Give Me Your Heart: Tales of Mystery and Suspense

by Joyce Carol Oates

  “Hey, baby. Where you goin’?”

  A hand came down on Miriam’s shoulder. Fingers kneading the nape of her neck beneath her damp crimped hair. Miriam felt a stab of panic even after she saw it was Oz Newell. Now the music had stopped, she wasn’t so sure of herself. I don’t want this. This is a mistake. Miriam managed to twist away from Oz but grabbed his hand, as a girl might do, to pull him back to the others, to the table. Oz slung his arms around her shoulders and nuzzled her hair, called her baby, as if he’d forgotten her name. Miriam felt weak with desire for the man, unless it was fear. “I miss Gideon. Damn, I miss your dad.” Oz’s voice sounded young, raw, clumsy. He had more to say but couldn’t think of the words. Miriam murmured, “I do too. Thanks.”

  Halfway back to the table Miriam saw the jut-jawed young man from the marina weaving through the crowd. It was a shock to see him; she’d taken for granted he’d dumped her. Was Kevin his name? Was this Kevin? Miriam hadn’t remembered him wearing a Yankees cap, but she remembered the arrogant jut-jawed face, the streaked blond hair. He was walking unsteadily and hadn’t seen her. Or, seeing her, had not recognized her. He was alone, appeared to be looking for someone. Miriam wondered if maybe he’d been in the men’s room all this while, being sick to his stomach. His face looked freshly washed and not so arrogant as he’d seemed with just him and Miriam in the Jeep, when he’d bragged of his father’s sailboat and twisted Miriam’s wrist. Miriam pointed him out to Oz: “That’s him.”

  2.

  Did it to himself.

  This was a way of speaking. It was the way she knew they were speaking. It was a way of wonderment, and of accusation. It was a way of consolation. In Au Sable County and Star Lake and where Les Orlander had been known. A way of saying, Nobody else is to blame, no one of us. Nobody did it to him, he did it to himself. Yet it was a way of admiration too. It was a way of saying, He did it to himself, it was his free choice. A way of acknowledging. He did it to himself, he had the guts for it, and not everybody has. In the Adirondacks, a man’s guns are his friends. A man’s guns are his companions. Les Orlander had not been a fanatic gun collector, like some. Like some of his relatives and in-laws. Shotguns, rifles. Legal weapons. Les had owned only a shotgun and a rifle, and these were of no special distinction. Did it to himself, used his rifle, was a tribute to the man’s efficiency. Did it to himself, out alone in the woods. A gun is a man’s friend when friends can’t help. A friend to protect him from shame, from hurt, from dragging through his life. A gun can make a wounded man whole. A gun can make a broken man stronger. No escape, except a gun will provide escape. Did it to himself had to be the legacy he’d leave his family.

  3.

  You know I love you, honey. That will never stop.

  He’d said that. Before he went away. Miriam was staring out the school bus window. Her breath steamed faintly on the window. Her eyes were glazed, seeing little of the landscape: trees, fields, roadside houses, mobile homes on concrete blocks at the end of rutted driveways.

  . . . come see me, okay? Promise?

  There came the tall, clumsy Ochs girl lurching toward her. As the school bus started up, lurching along the aisle, staring and grinning at Miriam. She was at least two years older than Miriam: fourteen, one of the special education students at school. Her face was broad and coarse and blemished in dull red rashes and bumps. Her small cunning eyes had a peculiar glisten. Lana Ochs wasn’t retarded but was said to have “learning disabilities.” Her older sister had been expelled for fighting in the school cafeteria. On the bus, no one wanted Lana to sit with them: she was so large-boned, fidgety, and smelled like rancid milk. Miriam’s backpack was in the seat beside her. She was saving a seat for her friend Iris. Miriam stared out the window as Lana approached, thinking, Go away! Don’t sit here. But Lana was hunched over her, grinning. She asked, “This seat taken?” and Miriam said quickly, “Yes, it is.” For Iris Petko, who was in Miriam’s seventh-grade homeroom, would be getting on the bus in a few minutes, and Lana Ochs knew this. Still she hung over Miriam, swaying and lurching in the aisle, as if about to shove Miriam’s backpack aside. In a whiny, insinuating voice she said, “No it isn’t. It isn’t taken, Miriam.” Miriam was sitting halfway to the rear of the bus. There were several empty seats Lana might take. In another minute the bus driver would shout back at her to sit down; it was forbidden to stand in the aisle while the bus was in motion. Miriam said, “It’s for Iris. You can sit somewhere else.” Her eyes lifted to Lana Ochs’s flushed face, helpless. Lana’s hair was matted and frizzed. Her lips were fleshy, smeared with bright red lipstick. Older boys on the bus called Lana by an ugly name having to do with those lips. Lana leaned over Miriam, saying in a mock whisper, “Hey, Miriam—your father and my father, they’re in the same place.” Miriam said, “No they’re not.” Lana said, “Yes they are. That makes us like sisters.” Miriam was staring out the window now, stony-faced. She was a shy girl but could be stuck-up, snotty. In seventh grade she had that reputation. Her friends were popular girls. She received high grades in most subjects. She’d had three older brothers to look after her, and there had been a certain glamour accruing to the Orlander boys, who’d preceded their sister in the Star Lake public schools. Now the youngest, Martin, a sophomore at Star Lake High, no longer rode the school bus but got a ride into town with friends. Miriam was vulnerable now, not so protected. She could smell Lana Ochs leaning over her, saying in a loud, aggrieved voice for everyone to hear, “You got no right to be stuck-up, Miriam. Your father is no better than my father. You think you’re hot shit but you’re not.” Miriam said, “Go away. Leave me alone. I hate you,” and Lana said, “Fuck you!” swinging her heavy backpack against Miriam, striking her on the shoulder. Now the driver, who should have intervened before this, braked the bus and shouted back at them, “Girls! Both of you! Stop that or you’ll get out and walk.” Lana cursed Miriam and swung past the seat, sitting heavily behind her. Miriam could hear her panting and muttering to herself. Miriam fumbled to open her math book: algebra. Her heart was beating frantically. Her face burned with shame. Everyone on the bus had been watching, listening. Some she’d thought were her friends but were not. Wanting to scream at them, Go away! Leave me alone! I hate you.

  At this time, Les Orlander had been incarcerated at the men’s maximum-security prison at Ogdensburg for just six days.

  4.

  Ogdensburg. Almost as far north as you could drive in New York State. And there was the St. Lawrence River, which was the widest river Miriam had ever seen. And beyond, the province of Ontario, Canada.

  Miriam asked Ethel could they drive across the bridge to the other side someday, after visiting Les, if it was a nice day and not windy and cold, and Ethel said, distracted, glancing in the rearview mirror, where a diesel truck was bearing close upon her on Route 37, “Why?”

  It added something to the prison, Miriam wanted to think, that it had once been a military fort. Built high on a hill above the river, to confound attack. From the access road the prison was too massive to be seen except as weatherworn dark gray stone, like something in an illustrated fairy tale of desolation and punishment. Beside the front gate was a plaque informing visitors of the history of the prison: “Fort La Presentation was built in 1749 by French missionaries. It was captured by the British in 1760 and its name changed to Fort Oswegatchie. After the Revolution, it was the site of several bloody skirmishes in the War of 1812. In 1817 its name was changed to Ogdensburg, and in 1911 it was converted into the first state prison for men in northern New York State. In 1956—” Ethel interrupted irritably, “As if anybody gives a damn about history who’d be coming here.” Miriam said, stung, “Not everybody is like you, Mom. Some people actually want to learn something.” Miriam made it a point to read such plaques when she could. So much was shifting and unreliable in her life; at least history was real.

  It was a way too of telling Ethel, You aren’t so smart. You didn’t graduate from high school. As I am going to do.

 
Probably Ethel was right, though. Visitors to Ogdensburg had other things on their minds.

  Everywhere were signs. PRISON PERSONNEL ONLY. RESTRICTED AREA. TRESPASSERS SUBJECT TO ARREST. VISITORS’ PARKING. VISITING HOURS. PENALTIES FOR VIOLATION OF CONTRABAND RESTRICTIONS. A ten-foot stone wall topped with coils of razor wire surrounded the prison. Once you got through the checkpoint at the gate, you saw an inner electrified six-foot wire fence, angled sharply inward. Whenever she saw this fence, Miriam felt a clutch of panic, picturing herself forced to climb it, like a frantic animal scrambling and clawing to twist over the top, cutting her hands to shreds on the glinting razor wire. Of course she’d have been shocked unconscious by the electric voltage.

  No one had escaped from Ogdensburg in a long time.

  Ethel was saying with her bitter-bemused laugh, “Damn prisons are big business. Half the town is on the payroll here. Guards run in families.”

  Once you passed through the first checkpoint, you were outdoors again, waiting in line with other visitors. It was a windy November day, blowing gritty snow like sand. The line moved slowly. Most of the visitors were women. Many had children with them. Many were black, Hispanic. From downstate. A scattering of whites, looking straight ahead. Like sisters, Miriam thought. No one wanted to be recognized here. Miriam dreaded seeing someone from the Ochs family who would know Ethel. She hadn’t told Ethel what Lana Ochs had said on the bus that everyone had heard. Your father and my father. In the same place.

  Miriam didn’t know why Lana’s father was in prison. She supposed it had to do with theft, bad checks. Though it might have been assault.

  It wasn’t uncommon for men in the Star Lake area to get into trouble with the law and to serve time at Ogdensburg, but no one in the Orlander family had ever been sent to prison before. Miriam remembered her mother screaming at her father, How could you do this, so ashamed, ruined our lives, took our happiness from us and threw it into the dirt and for what!

  Miriam had pressed her hands against her ears. Whatever her father had answered, if he’d shouted back or turned aside, sick and defeated, Miriam hadn’t known.

  It was true: Les had taken their happiness from them. What they hadn’t understood was their happiness, because they’d taken it for granted, not knowing that even ordinary unhappiness is a kind of happiness when you have both your parents and your name isn’t to be uttered in shame.

  Les had been incarcerated now for nearly eighteen months. Gone from the house on Salt Isle Road as if he’d died. Doing time.

  Miriam had constructed a homemade calendar. Because you could not buy a calendar for the next year and the next and the next, at least not in Star Lake. On the wall beside her bed she marked off the days in red. Wishing-away time was what it was. Miriam overheard her mother saying on the phone, You wish away time, like wishing away your life. Goddamn if I’m going to do that.

  Miriam hadn’t understood what Ethel meant. She’d understood the fury in her mother’s voice, though.

  Les Orlander’s sentence was five to seven years. Which could mean seven years. Miriam would be nineteen when he was released and could not imagine herself so old.

  “Move along. Coats off. Next.”

  They were shuffling through the second checkpoint, which was the most thorough: metal detector; pockets and handbags emptied onto a conveyor belt; coats, hats removed, boots. Ethel was flushed and indignant, struggling to remove her tight-fitting boots. Each visit to Ogdensburg was stressful to her. She seemed never to accept the authority of others to peer at her, examine her belongings, query her. She was an attractive woman of whom men took notice, if only to stare at her, then dismiss her: a face no longer young, a fleshy, sloping-down body. Breasts, hips. Since her husband’s arrest and imprisonment she’d gained weight. Her skin seemed heated. Her dark hair was streaked with gray as if carelessly. In the parking lot she’d smeared dark lipstick onto her mouth, which was now down-turned, sullen. The black female security guard was suspicious of her. “Ma’am? I’m asking you again, all the contents of that bag out.” Ethel’s hands were shaking as she fumbled to comply. Miriam was quick to help. Under duress, she immediately became Ethel’s daughter. She would side with her mother against others, by instinct.

  Orlander, Ethel, and Orlander, Miriam, were checked against a list. A guard directed them into another crowded waiting room. Hard not to believe you were being punished. Related to an inmate, a criminal, you deserved punishment too.

  Everywhere they looked were glaring surfaces. Rooms brightly lit by fluorescent tubing. Linoleum floors, pale green walls. Where a surface could be buffed to shine, it shone. Miriam had never smelled such harsh odors. Disinfectant, Ethel said. “One good thing, there’s no germs in this damn place. They’d all be killed.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure, Mom. We’d be killed before that.”

  “God, I hate it here. This place.”

  “Think how Daddy feels.”

  “Daddy.” Ethel’s voice quavered with contempt.

  Don’t hate Daddy! Miriam wanted to beg. We are all he has.

  The night before, Miriam hadn’t been able to sleep. Misery through the night. She could feel her skin itching, burning. Her sensitive skin. Rehearsing what she would tell her father that would make him love her. That was all it was, trying to make Daddy love her. When she’d been a little girl, the baby of the family, it had been so easy; Daddy had loved her, and Mommy, and her big brothers, who’d adored her when they had time for her. Then something happened. Miriam had gotten older; Daddy wasn’t so interested in her or in his family. Daddy was distracted; Daddy was in one of his moods. Drinking, Miriam knew. That was it. Part of it. He’d had disagreements with the roofing contractor for whom he worked. He’d tried working on his own, but that brought problems too. Ethel said, Things change, people change. What’s broke can’t be made whole again, but Miriam didn’t want to believe this.

  Driving to Ogdensburg that morning, Ethel had been unusually quiet. That week she’d worked at Tupper Lake for two days, two nights and so she’d had that drive and now the drive to Ogdensburg and she was tired. She was tired, and she was resentful. Not one of Miriam’s brothers was coming this time, which meant Ethel had to drive both ways. Miriam was only thirteen, too young for a driver’s permit. Ethel had her own life now. In Tupper Lake. At home, the phone rang for her and she took the portable out of the room, speaking guardedly. Miriam would hear her laugh at a distance. Behind a shut door.

  She’s seeing men. Les better not know. Miriam’s brothers were uneasy, suspicious. Gideon hadn’t yet confronted Ethel. Miriam was frightened, preferring not to know.

  Her skin! Her face. Broken out in hives and pellet-hard little pimples on her forehead; her fingernails wanted to scratch and scratch.

  “Miriam, don’t.”

  Ethel caught Miriam’s hand and gripped it tight. What had Miriam been doing, picking at her face? She was stricken with embarrassment. “Do I look really bad, Mom? Will Daddy notice?” Ethel said quickly, “Honey, no. You look very pretty. Let me fluff your bangs down.” Miriam pushed her mother’s hands away. She was thirteen, not three. “I can’t help it, my face itches. I could claw my ugly face off.” Miriam spoke with such vehemence, Ethel looked at her in alarm.

  “Yes. I know how you feel. But don’t.”

  At last they were led into the visitors’ room, where Inmate Orlander was waiting. Ethel poked Miriam in the side. “Smile, now. Give it a try. Look at Momma—I’m smiling.”

  Miriam laughed, startled. Ethel laughed. Clutching at each other, suddenly excited and frightened.

  “Go on, honey, Your daddy wants to see you.”

  Ethel urged Miriam in front of her, like a human shield. The gesture was meant to be playful, but Miriam knew better. Ethel would hold back while Miriam talked with Les; she wasn’t so enthusiastic about seeing him as Miriam was. They had private matters to discuss. Their transactions were likely to be terse, tinged with irony and regret.

  Miriam smiled and wav
ed at her father, who was standing stiffly behind the Plexiglas partition waiting for his visitors. Les Orlander in olive-drab prison clothes, one inmate among many.

  Here was the shock: the visitors’ room was so large, and so noisy. You wanted the visit to be personal, but it was like TV, with everyone looking on.

  And the plastic partition between. You had to speak through a grill, as to a bank teller.

  Les was frowning. Seeing Miriam, he smiled and waved. Miriam didn’t want to see how he glanced behind her, looking for Miriam’s brothers and not seeing them.

  Third visit in a row, not one of Les’s sons.

  “Sweetie, hi. Lookin’ good.”

  He would look at her, smile at her. He wouldn’t ask about the boys in Miriam’s hearing.

  “. . . got something for me there?”

  They brought Les things he couldn’t get for himself: magazines, a large paperback book of maps, Civil War Sites. These Miriam was allowed to give to her father, with a guard looking on. Harmless items, printed material. Les seemed genuinely interested in the Civil War book, leafing through it. “We’ll go to Gettysburg. When I get out.”

  It was unusual for Les to allude to getting out to Miriam. There was a kind of fiction between them, in this place, of timelessness; so much energy was concentrated on the present, cramming as much as you could into a brief visit, there wasn’t time to think of a future.