What I Lived For

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Part II

  Saturday, May 23, 1992

  1

  Corky, Hungover, at Home

  So that’s it! My God.”

  The headline in Saturday morning’s Journal, the photograph—Corky’s hit in the gut.

  This news that hadn’t been released when he’d watched the 11 P.M. news the night before: that Marilee Plummer is dead, a “suspected suicide,” found by a neighbor in her car, in a closed garage, the car’s motor still running and the garage filled with exhaust, at 9:20 A.M. Friday morning.

  Corky checks out the address—yes, 1758 Brisbane, Pendle Hill. The condominium complex called Pendle Hill Village.

  “Oh Christ. Shit. Marilee Plummer! Her.”

  The ambulance driving away moving out into traffic on Brisbane with no siren, no urgency. A corpse, not a customer.

  He’d been right about that. And guessing too the corpse was female.

  Dazed minutes feeling his hangover deepen, plunge dragging his feeble consciousness into his very bowels Corky stands barefoot and shivering in the vestibule of his house reading the lead article in the Journal. Gorgeous smiling black girl Marilee Plummer, Thalia’s friend but how close Corky doesn’t know, it makes him uneasy to wonder since, once, he’d gone out with Marilee and yes frankly he’d been hot to fuck her but it hadn’t worked out she hadn’t wanted him.

  Corky Corcoran’s precious white prick, and certain advantages that might have come with it—Marilee Plummer had said no.

  It’s 8:10 A.M. Bleak, windy-rainy morning. Corky Corcoran feeling the loss of this young woman who wasn’t a friend but might have been. The loss too of a person he knew, even if not well and with a measure of antagonism; the barrier of her skin; the mysteriousness of her private life. For when Plummer brought charges of rape and sexual assault against Marcus Steadman, and the news dominated Union City conversation for days, the first wave of sentiment was what was this ambitious attractive young woman doing with a man like Steadman?—a black man raping a black woman, doesn’t seem so much a crime somehow.

  Not that Corky Corcoran said, nor even thought, such a racist thing. He’s enlightened, he’s a liberal Democrat. Voted to create a special subdepartment of Family Services to deal with crimes of sexual violence. (Until the late 1970s, in Union City as virtually everywhere in the country, there were no provisions for crimes of sexual and/or domestic violence.) But the prejudice is hard to eradicate even if you’re enlightened and Corky’d heard racist comments all around town in his clubs and in restaurants and on talk radio and in the office of Corcoran, Inc., where both Miriam and Jacky expressed a curious sort of qualified sympathy for Marilee Plummer of whom they knew only through the media. A black man raping a black woman, doesn’t seem so much of a crime somehow.

  And so, yesterday morning, Marilee Plummer killed herself.

  Obviously, there’s a connection?

  The coroner’s report says carbon monoxide poisoning, a “considerable degree” of the painkiller Percodan in the dead woman’s blood. No signs of physical injury. No apparent health problems. And no suicide note.

  In the photograph on page one, Marilee Plummer looks younger than Corky ever knew her. Smiling, seemingly confident, almond-slanted eyes and wide cheekbones and Afro-style hair. In life, animated, confrontational. Exotic. Frecklehead she’d called Corky Corcoran, teasing. Cockteasing.

  There’s an article too in the paper about Marcus Steadman, and his photo above the caption controversial City Councilman indicted on charges of rape and “sexual terrorism” in January 1992. Corky quickly skims this, wondering what will happen—now that Marilee Plummer is dead, the trial set for June will be dropped. So Steadman walks? free? God damn! Corky hates the guy’s guts, for a number of reasons. He’d hoped to see Steadman sent to prison.

  Don’t believe it’s suicide, it isn’t.

  Maybe Steadman killed her?—hounded her into killing herself?

  Steadman, an old enemy of Oscar Slattery’s, who’s run against him for Mayor, splitting the black inner-city vote, might not be a murderer but Corky doesn’t doubt the guy’s capable of inspiring certain of his fanatic followers to murder. Like the Black Muslims in the 1960s. Like fundamentalist Muslims today. How a smart girl like Marilee Plummer who’d been associated with the Slatterys and with people of equal quality, white people Corky’s thinking, could have been attracted to a man like Steadman, it’s a puzzle. Twenty-seven years old, honors graduate from SUNY Union City, assistant to the curator at the County Historical Museum, active in Union City Democratic politics and the NAACP and she’s called by friends and Pendle Hill neighbors quoted in the paper “ambitious” and “bright” and “goal-oriented” and “friendly”—at least, before the Steadman incident. Since then, she’s said to have been “more private,” “more subdued,” “withdrawn.” One Pendle Hill resident said of her “she didn’t smile as much as she used to.”

  Marilee Plummer’s family refused to speak with reporters.

  Marcus Steadman is said to be “unavailable for comment.”

  In the inner-city black community, as distinct from Union City’s middle-class black community Washington Park, many, maybe most blacks both female and male sided with Marcus Steadman. Just as, everywhere in the city, blacks and whites have tended to choose sides in the matter of the Pickett shooting of Devane Johnson. It’s a sports mentality, choosing sides. Hell, Corky feels that way, too—not officially and for sure not publicly but it’s hard not to. As a man, he’s likely to identify with another man accused of rape, so long as no violence is involved; as a white man, he’s likely to identify with another white man, so long as no violence, no really criminal activity, is involved. In the matter of Steadman and Plummer, Corky’d long ago made up his mind. He was on Plummer’s side, sure. Black bastard Steadman, black prick deserves to go to prison for a long time.

  Which would remove Steadman from Union City politics, permanently.

  No more of his spoiler campaigns, siphoning off votes from the Democrats that should be theirs by rights.

  No more having to look at the motherfucker there in the Council assembly room, his smirking face, insolent mocking questions. Making of every issue a matter of race a matter of black against white.

  Of course, Steadman vehemently denied Plummer’s charges. Insisting that sexual relations between them were consensual, he was being blackmailed, extorted. There were no witnesses to any assault or coercion, which the victim claimed took place in an apartment owned by Steadman on Fifth Street, not his legal residence but where he’d brought her to discuss “spiritual matters” relating to the African-American First Church of the Evangelist where he was minister. Instead he’d kept her captive for three hours, threatening to kill her if she resisted him. After raping her, Steadman allegedly told her no one would believe her if she accused him; and if she went to the police, “his people” would rise up and punish her. He then shoved her out onto the street. By her own account Marilee Plummer was too distraught to call the police immediately, nor even to call friends, but went home and only the next afternoon reported the assault. At first, when the news broke, Plummer’s name was not given; nor was it known that Steadman’s victim was a black woman. Corky remembers the first furious rumors flying around town, that Steadman had raped a white woman. And what whites were saying should be done to him.

  It was only after a grand jury indicted Steadman that Plummer decided to go public. By then, in certain quarters, her identity was generally known. Outrage against Steadman lessened, ironically, it must have been bitterly for Plummer, when people learned that his victim was black.

  And now, the victim’s dead. “Suspected suicide.”

  And Thalia Corcoran, who’d been her friend. Which explains Thalia’s mysterious behavior lately. The telephone calls, the disappearance. Thalia’s afraid Marcus Steadman will pursue her, too?

  Shaving, Corky avoids his bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror. His hand holding the razor’s trembling so he has to firm it up with the
other. How much of this is his hangover and how much worry about Thalia, shock over Marilee Plummer—who’s to know. Lately, these past few months, Corky doesn’t seem able to drink quite so much as he’d always done. Without feeling like shit the morning after.

  Last night he’d maybe made a mistake, can’t understand now why but after driving away from Highland he’d been too excited to come back to the house, dress for the van Burens’ dinner party one of those fancy-formal dinner parties Corky Corcoran’s grateful as hell to be invited to, these are important influential rich men and women and Corky needs them for backing if he’s going to run for any office higher than City Councilman for the Eleventh District which he isn’t sure he is: that depends upon the Party. But instead of going to the van Burens’ he ended up cruising the city, his nightspots, even the Irish Bar down by the docks, restless and pugnacious and close to getting into one or two fights though restricting himself to ale and no more than three ales at each bar reasoning you can’t get seriously drunk on ale with a constitution like his because you bloat up on it before you get drunk. Also you spend half your time pissing it out, it runs through you like a sieve, then washing your hands in the men’s room you splash cold water on your face which sobers you up. So, Corky figures, he hadn’t been drunk the night before though he is hungover this morning.

  He’s inclined to blame Thalia. Listening last night to his telephone messages and there she was again, he’d been relieved to hear her voice but pissed, too. Breathy and almost inaudible Corky?—by now maybe you know? why I’m so afraid? If you’re home tomorrow I’ll come over around four then a pause so long it seemed she’d hung up before she added If I can.

  Corky replayed the message three times. Corky? by now maybe you know? why I’m so afraid? But public disclosure of Plummer’s death hadn’t been made yet. So how did Thalia know? It must’ve been at least sixteen hours between the time he’d seen the ambulance drive off from Pendle Hill Village and whenever the news was released, in time for the morning edition of the Journal but too late for the 11 P.M. news. The identity of a deceased person isn’t released by police until relatives are informed.

  And that’s weird, too—that the UCPD couldn’t locate relatives of Marilee Plummer for all those hours.

  Corky pauses in his shaving remembering Oscar Slattery squinting up at him out of the shadowy rear of the limo. That was midafternoon and by that time Oscar knew of course and Oscar was sick about it but hadn’t told Corky, in retrospect Corky thinks Oscar may have been about to tell him then decided not to. But why not. Shit, they’re all enemies of Marcus Steadman aren’t they. Corky Corcoran’s your man.

  Corky’s hurt. His loyalty to Oscar, the years of their connection, their friendship—why hadn’t Oscar confided in him?

  He’d known Oscar Slattery since he was fifteen years old. And liked to think there was, there is, a special relationship between them. My son has never learned to campaign. He’s afraid of getting his hands dirty. That undercurrent of worry and reproach when a man speaks of his son in such a way to a guy his son’s age. Like a woman complaining of her husband to you, you know she wants to be comforted and you know what comforting means. In Oscar’s case the signal Corky gets is You’d have been a truer son to me than my own son. You and I understand each other.

  Last night navigating the Caddy through the buzz in his head like a hive of giddy bees Corky must’ve blanked out totally on the van Burens. Meant to call and explain he couldn’t make the dinner: family emergency. A shitty thing to do, just not show. He knows from when he and Charlotte had people to dinner, the effort you put into it, like friendship itself is on the line, or pride, or whatever—if somebody doesn’t show up it’s more than a disappointment it’s an insult. In the case of the van Burens, it’s an insult and an asshole mistake on Corky’s part since van Buren’s the county Party boss, a genial guy and generous to his proven friends but if you cross the line and he’s your enemy, you’re fucked.

  Corky’s thinking he’ll call the van Burens later this morning, it’s still too early right now. Give them some hard-luck story about Thalia being so upset about her friend’s death she’d needed care, counseling. Which is no lie, in fact.

  And no drinking, today. Not even ale, beer.

  Old Hock Corcoran in his last days, pissing his bed, yelling with the D.T.’s. Corky’s scared as hell to go out like that.

  He’s too smart to go out like that.

  Though staring at himself in the mirror where he’s cut his jaw shaving, a bright trickle of blood through the lather and his eyes like burst grapes and thin white lines at the corners of his eyes he wonders if other people can see, Christina for instance; wonders how old he looks, how he’s perceived. What Timothy Patrick Corcoran would see, seeing Jerome now.

  Corky returns to his bedroom to get dressed firm in his resolution he isn’t going to drink today. All day. And he’ll drive down to Roosevelt Street to visit his Uncle Sean as he’s been promising he’ll do. And take the old man out to Holy Redeemer to see Aunt Mary Megan. Two old birds with one stone. Yes but you love them don’t you, they’re about all you have connecting you with the old days. Get rid of that potted plant he’s been hauling around in the car for days.

  Corky never enters his bedroom this “master” bedroom without thinking he wants Christina here. Never has brought her here. He’s furious at her, he’s through with her, but he wants her, here. In that bed amid the tangled sheets. Right now.

  Cranking open the louver window farther to air out the room. A smell of armpits, crotch. Corky’s own private smell. But the humidity’s like a mouth pressing close and breathing into his. Not even any sky this morning just this crap-drizzly-gray overcast ceiling skimming the tops of the tallest trees.

  So lonely. Christ have mercy on my soul.

  Corky straightens the bedclothes, drags the fancy silk-quilted spread up over the pillows. Charlotte furnished the room and didn’t stint on the expenses but now things are looking shabby. A cleaning woman comes twice weekly and changing the bedclothes is her task, Corky can’t be bothered. Since the divorce he’d quickly reverted to old bachelor habits of falling asleep half-dressed in bed reading or watching TV drinking into the early hours of the morning when the very taste of whatever he’s drinking—ale, beer, wine, whiskey—has a brooding quality, more important somehow, serious. Sacred. Wakes to find himself lying sideways atop the bed rolled up in the spread his trousers still on, sometimes his shoes. The light still burning like he’s a kid scared of the dark.

  Last night coming into the room Corky’d gone straight to the bedside table to check out the Luger and now he checks it out again—takes it up in his hand, weighs it. Long-barreled heavy fucker, an automatic, eight shots in the magazine, sleek polished handle, looks good. A burnished look like it’s got a history.

  Wonder how many men has this gun killed. And who’s to come.

  But could he shoot it? And at who?

  Standing in front of a full-length mirror smirking and preening pointing the barrel at himself in the mirror like a teenaged wiseguy, then pointing the barrel at his own head. Weird sensation. Exciting. Like breaking into Thalia’s apartment—the risk.

  Death. In your hand. So fucking easy.

  In one of his fantasies Corky’d imagined Fenske living long enough so that he, Corky Corcoran, could have killed him. Was that possible?

  No. Not possible. In his heart he knows he’s just an average guy, a coward.

  Hopes he’ll never be put to the test. In a position where he could save somebody else’s life but he’d be paralyzed, or run like hell saving his own. The shame of it afterward, he’d never outlive.

  Tim Corcoran always had a gun, a pistol, smaller than this, kept in his bedside table, too. And probably other guns, at the office, or in his car. Rough growing up in Irish Hill when he’d been a kid and you needed to protect yourself and you needed people to know you could protect yourself. When his parents were away Corky used to go into their bedroom upstairs at the B
arrow Street house and in secret take out Daddy’s gun, a Smith & Wesson six-shot, .38-caliber bullets. So excited breathing so quickly he’d almost have a hard-on. Pose with it in front of the mirror like he’s doing now except then he was running the risk of Daddy discovering what he’d done and beating the shit out of him.

  Also Corky’d discovered, beneath the mattress on his father’s side of the bed, a box of Trojans wrapped in medicinal-smelling tin-foil packets, examining these curiously, holding the packets up to the light. Too young at the time, no more than eight or nine, he hadn’t known what these things could be except being hidden they were secret. And adult.

  Standing here in his own bedroom thirty years later. Memory jolting him like an electric current. God help me, I loved them so. Both of them. He puts the safety back on the Luger and returns it to the bedside drawer.

  It’s then the telephone rings and Corky feels his pulse leap thinking It’s Christina but, damn, no, a man’s voice, and not a friend’s, at least not a voice he can recognize straight off and for some reason the guy doesn’t introduce himself, asking urgently, “Hello? Am I speaking to Jerome Corcoran?” and Corky says, “Yes,” suspiciously, and the guy says, quickly, a high reedy-nasal voice that is in fact beginning to sound familiar, “I apologize profusely for disturbing you at home, Mr. Corcoran, and on a Saturday morning!—but this is a matter of some importance, and—” as Corky screws up his face, listening incredulously, can this be who he thinks it is?—can it? “—if we could just sit down to confer, the significance of my project would become clear, Mr. Corcoran—‘Union City Mausoleum of the Dead’—only a small, select board of trustees—” and Corky interrupts, “Look, you, ‘Teague,’ or is it ‘Tyde’—I told you yesterday I wasn’t interested, didn’t I?” and there’s a pause, then a rush of words, and an air of reproach and righteousness beneath, “Yes but if you knew, Mr. Corcoran!—if you were informed!—the architectural plans—” and Corky’s saying angrily, “I told you fuck off, mister, and I mean fuck off.”