Starr Bright Will Be With You Soon

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Mom, you never exactly tell the truth, do you?

  It was a simple, uncanny insight. In her innocence Deedee had spoken more truly than she knew.

  Yet how could Lily say I am not your mother, I am your aunt.

  Your glamorous aunt Sharon—is your mother.

  No, it wasn’t possible! Even in her imagination Lily couldn’t shape such painful words.

  She would lose Deedee. She might lose Wes, as well.

  Lily felt a wave of dizziness sweep over her, as if the very axis of her life were shifting. She had to grip the steering wheel of her car tight to maintain control.

  But even before Sharon had arrived, with the explosive emotional force, in Lily’s settled life, of a meteor, Lily had had a premonition of change. Some strange, frightening alteration as of the very molecules of her soul. Those dreams of last autumn and winter. Such disturbing, mysterious dreams. You’re my slave you have to do what I say. And never never tell.

  As if the cruel child Rose of Sharon had reentered Lily’s life, commanding her to—what? What course of action, against her will?

  And now Sharon was returned to Yewville, and Lily was the imposter.

  Yet: was there a secret pleasure in all this?

  A secret pleasure in the very fact of living a secret? As Deedee would say, with typical adolescent bluntness, a lie?

  Turning into the driveway of her home, Lily felt, as always, her heart leap at the sight of the house; the downstairs windows, warmly lighted. There was a faint, chill fog, oddly stale-smelling, wafting across the lawn. How Lily loved her house, her home! It seemed to her a miracle that she, of all people, lived here.

  Lily parked the Toyota in front of the garage, and hurried along the walk to the back door, and glanced into the lighted window of the recreation room to see a sight that stopped her in her tracks: there were Wes and Sharon on the sofa watching TV, each with a can of Wes’s favorite beer in hand, and, on the floor between them, Deedee, hugging her knees to her chest. Reflections and shadows from the animated TV screen played across their rapt, smiling faces. Sharon was wearing a soft-looking pale yellow sweater Lily hadn’t seen before, and her blond hair was newly shampooed and brushed, fluffed out about her face; she looked ten years younger than her age, startlingly beautiful. And there was Wes, ruddy-faced, grinning at the TV—Wes, who rarely had time to watch even news programs. And Deedee laughing. A happy American family.

  Lily hurried inside, almost stumbling on the steps.

  “I’m home!”

  No one answered. No one heard. The TV must have been on too loud.

  5

  In Lily’s Toyota

  He hath led me in dark places, as they that be dead of old.

  Driving slowly past the brick-Georgian house at 99 Parkway Lane. In the borrowed car driving slowly and thoughtfully and with no bitterness in her heart. For now “Starr Bright” was master, and would exact her vengeance methodically, without haste.

  Not here, and not now. Another time. Soon.

  Taking note that the house was of a style hardly distinguishable from its neighbors. Large, obviously expensive, a family home, six bedrooms at least. In “prestigious” Country Club Estates, where all the houses were new, large, made of brick: family homes. America is families, American homes are family homes. You observe them from the outside exclusively, at a distance. You would not be welcome inside.

  In the directory she’d located him with no difficulty. A business phone and downtown Yewville address, and a home phone and address here at 99 Parkway Drive. Dwyer, Michael D. Lily had remarked she didn’t think he was called “Mack” any longer but Lily would be mistaken. Mack’s old friends, his high school buddies, certainly called him “Mack.” An old girlfriend could only call him “Mack.”

  Remember me, Mack? No?

  Sure you do.

  Noting that the back lawn of the Dwyer home opened out onto the golf course of the Yewville Country Club, in mid-April puddled with sheets of glittering water amid the emerging green bright as artificial grass. Did Mack play golf now, like his father? The Dwyers’ lawn, the lot, must have been two acres at least, larger than the Merricks’ in an older residential neighborhood of the city but, being more recently developed, had fewer tall trees. There were open spaces between houses in Country Club Estates. You could not approach such houses from the street, or from the rear, without being exposed. But “Starr Bright” would never seek such entry.

  And there appeared a great wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with the sun; and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars.

  Not here, and not now. Another time. Soon.

  It was a windy, chilly April day dazzling with sunshine. Shutting her eyes feeling the sun’s warmth on her face she understood that it was the identical sun, the identical warmth, that had nourished her months ago in—had it been Nevada?—silently departing the room of the Paradise Motel splattered with a pig’s blood yet “Starr Bright” herself spotless, untouched. In His sign. In His terrible justice and mercy. She had driven across the desert embraced by the emerging dawn, she had not been afraid, not even when a Nevada highway patrol car passed her, for His blessing was upon her, she could not be touched by mere humankind.

  And so it had been, and so it would be. In all these months not once had she been in danger of being seen, known, named.

  Driving now, in no haste, for never did “Starr Bright” act in haste, north to Route 209, which partly circled the city. She’d disliked Lily’s little economy Toyota at first, it so lacked heft, dignity; but now she was getting the feel of it, the tight handling of the steering wheel, the low ceiling and cramped interior. Of course, “Starr Bright” was accustomed to luxury cars but this would do, in Yewville, for her purposes. And she was wearing, not Lily’s old trench coat, but a newer coat of her sister’s, a red plaid car coat with wooden buttons—a suburban-mother car coat! She loved it, such American anonymity. I could be one of them—a mother. A housewife. On her head was a tight-fitting beige knit cloche hat she’d bought at the mall the other day while Deirdre was trying on clothes and beneath the hat, hardly visible, silky jet-black hair, an attractive fringe of it across her forehead. And the smoky-black sunglasses of course. Without these, the sunlight would have pierced her eyes like ice picks.

  Could have been a wife to him. And Deirdre our daughter.

  Not fat “Deedee”!—but a lovely slim girl of whom “Starr Bright” could be proud.

  But she would not remain in Yewville much longer. Following her date in a few days with Mack Dwyer she would depart.

  Yet in no haste. Invisible.

  She parked the Toyota at the rear of a strip mall on 209, behind Qwik-Photo. Approaching the rear entrance to the shop but instead quickly and deftly and without being seen searching through a large cardboard trash box out of which she selected a dozen prints apparently discarded for imperfections. And afterward parked elsewhere on 209 she sorted through the prints and tossed away all but one: a poorly focused snapshot of a girl of about twenty with a pretty, sullen mouth, lank dirt-colored hair, and eyes that stared as if about to burst from their sockets. You don’t know me Mrs. Dwyer but I know you. He loves me NOT YOU.

  Though undecided: if she should mail this snapshot and message to Mrs. Dwyer just before her date with Mack, or if she should mail it just after. Either way, the woman, the widow, would receive it the following day.

  6

  Lovesick

  You’re fat. But you needn’t be. Exert your will! Be beautiful.

  Lovesick Deedee drifted downstairs in the waning afternoon light to the rear of the house in the hope that her aunt Sharon’s door might be open, or ajar; or her glamorous aunt might be in the kitchen preparing a cup of coffee and seeing Deedee would smile, hands on her hips. Well, Deirdre! Hel-lo.

  Since the shopping trip, since Aunt Sharon had been the kindest to her that anyone in her lifetime had ever been, there was a special understanding between them. Deedee woke in the night start
led and suffused with a sense of anticipation, keen almost as dread. I love you, Aunt Sharon! Don’t ever ever go away. Or—take me with you. Please.

  No luck this afternoon. The door of her aunt’s room wasn’t open, nor even ajar.

  “Aunt Sharon?” Deedee knocked shyly on the door.

  Her heart was beating quickly, her palms had broken out in perspiration. She had so much to tell her aunt: that morning she’d weighed herself naked on her scales, and her weight was just under one hundred twenty-eight pounds—a pound and a half down from the previous morning, and almost seven pounds down from her original, disgusting weight of one hundred thirty-five. But, after gym class, after having eaten nothing all day except a cup of watery plain yogurt and a half-apple at noon, she’d weighed herself again and her weight was one hundred twenty-six pounds and five ounces. Fantastic.

  And she was feeling good. She was feeling great. Not lightheaded or dizzy but like her head was filled with helium-happy thoughts. Fantastic!

  Aunt Sharon had predicted she could be wearing the purple crushed-velvet dress by May first if she truly wanted to; if her will was “concentrated” sufficiently. And so it would seem to be. And so it would be.

  Upstairs Deedee’s geometry homework awaited and a chapter to read in her history text and as usual there were damn old boring old household chores Mom was expecting her to do. But Deedee drew a deep breath and knocked again on her aunt’s door, calling gently, “Aunt Sharon? It’s me.” Hearing then, or imagining she heard, a voice say Come in!

  So she pushed open the door, which was unlocked. But the lavender-and-cream room, which smelled of perfume, cigarette smoke and something acrid and ashy, was empty. “Aunt Sharon? It’s Deedee—I mean, Deirdre.” She listened: running water? The shower in the adjoining bathroom? More than once, after showering, Aunt Sharon had allowed Deedee to perch on the edge of her bed and observe as she applied makeup to her face, or brushed and artfully styled her beautiful, shimmering pale-blond hair. (Aunt Sharon believed in being impeccably groomed for their evening meal.) Best of all, Deedee’s aunt might offer to apply makeup to her face, too; or briskly brush and style her dense, springy hair, which was several shades darker than her aunt’s. Once, Deedee had said, seeing her aunt and herself side by side in the bureau mirror, “We look alike, sort of, Aunt Sharon—don’t we? A little?” The older woman had stared at her for a blank moment, meeting Deedee’s hopeful eyes in the mirror, and Deedee was mortified thinking Oh God! I’ve insulted her but her aunt murmured something vague and pleasant that sounded like That’s sweet, Deirdre and the painful moment passed.

  Later, they’d shared one of Aunt Sharon’s cigarettes. Deedee had choked a bit, coughed, her eyes spilling tears, and her aunt had laughed at her and tenderly touched the tip of a forefinger to her nose.

  Exactly like me, Deirdre, at your age.

  Sharing a forbidden cigarette, and sharing other confidences, was part of the special, secret understanding between Deedee and Aunt Sharon. And so when Mom asked, casually, in that way of hers that thinly masked hurt, What do you and my sister find to talk about so much? Deedee had shrugged and said, evasively, Oh, Mom. Nothing.

  The guest bedroom, always so neatly maintained by Lily, and rarely disturbed, had become, by this time, wholly Aunt Sharon’s room. Her fascinating things were spread out everywhere: clothing, lingerie, cosmetics, glittering bottles and jars and tubes. The closet was filled with more clothes, at which Deedee had been allowed to look, with her aunt overseeing to explain where she’d purchased what, for what occasion, and who had accompanied her, and what had happened; a sexy black silk Pierre Cardin pants suit, for instance, had been her outfit for an Academy Award ceremony in Hollywood she’d attended two years ago with Jack Nicholson and mutual friends. (Eagerly Deedee inquired what was Jack Nicholson like, and Aunt Sharon said, with a fastidious wrinkling of her nose, as if she both disapproved and was impressed by the man, Exactly what you’d expect. Deedee hadn’t quite known what this meant but she’d giggled excitedly just the same.) There were wigs in the closet, too, “play-wigs” as Aunt Sharon called them. Rarely worn.

  It was surprising that some of Aunt Sharon’s jewelry, including the gold chain, lay atop the bureau, in plain view. Deedee went to examine the chain, which looked so beautiful around her aunt’s neck, and which she so frequently wore. Then it was in Deedee’s hands, lifted to her neck; Deedee noted its weight—of course, it was solid gold. Peering into the mirror, admiring the rich golden glow against her flushed skin, Deedee felt a thrill of—what? Never would she be beautiful like her aunt; but the possession of such a striking piece of jewelry would grant her a mysterious power.

  “Deirdre! What are you doing?”

  There stood Aunt Sharon behind her, staring. She must have slipped silently into the room; Deedee had not heard any sound, nor seen any movement through the mirror. Her aunt’s normally smiling face was taut and waxy-pale and her eyes were narrowed almost to slits. And how harsh her usually welcoming voice.

  Deedee began to stammer guiltily, “Oh, gosh! I’m sorry, Aunt Sharon, I—I was just looking at—this.” In her fright she’d dropped the gold chain onto the bureau as if it were on fire.

  Aunt Sharon was clearly angry, breathing quickly, but she maintained a cool poise. “It isn’t good manners, miss, to enter another person’s room uninvited. I’d have thought your mother would have taught you that.”

  Deedee saw that her aunt had just strode in from outdoors; she was carrying a tote bag, her hair was windblown and she’d just removed her dark-tinted glasses. Lily had taken the car for afternoon errands and Aunt Sharon might have supposed herself alone in the house.

  Deedee was terribly embarrassed, her face flushed red as if she’d been slapped. “I’m so sorry, Aunt Sharon—I thought I heard you say come in. I knocked, and—I thought you might be in your bathroom. I—guess I don’t know what came over me.” And that was true enough.

  Thank God, Aunt Sharon decided to forgive her. Deedee’s repentance was so genuine.

  “Well! You’re here now. Good to see you, Deirdre.”

  Aunt Sharon dropped the tote bag onto the bed, went to shut the door to the hall, and, to Deedee’s immense relief, managed a smile—almost, a smile of spontaneous welcome. Sitting on the edge of the bed, whose lavender-and-cream floral-print Laura Ashley comforter had the look of having been pulled up hastily over rumpled bedsheets, Deedee’s aunt lit a cigarette; exhaled slowly, her eyes shut; recalled Deedee’s presence and offered her a “drag”—which, under the circumstances, Deedee could hardly decline. Like an obedient child she took the cigarette from her aunt’s just perceptibly trembling fingers (but how glamorous the nails: inch-long, maroon-polished and gleaming like lacquer), inhaled, choked, but managed, thank God, not to cough.

  “And how’ve you been, sweetie? What’s new?”

  Deedee, grateful as a puppy for having been forgiven for her trespass, feeling the need to be praised and comforted, told her aunt, in some detail, of that day’s weight loss—“I couldn’t believe it, Aunt Sharon, what the scales said! It was so—fantastic.”

  Aunt Sharon murmured, “Hmmm!” as Deedee elaborated even further; she smoked her cigarette, glancing about the room. With a part of her mind Deedee understood that her aunt was distracted, still rather upset. Please don’t think I came in here deliberately! Please don’t think I would spy on you! Steal from you! I love you. Deedee complained that it was hard to diet when Mom was always vigilant at mealtimes—“It’s like she wants me to stay fat. Her and Dad both. They say,” Deedee continued, with an air of adolescent outrage, “—they like me just the way I am. Gross!”

  But Aunt Sharon wasn’t listening, perhaps; she startled Deedee by rising suddenly from the bed in a lithe, springlike motion at odds with her seemingly indolent manner; as if, like a cat, she’d sighted something moving outside the window—but, standing at the window, peering out, apparently she saw nothing. (The window, like others in the room, overlooked only an expanse of l
awn, trees and shrubs and a glimpse of a neighboring house.) “Is something wrong?” Deedee asked, alarmed; but again, her aunt didn’t seem to hear.

  “Deirdre—has anyone unusual come to this house lately?”

  “What? Who? I guess—gosh, no—I don’t think so.”

  “Has anyone been making inquiries about me?”

  “N-no, Aunt Sharon. Not that I know of.”

  “You’re sure, Deirdre?”

  Deedee nodded solemnly. She was sure.

  In fact, it was so disappointing!—the girls who’d been curious about the glamorous blond woman in the taxi who’d called out “Deirdre” only twelve days ago seemed to have forgotten totally about her; and in fact forgotten within a day or two. Deedee had given brief, evasive replies to their questions, to discourage them from asking; yet she hadn’t wanted the girls to forget.

  Several of Deedee’s closer friends had remarked upon her new clothes from the mall, and her experiments with makeup; to Deedee’s delight, they’d noticed she was losing weight. They told her she was looking “great”—“terrific”—“really cool”—but Deedee hadn’t been able to inform them proudly that it was the influence of her aunt—Aunt “Sherrill”—who’d been a top New York fashion model now with a West Coast modern dance troupe.

  Her aunt who’d all but promised that she, Deedee, could come visit her in Pasadena this summer—Stay as long as you like!

  “Your mother hasn’t mentioned anyone making inquiries, either?—so far as you know?”

  “I guess not.”

  “‘Guess’—or know?”

  “I think I—know.”

  Aunt Sharon, still visibly trembling as if, in fact, she’d seen something outside the window, decided to believe Deedee. In any case she shrugged, returned to the bed to sit heavily, smoking her cigarette and gazing at Deedee with eyes that were just slightly shadowed, and blood-veined; the lids, glimmering with silver-green eye shadow, were puffy as if she’d had a sleepless night or was running a fever. She wore elegantly fashioned white linen slacks, the cuffs of which were grimy; and a black sequined sweater with a stretched neckline, and canvas sneakers of the kind sold at Kmart, badly worn. Her glossy maroon lipstick was partly eaten away and her face was still tight-looking, pinched. Deedee was thinking I will die if you stop liking me! If you stop trusting me! She heard herself say how sad and lonely she felt at school sometimes, how bad she felt, that was why she ate more than she should, hiding away chips and candy in her room to eat while she did homework and sometimes in the middle of the night—“I just get so mad and so hungry.”