My Sister, My Love

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Several skaters stopped at once to help Mummy back up onto her feet. Mummy astonished them by bursting into tears. “My life is over! My body has been taken from me! It isn’t fair! I’m still young! I can’t skate anymore.”

  The skaters who’d helped Mummy to her feet and brought her hobbling back to Skyler were two youngish women and a youngish man with rust-colored springy hair, large rubbery lips, a high bony dome of a forehead and a blunt broad knob of a nose. He wore stone-washed jeans and a spiffy fawn-colored faux-suede jacket and his high-top skates had silver lightning bolts on their sides and in his left earlobe was what looked like a silver clamp. He appeared to be just slightly younger than Mummy and no taller than Mummy and smaller-built than Mummy and why am I remembering him?*—because there was something wonderful in the way he took Mummy’s arm to steady her, and was very kind to her; and peered at me with his loose rubbery smile, saying to Mummy, “Is this your beautiful little daughter, ma’am, or your beautiful little son?” and Mummy said, wiping tears from her flaming face, “Skyler is my beautiful little man.”

  * God damn: did I really write this? These words? Last night, in what felt like a Dexedrine rush? Maybe this is why the faintest whiff of talcumy-yeasty-sweaty female flesh from any source renders me nauseated/totally impotent.

  * The canny reader will note that there must be a reason for highlighting this eccentric individual who appears fleetingly in this chapter as both “kindly” and somewhat sinister. Keep the rubbery-lipped young man in mind! (If I were a revered literary writer, I could assume that readers were primed to read my prose with, well—reverence, and care. But I am not, and so I can’t. But note that nothing in this document is extraneous.)

  GOD HELP ME

  GOD HELP ME RISE ABOVE THIS, JESUS HELP ME FOR I WAS NOT BORN TO BE this woman not just a sinner but a ridiculous person so Mummy fiercely prayed and was Mummy’s prayer answered?—did something astonishing and wholly unexpected—“undeserved”—happen to Betsey Rampike soon, within a few years though from which direction and in which earthly form, no one, certainly not Betsey Rampike, might have predicted?

  So when God’s blessing strikes us, like lightning it will strike from an unexpected source. Like lightning it will shatter our mere mortal beings, to make of our souls something molten and pure.

  AND DID MUMMY SUCCEED IN HER MORE IMMEDIATE CAMPAIGN TO MAKE friends in Fair Hills, as so desperately she wished? Was her childlike yearning, so painful to watch at close quarters, rewarded at last? Yes!

  Not to keep the reader in suspense: Yes.

  Except, as Daddy chided: “Not overnight, Betsey. You won’t make the kinds of women friends you’d like to make, and I’d like you to make, overnight. So calm down.”

  In the interim it should be conceded that Mummy didn’t initially make friends with the most popular/socially exalted/admired of Fair Hills women, those flawlessly made-up and elegantly attired women whose photographs appeared in the Style section of the Fair Hills Beacon after a “whirlwind” weekend of private parties, lavish receptions, gala fund-raisers (the Friends of the Fair Hills Medical Center Christmas Ball, the Friends of the Fair Hills Public Library Valentine’s Day Dinner Dance and Silent Auction, the Fair Hills Planned Parenthood Tulip Luncheon, et al.), women who appeared to be uniformly blond, uniformly size four, uniformly very wealthy and of no discernible age except not-elderly. Mostly Mummy “made friends” with wives of other Baddaxe junior executives and with wives of local businessmen and professional men with whom Bix Rampike began to play golf, squash, tennis, and poker frequently as Daddy became increasingly “known” (and “popular”) in Fair Hills. Our church was the quaintly eighteenth-century Trinity Episcopal in the heart of the Historic Village, of the genre you’ve seen countless times: hoary gray stone, tasteful stained glass, calendar-art belfry emitting sonorous chimes like reverberations from the dignified Episcopal deity in the sky. (Though Mummy admitted to have been baptized and brought up in the United Methodist Church and Daddy’s ancestors had belonged to a radical Calvinist sect in northern England whose primary tenet was: All of mankind is damned by original sin. Bar none.) Mummy and Daddy were married (not that Skyler was on the scene to observe!) in the First Episcopal Church of Pittsburgh where Daddy’s well-to-do family lived for, as Daddy sagely said, Episcopal trumps Methodist in the corporate world, you betcha.

  God help us succeed, Skyler can skate if he tries I just know he can was another of Mummy’s prayers whispered half-jestingly/half-seriously in Skyler’s hearing as, in the lime-green Chevy Impala, we wended our way, you will cringe to hear, back to Horace C. Slapp, excuse me Slipp Memorial Park, to the ice-skating rink. Yes, back to the rink! Back to the ice! Can you believe this? Not once but four times that winter 1991–92 Mummy insisted upon bringing me back to “try” again for Mummy was a fervent believer in the American credo If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again!—an uplifting imperative that originally appeared, in German, above the entrance at Auschwitz; unless it was engraved, in Dante’s Italian, above the entrance of Hell. In a more calculated literary document comprised of “selected dramatic scenes” Skyler’s initial ghastly skating lesson would have been his last, but, as luck has it, this document is an unadorned, bluntly truthful account of us Rampikes in the tumultuous years leading to the early morning hours of January 29, 1997, and away from those hours and not mere fiction (which anyone, knowing nothing of my family, could concoct) and so I am obliged to say here that, yes Mummy did take Skyler back for additional humiliations, administered by Mummy, stubbornly and doggedly and often with a bright, brave smile Mummy took Skyler back to Horace C. Slipp Memorial Park in the mad belief that the child had surely—surely!—inherited at least a scattering of genes—DNA chromosomes—or whatever—from his big strapping (six-foot-three, 210 pounds of mostly solid flesh) ex-athlete (fullback, Cornell varsity football 1981–82) Daddy if not a passionate yearning for public success/recognition of some kind inherited from Mummy. Strangely—sadly!—Mummy never again laced on her spiffy new Lady Champ skates but only just strode out onto the ice in her boots with poor tremulous Skyler, gripping his shoulders through the parka, aiming and nudging him into a “glide,” picking him up when, inevitably, he fell. Nor did Mummy (so far as Skyler knew) ever again wear the dazzling purple cable-knit sweater or the pleated tartan-plaid miniskirt or the rainbow-knit cap with the funny, floppy tassel. On the ice with Skyler, like other Mummys-with-children, Mummy wore just woollen slacks and jacket, or the quilted red coat that made her look like a balloon. Probably, for Mummy remained at heart a frugal upstate–New York girl, Mummy returned, or tried to return, her expensive skates to Winter Wonderland! at the Fair Hills Valley Mall but Mummy refused to return Skyler’s Junior Olympics skates for Mummy did not believe in giving up, not without a struggle. But to Mummy’s disappointment, and what seemed to be genuine surprise, subsequent ice-skating lessons for Skyler were no more successful than the first; and by the fourth lesson the usually malleable child was becoming sulky/rebellious/brattish, and ever more physically uncoordinated, so deeply had he come to fear, dread, and loathe anything to do with ice-skating. Anything to do with ice! With cheery tinkly music! Soon, Skyler began to whimper and tremble at the very sight of the lime-green Impala in which he’d once been so privileged and joyous a passenger. And Mummy sighed, and Mummy said finally, “All right, Skyler. You win. Your stubborn little wizened-raisin willful heart has won. I can donate these damn old skates to Goodwill, some other grateful little boy will appreciate them.”

  TWO MUMMIES

  SKY-LER!

  Vivid memories but jumpy, jerky and disjointed like a low-budget film made with a handheld camera.

  Skyler! came the cry but faint and fading and possibly in fact he’d heard no cry Skyler! out of the tremulous air Mummy’s little man, Mummy loves for all her life. Though possibly this was confused in the child’s thoughts with Baby’s crying, for Baby was often crying, Baby was fretting in her high chair in the kitchen kicking and flailing
her little baby-fists, oh oh oh! what a shrieking, though Maria was trying to feed Baby, red-faced Baby with a mouth like a tiny bird’s beak, dribbling a watery-clotted whitish unnameable baby food down her chin, onto her already stained bib, Baby was a tiny girl-Baby and yet astonishingly strong, if Baby kicked you, you felt it, and if Baby seized your pudgy finger in Baby’s tight little fist, you felt it, and if Baby cooed and “smiled” and drew you close to her tiny flushed face, those cobalt-blue eyes making their claim on you, Baby might suddenly take fright, and begin to shriek, and oh oh oh! what did you do to upset Baby, bad Skyler what have you done to make Baby cry?

  Baby was a hot quivering little bundle in Maria-from-Guatemala’s arms. Maria-from-Guatemala knew to calm Baby by cooing, kissing, murmuring a magical incantation in what you had to surmise was her own language incomprehensible to Skyler as it was incomprehensible to Mummy and excluded them both.

  But where was Mummy?

  Frightened Maria-from-Guatemala wringing her sturdy-peasant hands appealing to Skyler in breathy, heavily accented English, where is Mrs. Rampike? Skyler where is your mother? but Skyler had no idea where Mummy was, Skyler had himself been calling Mummy? Mum-my? in a whiny-kid voice, in another room Baby was shrieking, or Baby was “running a fever,” or Baby had “thrown up all her breakfast,” and where was Daddy?—“away.” In fact, Daddy had flown to Burbank, California, and would not return to Fair Hills until, vaguely, the “end of the week”—which week, Skyler wondered—and the damned phone was ringing/ringing/ringing and went unanswered since Mummy did not want Maria to answer the phone, just let the messages go onto the answering service, Mummy will play back the messages in the evening (maybe) with a good stiff drink (Daddy’s Scotch, no ice), except Maria is appealing to Skyler, what to tell the ladies?—for it seems that Mrs. Higley and two other women have just arrived to take Betsey Rampike to one of the Trinity Episcopal Women’s Altar Society luncheons at the Fair Hills Golf and Country Club, for Mrs. Higley is the lavishly perfumed/big-bosomed wife of Reverend Archibald (“Archie”) Higley, snowy-white-haired head pastor of Trinity Episcopal Church, dear sweet “Mattie” Higley who’d recently been so kind to Betsey Rampike, “taken Betsey Rampike under her wing,” but where is Betsey Rampike, where the hell is Mummy hiding? Or, more alarming still, a gang of swarthy-skinned Mexican laborers (carpenters? painters? roofers? lawn crew?) speaking no English has just arrived for what precise purpose only Bix Rampike might know, but Daddy is away, when Mummy tries to call Daddy “at work” Daddy is frequently “not at his desk,” Daddy is so popular and so much in demand Daddy seems scarcely to have a desk at Baddaxe Oil, Inc. though Daddy has not one but several assistants/secretaries with cooing mellifluous voices to placate the hysterical wife-Mummy, promising to tell Mr. Rampike please call home as soon as possible. But where is Mummy?

  POSSIBLE MUMMY-HIDING-PLACES:

  • Bathroom. In the hot steamy full-blast shower where Mummy can’t hear Baby crying. In theory.

  • Bedroom. Blinds shut tight against the morning glare and in the massive “king-sized” bed beneath a mound of bedclothes in black silk glamour nightgown with plunging neckline barely containing Mummy’s white blue-veined big-nippled breasts, Mummy is snappish cursing whoever this is, has to be Skyler, rousing her from the most delicious sleep when poor Mummy has only just managed to fall asleep after a hellish insomniac night of Baby crying in the adjoining nursery Skyler go away damn you leave me alone what time is it don’t tell Daddy shut the door on your way out clamping a pillow over her head to muffle Baby’s crying.

  • Various rooms in the house including guest rooms, guest bathrooms, the attic, in the basement the preferred hiding place is the furnace room where, in cold weather, not one but two large furnaces exude an airless warmth humming, thrumming, rattling and vibrating and where you can’t possibly hear Baby crying even a floor above.

  • Garage. In the lime-green Chevy Impala in the (shadowy, unlighted) space, only once did Skyler find Mummy here but it remains a memorable memory, a stink of auto exhaust in the chill air and the car hood feels warm to Skyler’s fingertips as if the engine, though not running now, has been running until just now, for Mummy has just switched off the ignition, Mummy sprawled behind the steering wheel in a nightgown beneath the haphazardly zipped quilted red coat, now sitting up quickly, wiping her pale, doughy, unmade-up Mummy face and peeking at Skyler through her fingers: “Surprise! Fooled you.”

  MUMMY WHY ARE YOU CRYING ASKS SKYLER AND MUMMY SAYS DON’T BE ridiculous I am not crying and Skyler asks Mummy does Baby make you cry and Mummy says hotly I am not crying, Baby is not to blame and Skyler says Mummy don’t you like Baby and Mummy says more hotly I love Baby! What a thing to say and Skyler says Do you hate Baby, Mummy and Mummy says again I love Baby, I love Baby and I love Skyler and I love Daddy and I love my life here, each day I thank God on my knees for my life here, what a terrible thing to say, bad Skyler! and Skyler in a torment of child-anguish, anxiety says Mummy should we give Baby away? Maybe somebody else would want Baby, like my ice-skates? and Mummy laughs harshly, Mummy wipes at her eyes with the palms of her hands and laughs harshly scolding Skyler! You know very well that Baby is your sister Edna Louise, she is named for Grandmother Rampike and she is here with us to stay.

  YET: THERE WAS THE OTHER, ALTERED MUMMY, SPLENDIDLY DRESSED IN A new champagne-beige cashmere suit from The English Shoppe, or a new cranberry-crinkle silk frock from Renée’s Fashion Boutique, or a svelte black “slimming” cocktail dress from Saks, brunette hair gaily “bouffant” from Evita’s Beauty Emporium where Mummy’s nails, too, that inclined to be small, bitten, broken had been boldly re-imagined as glamorous crimson talons to match Mummy’s smiling mouth; here was a Mummy not barefoot stumbling about the house, or in bedroom slippers clumping about the house, but in high-heeled shoes that gave her sudden height, dignity, and purpose. Here was a Mummy adored by her son Skyler: “Mum-my! You look nice.” Here was a Mummy not feared, pitied, and despised by Maria-from-Guatemala (to be followed in jerky time-stop sequence by Maria-from-Mexico, Maria-from-Paraguay, and, in time, Lila-from-the-Philippines) but respected and admired: “Mrs. Rampike! I like very much, the new ‘outfit.’” Here was a beaming Mummy warmly greeting luncheon guests at the door: “Come in! So wonderful to see you! Julia, and Francine, and—is it Henrietta?—and Mattie! Come in.” Here is Mummy in a snuggly-warm white angora sweater and silk-wool white slacks, and gold slippers with heels like small clattering hooves, hurrying to embrace Daddy who has just returned from Burbank, or Dallas, or Atlanta; Mummy being hugged by Daddy: “My gorgeous gal! Missed you.” And there is Baby newly bathed and smelling of Baby talcum instead of Baby-poo, Baby Edna Louise who isn’t fretful or shrieking but happily flailing miniature Baby-fists, flashing miniature Baby-eyes, gurgling, smiling, cooing what sounds like “Da-da! Da-da!” proudly displayed in Mummy’s arms. (Where is Maria-from-Guatemala? Nowhere in sight.) Looming over Mummy and Baby Edna Louise Daddy is deeply moved, saying, “My two gorgeous gals! I’d say things are pretty good here at 93 Ravens Crest Drive.” For a terrible moment it looks as if Daddy has forgotten Skyler who has been sort-of-shyly hanging back, and Daddy sees him, of course Daddy sees him, grabs Skyler and lifts him in the crook of his arm so that Daddy is hugging Mummy, Baby Edna Louise, and Skyler: “My little family. Missed y’all.”

  And there is Mummy in peach-colored chiffon stooping over Skyler in his bed careful not to smudge her lipstick on Skyler’s cheek, for it’s New Year’s Eve and Daddy and Mummy are on their way to a party, or parties. “Happy New Year, darling! This new year will be much, much nicer than the old year, I promise.” But Skyler has no idea what year it is.*

  THESE TWO MUMMYS EXISTED AT MORE OR LESS THE SAME TIME, IN THE same household. Like small carved figures in a weather clock—“good” weather, “bad” weather—when one Mummy appeared, the other Mummy remained in hiding. But only in hiding.

  * Poor dumb kid! He’d have been dazed/dazzled by Mummy’s perfume a
nd Mummy’s creamy breasts in danger of spilling out of the tight peach-chiffon bodice. And maybe there was Daddy, or a tall hulking Terminator-figure in a “tux,” looming in the doorway behind Mummy. By my calculation the new year Mummy promised had to be 1992. Fact: it wouldn’t be much different from the old.

  “FILTHY”—“ODIOUS”—“ABOMINABLE”*

  IT WAS NOTED, A FEW PAGES BACK, THAT MY RAMPIKE ANCESTORS HAD ORIGINALLY lived in the north of England, and belonged to a “radical Calvinist sect”; in fact, my father’s most—sole?—distinguished ancestor was the celebrated/notorious Reverend Joshua Rampike who’d brought his small but fanatically devoted flock of believers (“flock”—sadly, a cliché!—is invariably the most appropriate word for such Calvinist/Christian ancestors of mine) to the newly established settlement at Philadelphia, in 1688; their hope was to escape religious persecution in the unfathomably dreary hills of Humberside, on the North Sea, and to establish a theocracy, under the thunderous leadership of Reverend Rampike, in which they might persecute other Christians. Of more than forty pilgrims in my great-ancestor’s flock, less than half survived the hellish Atlantic crossing of several weeks; the cruelest fate was to have endured weeks of seasickness, dysentery, and despair only to die near the end of the crossing; lucky pilgrims died early on, the coast of England yet in sight. Within a few months of settling in Philadelphia, yet more of Reverend Rampike’s flock died, including his wife and several of his eight children; yet Reverend Rampike seemed weirdly to have flourished in the New World, remarrying, siring more children (nineteen in all), and cutting a fiery swath through this region mostly settled by pacifist Quakers with his hair-raising sermons of original sin, predestination, total-depravity-of-humankind, and infant damnation.