Beautiful Days

by Joyce Carol Oates

  “Isn’t a bird an animal?”—Becca spoke lightly for she hated to be dogmatic.

  Nathalie giggled. “A bird is a bird, and an animal is an animal. Like—a mammal, with four legs and fur.”

  Becca smiled uncertainly. Without wishing to be rude she was eager to escape the girl who stood uncomfortably close, and breathed and panted warmly against Becca’s face.

  Since Becca’s near-collapse of the previous day on the beach at Coiba Island she’d been feeling chagrined, and not so critical of the girl’s family. She had tried to blot out entirely the vision of the mother, the girl, the brother in swim suits—it was too awful to recall. She would still avoid them, if she could; but she had to concede that “Dr. Gladys” had been very nice to her.

  Still, the father and the brother were physically repugnant. And poor Nathalie who was gazing at Becca with unabashed yearning and sucking at her lower lip—She is brain-damaged, somehow. A neurological deficit.

  The wife felt a wave of sympathy for the girl. How terrible it must be, to be her.

  As Nathalie spoke excitedly she pressed forward, and Becca stepped back. It was unfortunate that no one else was in the library to deflect the girl’s over-intense interest in her, that did not seem to Becca altogether normal. Where was Dr. Gladys? Where was Yegor? The big-headed big-bellied bully-father? Becca saw that the girl’s face might have been attractive if it hadn’t been so fleshy, broad and round as a moon; the forehead and cheeks were stippled with small pimples, or insect bites, some of which she’d scratched until they’d bled. Her lusterless brown hair was parted in the center of her head and had been brushed slickly back, like the glistening fur of a seal. And she was smiling weirdly, or grimacing; as if a particularly intense thought was forcing itself through her brain the hideous tongue emerged from between her lips, plump, pink, and moist as a skinless snake. Becca stepped back, startled and repelled.

  “Excuse me! I have to—have to meet my husband upstairs . . .”

  With no effort to disguise her eagerness to escape, the wife fled as poor Nathalie stared after her with widened, hurt eyes.

  “I LOVE YOU, BECCA, and I respect you”—these words, gravely intoned, struck chill in her heart.

  He had not misrepresented himself. From the first, he’d said that he was not eager to remarry. He doubted that he would ever remarry, in fact—“I think you should know that, dear Becca.”

  It wasn’t a matter of love or respect but he was older than she, and older in his heart than she could know; he had lost the capacity for surprise and for wonder he’d had when he was her age.

  (And what had been Becca’s age, at this time? Twenty-five?)

  He would not speak to her of the debacle of his first marriage except to say that it had been a mistake, and that both he and his former wife had paid dearly for their (mutual) mistake. He would not speak to her of the treacherous wife who had abandoned not only her husband but also their five-year-old daughter—“Daphne is the center of my life, but it isn’t enough for her that I am the center of her life. A child needs more than one parent.”

  He had taken her hand in both of his hands and led her to sit with him in an odd, exceptional place—on a rattan sofa in a glassed-in porch at the rear of the handsome old stone and stucco house in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in which he lived alone with his young daughter.

  Max Needham was the most gracious of men. Max Needham was the most gracious of men so long as he was in control as the driver of a racing car is in control: the speed, the danger, the risk all his. If you are a passenger in such a car you have no choice but to submit to the speed, the danger, the risk in prayerful silence.

  By this time they’d been lovers for more than a year. Most nights they spent together, at Max’s house; Becca helped to prepare dinner for Max and Daphne, and often spent time alone with Daphne. She’d remained in graduate school but had ceased being Max Needham’s student and rarely encountered him at the university; if they met, Max was coolly cordial to her, and did not encourage her to behave toward him in any way that suggested a personal relationship. Once, when she’d met her lover by chance on a Cambridge street and had too warmly greeted him, he’d stepped back from her with a look of disdain; when she called him that evening he had not answered the phone. Only several days later, after Becca had left several apologetic messages, did he relent.

  And now, he’d sensed in the ardent young woman a feeling for him to which he was not—quite—equal. And he felt concern for the young woman, and wanted to explain more clearly that he didn’t want to take advantage of her; at the same time, he understood that a beautiful young woman like Becca would want her life to be stable, and so—(and here Becca steeled herself for the terse, terminating words she would carry with her to the grave)—“If you feel that you can be a loving mother to Daphne, then—perhaps we could be married.”

  Quietly he spoke. As if, if Becca had not heard, he could very easily retract his words. Adding, before Becca could reply, “But know what you are getting into, dear Becca.”

  OF COURSE, SHE KNEW.

  Of course, she had no idea.

  4.

  What was that, ahead?—the wife drew back, uncertain.

  Alone and anxious she’d been walking on the dimly-lit lower deck of the Bocca Brava. The upper decks were populous tonight for there were strolling musicians, complimentary drinks, bright lights; the lowermost deck, which smelled of diesel oil, or what the wife supposed diesel oil might smell like, was deserted as usual. The wife felt the need to walk—to walk swiftly—sometimes, since no one was a witness, to break into a run—as thoughts bombarded her brain like shrieking shorebirds. Know what you are getting into, dear Becca.

  At last it was the eve of their departure from Panama. Six arduous days and six arduous nights had not gone rapidly but seemed now to be too rapidly drawing to a close. In the morning there would be a final excursion to one of the islands and then passengers were to be ferried to the mainland, and taken by bus to the airport at Panama City. A day and a night of tiring travel and the wife and the husband would be returned like luggage to the stone and stucco house in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where the husband had set the thermostat at fifty-five degrees.

  Here, the equatorial sun that had made the wife’s eyes ache during the day had faded at last behind a mass of clouds like dirty red-stained gauze. There was a chill, sinister wind out of the gathering darkness. In the tropics the sun dropped with startling abruptness beneath the horizon, the wife found herself staring mesmerized and helpless as it vanished. That it was the earth’s motion, and not the sun’s, did not dispel the sense of dread—Something terrible is going to happen. You will not know when.

  Now that their departure from the Bocca Brava was imminent the wife had ceased thinking of the Diane Arbus family. She’d glimpsed them in the dining room earlier that day, or rather she’d heard the father speaking sarcastically to the silent abashed girl, and unwittingly she’d turned to see who this cruel parent might be, but immediately turned away again. No! No more. She was thinking now of the return to the refrigerated house, and the emptiness of that house.

  Almost she’d thought—The emptiness of that life.

  Exactly where the husband was, the wife did not know. He wasn’t in their cabin—she had checked several times.

  After the final excursion of the day Max had looked unusually fatigued. He’d asked Becca if she greatly minded, if she might leave the cabin so that he could try to have a nap before dinner.

  This was utterly unlike the husband who regarded daytime naps as decadent and a waste of time. Becca would have touched Max’s forehead to see if he was running a fever (though his face appeared oddly ashen, not flushed) but Max frowned and turned aside, not rudely but unmistakably, and so she retreated at once and left him alone as he’d requested. But when after an hour she returned to the cabin, very gently opening the door, she saw that the rumpled bed was empty, the cabin was empty, though the blinds had been drawn against the shimmering sun.
/>
  His cell phone lay on the little table beside his side of the bed. The wife knew that the husband had been sending emails—that is, trying to send emails, for it wasn’t likely that any could go out while the Bocca Brava was so far from the mainland—and wondered to whom he was writing, and about what. For a long moment she considered whether she should look into his email, see what had accumulated in the outbox . . .

  She went away. Shut the door firmly so that it locked, and went away.

  There were few places on the cruise ship that Max found tolerable and one of these was the prow on the uppermost deck where often the wife had seen him, leaning on the railing, gazing out at the ocean—a lone stiff-backed man of late middle age who communicated a sort of radar warning to anyone who might be considering approaching him—No. Please. Not now, and not me.

  Becca had noticed that Max had taken his suitcase out of the closet, and laid it, open, on a chair. How eager he was to pack, and to disembark.

  It was the husband’s custom to pack his suitcase with its many zippered compartments with such deliberation you would think—(the wife had once joked about this, and the husband had laughed)—that he was packing for the afterlife.

  The wife laughed, recalling. The wife wiped at her eyes for there was a sharp odor of oil in the air that seemed to sting.

  She’d been walking swiftly, half-running—seeing now, ahead, at the rear of the deck where the engines throbbed loudest, and lights overhead were dimmest, an unexpected sight: about fifteen feet away the girl in the bib-overalls appeared to be crawling on hands and knees like an ungainly dog and moaning to herself—Oh oh ohhh.

  At first the wife had no idea what she was seeing. Was this—Nathalie? But what was Nathalie doing?

  Then the realization came to her—the girl might have tried to throw herself over the railing but lost her nerve, or wasn’t strong enough to lift her ungainly body and had fallen back onto the deck, sobbing and panting. Her fleshy face was mottled and streaked with tears. Her enormous thighs strained the material of the overalls nearly to bursting and her heavy young breasts swung loose to her waist.

  “Nathalie! What on earth are you doing . . .”

  Quickly the wife came forward. She knelt, and tugged at the girl’s fingers that were tightly clenched around the railing.

  But Nathalie didn’t seem to recognize Becca. She resisted her as a wounded animal might resist a rescuer, moaning loudly, trying to butt with her head, and biting at Becca’s hands, as Becca tugged at the girl’s wrists. “No! Nathalie, no! Let go of the railing, take my hand, lean on me, let me help you up . . .” But Nathalie continued to resist. Becca was astonished: was the girl hysterical? Insane? Was it dangerous to touch her? Yet Becca didn’t want to relinquish her hold on the girl for fear that the girl would fling her off and manage to get to her feet and throw herself over the railing . . .

  As Becca pleaded with her the girl continued to moan loudly, clutching at the railing as if her fingers had locked onto it and rocking from side to side. Her young forehead was creased, her small bare eyes leaked tears. Horrible to see, the plump tongue began to protrude through pursed lips. Becca could not bear looking at the girl, or smelling the sharp rank animal-odor of her unwashed hair and body, yet Becca could not abandon her.

  “Please! Try to stand, Nathalie. I can’t help you if—if . . .”

  The girl’s sobs were not the sobs of a child but the howls of a wounded beast. Becca wondered why no one heard and came to help—whether observers had in fact approached and seen the struggle with the bawling girl on the deck and quickly retreated, not wanting to be involved.

  At last Nathalie released the railing but now seized Becca’s knees and begged her not to leave her. She seemed to be wailing what sounded like—Afraid! Afraid . . . Becca tried to lift her, but the girl would not cooperate and was far too heavy for Becca to lift. Her body was a dead weight.

  Becca was pleading: “Nathalie—please! You’re safe now, no one is going to hurt you . . .”

  She wondered if someone had been tormenting the girl? The teenaged boys who’d smirked and leered at her on the island?

  But now someone was approaching them, shouting—“Get away! Get away from my daughter, you!” It was the obese father, lurching and blustering. His face was livid with rage. His shirt was open, his fatty hairless chest was slick with sweat. Astonished Becca would wonder afterward if the father had been standing at a little distance observing the girl—and then Becca—for some time before announcing himself.

  In his aggrieved barking voice the father accused the girl: “God damn! Making a public spectacle of yourself! You—will—be—sorry.” He’d seized the screaming girl by her upper arm as Becca tried to intervene and with a muttered curse and a swing of his free arm, as one might fling aside a protesting child, the father knocked Becca to the deck.

  She fell, hard. The side of her head struck the wooden floor. The father stood over her blustering in indignation: “Leave my daughter alone, you! You are not her friend. You have no right to interfere in my family.”

  For a moment Becca could not think where she was. Something inside her head was ringing like a cracked bell. She managed to protest, “Your daughter tried to hurt herself. She’s very upset—hysterical . . .”

  “You are hysterical! Get away from us! Before I report you to the ship’s captain . . .”

  The father yanked the whimpering girl to her feet. The girl did not dare resist him as she’d resisted Becca nor did the girl try to speak as the father berated her at length in his harsh, barking voice. Becca managed to get to her feet but dared not approach the wrathful father who glared at her as if he’d like to strike her with his fists.

  “Nathalie? Are you—all right?”

  Becca’s voice was faint, hesitant. Scarcely audible above the throbbing of the ship’s engines and the curses of the father and so Nathalie did not hear or, hearing, paid no heed. She did not betray the slightest awareness of Becca standing uncertainly a few feet away.

  The father turned to Becca, furious: “I’ve told you—you are interfering in my family. Get away from us.”

  Still Becca persisted: “Sir, I need to know if your daughter is all right. I think your daughter needs medical attention . . .”

  “I won’t tell you again, you! Get the hell away.”

  In the father’s grip Nathalie dared not writhe and squirm as she had done, nor did she dare to scream or protest. Her face looked swollen, and oily with tears. She was staring vacuously at Becca as if she’d never seen her before. Bizarrely, her lips twisted into a dazed smile. Her lips parted, and the plump pinkly moist tongue poked shyly out.

  Becca retreated. Becca fled.

  Panting and agitated, head throbbing where it had struck the hardwood deck, Becca stumbled away. She did see figures ahead, retreating quickly before her. There had been witnesses to the bizarre scene, not members of the ship’s staff who would surely have come forward to give aid but fellow passengers, unwilling to be involved. And who could blame them?

  Sir. How foolish she’d sounded, and how ineffectual!

  At least, the girl was safe now. At least, safe from throwing herself overboard.

  Afterward Becca would wonder: had the girl’s behavior been for the benefit of the father all along, to alarm and intimidate him? To make him regret his harsh treatment of her? Or—perversely—to invite more harsh treatment?

  The girl would be returned to the family cabin. She would be heavily sedated, perhaps. She would be kept in seclusion until the Bocca Brava docked at the mainland the next day and then she would not be allowed out of the cabin until the other passengers had disembarked. Only then would the Diane Arbus family emerge from their place of refuge blinking in the sun like nocturnal creatures . . . But Becca would not be there to observe.

  “MAX! THANK GOD.”

  She found him on the uppermost deck of the Bocca Brava but not where she’d imagined him. And not as she’d imagined him leaning against the railing but slump
ed in a chair turned to face the darkening ocean.

  His hair was windblown. Ash-colored hair that had thinned at the crown of his head, the wife saw with a thrill of sympathy.

  He will never recover from the loss of her. He is wounded, dangerous.

  Nonetheless she came to him. He was her husband, she would claim him though she was trembling with fear of him. And so she laughed, to disguise her fear. She was covered in sweat, and smelled of the girl—the sharp rank animal-smell of female panic.

  In a gesture that took them both by surprise she knelt beside the husband. She dared to touch his arm, in appeal.

  “We can ‘separate,’ Max. I think that’s what you want. I understand—I won’t interfere.”

  Almost calmly she spoke, across the abyss. Almost gaily, and wanting again to laugh.

  But the husband squinted at her, wincing.

  “Jesus, Becca! What are you saying?”

  “I was saying—only . . .”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t want to hear it. You’re upset, and you’re not being rational.”

  She would tell him about the deleted message. She would tell him that the daughter’s life might have been saved, if she had not deleted the message. She would tell him that she understood, she’d failed the daughter, and she’d failed him. She would fade from his life without protest. She could accept that now. But when she tried to speak the husband interrupted—“No.”

  It seemed clear to the wife that the husband wasn’t well. His skin exuded a sickly heat. His eyes were bloodshot. The wife had not wanted to acknowledge having smelled, in the close confines of the cabin, the odors of the husband’s sickness.

  Yet, the husband managed to rise shakily to his feet. The husband reached for a chair to drag beside his, for the wife to sit in. For a moment he swayed on his feet—he had not quite caught his balance—or it may have been the rocking of the ship—one of those moments ever more frequently experienced with the passage of time, when one sees a tremor in the hand of another person, a quick and unwanted glimpse of physical intimacy, at once disguised—and then the husband sat back heavily in his chair, and drew the wife against him with a shudder, as if he were very cold and wished to protect the wife from the cold.