My Sister, My Love

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Skyler! don’t leave me Skyler

  Skyler I am so alone here

  He’d been neglecting his meds. God-damned meds he’d wanted to think he could take at whim. Rummaging now for Zilich capsules, in his pockets. Fucking Dumix, Upixl, one of Heidi’s Oxies, anything he could get his hands on.

  Make me a little red heart Skyler like yours and he had done that. He had. He had done that and yet: it had not saved her. Skyler had not saved her.

  That night asking Heidi why red hearts?

  Heidi smiled warily seeing that her moody boyfriend was grinding his back molars, almost you could smell the smoldering teeth. Laughing thinking this had to be a joke Heidi said, “Red hearts? Little cinnamon hearts? Skyler, you are not angry with me: tell me you are not, this is too fucking weird otherwise.” Skyler insisted he wasn’t angry, only just curious why Heidi had left little red hearts in his mailbox, one of her cute silly little gifts, not that he wasn’t grateful (face it: he wasn’t grateful) but it was embarrassing to him, Heidi Harkness leaving mysterious little things for “Sylvester Rampole” in his mailbox, so that people saw, and talked about them; and Heidi said coolly if Skyler didn’t want the damn candy just throw it away, why’s it a big deal, why’s everything so complicated with him, and Skyler said again he wasn’t angry at her, it was a trivial matter and not worth being angry about except he had to wonder: why red hearts? Heidi said he certainly looked angry, and she wasn’t in the mood to indulge Skyler’s bi-polar moods, she had bi-polar moods to contend with herself, Heidi turned to walk away and Skyler followed after her, Skyler was upset that Heidi would turn her back on him and walk away, and Heidi threw off his restraining hand, Heidi said she was tired of loving someone who didn’t want her love, someone who clearly hated her, and Skyler protested he didn’t hate her! he loved her. And Heidi said, hot tears splotching her cheeks, incensed, indignant, you could see that this was Leander Harkness’s daughter drawing herself up to her full height of five-feet-nine, cursing Skyler for his God-damned selfish ways, he had not kissed her or even touched her let alone thanked her for the candies, just attacked her like a predator bird crazed for blood, she was becoming afraid of him, the strange things he sometimes said to her and didn’t remember afterward, and his jealousy about her overnight visits in New York, and his jealousy about poor Elyot who was so lonely, and so unhappy, and Skyler was so far from being an observant friend, Skyler might as well have been blind; she didn’t want to see him any longer, she was finished with him, her mother had warned her, if a boy lays his hands on you just once, if a boy tries to bully you just once, and Heidi was walking swiftly away, half-running, they were on a soggy wood-chip path down behind The Monument, Skyler had no choice but to run after her, grabbing at her arm, her thin wrist he might’ve snapped like a sparrow’s wing, now holding the struggling girl still, trying to comfort her, Jesus he was sorry, he loved her, never wanted to hurt her not ever but she upset him sometimes, seemed to want to upset him, like tossing a lighted match into something flammable, and Heidi protested she did not, she never did, and Skyler had unzipped his jacket, and Heidi’s parka, so that they could press together, frantically they kissed, Skyler gripped Heidi’s head in his hands to kiss her, forcing open her lips, his tongue kissing hers, they whispered together, Skyler kissed away Heidi’s tears, Heidi’s chill hands were inside Skyler’s clothing, palms of her hands against his back that had broken out in pimples, he hoped she couldn’t feel, and Skyler’s hands were inside Heidi’s clothing, inside her prim-starched Basking Ridge shirt, and on the hot skin of her smooth back, and her breasts, small soft breasts that made his breath come short, that were lightly scarred like Braille from old cuts, he wanted to believe that these were old cuts and not recent cuts, for Heidi had promised him she would not cut herself ever again, as Heidi had promised him she would eat and gain weight, she would regain the fifteen pounds she’d lost, in the shelter of an enormous oak tree with exposed roots, gigantic misshapen roots like legs they held each other like drowning swimmers for such a long time pressed together in the shelter of the massive oak tree as a light snow fell melting on their faces, in a delirium of sensation their knees began to weaken, almost they could have fallen asleep and each inhabiting the other’s dream on their feet clutching at each other Love love love you for eternity.*

  SKYLER YOU WON’T BETRAY ME WILL YOU SKYLER

  Won’t talk about me write about me ever Skyler

  Promise Skyler? not ever

  YET: THE TV IN HEIDI’S ROOM TROUBLED SKYLER. AFTERNOON TV ALWAYS on, muted. It was to keep her company, Heidi said apologetically. Even if she wasn’t watching, to keep her company. Those afternoons after classes were over for the day and Skyler slipped into Toll House by a rear/forbidden entrance, a hefty door all the girls used, for such purposes; and hand-in-hand drawn by breathless Heidi up the rear stairs to her room on the third floor where Skyler’s first act was to snatch up the remote control and switch the God-damn TV off.

  And Heidi’s dance magazines on display in her room, for some reason these troubled Skyler, too. Dance-fetish he thought it. Like Bliss’s fetish for ice-skating. It was applause they wanted, displaying themselves that they would be loved, and applauded. And Skyler knew why. And Skyler wished only to protect Heidi. Neatly positioned on Heidi’s windowsills were glossy Dancer, Dance Spirit, Young Dancer, Pointe. And on the walls, photographs of young ballerinas, white tulle tutus, slender waists and flattened bodices, uplifted bare arms and beautiful mask-faces offered to the viewer: Love me, or I die. Though Heidi was evasive about her childhood eagerly she told Skyler about her dance lessons at the Manhattan School of Dance on West 85th Street, her mother had enrolled her when Heidi was three and from that age to the age of fifteen she’d taken lessons, she’d danced each year in school recitals and it was said of her that she was “promising”—“very promising”—but then, when her life had changed the previous year, she’d quit: “I lost my body.” And Skyler knew not to ask her more, Skyler knew only that Heidi wanted to be comforted, held in Skyler’s arms. And so Skyler held her.

  Love me, or I die.

  What a quirky way of arranging clothes in her closet, by color! Skyler had to smile, how like a girl. But he didn’t smile seeing that Heidi had arranged her books by color as well, not in alphabetical order, or by subject, as Skyler did, and as it was necessary to do. Seeing such disorder, Skyler began to feel uneasy, annoyed. “Heidi, what’s this? Are you serious? Arranging books by the purely arbitrary color of a book’s spine? Steinbeck next to Brontë—Poe next to Shakespeare—” Heidi explained that she couldn’t stand visual contrasts—“wrong colors together”—because they made her nervous. Skyler laughed at her expression of actual distress, pulling books off Heidi’s shelves to deftly rearrange them, in alphabetical order, and Heidi tried to stop him, laughing, then suddenly they weren’t laughing for Skyler was becoming annoyed by Heidi’s childish behavior, nor did he appreciate Heidi trying to stop his hands, her voice rising—“Skyler! Red can’t be next to green, and these zigzag lines will drive me crazy, this is barbaric,” and Skyler said reprovingly, “Heidi, it’s barbaric to arrange books by a scheme so crude as color,” and Heidi said, “Jesus! I can’t believe this, you are trying to rearrange my books, I love my books,” and Skyler said, jeering, “These are mostly ‘young adult’ girls’ books, how can you read such crap,” and Heidi protested, “These are my b-books! This is my r-room! You have no right.” Skyler was bemused, how genuinely upset Heidi had become. And how this wanly attractive girl resembled Leander Harkness scowling and spitting. Heidi came at Skyler with a look of fury—“Fuck you!”—and Skyler laughed, “Fuck you”—and Heidi cried, “I h-hate you”—and Skyler said, “Bitch, I hate you.” Skyler was only joking and yet: a flame seemed to pass over his brain, in a rage Skyler swept a row of Heidi’s color-coordinated books onto the floor with his arm, Heidi cursed Skyler going now for Skyler’s face, caught him with a sharp fingernail beneath the right eye, Skyler cursed her grabbing
her flailing arms, pinning her thin wrists together, Skyler was surprised by the manic strength of this girl who scarcely weighed one hundred pounds, it was the strength of sheer willfulness and opposition to him that shuddered through her. But Skyler was stronger, and Skyler had Heidi pinned on Heidi’s bed. This was the bed upon which Skyler and Heidi often sprawled sharing a joint, dreamily kissing and whispering together, coiled together like great amorous snakes except now there was nothing amorous about them. Heidi bared her teeth at Skyler as if to bite him, and Heidi spat at Skyler—“I h-hate you! Bastard!” Skyler laughed pinning her down, panting and grunting and hoping to hell that one of the Toll House RA’s (resident advisors) had not heard the commotion up on the third floor and would rush up the stairs to knock on Heidi Harkness’s suspiciously locked door demanding that she open it.

  But it was 6 P.M. Everyone was at dinner. Loved the way and she O God so sweet slept coiled together in rumpled bed through supper waking dazed at 8:20 P.M. and would have to eat from vending machines, again.

  READER: WARNING

  The sensitive reader, if there is one, is advised to skip this next yet more lurid memory of Skyler’s. Though I have acknowledged that this document is deficient in erotic encounters, as in so much else, yet the following scene is so distasteful to me, I am including it only reluctantly, because it happened to Skyler. In the interests of accuracy I am obliged to include it; but the reader is not obliged to read it.

  LURID MEMORY

  “S-SKYLER? I N-NEED YOU.”

  A call on Skyler’s cell phone. Quickly Skyler comes to Heidi. Climbing the rear stairs to Heidi’s room where the door is unlocked for him to enter. In the dim-lighted bedroom there is no one, in the dim-lighted bathroom the part-naked girl is lying on a large striped bath towel where she has cut herself—beneath her left breast, in feathery criss-crosses like a bizarre calligraphy across her flat belly—with a razor. “Oh. Heidi. Oh God.” Skyler kneels beside the girl half-conscious and wanly smiling up at him, in the dim light her blood looks black like ink, or smudged purple lipstick Skyler kisses and licks as Heidi grips his hair like metal quills in her hand.

  “Oh Skyler. Oh oh.”

  Skyler takes the razor and lightly cuts his forearm, feathery-light strokes for Skyler wants only to draw a little blood to mingle with his girl’s hot blood bringing his forearm against her hot skin beneath her small breasts, in the curve of her belly. Skyler jams his mouth against Heidi’s mouth, his teeth against Heidi’s teeth. Skyler can’t bear it Heidi seizes his hand and guides it between her haunted for the rest of their mortal lives

  IV.

  ABRUPTLY, IT ENDED.

  As the reader knew it must end, maudlin teen memory of a lost love.

  Yet, ironically: Skyler walked out of Heidi Harkness’s life, or what remained of that life, just three days before Christmas recess at a time when he’d been planning to accompany his girlfriend on a visit to relatives of Heidi’s slain mother, in their house on the Gulf of Mexico at Naples, Florida. (“Aunt Edie is dying to meet you, Skyler! I’ve told her everything about you—well, almost everything.”)

  Skyler Rampike’s first visit to a girlfriend’s family, ever.

  Skyler thinking elated and anxious This is normal life. This is what people do. This is what Skyler will do. Hope I can make it!

  “SKYLER? COME IN, BE RIGHT WITH YOU.”

  Skyler likes the casual way Heidi waves him inside, door to her bathroom ajar, perfumy steam escaping. Normal!

  Skyler has dropped by Heidi’s room before supper, to help Heidi with her chemistry lab report. Shutting the door to the hall behind him in violation of school rules.

  (Are they sleeping together, those two? Generally it is assumed yes.)

  First thing Skyler does when he enters Heidi Harkness’s room is take up the TV remote control to switch the (muted, yet distracting) set off, except this time, Skyler stands staring at the screen seeing a very young girl-skater with fairy wings attached to her slender arms, mesmerized Skyler switches the volume on. Quick cut to the girl-skater at a slightly older age, in white tulle ballerina costume, skating in long looping graceful glides and turns to dreamy “Skaters’ Waltz”—quick cut to the girl-skater in a sparkly red-sequined costume with very short skirt, peek of white lace panties, upswept blond hair glittering with stardust, skate-dancing to hot-thumping Boléro. Entranced Skyler watches as the amazing girl-skater glides effortlessly backward on blue-shimmering ice, performs such graceful leaps, turns, twirls, Skyler is feeling light-headed like one who has ventured dangerously close to the edge of a great height…Almost, he’d forgotten what an astonishing skater his young sister was, how wildly audiences applauded her…Sudden close-up of Bliss’s face, sweet wistful smile beneath the glossy patina of the adroitly lipsticked little mouth and, beneath eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara those cobalt-blue eyes fixed upon him

  Sky-ler? Sky-ler where are you help Noise in Skyler’s head it’s as if Shank, Whack, Futt, Dream Bone and Arvo Pärt are simultaneously blasting into his ears cranked up loud as his Walkman can take sound. Yet at a distance he hears what must be a TV voice-over, and Heidi is calling to him from the bathroom where she seems to be running faucets, washing her hair, while Skyler comes to squat in front of the television set he ordinarily scorns, watching as the beautiful little blond girl-skater is gliding, leaping, twirling, shy smile flashing, cut to wildly applauding audience, cut to Bliss Rampike in strawberry satin-and-sequin skating dress with a perky tulle skirt, fishnet stockings and a peek of white-lace panties, skate-dancing to sexy-peppy disco “Do What Feels Right” and there is Mummy hugging Bliss, kissing/hugging/weeping in ecstatic triumph, tears streaming down young-Mummy’s flushed cheeks, a shock to Skyler who has not seen young-Mummy in years, as he has not seen his more mature mother Betsey in several months. Now six-year-old Bliss Rampike of Fair Hills, New Jersey, is being wildly applauded by an audience of mostly females, now she is being crowned by—is it mammoth Jeremiah Jericho, notorious/much-beloved Master of Ceremonies of girls’ competitive amateur figure ice-skating in New Jersey and vicinity who’d been found dead “under mysterious circumstances” in Atlantic City the previous year?—yet Jeremiah Jericho is aggressively alive on the screen, fairly bursting out of his sleazy-satin tux with valentine-hearts cummerbund, with a broad smile placing the glittery “silver” tiara on the child-skater’s blond head proclaiming “LITTLE MISS JERSEY ICE PRINCESS 1996”—“Go craz-zy for Bliss Ram-pike, folks!” Cut to Hawk News Channel’s Christians Speak Out show host Randy Riley greeting studio audience and TV audience with the pugnacious magnanimity of a warlord, ruddy Irish face, bulbous nose and prying eyes like mica chips, military bearing, U.S. flag pin in his lapel, Randy Riley is the most popular news-talk-show host on U.S. cable TV. Skyler is shocked to see that Randy Riley’s guest this afternoon is Betsey Rampike, naive of Skyler to be shocked, yet Skyler is shocked, giddy and light-headed as if someone has swiped at him with an ether-soaked sponge.

  You would think that Skyler would know better (Skyler does know better) than to continue to watch this interview, it is forbidden for Skyler to watch TV-Mummy and yet: Skyler will watch TV-Mummy as a large powdery-winged moth is drawn to open flame, to be extinguished. Brawny Randy Riley is surprising in his warmth toward Betsey Rampike—“heroic Betsey Rampike”—“bravest woman I know, Betsey Rampike”—indeed Betsey Rampike is smiling bravely at the loudly applauding studio audience, bravely Betsey smiles into the TV camera at the vast American heartland, Skyler sees that his mother is looking just perceptibly older, yet still girlish and attractive with a new hairstyle cut to flatter her moon-shaped and somewhat jowly face, Betsey’s hair has been “lightened” to a coppery hue like a new-minted penny; Betsey’s eyebrows have been artfully reshaped, and are more delicately arched; as always Betsey’s lush red lips are glistening and fleshy and kissable; all of Betsey is glistening and fleshy and kissable; glamorous/maternal Betsey Rampike in a revealing knit dress of purple zigzags with a low neckline dis
playing the ruddy cleavage between her breasts. Randy Riley is congratulating Betsey Rampike on her “brilliant, bold new book”—“gut-wrenching fearless prose”—Randy Riley holds up to the camera a Christmassy green-and-red book From Hell to Heaven: 11 Steps for the Faithful. Randy Riley speaks with Betsey Rampike about her new memoir, “intimate reminiscences” of her champion-ice-figure-skater daughter who’d died “so hideously”—“victim of a sex maniac paroled after an outrageously light sentence by secular-progressive Democrats in New Jersey.” As Betsey speaks in her breathy halting way, Randy Riley nods vehemently. So true! So true! All that Betsey Rampike says, so true! Betsey speaks of her Christian faith that has never failed her in even the darkest of times, when her innocent six-year-old beloved daughter was taken from her very bed, assaulted and murdered in the Rampikes’ very house while her family slept unknowing above: “‘Though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death’ rang in my ears for many years, through the loss of my marriage and the estrangement of my troubled son…we all must walk through that Valley, Randy; and we all must emerge. It is God’s plan for us, that we survive.” How Betsey’s voice quavers! A single lustrous tear leaks from her shining left eye to run down her rouged cheek and disappear into a crack at the corner of her mouth. Randy Riley, visibly moved, surprises his guest by naming her “Christian Heroine of the Week”—Betsey hides her face like a little girl, as the audience applauds. Quick cut to Betsey Rampike at a White House ceremony—“Spirit of America Authors Awards 2003”—Betsey’s hand is being shaken by a beaming President Bush, beaming Mrs. Bush, hefty American Eagle medallions are presented to several best-selling “inspirational” memoirists, the California minister-author of The God-Driven Life, and sci-fi author Michael Crichton. Back to Randy Riley who shifts the subject to politics: for Randy Riley is incensed at the “proliferation” of sex offenders in the United States, convicted hard-core criminals paroled and allowed to prowl our cities, stalk our innocent children, what are these sickos but symptoms of moral rot, the true agents of Satan are those left-leaning judges across the country, left-leaning educators, news media—the “hot-bed” is in the Northeast—New York City, the “sicko liberal capital”—“godless left-wingers”—“mockers of family values”—“pro-abortion fanatics”—“Ivy League kooks”—“Ivy League Marxists”—a crucial need for “get-tough-on-crime” legislation—“three strikes and you are dead.” Randy Riley has worked himself into a sweat of patriotic indignation, thanking Betsey Rampike for being “such a shining role model” for American girls and women, congratulates her on the “spectacular success” of her Heaven Scent Products—“Out of the ashes of tragedy, a harvest is reaped—that is the American way.”