Starr Bright Will Be With You Soon

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Something in Deedee’s whining, desperate tone roused her aunt to attention. The glassy eyes focused on her, suddenly sharp. “What’s that? What’s going on at school? Why are you unhappy at school?”

  Deedee squirmed in embarrassment. It was an exaggeration to claim she was unhappy, exactly, only just not—happy. “Oh, I don’t know, Aunt Sharon,” Deedee said, gulping for breath, “—it’s just the atmosphere, you know. I mean—the other kids—” Don’t pay enough attention to me. “—sometimes they’re cruel.”

  “Is a boy giving you trouble, Deirdre? Boys?”

  Quickly Deedee shook her head, no. “Not exactly—”

  Aunt Sharon said vehemently, “Deirdre, at your age boys are frankly pigs. You would not believe how filthy-minded a teenaged boy can be.” She shook her head in disgust and wonderment. “Ordinary, ‘normal’ boys. The male sex in adolescence.”

  Deedee said uncertainly, “I—guess I don’t know any guys that well, Aunt Sharon. The guys on the newspaper are sort of—quiet, nice—”

  “They’re different from us. Absolutely. With them, everything is sex, sex, sex. Sex, and hurting. To them, sex is hurting. All males are rapists only just looking for the opportunity.”

  Deedee swallowed hard. Her aunt’s voice was so authoritative, so certain. The very word “rapist” was embarrassing: she’d never heard it uttered in such an intimate, face-to-face way by any adult.

  “If a man—any man—any male of any age—could rape a woman, and kill her in that way, with his penis, hammering—hammering—hammering until she was dead—if he could do that, Deirdre, and get away with it, his identity unknown—he would. Are you aware of that?”

  Deedee shook her head mutely, shocked.

  “It’s a fact of life, Deirdre. But a fact girls like you, good sweet middle-class girls, are protected from—that’s to say, kept in willful ignorance. Until one day you find out—if you’re unlucky—and after that, forever, you know.”

  Deedee could think of nothing to say except a muffled “Gosh.”

  Aunt Sharon continued, passionately, “That’s why you must never trust them, Deirdre. Boys and men. You’re young, and inexperienced, and your mother shields you—‘protects’ you. As she was protected, and as I was. We were led to believe that mankind is good—our father preached the gospel of Jesus Christ abiding in the heart of men and women—and we all know that Jesus is good—and so we weren’t protected, and we came to harm. I mean—might have come to harm.” Aunt Sharon paused, breathing quickly. She might have noticed the stunned, glazed expression in her niece’s eyes for she relented, softening her tone. “Of course, not all men are wicked. Not all men are pigs. There are good men, too—like your grandfather Donner in fact, and like your—father, Wes Merrick—he’s a good man, I’m sure. Though in Vietnam he was a soldier—a young man, male—” Her voice trailed off as if she’d thought better of what she was saying, and began again from another angle. “This diet of yours, Deirdre. Keep on with it! Already you look better, I can see the difference. And as you become more attractive to boys, remember: no trust. You control them—or stay away from them entirely.”

  Deedee, squirming, murmured a vague “O.K.”

  “You must carry yourself through life with dignity and courage, Deirdre! A woman walks on a high wire and men watch hoping for her to fall. Even good men—sometimes. They love helpless, hurt women! They call them ‘good’ women; they marry them. Independent women—women who walk alone—women like me—they call ‘bad.’” Aunt Sharon laughed, as if she’d never heard anything so amusing. Her head fell back, the tendons in her throat were tautly exposed, her laughter was hoarse, a spasm rocking her body. Deedee grinned, and tried to laugh with her, yet somehow could not. She had the idea that her aunt was speaking with genial contempt of her mother.

  Mysteriously Aunt Sharon said, “And if a brave woman defends herself—against male lust, cruelty—rape—they may charge her with being a criminal. They may try.”

  How strangely she was looking at Deedee. How almost—hungrily.

  Still talking in this way, Aunt Sharon went into her bathroom; her manner was feverish, euphoric; it reminded Deedee of nothing so much as the way in which some of the girls at school laughed and shrieked together sometimes in the girls’ locker room, or, more boldly, in the corridors between classes, when passing boys might overhear. Always, until now, Deedee had yearned to be a part of such strident hilarity.

  Aunt Sharon opened and slammed the medicine-cabinet door, ran water into a glass, reappeared in the doorway, swaying, and swallowing down a pill, then another—“To ward off migraine.” It occurred to Deedee only now that her aunt had been drinking; she must have gone out, for a drink, on foot. Deedee wished keenly that they might speak of other things but her aunt was squatting now beside the bed, rifling through her canvas suitcase. Deedee caught sight of, surprisingly, newspaper pages there, some of them tabloid size, with red banner headlines; it was one of these she selected, hesitantly at first, then handing it to Deedee with a flourish to read.

  “Deirdre! Tell me what you think.”

  The paper was the Inquirer, the issue dated December of the previous year; the headline was six “STAR” MURDERS UNSOLVED, FEMALE SERIAL KILLER SOUGHT; the lurid, exclamatory feature, written in primer sentences, focused upon the butchery-murders of six men, whose pictures were shown, along with a graphic photo of a Las Vegas motel room splattered in blood and covered with cryptic star or pentagon symbols and the foot-high words DIE PIG FILTH DIE SATAN. Deedee’s aunt was staring at her so avidly, it was hard for her to read; she kept losing her concentration; felt hairs stirring at the nape of her neck. Aunt Sharon was saying excitedly, “A Hollywood friend of mine—a close friend of Jack Nicholson’s in fact—plans on doing a movie about this ‘Star killer’ if he can get financial backing. He’d like ‘Sherrill’ for the role. What d’you think, sweetie? Cool, eh?”

  The other afternoon at the mall, Deedee had exclaimed “cool!” so frequently that her aunt had teased her about it. Now Deedee could only smile wanly. “I saw this on TV—I think. A while back. It’s, well—” Deedee swallowed hard. The faces of the murdered men gazed out so unknowing; most of them smiling. One of them, “Herman LaPointe of Phoenix, Arizona,” bore an unsettling resemblance to Wes Merrick. “—kind of sick, I guess. I mean—isn’t it?”

  There was a moment’s pause. Then Aunt Sharon said, with an air of reproach, “It would be a fantastic role for my first film, Deirdre. It would be a true challenge and the results would receive a lot of nationwide attention—I’m sure.”

  Deedee laughed uneasily. “One of those movies Mom would never see.” Then, she remembered: “Or you, either, Aunt Sharon. You hate that kind of ‘exploitation’—you said.”

  “As an actress, I’d take any role that was a challenge,” Aunt Sharon said coolly. “And so would you, Deirdre. If you were a professional.”

  “Like being a photographer, like in wartime—yes, I guess so.”

  But Deedee didn’t sound very convincing. Her aunt took the Inquirer feature back from her, to return to the suitcase. Deedee saw that it had been folded, unfolded and again folded many times, with care.

  The atmosphere between Deedee and her aunt had shifted. Deedee understood that something was wrong, she’d given the wrong, disappointing answer. Everything had gone wrong since she’d pushed open that door and come inside here uninvited!

  Aunt Sharon sighed, and stretched; lit another cigarette, and clicked her little silver lighter shut decisively; cocked her head at Deedee, and said, with a droll smile, “Of course, I should expect nothing. These film deals have a way of dissolving into thin air—‘Sherrill’ knows.” She spoke now with resignation where a minute before she’d been euphoric.

  Deedee said, with forced enthusiasm, “You’d be great in movies, Aunt Sharon. Maybe—I could come watch, when it was being made?”

  At the bureau, Aunt Sharon impulsively lifted the gold chain that Deedee had been so reckless in adm
iring, and held it out invitingly to the girl. She said, “I’m sorry I overreacted, Deirdre. My nerves! Your mother knows, my life is complicated in ways hers isn’t; it’s hard for me to adjust to Yewville, where basically nothing happens.”

  Deedee had a flash of a man’s picture in the Yewville Journal—Stanley Reigel. His son Ben was a junior at the high school. But she wasn’t going to contradict her aunt.

  The older woman beckoned her, smiling; obediently Deedee went to her, and allowed herself to be positioned in front of the mirror, her aunt close behind her, raising the gold chain to her neck. How beautiful it was, glittering like a golden snake’s scales! “You like this, Deirdre, do you?—you have excellent taste. So simple, classical—pure gold. A man gave this to me, in Las Vegas, ten years ago on my birthday. He was crazy to marry me—I loved him—almost loved him—but I had to break his heart.” She laughed, sadly. “Here. Take it. It’s yours now.”

  Quickly Deedee said, “Oh, no, Aunt Sharon—I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Thanks, but I just can’t.”

  Not knowing why, Deedee tasted panic; felt desperate to escape; the cold touch of the metal against her throat, her aunt pressing close against her from behind, her aunt’s warm, somewhat stale breath that smelled of cigarettes and wine—no, she couldn’t bear it.

  “Mom says I shouldn’t take any more presents from you, Aunt Sharon,” Deedee said, for this was true enough. “She says—and Dad, too—you’re too generous with me.”

  “Too generous!” Aunt Sharon stared.

  “After all those other nice things you bought me—” Deedee said awkwardly, easing away.

  “But this is special, Deirdre,” Aunt Sharon said, again lifting the gold chain. Her smooth forehead was knit in perplexity. “This has a sentimental value. If—”

  There! Deedee heard her mother’s car pull up the drive, and a moment later the car door slam. What relief she felt—it was hard to disguise it.

  Deedee mumbled, “Mom’s home,” and headed for the door, and her aunt grabbed her arm, gripping her almost painfully, and said, “Deirdre, you won’t tell your parents about”—she hesitated, glancing toward the suitcase on the floor—“my movie plans, will you? That’s our secret.”

  “I sure won’t, Aunt Sharon!”

  Seeming to know it would be the last of their secrets.

  7

  The Good Sister

  It was not so easy to speak with Mr. Dwyer of the mayor’s office as it had been to speak with Mr. Reigel of Reigel Plumbing but she had no doubt she would speak with the man soon, and so proceeded with her plan. En route to Rita’s Beauty Salon to acquire strands of a stranger’s hair she had a sudden attack of dizziness, had to pull Lily’s Toyota to the side of the road. Oh God if a cop came by! asked to see her license!—a California license expired some time ago and maybe not exactly hers but one she’d borrowed from a friend or had been given. And she had no weapon to protect herself, none on her person. But recovered then after a few minutes for God had after all entered into a pact with her, a covenant. Completed the errand as planned, the hair in a plastic bag, so thirsty and her head pounding she stopped for a drink, just one, at the Ramada Inn at this hour of midafternoon when no man would approach her, and no man did. And on Bank Street at All Saints Church she marveled to see in the churchyard amid the grave markers “Starr Bright” resplendent in white her head lifted in pride and her blond hair afire and upon it a crown of twelve stars: how they blazed, blinded!

  For my kingdom is not of this world.

  Yet another day also in the Merricks’ neighborhood ascending the long Hawley Street hill sighting a sturdy ugly-gray car approaching. Male driver in dark-tinted glasses and male companion glancing at her through the windshield of the Toyota impassive and unreadable. And she was alert but not panicked driving on impassive herself.

  Plainclothes detectives. Unmarked police car.

  Trying to recall if she’d seen this car before. Cruising Washington Street, slowing in front of the Merricks’ house. The unmarked cars were heavily reinforced, bulletproof. You could tell, if you knew what to look for. And the pig-look, unmistakable.

  Yes but coming down from a drug high you’re gonna be paranoid so factor that in always.

  A guy had instructed her and she knew the wisdom of such advice. Yet: wondering if really she’d killed that one in Vegas, the one who’d been a cop, completely killed him draining the last drop of pig-blood from his veins. Deputy sheriff not of Nevada but some midwestern state. His name forgotten. Had to break his heart! For it was possible he’d lived.

  Possible they’d all entered into a conspiracy. Police of how many states, counties. In which case the news released by Yewville police of Stanley Reigel’s “suicide” was in fact a conspiracy to deceive.

  Possibly they knew “Starr Bright” was here in Yewville, New York.

  Known but not acknowledged.

  So she drove, calmly, at twenty-five miles an hour which was the speed limit, past Washington Street. Would not return to the house for another hour minimum.

  Though knowing of course they’d have the Toyota’s license number in their computer. Obviously they knew to whom it belonged and the place of residence. And maybe—it made her crazy to think of this so really she shouldn’t—like bringing a lighted match too close to her own hair—or singeing her eyelashes as once for some funky reason she’d done—just maybe they’d been questioning Lily. Who is your sister? How long has she been residing with you? But Lily of the Valley would never betray Rose of Sharon—never. My slave. I command you. We can’t ever be lonely like other people. I love you. So she understood that Lily would never tell; not under torture, would Lily tell; but the man, the husband, his name temporarily blurred, the man who was Lily’s husband—he could not be trusted.

  Wes was his name: “Wes Merrick.”

  Casting his lustful gaze upon her, slow stunned smile of a guy feeling blood seeping into his cock, dreamy-eyed watching TV and their arms accidentally brushing together, the hairs stirring on Sharon’s arm and she’d been ready for him, giving off every signal she was ready for him, sharing a final can of beer joking and kidding around and the girl, the sad plain fat girl, what was her name, Lily’s daughter, poor Lily’s responsibility—the girl grinning up at them like she’s giving them permission to fuck right there on the sofa.

  Why not? He was hot for it, and so was she.

  Except: Lily’d come home.

  Poor sweet stupid Lily of the Valley blundering in unwanted. Knowing what was what but, like Lily, pretending she did not.

  Pretending not to know If you died Lily your precious husband would want to marry me, just maybe I’d take the big guy up on it.

  But then inside the house suddenly she had one of her dizzy spells and began shaking and her teeth chattering like she was freezing and fuck it Lily was there, Lily was a witness and grabbed her to keep her from fainting crying Oh Sharon! so she felt her sister’s concern for her, and her love. And Lily was the stronger insisting Sharon must see a doctor next morning, no more procrastinating. So in that moment of weakness she gave in.

  For “Starr Bright” was brave as an upright flame fearing no earthly hurt. While “Sharon Donner” was a coward deserving the worst that might befall her.

  Next morning of course she was fine. Changed her mind and called the doctor’s office to cancel. And when Lily came to her room to get her she informed Lily she was fully recovered, she was fine and didn’t need any doctor poking her with needles. So she wasn’t going.

  And Lily was almost speechless. Stammering, “Sharon, you p-promised! Damn you, you promised!” And Sharon laughed seeing her good-girl sister mad as hell, spots of color coming up in her cheeks. And Lily demanded, “Just what are you laughing at, Sharon?” and Sharon winked at her saying, “You.”

  Which really set Lily off.

  Lily said, sputtering, “You promised! You promised, Sharon!”—as if they were girls of ten. “A blood test, at
least, Sharon—obviously you’re not well.”

  And Sharon said carelessly, stretching and yawning, so what if she was a little anemic, she was taking iron tablets. She didn’t have leukemia for God’s sake. She didn’t have AIDS.

  The look in Lily’s face.

  “Nerves. That’s all.”

  Extending her slender beringed hands, beautifully manicured nails. Yes her hands trembled a little but so what? It was morning.

  Lily said self-righteously, “Sharon, you don’t eat. You push food around on your plate—you drink and you smoke your filthy cigarettes but you don’t eat. You’re too thin.” And Sharon retorted, “Yes? There’s plenty of people—some of them right in this house—who think I look just fine at this weight. Ask them.” And Lily said, the words spilling from her pent-up and painful, “And you’re a bad influence on Deedee, she’s starving herself, I’m afraid she’ll become anorexic. Like you.” So they quarreled. First time in how many years. Sharon would’ve predicted she’d be cool, bemused, as “Starr Bright” looking calmly on, but there she was going hot in the face like her sister, heart pounding as if she’d snorted a line of coke. Cursing and pacing the room kicking at the bed, at a pillow on the floor, at her suitcase saying it was Lily who made her nervous, made her hands shake for Christ’s sake always watching her! spying on her! just like when they were girls and Lily pretended to worry Sharon might get “in trouble” when she was simply jealous, pure and simple. Because she hadn’t any boyfriends of her own. Saying, “I refuse to be dissected for your pity, ‘Lily of the Valley.’ You have no command over me now, I’m not your fucking slave. Nor am I a junkie—so fuck that.” And Lily stared at her dazed. As if not knowing what junkie meant. As if never hearing the word fuck hurtled at her like a glob of spit.