The Tattooed Girl

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Seigl said, “Neither. Just now.”

  2

  THERE WAS NO HOUR, no singular moment when she thought I will kill him.

  Though for months the fiery whispery words Hate hate him hate the Jew consoled her and perhaps thwarted the more desperate I love him: why doesn’t he love me? The bastard! For the Tattooed Girl was the first to concede her weakness for adoring any man who refrained from kicking her in the gut, as she adored any man who did kick her in the gut, out of a craven need to adore any man.

  But not the Jew. Him, I hate!

  So the thought that she might easily kill her employer who trusted her didn’t come to the Tattooed Girl fully formed. Few thoughts came to her fully formed. Alma’s thinking followed acts performed by her body. She surprised herself by uttering things she had not known she knew. Often she thought I’m smarter than I think I am! Often, her hands surprised her.

  She was watching her hands now. Stubby child’s hands. Angry hands, clumsy. Her mother had scolded her for being clumsy-on-purpose. Alma saw her hands slyly wrapping the dish towel around the water glass and she saw her hands smash the glass, safely wrapped in the towel, against the sink. The sound of the breakage was muffled, no one could have heard. Even in the dining room beyond the swinging doors where her employer, reading and taking notes, sighing and muttering to himself, sat at the dining room table absentmindedly awaiting dinner.

  Alma laughed aloud, nervously. What was this?

  Most of the glass fragments were too large for her purpose but a few were small enough, needle-sized, and these Alma further crushed into tiny fragments inside the towel. She didn’t want splinters too large. Even the size of peppercorns was too large. The fragments, approximately half a teaspoonful, she brushed into the steaming seafood casserole from The Food Shop which she’d heated in the oven at 375° F as directed. With a spoon she carefully stirred the fine-broken glass into a corner of the casserole thinking He will never know. No one will know. It was a Tuesday evening in early March. Several days after Seigl’s thirty-ninth birthday. The humiliation, for the Tattooed Girl, of that birthday party. But even at the time, in the depth of her misery, here in this same kitchen the Tattooed Girl had not thought I will revenge myself for this: I will kill the man who has insulted me.

  Seafood casserole! One of Seigl’s favorite meals. He had Alma order it from The Food Shop at least once a week. The casserole was so expensive, like everything else at The Food Shop, Alma had thought at first the price must be a joke. But Seigl, who wished to think of himself as frugal, plain-living as a monk, took not the slightest notice of the prices of things. Because he’s rich, see? Rich Jew.

  Giant shrimps, crabmeat, slices of lobster in a heavy cream sauce, rice . . . Alma’s mouth watered though she disliked seafood and had already eaten her supper, and would be eating again later, through the remainder of the evening in fact, leftovers and jelly toast before bed. Through most days the Tattoed Girl ate: browsing, you could call it. For the Tattooed Girl was always hungry.

  “Mr. S-Seigl?”

  In the dining room her eccentric employer was hunched over a book as usual, a book with the boring word history in its title. He’d dragged a desk lamp into the dining room and had placed it on the table, Alma had to be careful of tripping over the damned cord. Seigl’s hair was straggling over the collar of his crookedly buttoned white shirt and his jaws sprouted whiskers like quills. His new glasses slid down his nose. He had a new, annoying habit of pulling at his lips as he read. Since that night he had wakened Alma to come help him into the house, for he could barely totter on his legs, he’d been subdued, moody. He had had no choice but to ask her to accompany him to the doctor: now, Alma knew he was seeing a “neurologist.” She understood that Seigl was embarrassed and ashamed of what had happened to him and that he resented her for having been a witness. Still, he’d needed her. Not just one of his legs had gone numb that night, but he’d been pretty drunk. Wherever he’d been, he’d been drinking whiskey. Damned lucky he hadn’t had an accident driving his car or been arrested for drunk driving.

  Alma, thank you. That was all the Jew could bring himself to utter, afterward.

  With steady hands Alma brought Seigl’s dinner to him, waiting patiently for him to glance up and notice her, move his papers and books aside so that she could set the hot plate down. It was burning her fingers! Damn but he was lost as usual in his stupid book, always the man was lost in a book. It was 8:30 P.M. and the meal had already been delayed. (Except: with a pang of dismay Alma saw that she had forgotten to set a place for Seigl. No place mat, no silverware and napkins.) Seigl glanced up at last, frowning. “So soon? Well. Set it down.” When Alma hesitated he said impatiently, “Anywhere will do, Alma. Thank you.”

  It was one of the Jew’s cranky days. After the birthday he’d been hungover and morose and when the telephone rang and it was his woman friend Blumenthal he had not wanted to speak with her. He had forbidden Alma to ask about his health in any way as if she gave a damn how he was feeling, anyway she could tell by the look in his face. His eyes were stark now in their sockets with a new, sobering vision. His cheeks were lean, with vertical lines. There was a crease between his eyebrows that looked like it had been made with a knife. Now you know, Alma thought, satisfied. It was the knowledge she’d seen in her grandfather’s face, the furious old man had had no choice but to accept. God has laid His hand on you. You are fucked.

  Alma hesitated, holding the plate. Her hands had begun to tremble. Seigl made an impatient gesture to take the plate from her and Alma stepped back, stammering, “Oh, I n-need to get the—” meaning the place setting, but the words wouldn’t come out, and somehow the heavy plate slipped from her fingers, fell onto the table and splattered scalding-hot casserole onto Seigl’s papers, books, hands. Seigl cried, “God damn! God damn fucking clumsy! What the fuck are you doing, you idiot!”

  Hiding her face in her hands, the Tattooed Girl fled.

  3

  BUT NOW THE thrilling words I will kill him. The Jew. Nobody will know. Who will know? had been unleashed. Like tied-up dogs in a yard. Breaking their ropes. Or breaking their frayed old collars. Running, yelping. Run, run! I will. I will kill him. Anytime I want to. Who’s to stop me?

  The Tattooed Girl moving in a dream through the long hours of the day and into the night.

  The Tattooed Girl in a bliss of revenge. For wasn’t the Jew of that family of rich banker-Jews who’d shut down the mines of the Akron Valley? Wind Ridge. Bobtown. McCracken. Cheet. You have no right. You buy and sell souls. You are the Anti-Christ. I am your punishment. I bring not peace but a sword.

  If Delray Busch could know, he would forgive her.

  Daddy would forgive her, his baby-girl Alma. He would pull her onto his lap and tickle her with his whiskery kisses. He would blow in her ears and make her shriek. He would toss her toward the ceiling and catch her in his strong, hard arms.

  “Dad-dy. Dad-dy. No.”

  Terrified of not being caught by him. Terrified of falling to the floorboards covered in a thin chenille rug.

  (For Daddy had dropped her, once. Or more than once. For a long time she’d believed it was her baby brother Hardy he’d dropped, now she wasn’t so certain. She did remember the shrieking, though. She remembered Daddy’s voice raised in grief and anger.)

  DANCING! SO HAPPY!

  Her lover loved her again. Love love loved her again.

  She was staying the weekend with him. They’d gone to a party across the river. A heavy metal scene. Christ she was hot. Dancing like on a hot tin roof. Dancing like she didn’t give a damn if her heart burst. Barefoot and shrieking eyes shut tight flailing her wild hair forward and back, forward and back like a whip. The gearing up noise of heavy metal that’s a shot to the heart. Christ she loved it. She was just a kid fourteen years old loving it. That down-dirty deafening bass that’s like a diesel rig climbing a long slow grade. Christ you never want it to stop: never.

  Holding the guys’ attention she
was drawing Dmitri’s attention, too. Dmitri’s wandering eyes. Dmitri’s sly smile. The Tattooed Girl was burning hot waving her arms as she danced like a wounded pheasant in the underbrush.

  “I’m gonna! I’m gonna do it! Kill the Jew! One of these days! He provokes me, I’m gonna!”

  The guys laughed egging her on.

  Guys who didn’t know the Tattooed Girl, didn’t know the situation of her employment, had to wonder what she was talking about. Had to ask.

  “Gonna! Gonna! Gon-na! Think I won’t? Hey listen: nobody’d know. Anything can happen to a cripple.”

  She was panting, breathless. A strand of hair fell across her mouth. She spat it out, almost gagging.

  There stood her lover smiling at her as you’d smile at a small show-off child. “Alma babe, you’re far-out. You’re fantastic. But you’re just kidding, right?”

  No! The Tattooed Girl was not fucking kidding.

  “Why’d you want to kill Seigl? Or anybody? You’d get caught. You’d get into serious trouble.”

  The Tattooed Girl shook her head vehemently.

  “Don’t give a fuck. I’m gonna. He provokes me, the dirty Jew I’m gonna.”

  Dmitri was staring at her in a way she liked. For once seeing her. Fucking seeing her.

  “Well I’m not kidding. I’m gonna kill him. One of these days. For the hell of it I’m gonna.” The Tattooed Girl was laughing, out of breath like she’d been running for miles. Her silver lamé tube top was soaked through and slipping halfway down her breasts. What her mascara looked like, she didn’t want to know. She was waiting to dance again, waiting to regain the beat. Dmitri wasn’t a dancer. Dmitri liked to watch, though. He stroked her hair and took her by the nape of the neck. Christ she loved this. Shut her eyes and melted against him. A big silky sexy pussycat melting against him. Loving up his groin.

  Dmitri gripped her hands on his buttocks. He didn’t like her to feel him up with anybody looking on. In a lowered voice he said, “I’m not telling you to kill the Jew or anybody. I’m not. I’m telling you not to, babe. But if you do better wait for the Jew to name you in his will, leave some money to you, see? Make you his beneficiary. That’s the smart move.”

  The Tattooed Girl kissed him full on the lips. The Tattooed Girl ground her groin against his, writhing like a snake. The heavy rock music began again, pulling her away. She saw his staring eyes on her, though.

  Fucking seeing her: Alma Busch.

  NOW THAT SHE’D hardened her heart against Joshua Seigl, reasons came to her for what she would do. Like a court trial it was. The verdict was handed down: GUILTY. Now you needed to see why it was just.

  And the death sentence was just.

  “Not just he’s a Jew. There’s good Jews and bad Jews. But . . .”

  Seigl was moody a lot. Rude! On his good days he was respectful to her as he’d been in the beginning and often he gave her extra money and spoke of sending her to the local college but on the other days when his legs gave out or he couldn’t concentrate on his work he sulked and hid away like a sick dog then called for her and expressed impatience she didn’t get to him in ten seconds and he bossed her around as bad as her daddy ever bossed her mother and she heard that edge of exasperation in his Jew-voice familiar to the Tattooed Girl from other relationships with other sons of bitches and the essential message was Look, he doesn’t love you. Doesn’t care a fuck about you.

  (And she’d thought maybe, sort of, months ago . . . Poor stupid Alma to think her rich Jew-boss might fall in love with her and marry her. Christ!)

  (No wonder Dmitri laughed at her. Saying her brains were mostly in her cunt.)

  Hate him. Hate him to death. The way he’d looked at her in disgust in the doctor’s waiting room and the others had seen. The nurse at the receptionist’s counter had seen. Saying her gum was repulsive which was his way of saying Alma Busch was repulsive. That was a word she associated with snakes: repulsive. Then, how disgusted he’d been with her for spilling his fucking seafood casserole dinner. When it wasn’t even Alma’s fault, it was his fault! Because the plate had burnt her fingers because he hadn’t shoved his fucking things aside in time, how was that her fault? She’d run away to hide. She knew he’d been unjust and she knew that he knew, too. In his shrewd Jew-heart the man knew all things. But when about forty minutes later she cautiously returned to clean up the mess he was gone. Took his cane—she’d checked, yes it was gone—and left the house. Left the house at nine o’clock without telling her where the fuck he was going, to punish her, she knew. (Staying with that woman professor. She guessed. Blumenthal was the name, a typical Jew name.) (And what if Seigl decided to marry this woman? He was anxious and excitable and likely to do crazy things. What would become of Alma? She could guess: kicked out on her ass. For all the Jews cared, she could turn tricks with the cokehead hookers on Union Street.) Still, it was a relief, Alma had to admit. He hadn’t eaten the ground glass.

  Alma cleaned up the mess on the table as best she could. At the kitchen table she devoured, with a table spoon, more than half of what remained of the casserole. So hungry!

  Did she swallow a few grains of ground glass? Maybe. Most of it had been in Seigl’s serving. But she figured a little ground glass wouldn’t hurt going down. People swallow dirt, after all. It’s said a person eats seven pecks of dirt a year, right? Or maybe it’s seven spiders. Since spiders crawl around at night and people sleep with their mouths open. So, seven spiders or seven pecks of dirt, none of it kills you. And a little ground glass, if that’s what Alma swallowed, eating rapidly and ravenously as she was, it wouldn’t kill Alma, either.

  THE WORST INSULT had been the night of Seigl’s birthday party.

  At the start Seigl was inviting only ten or twelve guests, then the number rose to twenty, then to twenty-six, and finally to thirty-five. Thirty-five people for dinner! A catering service called Les Amis was engaged. Tables and chairs had to be rented. Most of the arrangements were being done by Seigl’s woman friend Blumenthal, he told Alma, but Alma had to help set up the house for the party and would help the caterers. On the day of his birthday, Seigl typically barricaded himself away in his study, letting Alma deal with the ringing telephone, the flower and wine deliveries. Alma became increasingly excited, apprehensive. She had never had so much responsibility. For instance, several cases of wine were delivered in mid-afternoon. When Alma saw the size of the bill, she nearly fainted. “This isn’t right. This is a mistake.” The delivery man insisted it was no mistake. Alma hurried to Seigl who refused to leave his desk and check out the wine in the kitchen. “But Mr. S-Seigl, what if it isn’t all there?” Alma fretted. “What if there’s some wrong bottles mixed in?” Alma knew from Dmitri Meatte how particular some men were about their wine. But Seigl just shrugged. “Alma, I can’t be bothered with trivia. I must work.”

  Work! On his birthday.

  Sondra Blumenthal arrived early to help “coordinate” as she called it. Alma opened the door to the woman, behaving very coolly and politely. They had spoken a number of times on the phone. Now Alma saw that Sondra Blumenthal wasn’t young and wasn’t very attractive. She had an angular bony face, a long nose, very plain eyes you’d swear were lashless. When she smiled, her gums showed. She was wearing a black dress like something you’d wear to a funeral and her hair was nothing special. But there was a bossy schoolteacher way about her Alma knew she must not challenge, for the woman would complain of her to Seigl. This bitch has your number.

  As soon as she stepped into the foyer, Blumenthal asked Alma, “How is Mr. Seigl today? Is he well?”

  Alma stiffened. Such a question, from a stranger. Alma turned away without answering.

  In her room downstairs, Alma dressed for the party, too. She brushed her hair until sparks flew. She tamped it down with barrettes so it wasn’t so flyaway. She made up her face carefully, powdering over the tattoo. (You could still see it, of course. But it looked less like dried blood and more like just a raised blemish in the skin.) Alma had
a black dress with a rhinestone belt and a scoop-necked black lace bodice she’d bought at a post-holiday sale at Penney’s she thought would be OK for her, since she’d be wearing a white apron over it. In the mirror, she looked a little anxious but sexy as hell. The bodice fit her bust tightly. She wished her lover could see her, he’d be jealous.

  When the caterers arrived, Alma was made to feel unwanted in her own kitchen. “Out of the way, miss. Excuse us.” And, “Can you stand aside, miss? We’re busy.” There were three of them, in white jackets and trousers; the eldest called herself Madame Zee and appeared to be the boss. Alma had never seen anything like the caterers’ brisk, military way of working. She was astonished by the amount of food they’d brought. Madame Zee looked through Alma rather than at her and gave her orders without adding “please.” Still, Alma was eager to do well. She wanted Madame Zee to think highly of her. But when Alma tried to carry one of the appetizer trays out to the guests, Madame Zee said sharply, “No.” Through the interminable, exhausting evening—nearly five hours!—Alma was never allowed to serve food or wine, only to collect dirtied plates and glasses. She was put to work, in her black lace and rhinestone dress, mostly scraping garbage and rinsing plates to stack in the dishwasher. Wineglasses, she had to dry by hand.

  Returning to the kitchen with the first of the plates, in a haze of self-consciousness, Alma was stunned when Madame Zee hissed at her, “Miss, we don’t stack.” Alma blinked in confusion. What? Madame Zee repeated, “We don’t stack.” She grabbed the several plates which Alma had stacked together, and dropped them on the kitchen counter. The assistants cleared the tables by carrying plates singly, not stacking them, so Alma guessed that was what she’d been supposed to do, but how did you know? Why did it matter? Her eyes filled with tears of shame and rage. Strands of hair began to loosen and fall into her face. She was sweating beneath her arms. By the time coffee was being served and Seigl’s three-tiered chocolate birthday cake was brought into the room, with its thirty-nine festive candles burning, and his friends loudly singing “Happy Birthday,” Alma was sulking.