Bellefleur

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Bromwell maintained a scientific detachment, pointing out, pedantically, but quite correctly, that a vulture would not seize living prey, a carrion-eater would not kill and devour living things; hence the Noir Vulture, if it existed at all (and he had no opinion on that subject, and would never commit himself, even after that unfortunate June morning) was misnamed. But no one paid attention to him, for it seemed somehow pointless to quibble about a mere name, when the thing itself was such a horror.

  Vernon would not have said he “believed” in the vulture, had he been asked, before the creature actually appeared in the walled garden (of all places!—of all secluded, private, secret places) since, to his knowledge, he had never seen such a bird, and he thought it wisest to minimize the children’s fears. Yet when he caught sight of it with its naked, red head, its incongruously white feathers (tipped with black as if with a tar brush), and its curious pronged tail, he knew at once what it must be. . . . Even before he saw the baby gripped in its talons he began to shout. Look! That thing! Stop it! Get a gun!—for so Vernon’s words were torn from him, at the mere sight of the hideous creature.

  But of course there was nothing to be done. The baby was lost. As women’s screams lifted from the garden the bird rose higher and higher, with a noisy muscular grace, already jabbing at the helpless prey in its claws—tearing and stabbing at it with its sharp beak—so that pieces of flesh and skeins of blood fell, it seemed almost lightly, back toward earth; like laundry flapping in the wind the Noir Vulture rose above the highest branches of the oak trees, an astonishing sight on that mildest of pale blue June days, bearing the baby away as if it were no more than a rabbit or chipmunk.

  Vernon, who happened to be returning from a morning’s hike down to the river, and who was approximately sixty feet from the southern wall of the garden (for he was approaching the manor from the rear) when the creature attacked, stood frozen on the path for an instant, simply staring. Then he began to shout. His cousins!—the boys!—weren’t they always shooting off guns!—and now where were they?—but in the next moment he realized that the bird was carrying something away, and that it was something living—something human—

  At first he thought it was Germaine. But it was too small to be Germaine.

  Cassandra—?

  SO THE NOIR Vulture struck, taking advantage (taking advantage, it would seem, almost rationally) of Leah’s absence from the garden: no more than a five-minute absence: for she needed to make a telephone call to undo the decision of an earlier telephone call, made impetuously at seven that morning. Five minutes’ absence! Five minutes! That Lissa or another of the servants or one of the older children was not nearby, watching over the cradle, was something of an accident, for Germaine had been feeling feverish and prickly that morning, and had thrown such a tantrum at breakfast that the terrace was littered with shards of glass, and the child whisked away, up to the nursery; and after that Leah’s nerves were such (so she explained, afterward, again and again) that she couldn’t bear anyone in the garden with her, not even the least obtrusive of the servants. And she had wanted, for once, to be alone with Cassandra, and with her thoughts, which tumbled and cascaded and spilled in every direction on certain mornings, quite enchanting her. . . .

  But she had been gone no more than five minutes: no more, certainly, than ten: how had that hellish creature known?

  When she returned to the garden and saw the thing just rising from the cradle, its enormous wings beating the air, she began to scream at once, and ran forward, waving her arms as if the Noir Vulture were an ordinary bird to be frightened away. Then she saw the squirming bleeding baby in its talons, and cried out Oh, Cassandra—no—in the instant before she lost consciousness, and fell heavily to the stone terrace.

  (Where Vernon, some minutes later, found her. Vernon, whose wild eyes and incoherent babble, whose ticlike grimace, were those of a man Leah had never before gazed upon.)

  Kincardine Christ

  Eight or ten miles north of Kincardine there was, suddenly, a giant putty-hued Christ stretched with unmuscular flatness upon His cross, angular, womanish, cartoon-crude, weary. The cross was made of two halved and unskinned logs. Three bloody teardrops moved down Christ’s sunken cheeks.

  The woman whom the driver of the car had acquired (not an hour previously, in the dim, smoky, overwarm recesses of Stan’s Tropicana Lounge) reared back and squeezed his knee in girlish alarm, and laughed, though the sight of the thing could not have been entirely new to her. Didn’t she live, after all, around here?

  Not around here, exactly.

  But your mother’s people, you said . . .

  Oh, they’re from all over, they’re scattered all over hell, she said irritably. She was straining to see the Christ as they passed, though she was lodged beside, had seated herself immediately beside, the man who drove the big cream-colored automobile. Jesus, she whispered. Then giggled clumsily at her mistake. Then giggled, blushing, at that lapse of taste. . . . The cross itself must have been about fifteen feet high. Christ was well over twelve feet tall. He gazed out through grape-hued melancholy eyes at the traffic on the highway, His back to the unpainted farmhouse, His dead-pale arms stretched out unnaturally wide. His hair was black—tar-black, crow’s-wing-black. His ribs were prominent, perhaps He had been starved before being nailed to the cross, His legs were painfully thin, a child’s legs, though very long. How silly a fate, the driver of the car thought briefly.

  That funny kind of hat they gave him, there, the woman said. Her words trailed off.

  The crown of thorns?

  Oh, yeah—yes! The crown of thorns.

  The woman had been pressing, perhaps consciously, her warm stocking-straining thigh against the driver’s, and at the sight of the morose staring Christ she withdrew it slightly. She unknotted her scarf—a filmy powder blue, sprinkled with bits of stardust—and fastened it more securely about her hair. She cleared her throat. I suppose they’re Catholic, she said. In that house back there.

  In Stan’s Tropicana Lounge, at 6:00 P.M. on a gauzy-hot July afternoon, there had been a noisy crowd despite the stagnant air: truckers bound for Port Oriskany five hundred miles to the west, men from the mills and the canning factory, farmhands, a few smalltime farmers, a number of very old men who sat quietly at the rear nursing glasses of tepid ale. Four or five unattached women, one of them Tina, who had finished with her job at Kresge’s notions and baby clothes counter for the weekend. . . . Gay, teetering on her high heels, she fed coins into the new jukebox, which bubbled and glared with lights of many colors, and seemed, despite the slowness of its mechanical arm, incapable of making a mistake. Nickels were given her by the tall bearded heavy-lidded man in the stained white vest, a stranger, who had driven up (so everyone in the Tropicana knew, within seconds of his arrival) in a long low cream-colored automobile quite unlike anything they had ever seen.

  He had a curled, sensual mouth, a very attractive mouth, inside that somewhat untidy beard. Tina, seated beside him at the bar, felt the weight of his interest, unmistakably the weight of his interest, though he said little, and appeared to be discomforted by the commotion around him. She leaned toward him, tapping her pretty painted fingernails against the bar, singing under her breath with the jukebox’s shrill chorus No not I, no not I, no no no no no not I. . . .

  When the music ended she slid from the bar stool, her skirt sticking (damn it, what a nuisance!) to her damp buttocks, and went to play the record once again, conscious of the man’s gaze following her. No not I. . . .

  Spider’s legs, her mascara’d eyelashes. Black and stiff. Running in tears down her cheeks . . . perhaps down his . . . staining the pillow. And her ruby-dark lipstick smeared greasily everywhere: his mouth, his beard, his ears, his neck and chest and abdomen and thighs. . . .

  No not I, she sang slyly, her skin glowing with high spirits, rocking from side to side so that her satin blouse strained against her plump shapely shoulders, No not I, no no no no no not I. No no no, no no no, no n
o no not I . . . !

  That damn catchy tune! I think it’s kind of cute, though. I love to sing. It’s funny how you catch yourself singing, isn’t it, when you’re alone, or don’t even know what you’re doing.

  You have, the man said with a smile, a pretty voice.

  I’ve been fighting a cold all week.

  . . . a pretty voice.

  You know what those goddamn summer colds can be like.

  Later, driving along the highway, driving very fast along the highway, he leaned over to unlock the glove compartment and took out a heavy pint-sized silver flask. A silver chain like the one Tina wore on her left ankle attached the cap to the flask. . . . You live around here, or your family is from around here, last name Varrell, you said?

  Mother’s side of the family. Out around Kittery. But they also live over there—in the mountains—spread out all over, y’know? Got cousins I never met, Tina laughed, and never want to meet.

  She sipped daintily at the flask. If the bourbon struck her as especially fine she gave no indication.

  My father’s name was Donahauer. Jake. He got killed in the war—just didn’t come back—was s’posed to be on some transport boat or something, but he wasn’t; and that was that. My name, now, it’s actually Schmidt. Tina Schmidt. You didn’t know Al, I hope!

  The name seemed to mean nothing to him. Or perhaps he hadn’t heard.

  Who?

  Al Schmidt.

  Your husband, you mean?

  Ex-husband. Thank the good Lord.

  She passed the flask to him and his fingers closed slowly about it, stroking her own.

  In Stan’s Tropicana Lounge, at the very end of the bar, his pale hair fading into long lazy diaphanous plumes of smoke, Nicholas Fuhr lifted a foam-ringed glass in a mock toast. Eying himself in the mirror, perhaps. Behind the disorder of the bottles and the fly-specks. . . . A barman’s rag nearby, reeking. For of course there is always spillage: things smashed, liquids sprayed about. Beer, vomit, blood. Soaked rags. Shreds of clothing that resemble rags. Had he worn something on his head perhaps that would not have been injured; but there, in the Tropicana Lounge, lifting a glass gracefully as if he—as if they all—were whole, he appeared, again, unhurt.

  At the sight of the car, parked in the weedy gravel lot, Tina’s pulses leapt. Her eyes narrowed lustfully; but only for a moment. For she wasn’t a silly greedy vulgar little half-assed girl.

  She asked him a few questions about the car because not to ask would have seemed, maybe, unconvincing.

  . . . German?

  German. Yes.

  I suppose, she said coquettishly, running the tip of her tongue lightly about her lips, stroking the fender (which burned, for the July sun was wicked), I suppose, she said, trying not to giggle, you’re one of them men from the city . . . you know . . . from Port Oriskany. . . .

  He looked toward her though not at her. His car keys in hand.

  . . . like in the old days, you know . . . the speedboats on the lake . . . the seaplanes . . . running whiskey down from Canada. I saw one of the seaplanes once, at night. I halfway wanted to run on the beach, y’know, and wave my arms, and ask them to take me along . . . y’know, for the hell of it. . . . I was just a kid. I didn’t know any better. Jesus, she said, shivering, smiling up at him, they would probably have mowed me down with machine-gun bullets.

  You think I’m a gangster? the man in the vest asked.

  His unlined face looked as though it had been baked, and was incapable of showing expression: but now he drew in a quick amused breath and the corners of his mouth curled.

  A gangster from the city?

  Oh, I know you wouldn’t say, if you were, Tina cried gaily.

  You think I run rum, at night? Across the lakes?

  Oh, not now, they don’t do that now, Tina laughed, as she brushed past him to climb inside the car. He held the door for her and it pleased him, her warm perfumy odor, lightly touched with an odor of sweat; it was something he had smelled many times before. But between women he could not, of course, remember it.

  You think I’m a gangster from Port Oriskany. He laughed.

  She settled herself gracefully inside the car, conscious of his admiring gaze. Almost primly tucked her narrow black skirt about her legs. Stockings, in this heat? And open-backed shoes with tiny black straps, bought just a few days ago. And the thin silver chain around her left ankle. And her toenails painted red.

  I don’t think anything, she cried gaily. I just like the smell of these seat covers—is it leather, real leather?—white leather? And the dashboard, here, made of some kind of fancy wood—

  6:25 P.M. 6:32 P.M. His pulses leapt too—but sporadically, as if they obeyed an inner logic he could not control. Nicholas Fuhr, standing there. But of course it was not Nicholas. But then perhaps it was. His shadowed eyes in the mirror shifting to the side accusingly.

  You made me kill Nicholas, Gideon had shouted at Leah.

  I made you kill no one! You’re insane! Leah shouted in return.

  She slapped at him—he seized her by the upper arm—threw her across the bed. The old bed creaked in alarm at the weight of her, at the surprise of her. I loved Nick, you know I loved him, Leah sobbed. How can you accuse me of—

  You didn’t love him enough, did you! Gideon shouted. Don’t love any of us enough, to keep us from dying!

  But Gideon was not with Leah, Gideon was rarely with Leah, he was forcing himself to listen to a woman’s high pleased giggly chatter. There was a flirtation of some kind going on: in the midst of it Gideon swallowed a good-sized mouthful of his father’s finest bourbon and wondered that it had so little taste. But in the past several years this particular bourbon had begun to lose its potency too.

  You think I’m a gangster? he said again, laughing.

  Well—don’t you know—somebody’s likely to be! she said wittily.

  You never did tell me your name, she said accusingly, nuzzling his ear.

  My name, he said slowly. I’m not sure that I have a name.

  What do your women call you?

  My women?

  Yes! You must have all kinds of women!

  It was merry, it was gay and harmless, simply a flirtation.

  I don’t like anyone to call me by name, he said in the same slow bemused voice.

  Well—are you married?

  No.

  Yes, you are, yes, you are—I can tell.

  Not really.

  Well, then what? Separated? Divorced?

  No.

  No—what?

  No nothing.

  She might have been nervous but she erupted in a peal of girlish laughter, as if he had said something extraordinarily funny. She beat on his thigh with her fist in a fierce little delighted gesture she had certainly used before, with other men. It was gay, it was merry and harmless, no one would be injured.

  I bet you have a wife, sure enough, Tina said. And I bet she’s beautiful.

  Gideon said nothing. He pressed down on the accelerator.

  Isn’t she, eh? Beautiful? And rich too—rich too. I know you people. She laughed.

  Do you? Do you know us? he asked.

  I know your kind.

  He glanced at her, his face stiffening. But then he decided to smile. For why not smile?—Nicholas had no right to accuse him, back in Stan’s Tropicana Lounge. And perhaps Leah had told the truth: they were not guilty of killing anyone.

  His tone changed, became formal, mock-formal: What do you say to the Nautauga House for dinner . . . ?

  Ah, but she isn’t dressed for a place like that! The very idea frightens her; sobers her. Then we’ll take you somewhere first, he said vaguely, so that you can buy something. A half-hour should be enough, don’t you think?

  She laughed, still a little frightened. Wriggled her toes. (How quickly, how miraculously quickly, he was offering her things: clothes, expensive clothes, maybe perfume, jewelry. A summer fur? She’d seen, in a recent newspaper photograph, the “girl” of an alleged ga
ngster, a skinny little pouty-faced thing with practically no breasts or hips, and she was wearing, for a Chicago courtroom appearance, a “summer fox boa.”) . . . But you don’t know if you’re going to like me yet, Rodman, she said, her voice dipping coarsely.

  He murmured something she could not hear.

  You’re sweet, she said, linking her arm through his, and bringing her hand beside his on the steering wheel. His hand was immense—such a broad palm, such long wide strong fingers—she was sure they must be extremely strong.

  She sang under her breath again. No no no, no no no. . . . Then began to tell him about her husband. Her ex-husband. You know, Rodman, she said, I like a man with a sense of humor. Willing to laugh at things, you know, not crying in his beer, taking it out on everybody else. Al went around with his head in a goddamn sack or something. I swear he did. My little girl—that’s Audrey—maybe you’ll meet Audrey sometime—was afraid of him, he had such a nasty temper. Got wounded in the war but nothing special, they gave him a purple heart like everybody else got, what the hell, it was all he was good for, getting himself shot in the leg, though actually it was his rear-end but he didn’t like to say, he thought people’d laugh and they did. Audrey, y’know what she said, once, she was peeking out at him from a window, he was working on the car or something in the driveway, she came running to me and said, all excited, how funny it was, that Daddy’s holes in his face were cut out right where his eyes were—Tina began to laugh. She laughed extravagantly, wheezing, gasping for breath. You ever heard anything so crazy? So funny? Daddy’s holes in his face are cut out right where his eyes are—