Starr Bright Will Be With You Soon

by Joyce Carol Oates

  For Lily had to ask.

  Wes sighed audibly. Pacing about Lily’s workroom colliding with things, not noticing where he blundered; a large blind sweating animal in this unfamiliar, confining space. He said quietly, “I came close to—making a mistake with her, Lily. But I didn’t, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Lily heard. Through a roaring in her ears, Lily heard.

  Of course she’d known, known something, had sensed something in Wes that morning when he’d risen earlier than usual and was out of the house while she was still upstairs; sensed something was wrong when Sharon kept her door shut through the morning replying in vague monosyllables to Lily’s entreaties. Sharon? Are you all right? Aren’t you hungry? Sharon?

  How many entreaties, through a lifetime. Offering food, drink, solace, love to others. Risking rebuff, or simply silence.

  “Lily? I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say—I’m sorry.”

  Still Lily could not reply. She was faint, leaning against her workbench. The shattered pieces of the bowl she’d loved, the bowl Sharon had knocked to the floor, were still on the workbench, on a sheet of newspaper, as if Lily hoped to reassemble them; of course she could not, what a futile notion, she smiled sadly at such a futile notion, yet she hadn’t been able to throw the pieces out just yet.

  Lily said, “You’ve been so angry, Wes. I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “I’m not angry, Lily. I’m—scared.”

  “You! Scared …”

  Wes said, “Since Sharon came into this house, things have been out of control. She’s a disturbed woman. Very charming when she wants to be but it doesn’t last. I think she’s dangerous, and I want her out of here.”

  Lily tried to laugh. “Dangerous! Sharon …”

  “She’s crazy—in her soul. I’ve known people like that—not many—in Vietnam.”

  “Wes, what a thing to say, what an—accusation. Sharon is my sister—”

  “Like I said, when it suits her. You hardly count in her life.”

  Lily drew breath to protest. No!

  But it was true, probably. A simple fact. Anyone but Lily could see.

  With deliberate fingers, Lily had been pushing pieces of the broken bowl into a heap in the center of the newspaper page; now she carefully lifted the corners of the page to secure the unwieldy, surprisingly heavy debris inside, and carried it to her wastebasket. She must have decided to clean up after all. Her next work, the ceramic bowl-sculpture, would be much more interesting than this had been. Perhaps a bit ungainly, even ugly. Beauty of a less harmonious kind.

  Lily said, evenly, “You’re attracted to Sharon, Wes. As a man would be. Any man. Of course.” It was not a provocative statement but simply another statement of fact. But Wes responded hotly, “No. It was Sharon who sought me out, Lily. In one of her tight, sexy dresses and nothing beneath—that was obvious. Saying she couldn’t sleep, she was lonely—” Wes paused, breathing harshly. It went against the grain of the man’s temperament, to be informing on another; to be telling tales of another; alleviating his own compromised position by accusing another. Yet what choice had he? How otherwise could he explain? Lily saw with a rush of love for him, and sympathy, the helplessness in her husband’s face: that her sister was making of Wes Merrick a person of the kind he himself despised. He said, in disgust, “Never mind. It’s over. Nothing happened between us and nothing will. But I want the woman out of this house, Lily—or I’ll have to leave, myself.”

  Lily cried as if stabbed to the heart. “No!”

  It was then that the idea came to Wes. Lily saw it in his face, a look of fury and decisiveness, childish rancor yet adult rectitude.

  I will cleanse my house of this pollutant. I will reclaim my family.

  Striding to Sharon’s room, pushing the door open (the guest-room door couldn’t be locked except from the inside)—as Lily followed after, mortified, protesting, No! no! this is wrong, this is an invasion of Sharon’s privacy!—but Wes in his wild mood paid her not the slightest heed. Impatient, muttering to himself, he threw open the closet door, pawed through Sharon’s clothes on hangers and examined the floor, where pairs of shoes were arranged in rows; he inspected the bathroom, which badly needed cleaning; examined the glittering miscellany of items on the bureau top; yanked open drawers, rummaging inside—all the while Lily tried to restrain him, catching at his hands. No! how could he! Oh, Wes! On Sharon’s bedside table was a Bible and this, too, Wes snatched up, leafed through, set down again; the floral-print comforter had been pulled up crookedly to the pillows on Sharon’s bed, and this Wes pulled brutally aside, staring at rumpled bedclothes beneath as if he expected his sister-in-law to be hiding there; he checked beneath the pillows, and, as far as he could reach, between the mattress and the box springs; he bent to peer beneath the bed—hauling out Sharon’s blue canvas suitcase, which was locked.

  Lily was pulling at his hands, pleading. “Wes, no. Please let’s leave now.”

  Wes struggled with the lock, might have broken it with his bare hands, recalled then a Swiss army knife in the hall cupboard and went to fetch it and forced the suitcase lock as Lily looked on helplessly, blinking back tears. “Look.” Wes was lifting from the suitcase a remarkable assortment of things: several men’s wallets, each empty; a man’s platinum-gold digital wrist-watch (flashing the exact time—5:49 P.M.), a man’s gold signet ring, an Italian silk checked ascot scarf; and another Bible, smaller, cheaper, with tissue-thin pages; and, wrapped in a red rayon slip, what appeared to be a policeman’s badge, gleaming as if it had been just recently polished.

  Again Wes said, excitedly, “Look.”

  Lily stared at the gleaming object in her husband’s fingers.

  “What—is it? Wes, I don’t understand.”

  “‘Sumner County, Nebraska, Deputy Sheriff.’ My God.”

  Lily whispered, “But how could Sharon have gotten that?”

  “How could she have gotten any of these things? She’s some kind of thief.”

  “Oh, Wes! We don’t have any right to violate her privacy—even if—”

  “Yes, we have the right, I have the right.”

  Now Wes had discovered newspaper clippings, tabloid pages that had been carefully folded and placed inside the suitcase lining. He whistled thinly, holding these out for Lily to read; but Lily could not read the lurid banner headlines, her vision swam in a panic. Wes read aloud, haltingly, “‘STAR’ KILLER STRIKES 2ND TIME, VEGAS MOTEL, VICTIM 43, NEBRASKA SHERIFF’S DEPUTY’—my God. And here—the Los Angeles Times—‘POLICE LINK SOUTHWEST MOTEL KILLINGS ‘GORGEOUS’ RED-HAIRED WOMAN SOUGHT.’ Oh, Lily, Jesus … your sister must have killed these men. Killed them, stole from them.” He read from another paper, “‘A star, crudely drawn in blood, was left on walls in the victims’ rooms.’ … Look, here’s the Yewville Journal—Stanley Reigel!—”

  Lily began to faint, and Wes jumped up to steady her; he held her, and she clutched at him, terrified, unable to breathe; there was a violent pounding in her head as if an artery were about to burst; Lily was whispering, weeping, “We shouldn’t have come in here. We shouldn’t have looked. I knew, oh Wes I knew—we shouldn’t have looked.”

  11

  At the Starlite Motel, Yewville, New York

  When, over the phone, he told her the name of the motel, she smiled happily—A sign!

  You are sending “Starr Bright” a sign, thank you God.

  That evening preparing for “MRS M DWYER” an envelope containing among other items the print of the angry-eyed girl. By this time half-convinced the girl was in fact Mack Dwyer’s lover mistreated by him and vengeful as “Starr Bright” herself.

  And the page carefully removed from the Book of John.

  And hairs from the trash behind Rita’s Beauty Salon.

  These items to be left in the motel room, in the presence of the bleeding pig.

  The letter she would mail afterward. Gloved hands always, no fingerprints to be traced.

  And with
this final sacrifice your destiny is fulfilled.

  The man—“B. Decker” he would call himself—had made arrangements at the Starlite Motel on Route 209 North. Approximately four miles from Washington Street.

  Pig-justice, he’d made the arrangements himself. She would be invisible. A shimmering upright flame, but invisible.

  Arriving quietly at 6:05 P.M., parking at the rear. The room was 48 of the double-tiered mustard-yellow stucco building so of course she parked the Toyota elsewhere; partly hidden by an overflowing Dumpster, facing a canvas-covered swimming pool.

  (Had she been here before? In summer? The swimming pool reminded her. There’d been a plastic mattress floating there, American flag colors. A sharp stink of chlorine and a woman’s shrill sexy giggling that might have been her own.)

  Crossing the oil-specked pavement to the sidewalk running beside the motel, making her way limping slightly, favoring her left leg, to room 48 at the far end. If anyone observed he would see a woman of possible middle age in a shapeless trench coat, head covered with a dark scarf and face obscured by dark glasses and her shoulders slumped; despite the limp, she wore high-heeled shoes. And carried a tote bag.

  If anyone observed.

  And no one did.

  The desk clerk on duty at the Starlite that evening would not have seen this individual at all. The desk clerk would have seen and spoken with and taken payment (cash: $55.75 with tax) from only “B. Decker” who’d telephoned the motel that morning to reserve a double room for one night.

  For “Mr. & Mrs. B. Decker” of Utica, New York.

  The desk clerk would claim to have heard no sounds—shouts, cries, screams. If there were such. For room 48 was at the farther end of the building, a very private room.

  “B. Decker” had specifically requested a “very private, quiet room.”

  Not peace but a sword!—she’d wakened that morning with Jesus’ voice ringing in her ears.

  She had honed the knife carefully in the Macy’s knife-sharpener in Lily’s attractive kitchen. This was a ritual of love, even tenderness. Never any haste. Never hesitation.

  At the rear of the Starlite there was a smell of garbage and diesel oil. Insecticide and disinfectant. “Starr Bright’s” sensitive nostrils pinched. The pig’s habitat, the pig’s lair. For a confused moment she could not recall which of them would be awaiting her inside, with a bottle: the one named Cobb, the one named Fenke, the one named Marr, the one named Hughlings, the one named Salaman …

  Not peace her pulsebeat urged but a sword. Not peace not peace but a sword.

  For there had begun in Sharon’s soul a counter-urging, a small pleading voice to which she dared not listen. Urging forgiveness, forgetfulness. What would Lily do in her place, what would Lily think? What would Deedee think? And the man, what was the man’s name?—the man her sister had married not a pig but a good, decent man a faithful husband—what would he think of her, how would he judge her?

  But no, she dared not listen. It was too late, “Starr Bright” had honed the knife, all was prepared as in an act before a live impatient audience amid dazzling blinding lights and sexy-throbbing drums.

  Not peace! not peace but a sword. Amen.

  Within an hour they were happily drunk, couldn’t keep their hands off each other; or so it seemed. “Mack Dwyer”—the thick-waisted thick-bodied middle-aged man with graying hair combed in silly, hopeful strands across the flushed dome of his head, and “Sherrill”—as she’d asked him to call her—with glossy burnished red curls spilling to her shoulders, large mascara-rimmed eyes glowing with pale green eyeshade, beautiful glistening crimson-kissable mouth.

  “Sherrill” poured drinks from Dwyer’s bottle of Seagram’s with the skill and poise of a cocktail hostess. Sipping very discreetly herself, urging the man on to more, more. And more. Cooing to him, soothing, murmuring, nodding enthusiastically. Listening with rapt attention. For Dwyer, like most men, had a lot to say. Oh yes, a lot to say. His fleshy mouth worked, his hands gestured. He had opinions, he had memories. He had hopes, plans. You listened, and you nodded, and you filled the guy’s glass.

  The pig does 99 percent of the work actually. You just sit back, wait.

  “Starr Bright” would boast laughing to the cops.

  It had been a mild shock, though—Mack Dwyer. So much older. Hardly the same guy. Looking like Mr. Dwyer—his father. He was still good-looking in a jowly way, women would be attracted to him, that air of confidence, swagger. But his face was starting to sag and his skin was of the hue and texture of cooked oatmeal. Now he’d removed his sport coat you could see the fistfuls of flesh at his waist spilling over his belt. Where once Mack Dwyer had been lean, muscle-hard, quick hands and feet, a panther.

  Smiling she swooped to kiss him on the lips. Not a sensuous tongue-prodding kiss, not yet. More of a light teasing peck of a kiss.

  “Wow! What’s that for?”

  “’Cause it’s so great to see you again, Mack. And looking so handsome like always.”

  Dwyer laughed grunting and reached over for her, as if to swing her onto his lap or onto the bed beside him; but quicksilver Sherrill eluded him, patting the back of his hand with her gloved fingers. It was a turn-on, tight red lace gloves with the red jersey sheath-dress hiked up to her thighs as she coiled herself in a chair; crossed her long lovely dancer’s legs, gleaming in smoke-colored diamond-patterned stockings. Take a good look, fella. Take an eyeful. ’Cause that’s all you’re gonna get of “Sherrill.” Thinking how strange that driving to the Starlite Motel, parking the Toyota and approaching room 48 she’d been feeling jumpy, anxious; wondering if maybe, this time, she should turn back. Lily’s voice urging Forgive him! Forget the past! Come home to us, Rose of Sharon! But then at the door she’d pulled off the scarf and fluffed out her shiny red curls and removed the tacky trench coat to stuff into the tote bag and straightened her shoulders so her breasts emerged and wetted her lips and stepped into the light ready to see herself reflected in the pig’s glistening-admiring eyes—Jesus, it felt so right. “Starr Bright” in the right place at the right time and the rest of life is so boring.

  Noting how Mack Dwyer was breathing hard, staring at her in a slow-blinking way. Boyish, but dirty-minded. Sure. You could tell this guy was a small-town politician—even now, trying to figure out how he can fuck her, he’s making gassy speeches.

  And wearing a showy expensive wristwatch. Another digital with ebony face and flashing numerals exactly like—whose? The name was gone and the face except the “cabana” in Joshua Tree, the way the walls had shone afterward.

  Sure she’d laugh telling the cops I just liked to kill, it’s a real rush. You should try it.

  Mack Dwyer was saying, phony-sincere, “Hell, I certainly did try to keep track of you, Sharon. I mean—‘Sherrill.’ People said you’d gone away, you were a famous model. Saw some pictures of you in a fashion magazine—fantastic! I went to Bucknell and flunked out first semester and my dad said he’d give me a second chance on the condition—” How earnestly the man talked as if Sherrill gave a damn, complaining of his marriage which wasn’t “what I’d been looking forward to, frankly” and his kids who were “self-centered taking their father for granted” and his career as a Republican that was “on the upswing again after some rotten luck in the last election.” Here was a man aggrieved, maudlin, in urgent need of female consolation. Here was a man deserving of a whole lot better than he had. Staring at Sherrill like she was a trick that might vanish. And tugging at his necktie, slick shiny red-striped tie selected for this special occasion. Saying, “It’s terrific, Sharon, I mean ‘Sherrill,’ you called me like this. I was crazy for you, honey, back then, I really was; why we broke up I sure don’t know,” and she laughed and said, “You don’t, huh, Mack?” and he said emphatically, shaking his head so his jowls quivered, “I don’t. But I have this feeling you blame me, right? It was something I did or said, right? Shit, I know I was an s.o.b. my last couple years of high school, you girls shouldn’t
have spoiled me so I lost perspective—you know?” and she laughed saying, “So I guess it was our fault, huh?” and he reached for her again playfully and clumsily and not yet dangerous and she was able to elude him leaving him panting. “Jesus, Sherrill! You’re so beautiful. Your eyes, your skin—hair—that dress—you do forgive me, don’t you?” and she said, in a sexy-throaty-teasing voice, “Now why would I need to ‘forgive’ you, Mack? You got a guilty conscience?” and he said, with boyish contrition, “It was my fault, wasn’t it? What’d I do? Was it—oh, Christ I remember: this girl from Stillwater was going out with Budd Petco and she and I sort of traded dates—at Wolf’s Head Lake?—and you hid in the girls’ changing room crying I guess and wouldn’t come out, Budd said—” and she said, smiling sharply, “No, Mack. Sure wasn’t me,” and he said, “It wasn’t?” and she said coolly, “Some other girl of yours, hon,” and he said, sipping at his drink, “Could’ve sworn. Pretty girl with red hair, freckles all over …” and she said, bemused, “You remember ‘Sharon Donner’ with red hair and freckles?” and he said cagily, “Hmmm, sweetheart, the age I’m getting to, I don’t know what the hell I do remember,” and she said, smiling, lazily stroking the shining calf of one of her legs as if unaware of how provocative a gesture it was, the perspiring man only a few inches away staring at her, “You remember your senior prom. I was your date,” and Dwyer smiled again in his sheepish-boyish-lewd way murmuring, “Mmmm, yeah, I guess I do—sure,” and she said, “You and your football team buddies got me drunk and—you know,” and he said, shifting his shoulders excitedly, “‘Got you drunk’—I don’t remember that, Sharon. Hell, I got pretty smashed myself,” and she said, teasing, playful, poking him in the thigh, “What you guys did to me in your father’s van, remember that van?—wasn’t so nice,” and he said, frowning, staring into his glass for a moment before drinking, “Look, I don’t remember that, I was smashed out of my skull,” and she said, shaking a forefinger at him, close by his flushed face, “Piggy-piggy! Was Mack naughty? ‘Big Mack’ and his team buddies?” and he said, defensively, “I don’t remember anybody doing anything they didn’t want to do,” and she said slyly, “It was statutory rape, Big Mack,” and he repeated, doggedly, “I don’t remember anybody doing anything they didn’t want to do,” and she said, “‘Statutory rape’—rape by the statute,” and he said, “There sure as hell wasn’t any rape, that’s a laugh,” and she said, “Because I was only fifteen,” and he said, making a snorting noise like laughter, “Hell, I was only seventeen, or—” and she said, “Eighteen, actually,” and he said, “Well—whatever. We were kids,” and she said, lightly, in a kind of singsong, “And I didn’t say yes, Big Mack, not yes to five guys,” and he said, “Yes, but you did say yes—you didn’t say no,” and she said, “Maybe you didn’t hear,” and he said, “In fact I was smashed out of my skull, that’s the fact, I don’t remember any of this,” and she said, laughing, “Oh, well—boys will be boys, eh?” and he said, with a heavy sigh, tugging at his necktie, “I guess. Now I got kids of my own, sons, who don’t listen to me,” and she was laughing at his look of physical discomfort, an aroused, sweating male, an upright thick-bodied pig in clothes too tight; and playfully she raised her leg, and drew the instep of her high-heeled shoe against his thigh and side, poking, tickling, and he gaped at her in startled delight, and she leapt to her feet now displaying her slender body, stretching her arms, in a pretense of kittenish yawning, showing the tip of her pink tongue between crimson lips.