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Starr Bright Will Be with You Soon
Joyce Carol Oates writing as Rosamond Smith
for John Hawkins, long a secret sharer
I resolved in my future conduct to redeem the past.
—Robert Louis Stevenson, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
How many of you pigs. Emissaries of Satan. Adulterers in your hearts & fornicators. How many rapists & despoilers of the innocent, how many creatures groveling in lust. How many of you deserving of God’s wrath STARR BRIGHT might have killed & chastised had I not been run to earth before my time I cannot know for such knowledge is withheld from us in the wisdom & comfort of the LORD GOD. AMEN
I
1
At the Paradise Motel, Sparks, Nevada
In the desert, through shimmering planes of light, the hazy mauve mountains of the Sierra Nevada in the distance, autumn sunshine fell vertical, sharp as a razorblade. The sky was a hard ceramic blue that looked painted and without depth as a stage backdrop. “Starr Bright” woke startled from her druggy reverie of the past several hours wondering where she was, and with whom. A familiar-unfamiliar succession of motels, restaurants, gas stations, enormous billboards in Day-Glo colors advertising casinos in Reno and Las Vegas—but it was CITY LIMITS SPARKS, NEVADA they were entering, Billy Ray Cobb behind the wheel of his classy rented platinum-gray Infiniti with the red leather interior smelling of newness. “Starr Bright” removed her smoke-tinted designer sunglasses with the dazzling white frames to see more clearly, but the glare was blinding. Her eyes felt naked, exposed. She wasn’t a girl for the harsh overexposed hours of morning or afternoon in the desert, her nocturnal soul best roused at twilight when neon lights flashed and pulsed into life. But why am I here, why now? And with whom?
Not knowing she was awaiting God’s sign.
Proud and perky behind the wheel of the Infiniti like an upright bulldog was Mr. Cobb of Elton, California, an electrical supplies manufacturer’s representative—as he’d introduced himself the previous evening at the Kings Club. A sporty fun-loving loud-laughing man of any age between forty-five and fifty-five who perspired easily, with a thick neck, heavy-lidded bulldog eyes and wattles and a damp, hungry smile punctuated by chunky teeth. He wore casual vacation clothes—this was his vacation, after all—an electric-blue crinkled-cotton shirt monogrammed B.R.C. on the pocket (so maybe “Billy Ray Cobb” was his name?), checked polyester trousers creased tightly at the thighs, a “Navajo” hand-tooled leather belt with a flashy brass buckle into which his soft, prominent belly pressed. A black onyx fraternity ring on his right hand and a gold wedding band on his left hand, both rings embedded in fatty flesh. Almost shyly he asked, “Had a little nap, Sherrill, eh?” Or, his breath quickened as if he’d run up a brief flight of stairs, he sounded shy. Then boasting, “Well, we made good time. Two hundred twenty miles in under three hours.”
“Starr Bright” perceived that Billy Ray Cobb was one to crave praise from a woman like a dog craving tidbits at the table—no matter what tidbits, however dried out or tasteless or not even food at all, rolled-up paper napkin pellets would suffice. In her sexy throaty voice she murmured, “Hmmm, yes. Fan-tastic.”
Seeing how Mr. Cobb was peering eagerly at her she quickly replaced the dark glasses. Don’t stare at me God damn you don’t you stare at me. But of course she was poised, at ease, gave no sign of annoyance. “Starr Bright” was always elaborately made up; her heart-shaped face a flawless cosmetic mask like something hardened to a single substance, a single texture. She knew she looked good, and more than good, but in this damned white-glaring desert sun she might look, if not her age precisely, for “Starr Bright” never looked her age, but maybe thirty-one or -two, not twenty-eight as she’d led credulous Mr. Cobb of Elton, California, to believe.
So far as he knew she was “Starr Bright”—an “exotic interpretive” dancer at the Kings Club, Kings Lake, Nevada. An independent young woman with a flair for the performance arts—not just dancing but singing as well (she had a lovely trained mezzo-soprano voice). Before Kings Lake she’d worked in Lake Tahoe, California, and before that in Los Angeles, San Diego and Fresno; before that, Miami and West Palm Beach, Florida. And there’d been an interlude in Houston, Texas.
Before that, memory faded. Like once-colorful travel posters on a wall frayed and weatherworn with time until one place looked very like another.
It was not yet 6 P.M. And bright as noon. Yet Billy Ray Cobb was eager to check into a motel. Pawing and squeezing “Starr Bright” as he drove the Infiniti, now slowed to forty miles an hour along the crowded two-lane highway; he was panting and florid-cheeked. Stop staring at me God damn you. His sporty-macho smell was mixed up with the aggressive smell of the red-leather interior; the air-conditioning hummed like a third presence. “Starr Bright” was flattered by her new admirer’s sexual attraction to her, his look of awe commingled with frank doggy desire, or should have been; but it was a bummer, his wanting to stop so soon. “Just that I’m crazy about you, baby,” Mr. Cobb said, a whining edge to his voice as if he suspected that “Starr Bright” might not believe him. “Like last night, you’ll see.”
“Hmmm.”
Did she remember last night, no she didn’t remember last night.
Wouldn’t remember tonight tomorrow night, or so she hoped.
Her father’s long-ago voice gentle in wisdom You won’t remember tomorrow what seemed so important today. But he’d meant worldly vanity, tinsel hopes. Not being fucked like a dog in heat.
So: Billy Ray Cobb did not drive on to Reno as “Starr Bright” had been led to believe they would; and from Reno to Las Vegas.
Might it have made a difference if they’d driven on to Reno?
Only a half-hour drive, more desert but it would have flashed by glittering like mica.
God damn you: no. But her face betrayed no unease, not even annoyance as, impulsively, Billy Ray Cobb swung the Infiniti into a motel that was one of dozens or possibly hundreds of “bargain-rate” motels along the Sparks-Reno strip, just inside the Sparks city limits. PARADISE MOTEL BARGAIN ROOMS & HONEYMOON SUITES! VACANCY! HAPPY HOUR 4–8 P.M. EVERY NITE! “Starr Bright” narrowed her aching eyes trying to recall if she had been here before. Maybe yes, maybe no. It was all vague. Billy Ray Cobb was chattering excitedly and she was murmuring “Hmmm, hmmm—” in her throaty just-mildly-bored exotic-performer’s voice.
If “Starr Bright” was bitterly disappointed in the Paradise Motel, in Sparks, Nevada, having envisioned a first-rate casino-hotel in Reno for the night, smelling beforehand the insecticide-odor of the shabby room, she gave not the slightest clue. She was not that kind of girl.
With her ashy-blond hair cascading to her shoulders and her strong-boned classic face and her long dancer’s torso and legs, certainly “Starr Bright” was accustomed to the close scrutiny of men; and knew to keep her most mutinous thoughts to herself. Never to bare her teeth in a quick incandescent flash of anger; never to frown, or grimace, bringing the near-invisible white lines of her forehead into sharp visibility. Never to raise her carefully polished thumbnail to her teeth like an unhappy adolescent girl and gnaw at the cuticle until she tasted blood. Never never never so long as you are “Starr Bright.”
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While Mr. Cobb checked the two of them into the Paradise Motel, “Starr Bright” strolled restlessly about the poolside area, an interior courtyard flanked by thin drooping palm trees that looked brittle as papier-mâché. A six-foot concrete wall painted Day-Glo orange blocked the view of an adjacent motel and cars, buses, motorcycles and campers moving relentlessly along Route 80, but could not keep out the steady noise of traffic. The kidney-shaped pool, in which several near-naked swimmers splashed, smelled sharply of chlorine. And there was the familiar odor of insecticide pervading all. “Starr Bright” glanced quickly about to see if she recognized anyone at poolside—if anyone recognized her—for, having been acquainted with so many men, over a period of years, she must always be vigilant.
In fact, eyes had drifted casually onto her. Strangers’ eyes, both male and female. But that was to be expected: “Starr Bright” was used to the attention of strangers and would have been discomfited if no one noticed her, so leggy and glamorous in this third-rate Paradise Motel.
No one seemed to recognize her, however. Nor did “Starr Bright” recognize anyone.
Thank you, God!
Uttered quickly and shyly in her inward voice, her head bowed. As one might murmur words of gratitude to an elder, not wanting to be heard, exactly. Not wanting to call attention to oneself.
Of the ten or twelve guests in the courtyard, most had positioned themselves luxuriously in the waning sun: visitors to the Southwest, obviously. “Starr Bright” heard a foreign language being spoken—German, she guessed. Why would anyone come so many thousands of miles to spend even a single night here? And others were midwesterners, oily gleaming bodies in scanty bathing suits, bathing suits straining against flesh, young firm flesh and aging raddled flesh, dreamily shut eyes reckless in the sun’s killer rays. Of course, they’d smeared on “suntan lotion”—“sun block”—in childlike trust that such flimsy protections could shield them from cancer. There were pastel-bright drinks with melting ice cubes in tall glasses, empty beer, Coke and Perrier bottles accumulated on the wrought-iron tables. From overhead amplifiers, rock-Muzak made the air vibrate; the pulse quicken. “Starr Bright” felt a wild impulse to dance. She was worn out from the drive, she’d taken her meds for a placid low-voltage buzz, yet the music excited her; that heavy erotic beat, the slamming percussive rhythm. After the initial attention she’d received she was now not being noticed: why? Look at me, here I am, why are none of you looking at me? Here is “Starr Bright”! She was wearing a tight silky-black miniskirt that came barely to midthigh, and a gold lamé halter top that fitted her good-sized breasts tightly; her long blond smooth-shaven legs were bare; her feet bare in cork platform heels. A thin gold chain around her left ankle, a tiny gold heart dangling. Pierced earrings that fell in glittering silvery cascades nearly to her shoulders, a half-dozen rainbow-metallic bracelets tinkling on each arm. Crimson lips moist as if she were quick-breathing, feverish. And the glamorous designer sunglasses that hid bruises, or the shadow of bruises, beneath her eyes. Why will you not look at me? I am more beautiful than any of you.
“Starr Bright’s” first celebrity came early, at the age of thirteen, when she’d won first prize in a children’s talent competition in Buffalo, New York, singing “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows.” She’d been dazed by the sudden applause, a cascade of applause, strangers’ faces beaming and their lifted, clapping hands and the blinding heat of the spotlight on her so she’d felt naked, yet blessed.
They love me. These people I don’t know—they love me.
How long ago? Don’t ask.
When they stop staring, and their eyes go through you, one of the older dancers at the Kings Club had told “Starr Bright,” you’re in deep trouble. You’re on your way to being dead meat. So be thankful for the rude stares. Those pigs are money in the bank.
“Starr Bright” didn’t want to think they were pigs exclusively. She’d had many admirers, and many of these were gentlemen—almost. Billy Ray Cobb for example. The kind of well-intentioned guy, if you got to know him when he was sober, gave him half a chance, he wouldn’t be half bad.
Strange how, after their initial interest, the poolside loungers at the Paradise Motel didn’t seem to notice “Starr Bright.” Even a fattish man sprawled in a canvas chair had returned to his copy of USA Today. Which was God’s sign, too, as “Starr Bright” would afterward realize. Not knowing at the time the import of such signs just as she did not know but would subsequently learn from newspapers and TV that Billy Ray Cobb was signing them into the Paradise Motel as Mr. & Mrs. Elton Flynn of Los Angeles, CA.
In the pool there was an outburst of noisy-splashy activity. A voluptuous young woman in a tiny yellow bikini was squealing and kicking, hugging an inflated air mattress striped like an American flag to her breasts, as a tanned muscled young man tickled her; their cries and laughter pierced the air. What exhibitionists! Both were good-looking, with well-developed bodies; youthful, young—in their late twenties perhaps. “Starr Bright” stared at them covertly, in envy. But she was disapproving. So close to naked, their bodies gleaming and squirming and thrashing, so vulgar!—the girl and her boyfriend were almost making love in the pool, in plain sight. Bright water heaved and rippled about them. Others at poolside stared openly, gaping and grinning; the lovers behaved as if they took no heed, though obviously delighting in being watched. Yes, look at us, how happy we are, how beautiful we are, how we deserve happiness because we’re beautiful, young and beautiful, what pleasure our bodies take in one another, aren’t you all jealous? jealous? jealous? The girl’s shapely arms flailed in a pose of helpless alarm, her heavy breasts nearly exploded out of the skimpy bikini bra, her strong legs thrashed and the young man pushed himself boldly between them, aiming a biting kiss at her throat, as the striped air mattress slipped from them and they began, wildly squealing, to sink beneath the surface of the water. Amid the splashing, paddling, squealing “Starr Bright” pursed her lips and looked quickly away.
It was at this point that Billy Ray Cobb caught up with her. He’d been lugging suitcases, and set them down on the puddled concrete; he was panting, and a vexed little frown gave his face a pouty, petulant cast. He closed his fingers around “Starr Bright’s” left wrist. Saying two things to her in a lowered jocular voice and afterward she wouldn’t be able to recall which he’d said first. One was, “Wondered where you’d got to, sweetheart,” and the other was, with a smirk, “Looks like the fun’s already started, eh?”
Not in her slightly scratched leather Gucci bag, a Neiman-Marcus gift from an admirer now forgotten, but in her midnight-blue sequined purse crammed with wallet, cosmetics, amphetamine and Valium tablets, did “Starr Bright” carry what she called protection. A pearl-handled stainless steel carving knife with a slender five-inch blade. Very lightweight, very trim. Kept wrapped in tissue at the bottom of the purse, its razor-sharp blade not yet put to the test. Protection she thought it, not a weapon; still less a concealed weapon. So far as she knew, without making inquiries (“Starr Bright” was not one to make inquiries about such things), carrying such a knife on one’s person was not illegal, in the states in which she’d been traveling; this was after all a carving knife, a kitchen knife, readily enough purchased in any household supplies store. A knife for preventative purposes, not for any act of aggression.
Protection after she’d been accosted and arrested in a cocktail lounge of a luxurious Hyatt Regency in Houston, Texas, by two plainclothes vice squad detectives who’d detained her in “custody” in a squad car for hours during which time they’d forced her to commit upon their pig-persons sex acts of a repulsive nature, under threat of charging her with “public soliciting” and “resisting arrest.” Never again will “Starr Bright” be humiliated, never again will “Starr Bright” service pigs on any terms but my own.
That night “Starr Bright” dreamt so strangely!—obsessively, in anguish, of the motel pool, and the air mattress floating in the pool.
She’d scarcely seen the
mattress, had little impression of it except it was made of plastic, red, white and blue stripes, about five feet long, not a child’s but a grown-up’s plaything; a mattress to float on, basking in the sun; an object of salvation if you were in water over your head and couldn’t swim.
No death worse than drowning, a slow choking agonizing death and your life flashing before you like a crazed film reel.
“Starr Bright” wasn’t much of a swimmer, water frightened her. The transparency, the eerie buoyancy that can’t be depended upon; the disequilibrium when you tried to walk, in shallow water, or in the surf; the loss of control. Though, of course, she’d always liked to lounge beside pools and on attractive beaches: “Starr Bright” in eye-catching swimwear; “Starr Bright” lavishly oiled against the sun’s rays; a wide-brimmed straw hat on her head, dark sunglasses protecting her sensitive eyes. She was a beautiful shapely blonde of the type seen at such places, or in advertisements of such places: luxury suited her, she was a luxury item herself. But water frightened her, the thought of trying to swim, having to swim to save her life, gave her a taste of panic cold and metallic in her mouth.
In her druggy dreams that night how cruel to find herself naked in the tacky motel pool, not a glamorous sexy figure in her sleek black bikini but a helpless flailing naked figure, an object of male derision, crude teasing. She was clutching at the air mattress sobbing, gasping for breath, heart pounding as someone (a man, a stranger, faceless, squat-bodied) tried to pull her from it and into the water to drown. Like the girl in the yellow bikini she’d kicked, thrashed, flailed about, screamed; but this wasn’t play, this was deadly earnest. It seemed that her assailant might be Billy Ray Cobb (except she couldn’t remember his name), then he was a stranger, then there were two men—or more?—jeering at her terror, which was a female’s laughable, contemptible terror, their fingers hard and pitiless as steel tugging at her ankles, her bare vulnerable legs, arms, gripping the nape of her neck to force her face into the water as cruel children do to one another. “Starr Bright” was naked, defenseless as a child, the water lapped darkly about her and was no longer the synthetic bright turquoise of the motel pool. If only she could pull herself up onto the air mattress she could save herself!—but her arm muscles were weak and flaccid, her feeble strength was rapidly fading, her mouth filled with poisonous water it would be death to swallow. And the jeering, the laughing!—the hard hurting male fingers!
Starr Bright Will Be With You Soon Page 1
