What I Lived For

by Joyce Carol Oates

  “Corky, come in! Good to see you!”—Drummond’s reaching out to shake Corky’s hand in that special bone-crushing grip of his that signals to business rivals and rivalrous friends alike all’s well, you can trust Ross Drummond, what a great guy. “It’s been a while, eh? Too long.”

  Says Corky, forcing a grin, “Too damned long.”

  “But I hear you’ve been renegotiating with my daughter and granddaughter, eh?”—wagging his forefinger at Corky, another lewd grin, as, in that way he has, rudely abrupt, Drummond turns on his heel and walks away leaving Corky to close the front door and follow him into the interior of the house.

  Though Corky and Ross Drummond have met a few times for drinks downtown since the breakup of Corky’s marriage to Charlotte, this is the first time he’s been in this house in years. He’s completely estranged from his ex-mother-in-law Hilda (who’s certainly home, and won’t come downstairs to meet him) who despises him as an adulterer.

  More than sixteen years since Corky was first a guest in this house. That evening he met Thalia, eight years old staring up at him like it’s love at first sight which maybe, Christ knows, it was.

  Passing the doorway of the enormous living room, Corky sees the Steinway grand in a farther corner. His impulse is to run over and strike the keys, for the hell of it banging “Chopsticks”—“Glow, Little Glowworm”—to see if he can still do it.

  Not much seems to have changed in the Drummonds’ house since the last time Corky was here. That evening too he was wearing a tux, and Charlotte was wearing one of her $1000 designer dresses so classy-sexy Corky wondered why, why the hell, so sad to wonder, not to know the answer, he couldn’t get it up for her anymore worth shit; and her looking at him knowing his thoughts, staring at him boldly knowing his thoughts telling the old man we only have ten minutes Pawpaw I’d like vodka on the rocks.

  “You’re looking pretty spiffy tonight, Corky,” says Drummond with his sliding grin, a lewd wink to one eye, “—like a maitre d’ in a fancy French restaurant,” pausing to wait for Corky’s response, which is a faint forced laugh, “—where’re you headed? Your own funeral?” and laughing himself, richly, yet not unkindly, rubbing his hands together and moving in the direction of his liquor cabinet. Corky’s allowed himself to be pushed down into a cushioned leather chair in Drummond’s study, already he’s having trouble breathing and he’s only been here ten seconds. Drummond chats in his high blustery way, the way of a man who in fact spends most of his life in his head, ceaselessly formulating theorems by which his already enormous fortune can be increased, but Corky’s only intermittently listening. A clamorous pulse A drink! a drink! almost drowning out Drummond’s repeated query, “—drink, kid? Red Label as per usual—?”

  “Thanks, Ross, but no. I’m cutting back.”

  “Hell you are! You?”—which is maybe a joke, but Corky’s not in the mood to find it funny.

  Declining too Drummond’s offer of wine, yes thanks a club soda, Corky’s hand visibly shaking as he reaches for the tumbler which Drummond surely sees but, out of tact, or sympathy, or surprise, says nothing. Pawpaw is always kidding around and Pawpaw is always deadly serious.

  Drummond splashes a good three inches of whiskey into a tumbler of his own, sits close by Corky and strikes his glass to Corky’s—“Cheers!”—drinks and sighs, small bright close-set eyes fixed hungrily on Corky’s face. His dentures grin and wink with a humor of their own. His skin, creased, leathery, freckled with liver spots, has an odd twitchy motility, like a living thing. He’s shinily bald across the crown of his head with a fringe of fine gray curls that give him the look of a merry, debauched Roman emperor. In recent years Drummond has had ulcer surgery, prostate surgery, a fairly serious cardiac “episode.” According to Charlotte he’s forever revising his will; he upsets his wife with his worries about failing health, imminent death, the collapse of the American economy. Yet Corky knows he works at his downtown office the same exhausting eighty-hour week he’d worked when Corky first met him twenty years ago; he’s as tireless in his business dealings, as dogged in his campaigns against his enemies. When Corky was Ross Drummond’s son-in-law and his employee he’d wake from strangled dreams in which the old man was literally sitting on his chest. Jesus!

  What the hell, Corky’s always admired Ross Drummond. A first-rate businessman, if a little too secretive and inclined to paranoia. A generous guy, if you’re on his good side. Scrupulously decorous and attentive to his wife, as to all “ladies” of a certain age and class. Except out of their earshot vulgar and funny, as, now, grinning at Corky, he says, “Just like old times, eh? You and me, and the broads in the kitchen.” As if Hilda Drummond, with a household staff of two or three, has ever worked in her own kitchen.

  As if, at this moment, Charlotte, as Corky’s wife, is here in this house.

  Sad. Must be, he misses me.

  So put the bite on the old fart. Now’s the hour!

  Corky laughs uneasily to go along with this, drinking his club soda, a cigarette burning in his fingers he doesn’t remember lighting. And Drummond’s puffing thoughtfully on a cigar now on the subject of Memorial Day, confessing to Corky he’s been haunted all day—hell, for years—by the memory of certain men who’d died in the war who were his friends, platoon buddies but he’s long forgotten their names, some of them he’d actually witnessed die struck by shrapnel or bombs and dead now for fifty years—so hard to believe: fifty years!—and he, Ross Drummond, still alive—and how astonishing that is, how guilty you feel, how in a way you never become accustomed to being alive once you see somebody die in your presence as if it had been meant to be you who died except you cheated Death, and even if Death one day catches up with you, still you cheated Death. “So I say a prayer for them,” Drummond tells Corky, almost shyly, “—shut my eyes tight and say a prayer for them, they’re not forgotten.”

  There’s a pause. Corky, knowing Drummond’s quicksilver shifts of mood, doesn’t quite trust him; waits for a sly wisecrack; says, “—I was just at the Memorial Day parade, and the ceremony in Erie Park, it was touching—” thinking then of Our Lady of Mercy Cemetery and how he’d broken down, Christ that’s scary, what if he breaks down tonight at Chateauguay?

  But Drummond isn’t much interested in the Memorial Day parade and ceremony. He’s still contemplating the past, nodding, sighing and working his lips, his leathery, layered-looking face creased with thought. “You know who I admire from those years, son?—Harry S. Truman. Not for his politics—you Democrats, your politics S-T-I-N-K—but for his common sense. There was a man who had the guts to drop the A-bomb, just the right time and just the right place. Knew he’d take shit for it, which he did, but here’s a man with courage enough to do what had to be done. ‘Thank God the bomb has come to us and not our enemies,’ Truman said. Truer words never spoken.” Drummond seems genuinely moved. He sighs and puffs on his cigar and exhales a cloud of bluish smoke that drifts into, and overcomes, Corky’s thinner cloud of white smoke. His hand, heavy, meaty-warm, and roughly affectionate, is on Corky’s black silk-wool tuxedo sleeve. “You may be too young to know about this watershed in history, Corky, but I know; I was there. I was on a troop transport ship headed for fucking Nippon myself when the A-bomb was dropped on Hiroshima—might’ve been killed, like hundreds, thousands of other guys in my position. But the A-bomb exploded, and we were saved. Truer words never spoken: ‘Thank God the bomb has come to us’—to America—‘and not our enemies.’” A fierce moist laugh escapes his rubbery lips turning high-pitched, almost a snigger. “To America. And not our enemies.”

  Pleasure in the emotion of this moment like Corky and his ex-father-in-law are alone together on the sleek white Rustbucket riding the waves of an anonymous river, hearing the harsh comforting slap of the waves and feeling the muscular ease of the powerful craft beneath them. Corky’s inhaling smoke deep into his lungs needing to think how to begin, how to most shrewdly yet tactfully bring up the subject of The Bull’s Eye, it isn’t the first t
ime in his relationship with Ross Drummond he’s come to the older man for help but he’s forgotten how in the past he handled it. A misstep with Drummond and you can be on your ass before you know it.

  Slyly Drummond says he’d heard Corky dropped in to visit Charlotte and Gavin the other evening. Laying his forefinger alongside his nose like a lewd Santa Claus—“But Gavin wasn’t home, eh?”

  Corky thinks, Did she tell you we fucked?

  Saying aloud, playing it straight and earnest like a good son-in-law, “Yeah. Charlotte and I’ve both been worried about Thalia. But it’s O.K. now—at least, it isn’t so crucial.” Wondering if Drummond knows about the stolen Luger. By the look in Drummond’s face, part serious and part playful, he guesses no. Charlotte doesn’t tell Pawpaw everything. “Thalia left a message for me this morning, at home. She’s going to stay with a friend somewhere out West—‘the western ranges,’ she says. Do you know anything about it, Ross?”

  Drummond says quickly, “Of course. Thalia tells me everything. She confides in her granddaddy.”

  “Where’s she going?” Corky asks. “Charlotte thought Wyoming, or Montana—”

  Stiffly Drummond cuts him off, “As I said, Thalia confides in me. And in her grandmother. But we can’t violate her trust.”

  Bullshit, thinks Corky. You know less than I do.

  Sitting then in an awkward silence. Corky’s eyes move restlessly about the handsomely furnished room you’ll never see again: this is your last visit pressing the lukewarm bottle of soda against his forehead that feels feverish. And his cheeks, jaws. Burning aching eyes. No time to shower before coming here but he’d shaved fast and distractedly holding his right hand with his left but even so it shook and he nicked himself not once but several times fuck it! blood trickling swiftly down his chin and he’d had a hell of a time staunching it then hurrying to put on his tux, fumbling the fucking studs and the tiny clamps in the bow tie so he’d almost thought he couldn’t do it, couldn’t dress himself and would have to (his mind moving through its limited possibilities like a computer in slow dazed time) drop by at Charlotte’s to get her help before going to the country club, might have to remarry his wife to ensure that over the years he’ll be able to get dressed for formal affairs or maybe at all. And Charlotte can’t betray him with her husband because he’s her husband whether they are married or not. And thinking too he’s got to move his ass and get out to Chateauguay which is at least a twenty-minute drive and he’s got to speak with Vic in privacy for the second time in a single day though Vic isn’t his brother just as this devious old man isn’t his father but he’s got to speak with him, too. And drawing a shaky breath he’s prepared to say outright he’s in need of emergency financial aid when Ross Drummond gets to it first.

  Saying, baring his beaming dentures in a rapacious smile, “Corky, it’s great to see you again, I’ve been missing you! Like Hilda says, you’re lots of laughs. But I know why you’ve taken time out from your busy social life to drop in here tonight, and I’m sorry as hell to have to disappoint you—my answer is ‘no.’”

  Corky stares, uncomprehending. Ross Drummond’s small moist pinwheel eyes radiate amusement. Clearly, Drummond’s enjoying this, the way, fishing off his yacht, he’d enjoyed hauling fish into the air squirming and writhing at the end of his line letting them flop around spasmodically on the deck before tossing them back overboard, their mouths torn and bleeding from the hook.

  “‘No’—what?” Corky asks in dread.

  “Don’t play dumb, kid. We’re talking about a four-hundred-sixty-thousand-dollar property. At least, that’s the price you’re paying for The Bull’s Eye, of which one hundred thirty-eight thousand is the down payment which I understand you’ve already paid with a check postdated for tomorrow?” Drummond’s frowning, mock solicitous. Shaking his head gravely. “Were you going to ask me for the full one hundred thirty-eight thousand, Corky, or do you have some spare cash of your own not ‘tied up in investments’?”

  Corky’s astonished. This echo of Corky’s own past words is so cruel, he almost can’t believe it.

  Corky stammers, “I—I’m not sure. I thought we could discuss—”

  “Now? In fifteen minutes? On your way to a black-tie evening at the Chateauguay Country Club? In your monkey suit? You’re doing your old father-in-law a big favor dropping by at his house on your way to better things giving him the chance to lend you one hundred thirty-eight thousand dollars—at what interest?”

  “—That’s what I thought we c-could discuss—”

  “There’s nothing to discuss,” Drummond says curtly. Sitting back now in his chair, crossing one stumpy leg over the other, his barrel torso quivering in indignation and his eyes fixed sadistically on Corky’s face. “That dump—‘The Bull’s Eye’”—the name rolls off Drummond’s tongue with a particular zestful contempt—“isn’t worth a hundred thirty-eight thousand dollars all together. I know—I’m the realtor who listed it. Didn’t my office manager tell you it’s been on the market for years? I know what the offers have been—how few, and how low. How much renovation’s got to be done. What you didn’t think of, I guess, is the place has been exempt from bringing its facilities up to the new state code for ‘handicapped access’ but you, sucker, buying in 1992, you’re responsible for making sure cripples in wheelchairs can not only get in the front door and out an exit if there’s a fire but can take a crap when they need to—and each crap is going to cost you. I’d estimate a minimum of one hundred thousand dollars just to bring the facilities up to code. Plus you need a complete electrical overhaul. And the basement—the basement’s substandard. Maybe you’re thinking the Downtown Refurbishing Project’s going to save your ass, drive the value up? Sorry, kid, I happen to know that project’s dead—absolutely belly up.” Drummond makes a slashing gesture across his throat. “Your best bet would be to raze the dump and build a parking garage. That’s my advice, too bad you didn’t ask it a few days ago.”

  “Wait,” says Corky, “—how do you know about the Project? I’m on the Council—”

  “I’m on the Committee. And we just voted to kill it.”

  Corky just stares at Ross Drummond. The bottle of whatever tasteless crap it is he’s drinking almost falling from his fingers.

  Now Drummond’s warmed up, really gets into it. So Corky’s made to realize this is why Drummond agreed to see him tonight, not for the purpose Corky’d planned. The old man is hurt, angry, face darkened with blood and lips sputtering saliva—“Why didn’t you call me first, before committing yourself to that hag ‘Chantal Crowe’? I heard you were so drunk Saturday night you pissed your pants and they had to send you home in a taxi, is that so? Here I’m on hand to give you advice, for Christ’s sake, I’m your friend, there’s nobody knows anything more about Union City real estate than Ross Drummond, I’ve been in the business for fifty-five years, and you, you dumb shit, you don’t ask! What if it’s thought around town you do ask, and it’s my advice you’re taking!” Seeing the sick panicked look in Corky’s face, Drummond leans closer to trap him in his chair. “Who’ve you been talking to, your City Hall scumbag buddies? You’d trust Oscar Slattery? Anybody with the name ‘Slattery’? Your Jew money man? You’d trust him?” Drummond’s elephantine head is bobbing, he’s stabbing a fat forefinger dangerously close to Corky’s eyes. “So you think you can go it alone, eh? Without the old man? The ‘father-in-law’—eh? Well, you’re wrong, kid. You don’t know shit. This latest money man of yours—Greenbaum—Howard Greenbaum, eh?—he’s slick as they come. You should’ve stuck with dopes you can handle. I bet Greenbaum’s sold you on this roll-up scam at Viquinex, eh? Did he?”

  Corky says defensively, “Why’s it a ‘scam’? I thought—”

  “Well, did he?”

  “He explained it, and—”

  “Did he explain the cost of the roll-up is paid by the investors? And it could run as high as five thousand dollars per hundred-thousand-dollar investment?”

  “I think so, yes�
��”

  “And did he explain he gets a commission as broker, from the company, for every investor of his who votes ‘yes’ but no commission for anybody who votes ‘no’?”

  “He—what?”

  Drummond laughs, a series of short barking walrus-laughs, delighted at the sick drowning look in Corky’s face. “He didn’t tell you, and you didn’t ask, eh? Why didn’t you ask? Greenbaum’s a broker, isn’t he? What’d you think he is—a rabbi?”

  Corky’s feeling nauseated. Got to get out of here: got to breathe.

  With gusto Drummond polishes off his tumbler of whiskey and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. His beady little eyes shine up alertly at Corky calculating has he gone too far. He says, almost kindly, “How much are you in for, with Viquinex? Maybe I could help you out. The SEC is going to be investigating these sons of bitches by September—maybe we could scare ’em with a lawsuit—”

  Corky manages to push himself to his feet staggering and swaying headed for the door. Saying weakly, “Ross, thanks. It’s been great. It’s been . . . great. We’ll have to do this again soon.”

  Now, regretful, Drummond heaves himself up, almost blocks Corky’s way out. “You’re leaving so soon? You just arrived. Wait’ll I go get Hilda, she’ll be hurt if you leave without saying hello to her.”

  Corky runs his hands through his hair, a faint coughing laugh issues from him like he’s been kicked hard in the ass but he’s a good sport willing to see the humor of it. In the foyer saying, “Just give Hilda my love, Ross, will you? Tell her I miss her as much as she misses me.”

  Drummond laughs uproariously, spittle flying from his rubbery lips.

  “Corky, c’mon! Don’t go away mad.”

  This, then: in the foyer a brief though seemingly protracted tugging match, clumsy, panting, as Drummond pulls on Corky’s arm, and Corky pulls away red-faced, trying to be as polite as respectful as possible: Ross Drummond is old, older than Sean Corcoran, and worth a helluva lot more money. Saying, laughing, “Corky, what the hell—? Did I call you a dumb shit?—you know me, I didn’t mean it. I maybe meant dumb mick—” laughing again uproariously, so that, Corky imagines, his ex-mother-in-law Hilda is straining to hear somewhere close by in wonderment, disapproval, envy, “—hey, no: it’s all in the family, you know that. What’s the big deal?” as Corky pushes past him to the door, desperate to escape this place as a suffocating man desperate for air, “—Come back inside and sit down, for Christ’s sake,” Drummond says, “—we need to discuss these matters seriously. Corcoran, Inc., is in trouble. I can put pressure on that Crowe broad to tear up your check but if she won’t, maybe we can work something out. What you need, if you’re investing in an enterprise like The Bull’s Eye, is a partner who knows the real demographics of—”