What I Lived For

by Joyce Carol Oates

  “Well, screw you, too.”

  Corky speaks aloud, loudly. Grins at his reflection. What he’d like, it’s only in the privacy and secrecy of an empty men’s room at the Union City Athletic Club the thought strikes him, is to climb high enough so he can shit on them all.

  All of Union City, friends, enemies, and noncombatants. And that’s the truth.

  Still Corky wonders, Is there a poker game tonight at Oscar’s? that I’m not invited to?

  And who was at the luncheon today, upstairs?

  Corky wonders too when Vic Slattery is arriving from Washington. The banquet’s Monday evening at 7 P.M., obviously Vic will be up earlier, probably for the full weekend. In fact, he’s probably back right now.

  Possible (though how probable?) there’s a message waiting for Corky at home or at the office, inviting him out to Chateauguay Falls for a drink. The last time he’d been out to Vic’s and Sandra’s, just a few close friends, and Vic speaking frankly of the low morale among the liberal Democrats, and the kinds of letters from his constituents he’s been getting, it isn’t just the recession but a malaise of the spirit, Americans are fed up with lies from politicians so how to make them listen to the truth?—that was back in February, snow on the ground. And Vic thanking Corky for coming out, and Sandra kissing him on the cheek. Next time I’m up from Washington, before Memorial Day, we’ll have to get together, O.K.?

  O.K.

  O.K., Vic Slattery, I’m with you one hundred percent, I’m your man.

  By the end of the decade, if all goes well, of course it might not go well but say it does, Vic Slattery might be a U.S. Senator. Might be Governor of New York State.

  And Oscar Slattery should still be Mayor of Union City by then, why not, tough old bastard’s in the prime of his career. Mid-sixties and in great health.

  Know why I trust you, Corky? Oscar Slattery once said, rye whiskey on his breath which meant he’d be telling the truth, You don’t take any bullshit and you don’t hand it out, just like your old man. That’s why.

  Corky finishes up, walks out of the men’s room, he’s feeling less rocky now he’s washed his face, splashed cold water on his blood-veined eyes. Maybe? or no? yes? going to punch the elevator button for the third floor, check on things up there, when he hears his name called, “Mr. Corcoran?—Jerome?” Turns to see a man in his mid-thirties, shorter than Corky by an inch or so, though wearing gleaming Cuban-heeled black shoes, a face unknown to Corky despite the guy’s friendly-forward manner and the way he thrusts out his hand to be shaken, giving his name as Teague, or maybe Tyde—“I believe we have at least one beloved friend in common, Jerome? Father Delucca?” he says earnestly, and Corky says, “Father Delucca’s dead, I thought,” a dumb response since Corky knows the old Jesuit, Corky’s high school math teacher, is dead, he’d gone to the funeral three, four years ago, Teague, or is it Tyde, nods with grave vehemence, “That’s one of the reasons I hope to speak with you, Jerome.”

  This second “Jerome,” so emphatically uttered, signals Corky the guy wants something from him, and anybody who wants something from Corky Corcoran, Corky hasn’t got time for him.

  Also, Corky guesses that this character, who’s rattling away about a memorial project, Riverside Park, “mausolem of the local, deserving, much-mourned illustrious dead,” is not a member of the U.C.A.C. The Club has about five hundred members and Corky doesn’t know them all but he knows this guy isn’t one of them.

  Teague, or Tyde, has a sharp reedy voice, a pronounced western New York State accent, more nasal than Corky’s own. His face looks squeezed together. And his head’s too small. Moist protuberant eyes, small grayish squirrel teeth, an air of zealous-salesman conviction Corky can’t stand. Jesus! The guy’s wearing a boxy black-on-beige checked sport coat and is it a tin-colored leather necktie, maybe two inches wide?—Corky’s never seen anything like this in the U.C.A.C.

  The earnest little man is speaking in such an urgent, rapid-fire way, Corky hasn’t any choice but to interrupt. “Look, sorry, I’m in a hurry, now’s not the time for this,” Corky says, backing off with a smile of a kind not to be confused with a smile; and Teague, or Tyde, looks after him with stricken eyes. Crying, “Mr. Corcoran!—Jerome! ‘The Union City Mausoleum of the Dead’ is a project of the utmost importance—I’m approaching only a few select benefactors—when will be the time to discuss it?”

  At the stairs, Corky calls out over his shoulder, indifferently, “Contact my office.” Thinking that will be the end of it, but here’s the little guy at his elbow, accompanying him downstairs. “Mr. Corcoran, just a few minutes of your time, right now! Father Delucca spoke so warmly of you! Once you grasp the significance of my project, I know you’ll be a one hundred percent supporter—” Corky can’t believe this, the pushy little bugger. Corky says, “Fuck off, will you?” They’re at the bottom of the stairs, in the lobby, Corky glances around to see no one’s within earshot, says, with a menacing look at Teague, or Tyde, “And get the hell out of the U.C.A.C.—you’re not a member.”

  “G’bye, Mr. Corcoran!”

  “G’bye, Mr. Corcoran!”

  “Have a real fine day, Mr. Corcoran!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Corcoran!”

  Corky emerges blinking into the sullen, wintry-glowering light. A strong damp-metal smell of the river and where the hell’s the sun?—it’s May, not March. Corky feels cheated. The way the fucking day had looked, felt, tasted back at Nott Street when he’d first arrived, run up the stairs to Christina—Christ! might have been weeks ago.

  Valet parking. The Hispanic-looking kid in the U.C.A.C. uniform doesn’t need to be reminded which car belongs to Corky—“Yes sir, Mr. Corcoran! Coming right up! Caddy De-Ville.”

  Sometimes you wonder if they’re jiving you, all of them—even the young ones. At least, the jobs Corky had as a kid, he’d never had to wear crimson pants and brass buttons and braid.

  Recalling the photos of Tim Corcoran, and of Sean, too, in their U.S. Army uniforms, they’d looked good. So young. Sassy, proud. Corky wishes, knows it’s stupid but wishes anyway, he’d gone into the Army, Private First Class like Tim Corcoran and maybe a medal, too, he’ll never have that experience now, know what it’s like. A soldier, a man among men—except now, they have women, too. Corky’s war was Vietnam, nothing to be patriotic about. Theresa made him promise not to enlist, confusing him (maybe) with Tim; convinced he was going to die, be shot down, like Tim, poor Mother. For sure, Corky’d had no intention of going to Vietnam and getting his ass shot off. His luck, he’d be rolling down this ramp here (a wheelchair ramp parallel to the U.C.A.C.’s front steps) crapping sideways through a tube into a plastic bottle. Like poor Harry Kavanaugh.

  He’s my husband, I love him too, I share my life with him.

  And Corky’d loved her! Fantasized about marrying her: Having a kid! Jesus.

  Corky’s guts squirm, that sensation that means hot liquidy shit.

  That heavy lunch, and two bottles of wine. And scotch. Is he trying to kill himself?

  Thinking what shame to come, what public humiliation, everybody in Union City knowing about him, Christina, and Harry. Judge Harold Kavanaugh, retired. The third party to the love affair, the voyeur, and now, looking back, Corky’s forced to think of the man as an eyewitness, a presence, those numberless times he and Christina made love, and the things they said to each other, the things he’d said, so isn’t Corky himself a voyeur?—talk about sick.

  It isn’t just Corky’s pride that’s offended, it’s his morality.

  Lucky he didn’t lose it back there, and hurt her. A woman’s vulnerable, the nose easily broken. Eyes easily bruised. He’d hit a few women in his life including Charlotte (who’d hit him) so he knows.

  “Fuck you, Christina. And Harry, too.”

  Corky’s been noticing a gleaming black stretch limo idling in the drive. One of the City Hall fleet. He can’t make out who’s in the back seat, the windows are tinted too dark. The Mayor’s contingent is leaving n
ow, too.

  A rear door of the limo swings open, and Red Pitts climbs out. Calls Corky over, and, the kind of coincidence that happens if you’re in the right place at the right time, it’s Oscar Slattery himself calling over, “Corky?—need a lift?” Corky’s flattered to hell, sure.

  A quick handshake with the Mayor, and exchange of greetings.

  Corky hasn’t actually seen Oscar Slattery this close, face to face, in how long?—weeks. The last poker game he’d hosted, back in April. Glimpsed on television lately, he’s been having a hard time, the fiscal crisis, but mainly the Devane Johnson shooting, Marcus Steadman’s attacks, “racist” charges—untrue, outrageous, but freely made; at City Council meetings, he manages to keep control, good-natured as far as his good nature will take him, gets most of his proposals voted in, but then two-thirds of the Council members are loyal supporters of the administration. Corky’s struck now by the strain in Oscar’s face, the pale blue eyes threaded with blood, as bad, he’s thinking, as his own. And Oscar’s cheeks lined, splotched-looking. But Oscar Slattery is a handsome guy still, sixty-eight years old, thin fine filmy-white hair, strong bones, pride in his posture, if a little stiffness. Smiling up at Corky, out of the sumptuous rich-leather-smelling interior of the limo: “Well! We’ll be seeing each other Monday evening, right? In Chateauguay?” Corky says, “Right! Absolutely.” Though making a droll face as if he’s just slightly apprehensive of giving a speech, which in fact he is. Oscar asks after Corky’s family, as he invariably does, and it’s ritual, but not wholly ritual, since, during and after Corky’s divorce, he’d inquire about that too, and specifically; Corky gives the usual swift-upbeat answers, everybody’s fine, he’s fine, his nephew Rickie Payne at Georgetown Law is doing pretty well—the connection being that Vic too went to Georgetown Law School. All of which Oscar is glad to hear, glad to hear. With Corky, he’s likely to be kind, but there’s a playfulness to his words, an edge of banter, so you can’t forget for long that this is, for all his smiling, a public man, a man of power, a shrewd politician, impatient if things don’t move along at his own brisk pace and according to his own, sometimes secret, agenda.

  Though today Oscar seems distracted. There’s an uncharacteristic old-mannish pursing of the lips and uncertainty. Corky asks is Vic up from Washington yet, and Oscar nods vaguely but doesn’t seem to have heard. Repeats he’ll be seeing Corky at the fund-raiser Monday evening, right?—“Every ticket’s been sold, terrific, eh?” Corky asks again, about Vic, a little louder, and this time Oscar says, a flicker of worry or annoyance in his face, “My son has never learned to campaign. He’s afraid of getting his hands dirty.” Corky mildly protests, “Hell, Oscar, Vic was great last time out, what d’you mean? All those crossover votes?” so there’s a brief exchange about this campaign, two years before, in which Corky’d been involved, mainly as a consultant, and talk of the upcoming campaign, but Corky judges Oscar isn’t following even his own words very closely. The animation’s there, fueled by, of course, a few drinks, but not the concentration. Oscar peers up at his son’s friend from high school with oddly searching eyes, an air of anxiety beneath. As if he has something to ask Corky which, for all the almost familial intimacy of this exchange, he can’t bring himself to ask.

  Which shrewd Corky Corcoran’s going to remember, for sure. How, knowing what he does, at this moment, and seeing that Corky doesn’t know, Oscar Slattery lets it pass. A handshake, and goodbye for now.

  Red Pitts has been standing close by, smoking a cigarette, he’s edgy too, so Corky asks him, in a lowered voice, “Red, is Oscar all right?” and Red says, coolly, “Mr. Slattery’s fine, Corky. How about you?”

  5

  Corcoran, Inc.

  Strange how by day sometimes a brittle shell of moon, luminescent as aged perforated bone, is visible in the sky. Riding the crest of clouds fleeting and insubstantial as human thought. Borne by high, invisible winds. Appearing, disappearing. And reappearing. Seeing the moon where he doesn’t expect it, Corky squints thinking of Our Lady of Mercy Cemetery where his parents are buried. TIMOTHY PATRICK CORCORAN. THERESA AGNES CORCORAN. What unimaginable flesh still clings to what brittle bones, what soft-rotted grave silks and linens. Death-lace: the word comes to Corky out of the sky as he’s stalled in traffic by the God-damned fucking pedestrian mall blocking Second Street.

  Guilty son. Must visit them soon. No son any longer. Would they know me?

  Never “Corky” to them. And now losing my hair.

  In fact it was Democratic Councilman Jerome A. Corcoran who helped promote the campaign for “Union City Revival ‘89” part of the $15-million package of which was the blocking off of certain downtown streets as pedestrian malls. So Corky has himself to blame, among others. That solid Democratic voting block on the Council, outnumbering any opposition (and the opposition’s always shifting) two to one. So a three-block five-minute drive from the Athletic Club to Corky’s office at 773 South State will take him fifteen minutes. Trying not to feel anxiety about Christina. About Thalia.

  Why the fuck should he care about Thalia. Another man’s daughter.

  No son any longer. And never a father.

  Nor a husband: you get divorced, you get divorced. As in getting fucked over. Something done to you.

  Except: how to divorce a daughter even if she’s another man’s daughter adopted under your name but never your own who nonetheless lived with you and your wife in a semblance of “family” for eleven years. How’s it done? how’s it done right?

  In Irish Hill, in the old days, nobody got divorced. Had kids and the Church forbade divorce so you didn’t think of it. Nor of abortion. Getting a girl in trouble, you married her for life.

  Lucky that never happened to Corky Corcoran. Just plain luck, the screwing around he did. Waiting to put his head in another kind of noose.

  Corky’s thinking: if he can’t get hold of Thalia on the phone, he’ll drive to the most recent address he has for her, Highland Avenue near the State University campus. Crummy neighborhood, and her the granddaughter, and an heiress, of Ross Drummond. Corky’d only visited Thalia’s apartment there a single time. And that not a visit exactly, since Thalia had no idea he was there. Cruising by in the street.

  Corky, let me alone, you’re not my father.

  Corky, just fuck off! Why keep up the pretense?

  Bullshit, you don’t love me. And I sure as hell don’t love you.

  “Sure, Miriam—call Mrs. Slattery back and confirm, yes I’m free.”

  Sometimes, life is sweet.

  Corky calls Miriam at his office a dozen times a day when he’s in his car as most days he is making his Union City rounds of business appointments, squash games, lunches, drinks, visits to certain of his properties, check-ins with building supers sometimes announced but more frequently not. Terrific invention, the car phone. Cellular phone. And voice mail. Corky’d bought stock early in these but fuck it the wrong stock. Fell right out the bottom, October 1987.

  This morning early, 7:55 A.M. he’d been at his office and stayed till 10 A.M. but hasn’t been back since. Trusts Miriam Dunne with running the office, women make the best office managers, devoted to you. Corky’d feel guilty about keeping Miriam working late Friday afternoon of a holiday weekend—the other girl, Jacky, is off—except Miriam never seems to mind. And she’s married, too. Mid-fifties. Not bad-looking for her age but hefty in the ass. Powdered and rouged and her hair “permed” as if that makes a difference, she has grown children and a husband Corky’s managed never to meet. Adores him—“Mr. Corcoran.”

  When Corky calls in, Miriam reports the call from Sandra Slattery a glimmer of excitement in her voice, never has met the glamorous young Slatterys but once the Mayor when accompanying Corky to City Hall her cheeks suffused with color shaking Oscar’s hand. Corky tells her yes though in fact dropping by for drinks at the Slatterys’ tomorrow at 6 P.M. isn’t ideal. Corky has another date he’ll have to get out of.

  Glancing skyward, the thin sickle of bone
again for a moment exposed then hidden by cloud. See how far I’ve come! See if you can stop me!

  Reading in The Universe and You how iron dust from the farthest stars exploded in the Big Bang millennia ago inhabits our bones. The very marrow.

  Smiling at his reflection in the rearview mirror, he is a good-looking guy could pass for thirty-five, maybe younger. Join up with a health club somewhere in the suburbs where his face isn’t known, see what kind of pussy he’d attract. Never fails: let them cruise you.

  Two years ago, before Christina, that tennis club in Riverdale—fucking one of the female instructors, cute-butchy freckled all over like Corky himself and orangey-red-haired, she’d led him into a private changing room for instructors, locked the door at 5 P.M. of a dark-snowy December day and they didn’t emerge again till 8 P.M.

  Miriam’s running through the calls that have come in and Corky’s half-paying attention, routine business, nothing crucial, then Miriam pauses (and Corky knows her pauses: bad news) to say a call had come in at 2:10 P.M. from his daughter Thalia that sounded more upset than the first. Corky says quickly, “O.K., Miriam, fine. I’m on my way and I’ll take care of it.” Stiff with Miriam whenever anything involving his personal life comes up, private domestic life, or any of his women, none of the old girl’s business.

  But forced to turn west on Second which reroutes him practically to Front Street, waterfront loading docks then across to Nott, slowed down then at the construction site at Union and Fifth, that new eighty-storey glass-steel-and-aluminum office tower, that pisses Corky off—there’s so much fucking office space vacant in the center city, some of it owned by Corcoran, Inc., but a lot of it, too, in other new high-rises, the situation’s crazy unless you know the tax breaks these guys get, financiers they’re called, few of them locals, no interest in Union City at all. New York City–based companies, Toronto, even Tokyo. (A lot of stink, local publicity, about some Jap company taking over the bankrupt First Fidelity Bank tower.) Corky hates their guts, these fuckers, crooks, still you have to admire them—calculations on such a scale, it’s cosmic. Ivan Boesky, Michael Milken. Trump: who, even when he’s bankrupt, his creditors come on their knees to suck off him. Thinks Corky, That’s big-time, that’s real class.