Give Me Your Heart: Tales of Mystery and Suspense

by Joyce Carol Oates

As if to placate the realtor, Leonard said of course he understood: any new property he bought, he’d likely have to put some money into. “All our married lives it’s been my wife’s and my dream to purchase some land, and this is our opportunity. My wife has just inherited a little money—not much, but a little”—Dwayne Ducharme’s voice quavered, in fear this might sound inadvertently boastful—“and we would use this.” Such naive enthusiasm drew from Yardman a wary predator smile. Leonard could almost hear the realtor thinking, Here is a fool, too good to be true. Yardman murmured, “Wise, Dwayne. Very wise.”

  Yardman led Leonard into the master bedroom, where a grotesque pink-toned mirror covered one of the walls, and in this mirror, garishly reflected, the men loomed overlarge, as if magnified. Yardman laughed as if taken by surprise, and Leonard looked quickly away, shocked that he’d shaved so carelessly that morning: graying stubble showed on the left side of his face, and there was a moist red nick in the cleft of his chin. His eyes were set in hollows like ill-fitting sockets in a skull, and his clothes—a tweed sport coat, a candy-striped shirt—looked rumpled and damp, as if he’d been sleeping in them, as perhaps he had been, intermittently, on the long flight from New York to Chicago to Denver.

  Luckily, the master bedroom had a plate-glass sliding door that Yardman managed to open, and the men stepped quickly out into fresh air. Almost immediately there came rushing at Leonard the frantically barking Airedale, who would certainly have bitten him except Yardman intervened. This time he not only shouted at the dog but struck him on the snout, on the head, dragged him away from Leonard by his collar, cursed and kicked him until the dog cowered whimpering at his feet, its stubby tail wagging. “Damn asshole. You blew it. Fuckin’ busted now. Every one of em in the fuckin’ family, ain’t it the same fuckin’ story.” Flush-faced, deeply shamed by the dog’s behavior, Yardman dragged the whimpering Airedale around the house to the driveway where the Suburban was parked. Leonard pressed his hands over his ears, not wanting to hear Yardman’s furious cursing and the dog’s broken-hearted whimpering as Yardman must have forced him back inside the vehicle, to lock him in. He thought, That dog is his only friend. He might kill that dog

  Leonard walked quickly away from the house, as if eager to look at the silo, which was partly collapsed in a sprawl of what looked like fossilized corncobs and mortar, and a barn the size of a three-car garage with a slumping roof and a strong odor of manure and rotted hay, pleasurable in his nostrils. In a manure pile a pitchfork was stuck upright, as if someone had abruptly decided that he’d had enough of ranch life and had departed. Leonard felt a thrill of excitement, unless it was a thrill of dread. He had no clear idea why he was here, being shown the derelict Flying S Ranch in Mineral Springs, Colorado. Why he’d sought out Mitch Yardman. The first husband, Oliver Yardman. If his middle-aged wife cherished erotic memories of this man as he’d been twenty years before, what was that to Leonard? He was staring at his hands, lifted before him, palms up in a gesture of honest bewilderment. He wore gloves, which seemed to steady his hands. He’d been noticing lately, these past several months, that his hands sometimes shook.

  Just outside the barn, Yardman had paused to make another call on his cell phone. He was leaving a message, his voice low-pitched, threatening and yet seductive. “Hey babe. ‘S me. Where the fuck are ya, babe? Call me. I’m here.” He broke the connection, cursing under his breath.

  At the rear of the barn, looking out at the hills, Yardman caught up with Leonard. The late-afternoon sky was still vivid with light, massive clouds in oddly vertical sculpted columnar shapes. Leonard was staring at these shapes, flexing his fingers in his leather gloves. Yardman swatted at his shoulder as if they were new friends linked in a common enterprise; his breath smelled of fresh whiskey. “Quite a place, eh? Makes a man dream, eh? Big sky country. That’s the West, see. I lived awhile in the East, fuckin’ hemmed in. No place for a man. Always wanted a nice li’l ranch like this. Decent life for a man, raise horses, not damn rat-race real estate . . . Any questions for me, Dwayne? Like, is the list price negotiable? Or—”

  “Did you always live in Makeville, Mr. Yardman—Mitch?” Dwayne Ducharme had a way of speaking bluntly yet politely. “Just curious!”

  Yardman said, tilting his leathery cowboy hat to look his client frankly in the face, “Hell, no. The Yardmans is all over at Littleton. Makeville is just me. And that’s temp’ry.”

  “Yardman Realty & Insurance is a family business, is it?”

  “Well, sure. Used to be. Now just me, mostly.”

  Yardman spoke with an air of vaguely shamed regret. Burned out, Leonard was thinking. Yardman’s sulky mouth seemed about to admit more, then pursed shut.

  “You said you lived in the East, Mitch . . .”

  “Not long.”

  “Ever travel to, well—Florida? Key West?”

  Yardman squinted at Leonard, as if trying to decide whether to be amused or annoyed by him. “Yah, I guess. Long time ago. Why’re you askin’, friend?”

  “It’s just, you look familiar. Like someone I saw, might have seen once, I think it was Key West . . .” Leonard was smiling; a roaring came up in his ears. As in court, he sometimes had to pause to get his bearings. “Do you have a family? I mean, wife, children . . .”

  “Friend, I know what you mean,” Yardman said grimly. “Some of us got just as much family as we need, know what I’m saying?”

  “I’m afraid that—”

  “Means my private life is off-limits, Dwayne.” Yardman laughed. His face crinkled. “Hey, man, just kidding. A wife’s a wife, eh? Kid’s a kid? Been there, done that. Three fucking times, Dwayne. Three strikes, you’re out.”

  He’d been married three times? Divorced three times? Risky for naive Dwayne Ducharme to say, with a provocative smile, “No love like your first. They say.”

  “No fuck like your first. But that’s debatable.”

  Leonard froze. Had Valerie been Yardman’s first? One of the first, maybe. Leonard believed this must be so.

  Now Yardman meant to turn the conversation back to real estate: in his hand was a swath of fact sheets. Any questions? Mortgages, interest rates? “There’s where Mitch Yardman’s expertise kicks in.”

  “Yes. I have questions.” Leonard’s voice quavered; his mouth had gone dry. For a moment his mind had gone blank. Then, pointing: “Those hills over there? Is that area being . . . developed? On the way in I saw some bulldozers . . .”

  Yardman scowled, shading his eyes. As if he’d never seen such a sight before, he said, shrugging, “Seems there might be something going on there, that ridge. But the rest of the valley through here, and your own sweet li’l creek that your boy will be crazy for wading in, running through it, see?—that’s in pristine shape.”

  Yardman swatted Leonard’s shoulder companionably as he turned to lead his credulous client back to the driveway. It was that touch, that suggestion of brotherly solicitude, that made Leonard recoil. A thrill of pure loathing, revulsion, hit him like adrenaline.

  Swiftly it happened: the pitchfork was in Leonard’s hands, leather gloves gripping tight. So this was why he’d taken care to wear leather gloves! Without so much as grunting with the effort, Leonard had managed to wrench the heavy pronged implement out of the hardened manure pile, and in the next instant, as the garrulous man was about to step outside, Leonard came up behind him and shoved the prongs against his lower back, knocking him violently forward, off-balance; and as Yardman turned in astonishment, desperate to grab hold of the thrusting prongs, Leonard shoved the pitchfork a second time, and a third, at the man’s unprotected throat.

  How quickly then what happened, happened. Afterward Leonard would have but a dazed and fragmented memory, as of a fever dream.

  Yardman on his knees, terror shining in his eyes, and perplexity—what was happening to him? And why? Now fallen and flailing on the dirt floor, straw and bits of manure floating in swirls of dark blood. Leonard thought, Earth is dark, blood is dark—it will soak in
, it won’t be noticed. As Leonard circled Yardman, striking at him with the pitchfork, the wounded man was fighting to live, bleeding from numerous wounds, now pleading for his life. Yet Leonard had no mercy—he hadn’t come thousands of miles to exact mercy! With the unexpected strength of his shoulders, he drove the prongs into Yardman’s bleeding chest, Yardman’s forearms raised to protect his face. Several feet away the leather cowboy hat lay, thrown clear.

  Leonard stood over the dying man, panting. So strange that his fury hadn’t abated but seemed to have burst from him into the very air: “Laugh now! Make a joke now! What’s funny now? Yardman.”

  The man’s name was flung from his mouth, like spittle.

  Emerging then from the barn. Uncertain of his surroundings, and he was very tired, arms like lead. Where was this? He’d last slept—couldn’t remember; on the plane? Jolting and unsatisfying sleep. And when he’d called home, the phone had rung in the empty house in Salthill Landing, and when he’d called Valerie’s cell phone, there had been no answer, not even a ring.

  There in the driveway was the Suburban, parked where Yardman had left it. At the rear window the Airedale barked frantically. The heavy pitchfork was still in Leonard’s hands; he’d seemed to know that there was more effort to be made. Once begun, such an effort was not easily stopped. Though his hands in the blood-splashed leather gloves ached as if the bones had cracked, he had no choice; Yardman’s dog was a witness, could identify him. Slowly he approached the Suburban. The Airedale barked louder, slobbering against the window. Leonard cautiously opened one of the rear doors, speaking to the dog in Yardman’s commanding/cajoling way, but the vehicle was built so high off the ground it was awkward for Leonard to lean inside, virtually impossible for him to maneuver the pitchfork, to stab at the dog. Leonard glanced down at himself and saw in horror that his trousers were splattered with dark liquid. The maddened dog was smelling blood. His master’s blood. He knows.

  It was becoming increasingly difficult for Leonard to think clearly. A mist seemed to have pervaded his brain. “Kaspar? Come here . . .” But the panicked dog had leapt into the front seat of the SUV and so with a grunt Leonard managed to climb into the rear of the vehicle, again trying to maneuver the pitch-fork, to strike at the dog, but unable to get leverage, and in an instant, quick as an adder’s thrust, the Airedale managed to sink his teeth into Leonard’s exposed wrist, and Leonard cried out in surprise and pain and hastily climbed out of the vehicle, dragging the pitchfork behind him. For he must not surrender the pitchfork, he knew. Standing dazed in the driveway in this place he couldn’t now clearly recall, which seemed to be tilting beneath him as in a mild earthquake. The flesh at his right wrist was torn, bleeding? A dog had attacked him? Why?

  He glanced around to see a dust-colored pickup approaching from the road. A male figure wearing a cowboy hat in the driver’s seat, a female figure beside him, staring. Seeing the bloodied pitchfork in Leonard’s hands, they stared. There came a man’s hoarse voice: “Mister? You in need of help?”

  Strip Poker

  That day at Wolf’s Head Lake! Nobody ever knew.

  Of my family, I mean. Not even Daddy. I did not tell Daddy.

  It was late August. Humid-hot August. At the lake you’d see these giant thunderhead clouds edging across the sky like a mouth closing over, and in the mountains, streaks of heat lightning that appear and disappear so swiftly you can’t be sure that you have actually seen them. For kids my age, nothing much to do except swim—unless you liked fishing, which I did not, or boating, but we didn’t own a boat—and the only place to swim for us was on the far side of the lake at the crowded public beach, since the lake on our side was choked with weeds so slimy and disgusting only young boys could swim through it. That day we’re over at the beach swimming, trying to dive from the diving board at the end of the concrete pier, but we’re not very good at diving; mostly we’re just jumping from the high board—twelve feet, that’s high for us—seeing who can jump the most times, climb the ladder dripping wet, run out on the board and grab your nose, shut your eyes, and jump, reckless and panicky and thrilled, striking the water and propelling beneath and your long hair in a ponytail trailing up, bubbles released from your dazed lips, closest thing to dying—is it? Except sometimes you’d hit the water wrong, slapped hard as if in rebuke by the lake’s surface, which looks like it should be soft, red welts across my back, murky water up my nose so my head was waterlogged, ears ringing, and I’m dazed and dizzy, staggering around like a drunk girl, all of us loud-laughing and attracting disapproving stares. And there comes my mother, telling me to stop before I drown myself or injure myself, trying not to sound as angry as she’s feeling, and Momma makes this gesture—oh, this is mortifying! makes me hate her!—with her hands to suggest that I might injure my chest, my breasts, jumping into the water like that, as if I give a damn about my breasts, or anything about my body, or if I do, if I am anxious about my body, this is not the place, the public beach at Wolf’s Head Lake on an afternoon in August, for Momma to scold me. I’m a tall lanky-lean girl almost fourteen years old with small-boned wrists and ankles, deep-set dark eyes, and a thin curvy mouth that gets me into trouble, the things I say, or mumble inaudibly; my ashy blond hair is in a ponytail straggling like a wet rat’s tail down my bony vertebrae; except for this ponytail you’d think that I might be a boy, and I hoped to God that I would remain this way forever, nothing so disgusting as a grown woman in a swimsuit, a fleshy woman like Momma and her women friends that men, adult men, actually looked at like there was something glamorous and sexy about them.

  Momma is glaring at me, speaking my full, formal name, Annislee, which means that she is disgusted with me, saying she’s driving back to the cottage now and I’d better come with her and Jacky, and I’m stubborn, shaking my head, no, I am not ready to leave the beach, where it’s still sunny and maybe will not storm, and anyway my bicycle is at the beach. I’d biked to the beach that morning, so I’d have to bike back. And Momma says all right, Annislee, but if it starts storming, you’re out of luck. Like she hopes it will storm, just to punish me. But Momma goes away and leaves me. All this while I’ve been feeling kind of excited and angry, and sad—why I’ve been jumping from the high board not giving a damn if I do hurt myself—this fiery wildness coming over me sometimes. Why should I care if I hurt myself, if I drown! Missing my father, who isn’t living with us right now in Strykersville, and resenting that my closest cousin, Gracie Stearns, went away for the weekend to Lake Placid in the Adirondacks, staying with a new friend of hers from Christian Youth, a girl I hardly know. People at Lake Placid are likely to be rich, not like at Wolf’s Head Lake, where the cottages are small and crowded together and the boats at the marina are nothing special. All this day I’ve been feeling mean, thinking how could I hurt Gracie’s feelings when she came back, our last week at the lake before Labor Day and I wouldn’t have time to spend with Grade, maybe.

  This guy I met. Wants me to go out with him. He’s got a boat, wants to teach me to water-ski.

  There was no guy. The boys I went swimming with, hung out with, were my age, or younger. Older kids at Wolf’s Head I scarcely knew. Older guys I was scared of. Mostly.

  At the lake we stayed with my mother’s brother Tyrone and his family. Momma and my younger brother, Jacky, and me. Uncle Tyrone’s cottage, which wasn’t on the lake but a hike through the woods and a haze of mosquitoes and gnats and the lake off-shore choked with weeds and cattails and I wasn’t comfortable sleeping three to a room, Momma and Jacky and me, anxious about my privacy, but Wolf’s Head Lake was something to look forward to, as Momma was always saying now that my father was out of the picture.

  Out of the picture. I hate such a way of speaking. Like Momma can’t bring herself to say exactly what the situation is, so it’s vague and fading, like an old Polaroid where you can’t make out people’s faces that have started to blur. As if my father weren’t watching over his family somehow or anyway knowing of our whereabouts every day
of our lives you can bet!

  Him and Momma, they were still married. I was sure of that. This time Daddy said, I will lay down my life for you, Irene. And the kids. Just tell me if ever you wish it.

  Momma doesn’t even know how true that statement is. Momma will never know.

  There was a time when I was seven, Daddy had to go away. And Momma got excitable then. We were cautioned by Momma’s family not to upset her. Not to make loud noises playing and not to get up at night to use the bathroom if we could help it, Jacky and me, because Momma had trouble sleeping and we’d wake her and might scare her. Momma kept a knife under her pillow in case somebody broke into the house; sometimes it was a hammer she kept by her bed, but never any kind of gun, for Momma hated guns—she’d seen her own brother killed in a hunting accident. She made Daddy keep his guns over at his brother’s house, his two rifles and his shotgun and the handgun called a revolver with a long mean-looking barrel, which he’d won in a poker game in the U.S. Army stationed in Korea at a time when I had not yet been born. That made me feel shivery, sickish, for my parents did not know me then and did not know of me and did not miss me. And if they had not married each other, it would be that they would never miss me.

  So we were told not to upset Momma. It is a scary thing to see your mother cry. Either you run away (like Jacky) or you do something to make your mother cry more (like me). Just to show that it’s you your mother is crying about and not something else.

  “Ann’slee—what kind of name’s that?”

  This older guy, must be in his late twenties, named Deek— what sounds like Deek—oily dark spiky haircut and scruffy whiskers and on his right forearm a tattoo of a leaping black panther so it’s like him and me are instantly bonded cause I am wearing over my swimsuit a Cougars T-shirt (Strykersville High’s mascot is a cougar), a similar big cat leaping and snarling. Just the look of this Deek is scary and riveting to me, him and his buddies, all of them older guys and strangers to me, hanging out at the marina pier, where I’ve drifted to instead of heading back to the cottage, where Momma expects me.