Starr Bright Will Be With You Soon

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Taking that hot soaking bath had been a great idea. She was softened up, moistened. This guy was sharp enough to get the signals, he’d had a lot of experience she was sure.

  But surprising her saying, “Frankly, Sharon, I don’t know the first thing about you. When I think I do, I learn I’m wrong.” He paused, eyeing her belligerently. “Because most of what you’ve been telling us is bullshit, isn’t it?”

  Sharon stared at him not certain she’d heard correctly.

  “What? Why—do you say that?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “I—I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  It was like he’d slapped her in the face. Definitely she felt a sexual attraction for him, for his very belligerence; a sweet not-so-gentle throb in the groin. Laying a hand on his bristly forearm as if to both placate him and entice him. “Wes, I’m hurt. I’m—insulted. I just don’t—”

  “This teaching job of yours? At the ‘Pasadena School of Dance’?”

  “Yes, I—” She shook her head, confused. “No, wait. I’ve maybe decided not—”

  “Well, there isn’t any ‘Pasadena School of Dance.’ I checked.”

  Quickly she improvised, “Starr Bright” glib and inspired and daring him not to believe, “Oh, right! I guess it goes by another name—the school. And it isn’t in Pasadena actually but in another town, for prestige purposes they align themselves with Pasadena—you know.” She paused, breathing quickly. The fucker was letting her stammer and falter until her words gave out.

  Wes said, “And this ‘dance troupe’ you’ve been traveling with—”

  “I told you, we’re disbanded. It’s over.”

  “And just why exactly did you come here, to visit Lily?”

  “Do I need a reason? Lily is my sister—”

  “Lily’s been your sister for a long time. Why’re you here now?”

  Because I have nowhere else to go. Because I am run to earth.

  She was furious! frightened! backed into a corner like a fucking rat! “Starr Bright” clutching the sequined purse and feeling the nudge, the impulse, how she might turn as if to leave and feign an attack of dizziness and when the man laid his hands on her slide the razor-sharp blade into his gut easy as you’d pierce a melon. A man, any man, daring to lay his hot beefy hands on “Starr Bright”!

  But “Starr Bright” guided her in another direction. How much more strategic instead to go weak, or weak-seeming in the man’s accusing eyes. Many times “Starr Bright” had humbled herself even bleeding in the mouth opening herself to a man’s mercy. And this man she seemed to know having pillaged, raped, killed helpless women and girls in Vietnam in the guise of American soldiery and would surely do so still to this very day if granted immunity, and anonymity. So she was gripping his arm tighter and leaning on him for support and saying, her voice breaking, “Wes, if I didn’t always tell you one hundred percent of the truth it’s because I—I’m waiting to tell you. Just you. When we get to be better friends, when I can trust you.”

  Guardedly he asked, “Yes? And when’s that?”

  “I’ve been through some hard times—Lily knows. She’s been so wonderful—generous—taking me in like this. And never a word of reproach.”

  “Right. I’d say, yes, she has.”

  She ignored his sarcasm. If you ignored a guy’s sarcasm he sometimes dropped it.

  Eyeing the amber liquid in that glass on his desk. Jesus, she needed a drink!

  “When—can we get to be better friends? Oh, Wes, it’s tonight I’ve got to live through somehow. I’m not looking beyond tonight.”

  Covering her face with the fingers of one hand. Her skin burning, feverish. It came over her like a wave of nausea, she wasn’t wearing eyeliner or mascara, no dark glasses, her venous eyes and the soft crepey skin beneath them exposed, and he was standing close, she could feel his warm breath, this man peering into her very soul or seeming-so except “Starr Bright’s” soul was one of those freaky distorting mirrors you looked into and saw your own mangled face.

  He must’ve relented. There was the glass in his hand raised to her lips as you’d raise a glass to a small child’s lips urging her to drink and she drank—bourbon. Sighing with relief.

  “Oh God, Wes—thanks. I needed that.”

  She’d closed her fingers over his. Gazing up at him with hurt-swimming eyes.

  He said, “It goes down smoothest after midnight, I’ve found.”

  “Yes.”

  She was liking this now. She was loving this. Loving him.

  He opened a lower drawer of the desk and took out a bottle and splashed more liquid into the glass, filling it halfway and sipping himself and again offering it to her and again she drank and felt the wonderful warm liquid in her mouth, burning down her throat and coursing through her blood. Love me! You’re crazy for me, you know it.

  The sequined purse was awkward by this time in her grip, she laid it on the edge of his desk within reach, she was breathing quickly feeling the charge between them like the air before an electric storm and there she was saying, in the same soft, broken voice, the voice that was exciting this guy pouring blood into his cock like a faucet she’d turned on with her deft manicured fingers, how since she’d been a girl a minister’s daughter but not the minister’s favored daughter she’d always figured she was being punished ahead of time for whatever sins she might commit—“Like God’s giving me a promise. Next time it’s my turn.”

  Wes frowned. Like he was seriously trying to understand. “What’s that mean? I don’t get it.”

  “If you’re hurt bad enough, Wes, God lets you know the reason for it will be clear someday soon. So it isn’t, you know”—pausing, knitting her forehead as if the words were painful to shape—“just for nothing. No purpose.”

  Again Wes surprised her, smiling. “Hell, Sharon. You believe that?”

  “Of course I believe that. It’s been my life.”

  “More bullshit.”

  “What? Now this is getting insulting, Wes—”

  Don’t you want me to confide in you? Open my heart to you?

  He was saying, almost as if it embarrassed him, spelling out such elementary truths, “Look. The purpose of life is—more life. No purpose beyond that. No more plan to it than the species trying to keep going, reproducing all they can so some individuals survive. I wouldn’t say ‘God’ has much of a hand in it.”

  “Why, Wes, that’s a terrible heartless thing to say! And you the father of a child.”

  “Why? Why’s it terrible and heartless?”

  “It’s—atheism.”

  “So? I’m an atheist.”

  “In the war? In Vietnam? Were you an atheist there?”

  Wes’s eyes clouded over. He’d been liking this and maybe it was a mistake to break the mood but she was pissed at him, the guy’s cocksureness and it was scaring her, too—how casually he’d dismissed God like you’d dismiss some damn dumb embarrassing old nonsense you used to believe when you were a kid. “Sure,” he said. “Vietnam. That’s where I picked it up. That, and a heroin habit.”

  “Heroin!” She’d had a habit some years ago but maybe better not tell him, not yet. “So—what did you do in Vietnam? Lily tells me you’ve never told her.”

  Wes shrugged. “Let’s drop it, Sharon. For now.”

  “You were liking it there, were you? Lots of guys did.”

  Wes drank bourbon. Wasn’t going to say, was he. She laughed.

  “You were just a young guy when you went in, weren’t you? I bet you were hotheaded.”

  Again he said nothing. But just possibly he was liking this, too—some special memory he could play over in his mind. Like a scene in a movie he’d rerun lots of times.

  “And the women, there? The girls? They all look so young, and the girls would’ve really been young. Twelve years old, ten …”

  Stubbornly he stood mute, ungiving. As if by accident she nudged against him, the front of his trousers, Jesus he was hard, he was—hard. An
d laughed regaining her balance, clutching at his arm. Her long bare polished-looking legs in the sexy high-heeled shoes.

  “Or, look”—she was giving him an out as if she’d just now thought of it,—“maybe you don’t actually remember? Maybe it’s all kind of blank. Like some things you’d dreamt and what was real mixed in together and—you’ve given up trying to sort them.”

  He frowned, and shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “You never would’ve hurt anyone except you were made to. You were there and what happened could only happen there. And only that way, at that time. I know.”

  He wasn’t looking at her but at the glass in his hands, and again he drank, and she’d closed her fingers around his holding the glass and she, too, drank; and the warmth of the bourbon passed between them, delicious.

  He said, not angrily, but bluntly, “In fact you don’t know shit about me, Sharon. So let’s drop the subject.”

  “Anyway it happened a long time ago. You weren’t anybody’s husband or father then, lots of things don’t count then.”

  If you touch me, try to fuck me, I’ll kill you.

  Hey no, look: big guy, I’m hot for you. Try me!

  He was asking her again why, why’d she come to Yewville, why at this time? Not when her father died, or her mother? What’s the story? And she listened, nodding and trying to think, what had she been telling Lily, obviously Lily had confided in this man, Lily was her sister but had betrayed her. Saying she’d been missing Lily of course—for years. For all of her life away from Lily. But now, these past few months, now the dance troupe was broken up owing her money almost $10,000 she was resigned she’d never receive unless she hired a lawyer and brought a civil suit and the sons of bitches would declare bankruptcy and she’d be left having to pay the lawyer’s bills—now also she had some personal problems, these past few months—she’d come home to Lily hoping to be taken in.

  Wes was regarding her doubtfully. As if he wanted to believe but couldn’t quite.

  She said, tears starting in her eyes, “The truth is, Wes, I’m about run to earth. That first night you saw me—how panicked I was, when one of your workers knocked on the back door? I was scared of my life. I am scared of my life. There’s a person after me who wants to—hurt me.”

  “Who?”

  “A man. Someone I knew in Vegas and L.A. I can’t talk about it.”

  “Have you reported him to the police?”

  “No. I mean—yes. In L.A., he’d beaten me and I had to be taken to a hospital and the police were called, that’s their policy. But I couldn’t press charges. He’d threatened he would kill me if I did.”

  “Which hospital was this, Sharon?”

  “Somewhere in L.A., I said! I don’t remember the name, I was taken there by some friends, bodily. I—”

  “Why’s this person want to hurt you?”

  “He thinks he’s in love with me! He’s jealous and possessive and has always had his way with women and I was the first to walk away from him, he says he’ll make me pay for that, the insult. He’d threatened to throw acid in my face and he blackened both my eyes and—” She was wiping tears from her cheeks, startled at how feverish her face was. She hoped it wasn’t flushed and unattractive, and this man standing so close.

  “Does he know you’re here?”

  She saw where this was going and said quickly, “He has no idea where I am. He’s looking for me, probably, in California. He doesn’t know where my home was—is. As long as I’m here, I’m safe.”

  Wes was frowning. “But we should notify the police anyway. If he’s threatened you.”

  “No! I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t.”

  Her eyes were hurt, helpless; a wave of dizziness rose in her and how natural it was for the man to catch her, steady her. And suddenly they were kissing.

  Yes. Like this. At last.

  A man’s arms around her and she was clutching blindly at him, clinging to him; slipping her hand inside his shirt, greedily caressing his warm, muscled back. And he was moving his hands over her, moaning softly, his hands hard and deft and his weight pressed against her pressing her against the edge of the desk and she was thinking He will force me now, he will rape me as he has raped children and the thought was both terrifying and exciting; exciting and terrifying; “Starr Bright” stood a little apart seeing the man’s hunger, and the woman’s, how her arms were closed desperately around his neck, her parched lips aching pressed so hard against his, and her tongue seeking his; and the sequined purse pushed back into a pile of papers atop the desk, nudged by her thigh. Pig! Like any pig! Adulterer and fornicator!

  But he’d ceased kissing her. He’d ceased, and stepped away.

  Turned from her adjusting his clothing. She heard his labored breath and saw a flush in his throat, rising into his face; he would not look at her even as she tugged at his arm, frantically—“Wes, what’s wrong? Be my friend!”

  “Sharon, I—can’t. Not this.”

  She pushed into his arms again, baring her teeth in a smile; she kissed him again, or tried to; but the man stood stiffly, his shoulders raised so she had to lift herself against him. “Wes, don’t reject me!” she heard herself plead. “I love you.”

  Wes gripped her hands, gently detached her from him. It was impossible that this was happening—wasn’t it? His face was terribly flushed, and his eyes were averted in embarrassment, shame.

  He was murmuring, “This isn’t a—good idea, Sharon. We’d better say goodnight now.”

  “But why?”

  “You know why.”

  “Wes, I’m so lonely! So unhappy. The first time I laid eyes on you—”

  “No. That’s bullshit.”

  “—it’s the truth, I swear! My feeling for you, Wes—”

  “There’s Lily. It isn’t just you and me.”

  “But—Lily wouldn’t know.”

  “I would know. And you.”

  “Wes, please—”

  Don’t make me beg, “Starr Bright” will not beg any man.

  It could not be happening but it was: the man backed off from her, eluded her grasping hands, mumbling an apology she couldn’t decipher for the blood roaring in her ears deafening her and dizzying her and she could not comprehend he’d walked out! Walked out of the room, and left her staring after him! This good man, this good, decent man her sister had married, a man “Starr Bright” had no power over, could not touch.

  “Fucking husband!”

  In disgust pouring the remainder of the bourbon into the glass, and raising it to her parched lips.

  10

  Revelations

  It would have seemed at the outset the most ordinary of days—a Thursday in mid-April. Yet it would be the day of Lily’s life she would never forget.

  What a strange dream, or a jumble of dreams, she’d had the previous night. She’d been left exhausted! Waiting in line with her sister and other children to enter the TV studio theater in Buffalo where The Starr Bright Hour was broadcast. It didn’t seem to matter if anyone had tickets—they had to wait, wait, wait. And at last they were allowed inside—forced to crawl on hands and knees through a tunnel of shiny tile that opened out into a cramped, low-ceilinged room of hurtful blinding lights and strange shadows harshly black as crevices in the very air. (Where were Mr. and Mrs. Donner? The sisters were alone, unaccompanied. There appeared to be no parents anywhere.) Overexcited, fretting children herded into rows of seats. A smell of wet wool, urine. Now began more waiting, waiting, waiting. Now began the confusion. The TV camera lights made their eyes ache. More children were being herded into seats that were already taken. Pieces of candy were tossed out into the audience and the children shrieked and scrambled for them. At last there came Bessie the Cow on stage—in a baggy spotted cow-costume with a silly cow-mask and lopsided horns. And Louie the Lion with an unconvincing mane and drooping tail. “They aren’t even trying to fool us,” Lily complained to Sharon, on the verge of tears. A seven-yea
r-old knows such things! Yet the other children were in an ecstasy of excitement and anticipation. The chanting song began so loudly Lily’s ears pounded with it Starr Bright will be with you so-oon! Starr Bright will be with you so-oon!

  But “Starr Bright” never arrived. Lily woke with a headache, breathless and nauseated and exhausted as if she hadn’t slept at all. But what relief to be out of that terrible, airless place! What joy, to be not seven years old but thirty-seven! She felt guilty, though, at leaving her sister behind.

  And then there was the quarrel with Deedee at breakfast.

  Mom please. Will you stop trying to monitor my life. Biting back tears Deedee had pushed past Lily and hurried from the house; on her way to school, having had only two cups of black coffee, not a morsel of food. In three weeks she’d lost twelve pounds and it was true the weight loss was attractive, the girl’s round face now slimmer, prettier, and her eyes larger but bright with agitation, nerves. And her skin sickly pale. What could Lily who was her mother do except plead with her gently, reason with her, provide all the low-calorie foods she wanted, plan menus around her obsessive diet. (Lily had called friends who’d been in her predicament over the years, had been given good, if limited, advice.)

  Lily said, “Deedee, you can diet, but you can do it reasonably, healthily. Try!” and Deedee said, sighing, too jumpy to sit at the table, “Mom, I hate that name ‘Deedee.’ Can’t you call me ‘Deirdre’!” and Lily said, smiling, “Well, then, ‘Deirdre’—you can diet, of course, but can’t you approach it more calmly?” and Deedee said, looking at her as if she’d uttered the most bizarre nonsense, “Mom, I haven’t got forever. I’m already fifteen.”

  As if fifteen were a tragic advanced age. As if time were running rapidly out.

  Though she was desperate to escape, Deedee paused to take two cans of Diet Pepsi from the refrigerator to slip into her backpack.

  Oddly, the name “Sharon” had not passed between them.

  I can’t blame my sister for what must be a weakness, a failing of my own.