With Shuddering Fall by Joyce Carol Oates
When he went out the girl was sitting before the bureau, a polished, pine bureau that had the neat and impersonal look that accompanies an expensive hotel, which she had converted into a dressing table with a profusion of bottles and tubes and boxes. Everything was arranged neatly: there were no startling colors, no grotesque shapes. The girl had let down her hair, which fell below her shoulders, and was brushing it gently. Her nails gleamed silver, the same color as her hair. “I hope you can excuse me,” she said, not looking around, “but you understand the difficulty of . . . the difficulty . . . the trouble it is when something remains between people.”
Shar did not understand, but said nothing. He looked with dislike on his clothes: they were not clean, they were soiled, he did not want to put them on. The girl brushed her hair as if she were counting the strokes. “I can never be comfortable with an acquaintance when something is unsettled between us,” she went on, turning her face to one side so that she could peer critically at her throat. “You are still a stranger to me. You and I have not been close. When I was young I was warned a great deal about taking care with boys, about not being too close to them. I went to a girls’ school: the Holy Angels. Before our confirmation my class was instructed about these things—about boys—but it was only lately, I mean only in the last two or three years, that I understood this had anything to do with what I had been doing. I can’t remember the first boy I knew that way, but I am sure we came together to get rid of the feeling that we weren’t close—the way it is with you and me.”
She had finished brushing her hair now and put down the brush. She lifted her hair from her shoulders and began to arrange it, slowly and carefully. Shar saw how lovingly her fingers worked the thick gleaming mass. “I can never be at ease with a man when there is something unsettled between us,” she said. “Afterward everything is all right—we can forget each other, or be friends, or continue that way; what relief that is—It was the same when I was young. There are some people who don’t feel that way. Did you know that?”
Shar had been staring at her image in the mirror. Something about her depressed him, pricked at the secret dark swelling of his outrage. He felt no danger that she would see him suddenly through the mirror, and take offense at his impertinent concern; he understood that the mirror was opaque for her, that her sight could not go past herself in it. “There are some people who don’t want to be close to everyone. They want just the opposite. I can’t understand that. I think it would bother me to be that way.” She fastened her hair with silver pins. It ballooned up over her head in a swelling gleam, as if her head were distorted at the back; it gave her a brittle, regal appearance. The splendor of her hair obviously pleased her, for she sat attentively at the mirror for a while with her hands in her lap. “Do you agree with me?” she said politely. She did not look around at him.
“Yes,” said Shar. “I know what you mean.” He said after a moment, “Did you ever see a man without arms or legs?”
The girl did not reply at first. When she did, she said thoughtfully, “I don’t think so.” Her expression was frank and a little apologetic. She had taken up a white jar with a gold top and was opening it. Shar, half dressed, sat on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette. The girl went on: “I had a dream once that a great crowd of people came to me, not only men but women too. I was told that it was the whole world, but they looked like Americans only—I mean, no foreign people or Negroes. They were all crying to me and waving their hands and I cried because I couldn’t get close to them; I would never know them. Did you ever feel that way?”
“Yes,” said Shar.
“Even if you do know them, one by one, you might forget some of them at the end—you couldn’t have them all at once. My best friend in high school—I don’t know where he is now, he got married and went in with his brother-in-law, a shoe store, I think—made love to me the most that I can remember, I mean any one person, and I remember him the best, though that was a while ago. Then I got pregnant and had a very wonderful baby, but it was thought best for me to give it away and I agreed; though it was a beautiful baby, a girl like myself. I worried at first that I would think about it, since I read in a pamphlet the organization gave me that that sometimes happened, but I didn’t worry about it and it was all right. Then I thought I would get married—I was in college then, just a freshman, I was doing well in most of my classes but I didn’t like them very much. I mean, I liked the professors,” she said, almost quickly, “they were very nice men. They were intelligent. I got married and we went to live where he was in the army and I was there for two or three months. Then I thought I would go somewhere else and we broke up, though he didn’t want to and had some trouble with the army—some kind of trouble. I had been living in Jasper about a year when I met Mr. Golyrod through a mutual acquaintance of ours. Do you know Allen Norwood in Jasper? The Norwood Real Estate Agency?”
When Shar said no the girl did not go on, as if she had exhausted her conversation. Shar finished dressing, sucking at his cigarette. The drone of the air conditioner was getting on his nerves. The girl suddenly got up, her white robe billowing around her, and went to a television set in the corner. She turned it on and went back to the dressing table. While the girl finished with her make-up and got dressed they listened to a static-marred program at which neither of them glanced. Shar lay back on the rumpled bed, smoking, while the harsh, urgent voices from the television set mingled together, separated, were joined by music, interrupted by other voices, by bells and chimes, by flurries of static. When the girl was dressed and ready to leave she had apparently forgotten about it, and they left without turning it off.
They walked together down a long, carpeted hall. The girl took Shar’s arm and smiled at him. She wore a black cocktail dress that fitted her tightly about the waist and breasts, though not vulgarly, and eased out to a short, full skirt. She wore very high black heels and stockings that were tinted black, and heavy gold jewelry, several bracelets on each arm, and gold earrings that climbed up in an elaborate pattern about her ear, like tiny cobwebs. Her eyelids were tinted gold, her lashes were thick and black; a beauty mark Shar had not noticed, near her eye, was accentuated. Her lips were outlined carefully and sharply and were full, orange-tinted, and set in a companionable smile. Catching sight of the girl and himself in a mirror, Shar was startled to see himself with a stranger—he would have been perplexed to say what he was doing with her.
They had dinner with Max, who was filled with enthusiasm, continually smiling and patting Shar’s arm, and with Mr. Golyrod, a small man with gold-framed glasses and a quick, nervous smile, who was evidently pleased with the girl and with Shar, for he turned often to them and nodded. Mr. Golyrod had white hair. Also at the table were Jerry and another man, probably Mr. Golyrod’s parallel of Jerry, a fair-skinned young man with sensitive manners and very short pale-red hair. Shar saw that his nails were polished. Perhaps out of consideration for Shar, the talk was about motor racing: about the newest cars, about Max’s plans for a new car that winter, about Shar’s record, about the young Negro’s record, about the attendance at the new stadium, about some newspaper stories—Max turned to Shar and said he would show him the stories later. There was a familiar argument about the relative merits of good motors and good drivers, the conservative arguing for the driver and his experience, the liberal for the quality of the motor, both sides giving in to each other at the end. Shar chewed his food without tasting it. A dull, hateful pounding had begun in his head and he wanted to upset the table, to smash at the faces that surrounded him. Mr. Golyrod was in the middle of a long sentimental speech about the motel and the room they were in—a low-ceilinged, amber-lighted, thick-carpeted lounge in the center of which a gigantic oak tree grew unimpeded up through the glass ceiling—when Shar said suddenly: “If I smash up in the race and get my legs and arms amputated, I can still do racing of another kind.”
They looked at him politely. Max laughed a short, wheezing laugh, patting Shar’s arm. “He is a
Mr. Golyrod agreed. He looked at Shar with respect. A slight, paternal man with kindly eyes behind his glasses. He wore a heavy gold ring on one finger, probably connected with a secret fraternal order to which he belonged. Shar could see, as Mr. Golyrod lifted his arms and his cuffs were revealed, that he wore cuff links of small, opaque eyes, mock human eyes, made out of glass. Shar felt the hard knot in his bowels tighten. Max was talking on, something about “magic,” about Shar’s skill, Max’s enthusiasm and pride making him charming—making him seem loving, and refined by his love. Shar got to his feet. “I’m going after some cigarettes,” he said.
“Jerry will get them for you,” said Max.
“Jerry knows what he can do to himself,” said Shar, and walked away.
He went through to the foyer and out to the plate-glass lobby. It was early evening outside: lights were on, playing gaudily on the boardwalk. Shar clenched his fists. He felt tears coming into his eyes. When he went outside he was startled at the difference in temperature. It was still warm outside, and humid; he felt betrayed. Crowds passed idly, looking at the motel. Some people still wore sunglasses. Music from the boardwalk rose giddily into the air and mixed with the hot dusty wind and the smell of food and beer and salt and perspiration. Shar stared into the crowd. A few days before he had thought he had seen Karen in the crowd—a girl with blond hair, walking away from him; but he had had enough sense not to go after her. His insides had burned, watching the girl. Now the crowd passed along, some turning into the motel, moving slowly, easily, sun-tanned, and evidently pleased with themselves. A few children carried red balloons that had been given away that day: they advertised one of the night clubs. An Italian-looking young man, dressed in a white outfit, appeared out of nowhere and began picking up scraps of paper and refuse that had been blown against the front of the motel.
Shar saw her coming as soon as she appeared. His face went hot with blood, his ears pounded. She was half a block away—now hidden by some people, now in sight again—coming right toward him. She looked at the gigantic building as if deliberating about it; then she seemed to decide that she was in the right place. She came up the broad stone steps and was about to go into the lobby when Shar said angrily: “Karen!”
She looked around at him. Her hair was wind-blown and loose, a pale, soft gold. Her eyes took him in and absorbed him, her jaw tightened, her lips parted as if she were going to speak; but she said nothing. They stared at each other. Shar was blinded by a wave of emotion—he could not tell what it was, he did not know if it was anger or lust or joy. He took hold of her arm and pulled her, clattering in her high heels, down to the walk. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, “I’ve been waiting for you, I’ve been wanting this—I’ve planned this—I’ll show you—I’ll finish it for you this time—this is the last time!”
17
As soon as they were inside the front door of the rooming house, Shar could no longer control himself and seized Karen. They struggled together going up the steps, Shar with his arms around her and jerking her from side to side, Karen with her neck arched back, her lips tightly closed. They fell heavily against the railing and Shar heard it splinter. He was shouting at Karen: “Why did you follow me! What do you want!” A door opened at the foot of the steps but no one called after them.
Inside the room, Shar pushed her before him. His jaws had begun to clench convulsively; he could hardly speak. Karen did not back away but faced him quietly, calmly; his bitter rage seemed absorbed and defeated by her, mocked by her. “Do you want me?” Shar said. “Is that why you followed me?” Down on the street a horn began to blare. Shar and Karen stared at each other. Their faces were wet with perspiration: in the dim light Shar could see Karen’s eyes freeze in their serenity, as if she felt a terror too deep to acknowledge. “Karen—” Shar said.
“Karen!” she said. “Do you think that’s my name? Do you think you know me?”
It was the look with which she said this, Shar remembered later, that pushed him past the brink of sanity. Her child’s face seemed to him to mock his anguish, his rage, his pride in himself, his humanity—his soul—and he understood that they were locked together, hopelessly entangled, and lost—and in that instant he acknowledged everything. They would never be free of each other. Never be free! He heard his voice shout this at her as he took hold of her.
WHEN SHAR WOKE IT WAS dark in the room. He got to his feet and stumbled backward against something. There was something on the floor—an overturned chair. Shar went to the wall and snapped on the light. “Karen?” he said. She was lying on the floor near the window and seemed to be looking at him; her eyes were thin blue crescents, almost coyly turned toward him. Shar, rubbing his eyes, squatted beside her. He touched her forehead. Leaning to her, he could see that she was not looking at him. For a while Shar squatted by her, his elbows on his knees. Everything was quiet except for sounds from the boardwalk and the midway, and Shar found the silence restful and strengthening; his body was quieted, it sensed a completeness it had not known before. Shar thought back over his life—the odd moments here and there that had protruded out of the usual passage of time, claiming significance—and could not remember ever having felt like this. It was as if he had finished now with action—his life, never anything more than an accumulation of actions, was now fulfilled. But he could not understand why he felt this way.
Shar caressed her shoulders and arms. Pale flesh—such weak flesh—the hint of white bones beneath it, delicate as ivory. The first time he had seen her, Shar thought, standing stiffly poised out in the road, self-conscious, petulant, spoiled, he had felt something for her, and his peace had been worried by anger. But he thought with surprise that that had not been the first time: he had known her as a child, pale-haired, with fat cheeks and dirty fingers, something to pick up and swing idly through the air. Yet her soul had peered out at him, dimpled, sly, it had calculated the distance between them—it had conquered him. Shar saw himself at sixteen again, with his long bony arms, a nose that was always damp, running out to the road one night with the money his father had hidden under the pump floor boards—laughing at the night air, at the smell of the creek, at the stagnant world he was leaving. He had dreamed of lighting a gigantic torch and turning it upon those people—burning them down, burning all civilization down, all faces, eyes, upraised hands, souls of babies waiting to grow into womanhood and devour him. It was not a life dominated by fathers Shar had fled, but a life of order, of meticulous, heart-straining order!—in imitation of man, Shar’s father had arranged a chaos of junk into selections of junk, cardboard in one pile, metal in another, wood in still another—The great torch of Shar’s rage would have flared up all careful piles of junk, blended them in a single holocaust of flame. Burn down everything! Fire everything, as the Herzes fired their fields each year, preparing for new growth. Shar had been drunk with the idea of destruction as a child, until the night he ran away; then, leaving that world of a father’s insanity and long, bone-freezing winters and mornings in school and a life of prepared poverty, he had gradually lost his rage. He had grown out of it. As an adult he was proud of his self-control: he prided himself on his lack of emotions, his failure to involve himself seriously with anyone, his refusal to accept anything as permanent. Karen had ruined him; she had destroyed his faith in himself. With her descent from the cold world of their childhood had come Shar’s old anger, his old desire for destruction—but he had felt, once alone with Karen in this room, that his passion would be ended. The insane fragments of his life would be made whole—cleansed through violence, a communion of pain.
Under his hands Karen began to shiver. Shar went to the bed and straightened the mattress, which had slipped halfway ont
Karen lay very carefully on her back. She had begun to claw at the mattress covering. Shar leaned over her. “Where are you bleeding?” he said. He saw a pitiless absorption of pain in her eyes—blank and pitiless as the cold suffering of a statue, a muted ecstasy of pain. In Karen’s look there was confusion, shame, fear. As he watched, she began to turn into a child again, features softening with fear, eyes filled with tears—a tear on her cheek, a child’s trick! Shar wanted to seize her and shake her violently. There had always been something between them, a secrecy that kept them from each other—when Shar surrendered, Karen would have withdrawn; when Karen surrendered, the nature of her surrender, mindless and even without pain, would have ruined Shar’s delight in her. They had moved through their months together in an elaborate dance, always avoiding each other, at the same time luring and entrapping each other, and it was with disgust that Shar realized this mockery of love had not yet come to an end. He had not yet violated Karen’s secrecy; she had eluded him. The communion of pain to which he had forced her brutally had given Shar to her but it had not given Karen to Shar.
“Where are you bleeding?” said Shar.