Solstice

by Joyce Carol Oates

  James Starkie’s wide white-toothed smile was like a beacon of light, almost too dazzling. And his big hand, clasping Monica’s, was capable of giving, for the briefest of instants, genuine pain. Jill’s welcomes were gentler yet more alarmingly enveloping: she embraced, she nearly hugged, kissing Monica’s cheek (and surely leaving a smear of crimson lipstick), she said with an air of subtle reproach, “It seems I never see you, Monica!”

  Nearly every evening of the week the Starkies threw open their house on campus—“threw open” seemed the precise term—to a promiscuous gathering of students, faculty members, friends and acquaintances in Glenkill, visitors from out of town, professional colleagues. It was no ordeal for Jill Starkie to cook up a spaghetti supper for thirty or forty people—to spend an entire day preparing a buffet for sixty people—to send out invitations to one hundred people inviting them to sherry and cheese parties, open houses following football, soccer, basketball games in season. She loved an impromptu evening of supremely mismatched guests (a visiting theologian, the boys’ swimming coach, a random assortment of students, the English Department secretary and her husband, a plumber) gathered about a roaring fire to drink hot chocolate and to eat, with some good-natured difficulty, roasted marshmallows. Somehow it had come about—how had it come about!—that Monica Jensen, being new to Glenkill, and unmarried, and therefore surely lonely, was often included in this ragtag assemblage of guests, telephoned at the last minute, alternately begged and bullied into accepting. Sometimes Jill behaved as if she were conferring a great honor on Monica by inviting her, sometimes she behaved as if Monica were conferring a great honor on her, by accepting. It was all dizzying—ecstatic—a whirlwind of names, embraces, handshakes, bungled introductions. (Jill frequently called Monica by the wrong name—Myra, Maura, Mona, and so forth—when introducing her to a large group of people. James invariably corrected her, with an edge to his voice, but raising a forefinger as if he had caught out one of his children in a naughty prank. And Jill then blushed, and begged Monica, squeezing her fingers, to forgive her: and it was all amusing, and rather appealing: “I just get so rattled, I muddle everybody’s name, it isn’t just you, Monica,” Jill would say, “why, I know your name as well as I know my own!”)

  Everyone in Glenkill was fond of the Starkies. The boys, it was said, adored James: he really was a fantastical sort of chaplain for a preparatory school: so thoroughly and zestfully a man. And Jill too was prized for her unflagging warmth, her generosity, her air of slightly dizzy glamor. The ruder Glenkill boys sniggered behind her back, made the usual adolescent jokes, but most of them liked her very much, and basked in her indiscriminate maternal love. She was so unblinkingly and unapologetically a Christian—Monica had never met anyone quite like her. In a supremely casual tone Jill would introduce God or Jesus Christ into the conversation as if the presence of these deities in her home were altogether normal, nothing out of the ordinary. “Can’t you just feel Jesus seated here with us tonight!—it’s just the sort of group He would relate to!” Jill might suddenly exclaim; or, in a graver mood: “I can feel God’s presence here, can’t you?—as soon as James began grace—the ‘spirit moving upon the waters’—” And it suddenly seemed to the Starkies’ guests, glancing nervously at one another, that, perhaps, there was a supernatural being in their midst: the Starkies’ most prized guest.

  Jill had been tireless in her pursuit of Monica, since the start of the fall semester. She wanted, she said, to sit down and talk with Monica—Monica might come to lunch at her house—or tea—or they might drive to Philadelphia together, to spend an afternoon at the art museum “or the Rodin Museum—you must not miss that.” But somehow this invitation never came about. And Monica did not encourage it—she was not quite so lonely, she thought, as to yearn for Jill Starkie’s company.

  Jill was in her late thirties but dressed and behaved like an older sister to her daughters. She had dyed her hair a flamboyant carrot color, and wore it fashionably curled; her eyebrows were penciled in dramatically; her lips shone with an opaque gloss; her clothes were unfailingly exotic—caftans, saris, sandals that laced to midcalf, long skirts in peasant hues and textures, hooded Icelandic wool coat-sweaters, Indian smocks of startlingly transparent muslin. Jill was glamorous without being at all attractive: the face beneath the theatrical makeup, inside the frizzed orange-red hair, was somewhat hard and plain. What fascinated Monica about Jill was the woman’s remarkable sense of herself—her idea of herself as privileged, bountiful, capable of lavishing blessings upon others—a kind of emissary for Christ, perhaps, or for the “Good News” of the Gospels. “To think that all these boys—these wonderful boys—these vulnerable yearning young souls!—are given over to our trust: to think that they look for guidance to us!” Jill once said, clasping her hands before her and staring at Monica. “Only think: only think of the situation—the opportunity—for saving souls, for changing lives, for doing good. James and I give thanks to God every day and every minute of our lives, that we are so blessed, in being at the Glenkill Academy!”

  And though Monica recoiled from Jill’s manner, and from the queer self-congratulatory nature of her words, she had to admit that there was truth to what Jill said. Teaching in this excellent school was a true privilege; being entrusted with such outstanding students—or, in fact, any students at all—was a remarkable opportunity.

  “Isn’t it a miracle, Monica?—our being here?—with them?” Jill said pleadingly; and Monica replied, embarrassed, “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  Sheila despised Jill Starkie, whom she called, simply, the chaplain’s wife, and Monica had once amused Sheila by fantasizing a sordid private life for Jill: for wasn’t she the stereotypical “happy” and “fulfilled” woman who, as you become acquainted with her, discloses, by degrees, appalling secrets . . . ? Miscarriages; bouts of mania and depression; a child or two hooked on drugs; a faithless husband, or, better yet, a husband who is secretly homosexual; an addiction to Librium or afternoon drinking. But, alas, nothing of the sort was disclosed: Jill proved supremely sunny, supremely happy, at all times, at any hour of the day, with never a lapse, never the slightest hint of weariness or self-doubt or cynicism. Here was a human being, Monica thought critically, who truly was the person her appearance suggested.

  “No doubt I could learn a good deal from her,” Monica thought, “—but what would it be?”

  One evening in late February, some time after Monica had learned that Sheila was away, she accepted a last-minute invitation to a potluck supper with the Starkies. She was somewhat distracted throughout the evening—but the evening went well—well enough—and then, after the meal, an astonishing event occurred, an incident sui generis which Monica was never to understand: Monica was helping to clear the table, found herself alone in the kitchen with James Starkie, they blundered into each other, laughing, slightly drunk, and with no warning James’s enormous fingers closed about Monica’s shoulders, and, in an outburst of sheerly animal ebullience, he loomed down to kiss her—pressing his wine-sweetened lips hard on hers, mashing them against hers, then withdrawing, turning quickly away, as if nothing had happened: just as Jill swept into the kitchen, splendid in her long orange gown, her hair slightly askew, her face flushed with joy. Of course Jill saw nothing, Jill guessed at nothing, and, afterward, Monica came to the conclusion that the kiss was nothing: James meant no more by it than he meant by one of his bone-aching handshakes, or his casual blessings.

  And would he try to contact her, later?—Monica wondered uneasily.

  And did she want him to do so, as a kind of diversion, at least?

  No. Surely no. For the kiss had been a boy’s kiss, and not a man’s—sudden, rough, well-intentioned, forgettable.

  8

  Monica would not have cared to admit it but she had fallen into the habit of driving home by way of the Poor Farm Road. It meant an extra four miles but (as she told herself) the landscape was more interesting, more varied: hilly farmland interspersed with woods that r
an out to the road, so that entering them, speeding into them, was vaguely disorienting, vaguely pleasurable, like rushing into a tunnel. Many of the tallest trees were pines, so that the forest, in midwinter, was as dark as it would be in summer. Often, after a heavy snowfall, it was even darker.

  An eerie sensation, plunging into one of these stretches. Feeling her eyes begin to dilate at once, to adjust to the sudden change of light. Feeling as if . . . as if she might emerge in another part of the country . . . not in Bucks County, not on the Poor Farm Road that led past Sheila Trask’s house, but in, perhaps, one of the isolated survivalist areas . . . North Carolina, Montana, New Mexico . . . the “sand counties” of Wisconsin. Wild vistas, distant snowy mountain peaks, a lunar landscape pitiless in its frigid beauty; perhaps a choppy river running close beside the road. “And if I were to disappear no one would know where I had gone,” Monica thought, a wave of chill pleasure breaking over her. “She would never know.”

  But she simply continued along her route, emerging from the woods and into the open, returned to much that was familiar and should have been comforting. Of course there was no reason for Monica to be driving along the Poor Farm Road, wasn’t she trespassing?—taking a chance? This was not her road but Sheila’s. She felt a subtle dread, a fascinated dread, as, driving fairly fast, she approached one of the road’s snaky turns; its awkward dips and ruts; its narrow crumbling concrete bridges. After a snowstorm the road was hardly more than a single lane, unplowed for days. . . .

  Sheila Trask was widely known to be a reckless driver. Especially on the Poor Farm Road, “her” road. She took the curves at high speeds, she absentmindedly swung out into the left lane, she did an alarming amount of juggling behind the wheel as she tried to fish a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, find a matchbook, light a match. . . . Sometimes too she drove when her mind wasn’t clear. . . .

  Monica resisted the impulse to speed up. To match Sheila. She passed familiar fields, woods, a few scattered farmhouses, the remains of the old poorhouse, and then, suddenly, Edgemont itself—looking, in the late afternoon light, rather grim and weathered at the end of its long snowy drive. It was absurd and pretentious, Monica thought, for a house to have a name; as if Sheila Trask, or Morton Flaxman, were of noble birth. The house too was pretentious, a country squire’s mansion, fieldstone, stucco, brick, slate roofs and enormous chimneys, an inappropriate stately air—inappropriate for the rural setting. Sheila should sell the property and move away, Monica thought. It was wasteful and extravagant and pointless for a single woman, and a woman of such a temperament, to own a place like Edgemont; to live alone in the country; with her neighbors covertly watching her, and passing judgment.

  Little changed about Edgemont, day following day. Someone picked up the mail; someone was using the driveway; but very few persons seemed to be around. Monica, driving by, could not prevent herself from slowing her car . . . to look hard, hungrily, bitterly up the long driveway. She could not see, of course, the carriage house and the parking area but she supposed that Sheila’s old station wagon was there, in its usual position. The carriage house would be locked up tight, most likely; the snow about its doorstep would be undisturbed.

  9

  But then, one day in late March, there was the station wagon—Sheila’s car, and no other—parked in Monica’s driveway.

  And there was Sheila herself, strolling in the pasture close by, hands stuck in her pockets, a cigarette in her mouth.

  Monica drove into her driveway; braked her car to a jolting stop; sat trembling; staring. Sheila raised her hand in a formal gesture of greeting and came slowly forward . . . slowly, as if she too were frightened.

  The women greeted each other, they shook hands, they smiled awkwardly, spoke a few words, fell silent. Monica’s head was pounding and Sheila herself was visibly agitated.

  Finally Sheila said in a low, rapid voice, “You aren’t exactly overjoyed to see me, are you.”

  Monica laughed nervously. “Aren’t I—?”

  Sheila was regarding her with a sly shy half-smile, her head turned to one side as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to look directly at Monica. Her voice was elated, accusing, “And I’ve been gone for so long: and you haven’t missed me.”

  Monica denied it, laughing again. Her face had gone strangely hot; her eyes were burning; she was nearly overcome by an impulse to strike Sheila with her fist—a child’s greeting, playful, yet hard enough to hurt. Yes, in play: but hard enough to hurt.

  “I don’t blame you,” Sheila said, expelling a cloud of smoke in a sudden heavy sigh. “I would have come back earlier, you know—except—I was afraid of your anger—your judgment. Yet I don’t blame you,” she said in a musing voice.

  Monica was no longer certain what they were talking about. She said, rather too briskly, “Well—it’s good to see you back. To have you back. How was your stay in Morocco? Did you—”

  But Monica’s words trailed off into silence, as if she had lost the thread of her own remark; and Sheila did not seem to hear. She was picking a bit of tobacco off her tongue, flicking it away. Sheila said vaguely, “And how have you been, here? I suppose you’ve been—working—teaching— And seeing people—”

  “Yes,” said Monica. “A good many people.”

  Sheila was dressed extravagantly in jodhpurs, riding boots, a burgundy wool cape that fell rakishly to her ankles. Her thick hair was gathered into a casual twist at the back of her head; stray wisps blew across her forehead and into her eyes. She was a striking woman even in this stark wintry glare, which threw its bluish light upward, shadowing the eyes, emphasizing tucks and creases about the mouth, draining the skin of its color. Lean and angular and impatient, with the air of being sharp as a knife blade; a curious blend of audacity and humility—even self-abasement; Sheila Trask with her black rapacious eyes, the too-heavy brows, the fleshy mouth with its uncertain smile. Monica remembered having thought, in Sheila’s studio, beneath that pitiless skylight, that beauty is after all only a matter of light; of gradations of light; degrees of seeing. But now, staring at Sheila, lost in contemplation of Sheila, she realized that Sheila’s beauty had nothing to do with accidents of light, or gradations of clarity, or Monica’s own rapt vision. It was there, Sheila was there, supremely herself.

  Yet she was ill at ease, visibly nervous. She said in a faltering voice, “I suppose you detest the very sight of me,” and of course Monica replied at once, “Don’t be ridiculous,” then added, more sharply, “Why should I detest you?—you take yourself too seriously.”

  IV.

  The Labyrinth

  1

  Sheila’s presents, from Morocco: a pair of silver earrings, finely wrought, that fell in exquisite loops and spirals halfway to Monica’s shoulder; a pale green scarf stitched with gold thread in arabesque designs; a necklace of chunky amethysts, topaz stones, and ornamental shells of various sizes. While Sheila watched closely Monica slipped the heavy necklace over her head, fingering the stones and shells, frowning in admiration. The necklace was exotic, she felt transformed simply by wearing it. . . . The shells resembled snail shells but they were delicately striated, and gave off a pungent odor, not at all unpleasant, that reminded Monica of brackish water. It crossed her mind too—hazily—the hour was late, she had had several glasses of red wine—that the shells might not have been thoroughly cleaned, that particles of decayed flesh remained inside, bits of nameless sea creatures, perhaps poisonous, unwise to wear so close to her face.

  “Beautiful,” Sheila said, staring.

  Nothing has changed, Monica told herself.

  Then, in triumph: everything has changed.

  Now she would be cautious—she would be in control.

  Monica listened closely to Sheila’s talk of Morocco, Monica listened to discover what, precisely, had happened there; what secret adventures Sheila had had, if any. (But surely that was the purpose of running away?—to have adventures, secret or otherwise? And to speak of them, to hint of them, upon re
turning home?)

  North Africa was a place of elemental facts, Sheila said.

  Americans thought it primitive, unnerving. No doubt it was: whatever “primitive” meant. The air so remarkably dry, the sun so direct and forceful, so whitely hot, powerful . . . you spent a good deal of time watching the sky, with a sensation that something would happen there at any minute; that whatever happened on earth, even to you, must be inconsequential. A sort of communal dream.

  Of course, Sheila said briskly, the North Africans, for all their religious devotion, are hardly mystics. Allah may be a mysterious deity inhabiting the sky but they themselves are nothing if not immediate, canny, physical . . . supremely physical.

  The men, at least.

  As for the women: Sheila hadn’t in fact become acquainted with any women Moslems. (There was a saying, which Sheila repeated with a bitter sort of zest: A woman goes out only three times during her life—once when she is born and leaves her mother’s womb, once when she marries and leaves her father’s house, and once when she dies and leaves this world.)

  What about the men, Monica asked.

  Sheila ignored her question, which was in fact uttered in so low a voice it might reasonably not have been heard. She went on to speak of the architecture in Tangier—the painting done by Moslems (“a sort of Abstract Expressionism, quite haunting”)—the beauty of the Mediterranean—the cypresses—Spain across the strait—the Sahara (“Do you know Hassan is fighting a Sahara war?—to put down a rebellion of some sort, he says, but it’s really for reasons of greed”)—the Moslem religion in which men and women live their lives with a continuous reference to Allah, to Allah as the arbiter and measure of all things (“a crime against another person is only a crime if it offends Allah as well—and nothing greatly matters that does not matter to him”)—the sense of isolation, heartrending solitude, which Sheila found virtually everywhere, even in the most crowded streets and bazaars.