dark-skinned female deputy was escorting Adrienne from the court official’s office—Adrienne was perspiring inside her expensive clothes—Oh! she’d forgotten something—she’d left something behind, with Capgrass—but what it was, she couldn’t remember. “Ma’am come with me. This way ma’am.” The deputy spoke forcibly, ushering Adrienne into the hall. Adrienne had had more to tell Capgrass—more to explain—trying now to explain to the deputy that she had to leave the courthouse immediately—her husband was in the Summit Hill Hospital, fifteen miles away. “I have to leave now. I have to see him. His name is Tracy. He can’t be left with strangers. He’s waiting for me…he will be anxious, if I’m not there.” Adrienne was thinking how, in the past day or so, for no reason, unfairly, for he’d been sleeping and waking and sleeping and waking and not always knowing where he was, Tracy had squinted at her and said in a hurt accusing voice, “Adrienne? Where the hell have you been? I don’t see much of you these days.”
Long she would recall the hurt, and the injustice.
Don’t see much of you these days.
When he’d loved her, he’d called her Addie. The full, formal name Adrienne meant something else.
Or maybe—this was another, quite distinct possibility—he’d said, after he’d died, and Adrienne arranged to have his body delivered to a local crematorium, in a voice beyond accusation or even sadness the man who’d been her husband for thirty-two years said Well! We won’t be seeing each other for a while.
“This way, ma’am. You are not authorized to leave Probate Court just yet.”
The deputy handed Adrienne a tissue with which to wipe her inflamed eyes, blow her nose—as she led her back into the waiting room—how vast this room was, Adrienne could only now appreciate—how many were waiting here!—as far as the eye could measure, individuals who’d died, or were waiting to die, or had managed to avoid death temporarily, yes this was Probate Court and all who were here had not died but had survived.
This was their punishment, that they had survived, and that they were in Probate.
“Ma’am, slip on one of these.”
Without Adrienne’s awareness and certainly without Adrienne’s consent, the deputy had escorted her through the waiting room and into a corridor, she’d brought Adrienne into a windowless room, and shut the door firmly. What was this? Where was this? Adrienne’s tear-blinded eyes could barely make out rows of cubicles—cubicles separated from one another by plywood partitions—the air in this place was close, stale, smelling of the anguish and anxiety of strangers’ bodies.
How the gigantic pulse in Adrienne’s head throbbed! She’d become confused. It had begun to seem probable to her that her husband was still alive—not yet dead—and that Adrienne had come to the hospital herself, to the first-floor radiation unit where women went for mammograms.
She had postponed her yearly mammogram, out of cowardice. Yet somehow she must have made the appointment, for here she was.
“Ma’am? You will please slip on one of these.”
A second woman, in a bailiff’s uniform—this was made of a drab, dun-colored fabric, while the sheriff’s deputies’ uniforms were a more attractive gray-blue—had appeared, and was handing Adrienne a paper smock—a paper smock!—which Adrienne had no choice but to accept. If she wanted to be released from this hellish place.
The bailiff instructed Adrienne to step inside one of the cubicles and remove all her clothing—outerwear, underwear—her boots and her stockings and her jewelry—to place her possessions on the bench inside the cubicle—to put on the smock, and a pair of paper slippers—and to come back out when she was ready. Inside the cubicle, Adrienne began to undress like one in a trance. How grateful she was, there was no mirror in the cubicle—she was spared seeing the widow’s wan, frightened face.
I love you so much. There is no other reason.
Her husband had told her this, too. He’d loved her so much. Many times he’d told her and yet she could not now recall a single, singular time.
Adrienne was removing her clothing, another time she would have to remove her boots, and this time her stockings. And her beige lace brassiere that fitted her loosely now and her tattered white nylon panties which in fact she’d slept in the previous night beneath a flannel nightgown in terror of being summoned to the hospital another time wakened from her deep stuporous sleep to drive hurriedly to the hospital to be ushered into her husband’s hospital room approximately five minutes after a young Asian doctor she’d never seen before had declared him dead—Mrs. Myer there was nothing to be done your husband’s blood pressure plummeted and his heartbeat raced.
She had loved him, her husband. The man who’d been her husband. But her love had not been enough to save him. Her love had not been enough to save either of them. All that had ended.
Trembling she removed her rings. She was wearing no other jewelry just rings. Hard to remove, these rings. The engagement ring—a beautiful diamond surrounded by a cluster of smaller diamonds—and the engraved white-gold wedding band—though her fingers seemed to have become thinner yet it was hard for her, it made her wince, it made her cry, like a small child or a small hurt bird crying, to remove these rings and to place them carefully beneath her clothing neatly folded on the wooden bench for safekeeping.
Her black cashmere coat, her handbag, briefcase—these she placed carefully on the bench. Thinking Everything will be safe here. This is Probate Court.
She put on the ridiculous paper smock, that barely came to her hips. How embarrassing! And the paper slippers! These looked as if they’d been used before, and were scuffed and creased.
The bailiff tugged at the curtain—“Ma’am? Step out here, please.”
Adrienne obeyed. No choice except to obey. She hadn’t been able to tie the smock behind and the little paper sashes hung loose and ticklish against her bare back.
“Ma’am. You will please remove your garment.”
“Remove it? I just put it on.”
The bailiff was heavyset, humorless, with a coarse sooty-white skin and no eyebrows. Her dun-colored uniform included a heavy leather holster and—was it a handgun?—a pistol?—and on her left breast, a brass badge like a glaring eye.
Awkwardly Adrienne tried to shield her breasts with her arms. The bailiff pulled her arms aside.
“Ma’am! You will submit to the examination. You will cooperate.”
“‘Examination’—but—”
“Did you sign a waiver in the Sur’gat office, ma’am? What’s that waiver say?”
“I—I don’t know. I wasn’t aware—”
“You signed a waive
The territory of the State! The bailiff spoke as if reciting words many times uttered, worn smooth and implacable as stones. Adrienne’s mouth was dry with apprehension.
Was it a good sign, or not such a good sign, that there was no one else in the examination room, only just Adrienne? The air was steam-heated, humid and oppressive. A fine film of perspiration already gleamed on the sooty-skinned woman’s face. With a flourish she pulled on latex gloves saying, “Ma’am, stand very still. Very still, and you will not be hurt.”
With her deft latex fingers the bailiff palpitated Adrienne’s armpits—was she looking for lumps, swollen lymph glands? Before Adrienne could steel herself she began to palpitate Adrienne’s breasts—the pressure was sudden, vise-like and unbearable,
“Ma’am, you may breathe.”
Adrienne had been holding her breath, in a trance of terror. Such intimacy, and such pain.
“Ma’am. Raise your arms, please.”
Frowning, the bailiff cupped Adrienne’s breasts in both hands—her hands were large as a man’s, and strong—and exerted pressure upward, as if shaping resistant clay. Adrienne cried aloud, tears started from her eyes.
Her breasts were waxy-white, and had shrunken in the past week. The nipples were berry-sized, small and hard, sensitive as exposed nerve endings.
Her stomach too seemed to have shrunk, yet the skin was flaccid, like an ill-fitting body stocking. There were thin white striations in her belly and thighs like stitches in the flesh that had worked loose.
He’d adored her body, at one time. Her forgotten body.
“Ma’am. You will be seated, please.”
Adrienne was panting. Her breasts throbbed with pain and her mouth had gone dry as ashes.
“Ma’am. I said seated.”
In lieu of an examination table, Adrienne was made to sit on a wooden bench and spread her legs.
“I—can’t. I can’t do this…”
“Ma’am! You will cooperate or you will be in contempt of court.”
With a grunt the bailiff stooped to push Adrienne’s thighs farther apart, and to poke, and then insert her latex forefinger into the tight, dry, shrunken space between Adrienne’s legs. It was one of those moments in a lifetime when one thinks This is not possible and then, a moment later This is what is possible. Adrienne flinched with pain and bit her lip to keep from crying out.
The bailiff was panting as if she’d run up a flight of stairs. Was the woman taking a swab, of the interior of Adrienne’s body? Or was she—a bizarre possibility—checking to see if Adrienne had smuggled anything into the courthouse, in such a lurid way? (On the walls of the courthouse corridors were signs warning against contraband.) For next the bailiff inserted her latex finger so deeply into the tight shrunken ring of flesh, of Adrienne’s anus, Adrienne was unable to keep from screaming.
“Ma’am! You have not been hurt.”
The bailiff spoke in exasperation, as if her professional integrity had been challenged. Yet at last, the examination seemed to be concluded. The bailiff removed her latex gloves and dropped them into a trash basket. Adrienne had a glimpse—no more than a fleeting glimpse—of something rust-colored on the latex forefinger.
“Ma’am, you are free now to clothe yourself. And then you will wait here for the officer to assess your case.”
“‘Assess my case’—what do you mean?”
“I am not authorized to release you, ma’am. You will be released by the Surrogate.”
“But—how can I be ‘released’—am I in custody? Am I arrested?”
“Ma’am, you are in the custody of the Probate Court. You are not arrested.” The bailiff scowled as if Adrienne had tried to be amusing and had failed, lamely.
“But when will this be? When can I go home?”
“Ma’am, I have no way of knowing. Ma’am you will wait here.”
Adrienne re-entered the cubicle, to put back on her clothes. Her hands were trembling badly. The pain between her legs had begun to throb like fire. A trickle of liquid high on the inside of her thigh, trickling down—blood? She wiped it away quickly not daring to look.
Her clothes—where were her clothes?—on the floor was her black cashmere coat—on the bench, her dark silk shirt and beige sweater she’d worn over it, no longer folded neatly as she’d left them but looking as if they’d been examined and flung down. There, on the floor, partway beneath the partition to an adjacent cubicle, her trousers—fine light cashmere wool, so charcoal-gray as to appear black. But her underwear was gone—no brassiere, no panties—and her rings—where were her rings?
On the floor also, as if they’d been examined, pilfered and kicked aside, were Adrienne’s handbag and her husband’s briefcase. Papers spilled out of the briefcase, Adrienne shoved inside without taking time to sort them. She couldn’t recall if her husband’s will had been returned to her or if Capgrass had confiscated it…
Hurriedly and haphazardly she dressed. She couldn’t button the shirt evenly; the zipper of her trousers caught partway, scraping the flesh of her belly; both her dark stockings were tangled beneath the bench, stiff with dirt, but her boots—the expensive black leather boots!—were missing.
In her desperate state Adrienne was grateful for the paper slippers.
How strange it felt, to be naked inside her clothes. How strange her body had become to her, slick with perspiration, exhausted yet aroused like a hunted animal. She thought He is dead. He is not only dead he is gone. I am alone here.
In that instant Adrienne felt a thrill of something like elation, triumph. Though she was distraught, and humiliated—though the lower part of her body throbbed with pain—yet she felt this thrill of triumph. She thought Already I am someone he could not have imagined.
To escape the Probate Court, and to return home—this would be bliss to her, the most intense relief, happiness.
Nothing more than that!—only just to escape, and to return to the empty house, that had been chill and appalling as a sepulcher to her only hours ago.
When Adrienne stepped out of the cubicle, she saw that the examination room was empty. The sooty-skinned bailiff had left. Anxiously Adrienne tried the door—the door that led back to the corridor outside the waiting room—but it was locked.
“Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?”
Adrienne rapped on the door hesitantly. She didn’t want to incur the wrath of the sooty-skinned bailiff. She stood, then sat—then stood again—ten minutes, fifteen. Her skin had begun to itch, where the bailiff had touched her. And the soft flesh of her breasts, and the soft flesh between her legs, throbbing with pain.
She happened to notice at the farther end of the room a second, smaller door. It was the kind of door that is permanently shut. Even as Adrienne went to try it, thinking Of course this is locked. I am locked in the doorknob turned, and the door opened.
Quickly Adrienne stepped outside. She was in a corridor—a familiar-looking corridor—she’d come this way when she’d arrived at the Office of the Surrogate, it seemed like hours ago.
In her overwarm coat and the absurd paper slippers, Adrienne made her stealthy way to the staircase.
No looking back! No glancing to the side! Could the widow leave Probate Court so easily? Was no one going to see her, apprehend her? Her heart was beating deliriously. Her body throbbed with the strange wild exhilaration of the hunted animal.
Descending now the broad baronial staircase. Gripping the railing, steeling herself as in the presence of danger.
“I am exiting the Courthouse. I have been in Probate Court, and now I am released”—Adrienne rehearsed her little speech, should one of the uniformed officers stop her.
And now again on the lower floor was the Office of the Public Defender—it seemed that there were fewer young captives in orange jumpsuits seated here at this time—but still there remained the young man with the savage tattooed
The young man with the tattooed face stared at Adrienne. Beside him was an older man, in a dark suit, a court-appointed attorney Adrienne supposed, and this man stared at Adrienne, too.
“Don’t! Don’t ‘plead guilty.’”
Before either man could speak to her, Adrienne turned and hurried back to the staircase.
Outside, it appeared to be late afternoon. Hours had passed, the overcast sky had darkened. A chill icy rain continued to fall and the fraught air smelled of the river. Adrienne was disoriented, she hadn’t thought so much time had passed in the courthouse though she was exhausted, wrung dry. Calmly she thought They can find me, they will know where I live. But not just now.
In her paper slippers she would have to walk in slushy ice, mud. The near-empty parking lot was the size of a city block, its outer perimeter lost in shadow. Adrienne looked around for the snub-faced girl in the faux-fox-fur jacket but of course no one was there, where the girl had been standing with the baby in her arms.
Yet, Adrienne heard a cry. A child’s cry, faint and plaintive—and to her astonishment she saw, near-hidden between the granite wall of the old courthouse and the parked police vehicle, the toddler in the stroller.
“Lilith?”
Adrienne hurried to the child, who was whimpering, feebly kicking her thin, wasted-looking legs. The little girl had managed to work her arms free of the tight-wrapped blanket and flailed them now in the frantic way of a bird with broken wings.