The Doll-Master and Other Tales of Terror

by Joyce Carol Oates

  “Are you Brandon Schrank? Wow.”

  He is a son like me but he is older than I am by fifteen or twenty years. He is a schoolteacher bald and fat-faced and wears eyeglasses that give his eyes a thick suety look that fastens onto me and makes me feel weak and sick.

  His voice is hoarse, adenoidal: “Momma? Y’know who this is—Brandon Schrank?”

  But the midget-sized white-haired mother is deaf, and only just smiles and blinks baffledly at me.

  I am trying not to smell the fat-faced son’s hair oil, and I am trying not to meet his suety gaze. I feel a spurt of rage like a burst artery, and have to turn away wincing like something has hit me in the gut.

  White-fuck fag. You gon squeal, fag.

  To B. Schwank

  You think you are a Hero to kill an inocent dark-skin boy but you are scum. It is fitting that your initials are “B.S.”—you are utter shit. You do not deserve to live. One day you will find yourself in the wrong place where I will be waiting. You will hear your name and turn to see and that is the last you will hear for I have a shotgun for you, both barrows. You will not live through the year when Nelson died shot down like a dog, that is my promise.

  This letter which is typed on a single sheet of plain paper I crumple in my fist and throw into the trash. I am grateful that no one can see the look in my face and I am thinking—All of you will die, just wait long enough. You will see who has the shotguns.

  It is revealed to me that there was a “bomb scare” at the Public Defenders Office which is at the rear of the Glassboro County Courthouse so the entire building had to be evacuated and did not open until the following morning. These threats do not scare me much any longer for such people are cowards who (probably) lack the guts to actually build a bomb, let alone bring it to a public place.

  By the time this news is conveyed to me, I have seen on local TV news how a heavily uniformed bomb squad came to take away the package where it had been wedged beneath a stone step by the entrance to the Public Defenders Office. The package which contained no address label was wrapped in brown paper and weighed eight pounds and was treated with great caution though, as it would be revealed, it contained nothing except several two-pound bags of flour that had to be carefully analyzed for fear of anthrax.

  Always there is a mild air of humor, on TV, when a “bomb scare” turns out to be harmless. As if there is disappointment that there has been no bomb, and no explosion; and the TV news broadcasters are made to feel foolish, that they have disappointed TV viewers.

  I have noticed how law enforcement officers look at me, when I am at the courthouse. For all of them know me—of course. Some of them stare at me as you might look at a relative of yours who has done something to call attention to himself of which you don’t approve exactly but you would not pass harsh judgment on him. But all of the officers are professionals and never smile at me, still less do they exchange any words with me.

  Already it is August. And then it is September. Since April, I have been moved four times.

  My life is so confusing to me now, I could not describe any of the places in which I have stayed except my parents’ house where I lived when I was a young boy, that seems long ago now.

  There is a kind of amnesia that sets in, when you are moved so much. It would be like being the child of a career army ­officer—you would move from place to place and register in school after school. You would see many faces but recall none of them, and feel no emotion for any of them. Once, I wakened in the night with a sensation in my guts of utter sickness and despair not having any idea where I was, or when this was, or who I was, or was supposed to be.

  There was the boy Nelson Herrara. In moonlight I could not see his skin except that it was in shadow like my own. I was trying to explain to him something complicated that had to do with nobody understanding what had happened except us—that it had happened to.

  But the words did not come for I am not a smooth talker and often when I am questioned, my throat is so dry the sound comes out hoarse and cracked.

  Often when I am questioned by the young assistant prose­cutors, a look passes among them like—He is not right in the head—is he? He is retarded, he is crazy. He is pathetic.

  It is true, I am very tired sometimes. It is like I am carrying a bag of cement over my shoulder. I am being made to march—for I am a Soldier of the Lord.

  They do not jeer at me, outright. It is just a look that passes among them like a Ping-Pong ball. The older prosecutors look at me differently for I am work to them, I suppose. Preparing for my trial(s) is their work for which they are paid and at the end of the day they go home grateful to forget me.

  The public defender staff moves me by night for safety’s sake. Often in a vehicle I am hunched in the rear seat and turn to look out the window and it is shocking to me—There is no one there.

  Of course, the Glassboro authorities know where I am at all times, as my mother and Uncle T. do not. And what a shock it was to me to overhear two of the young public defenders entrusted with driving me saying

  That racist punk. Jesus! All the money he costs.

  Half our fucking budget. We should drop him off in Trenton.

  Until now I had thought the public defenders were my friends! Except for the black lawyers, that is. Female mostly, they are polite in my presence but look like there is a bad smell in the air.

  It was some kind of joke at the courthouse when bail was set. When they asked me to “surrender” my passport it was a comical moment for my lawyer said smiling, “Your Honor, my client doesn’t have a passport. I don’t believe that my client has ever traveled out of Glassboro County.”

  This is not true of course. Many times I have traveled to Atlantic City which is in Ocean County, New Jersey.

  Now, I am in the Cassells’s house on Bear Tavern Road, Muhlenberg. They are a friendly older couple, the man wears his coarse gray hair in a straggly ponytail and the woman has smiled so hard and so often there are sharp crow’s-feet beside her eyes.

  It is not clear to me if the Cassells are lawyers like my lawyer or some other kind of lawyer but they question me as my lawyer and the police had done though I have given these answers many times. They are saying that they will record my testimony and my life story and that I should “hold nothing back” for my story will be sold to TV for a high sum. Which cable channel, they have not yet decided. And there are interview programs and newspapers that will pay for my interview.

  None of this can be acknowledged before I am tried and acquitted, I am told. The Cassells estimate this could be some time in the fall and until then, I may not receive and cash any check for my story. But the Cassells are preparing me, every night we talk together at dinner. Mrs. Cassells makes our meals. Mr. Cassells does household chores as he calls them. The windows of their cedar wood “ranch house” are covered in plastic that lets in some light but you can’t see through, so that no one can spy on us. Tied outside in the yard are three Doberman pinschers who set up a terrible barking and yowling if any stranger turns in to the driveway.

  Will you sign this agreement, please Brandon?

  I’m asking what it is, and they say It is an agreement of restriction. That we are your exclusive agents for TV one-time or serial adaptation, book, newspaper and magazine rights to your life story (“Live Free or Die—The True Story of Brandon Schrank”) and that you will sign no other agreements with any other agents.

  I’m asking what I will be paid for this, and they say We will demand a minimum of $150,000 for exclusive rights but that is only a minimum. When two or more parties are in a bidding war—“The sky’s the limit!”

  It has been arranged that I will accompany Reverend Baumann’s wife to the Toms River Haven Home each Thursday. This is a nursing home for the elderly associated with the Glassboro Church of Christ. Here I move among the residents (many of whom are in wheelchairs) who smile at me as if hoping
to recognize me, but they never do. Mrs. Baumann says not to worry, the residents of Toms River Haven Home never read newspapers and never watch TV news, they have no interest in “news” except what is happening in their families, or in the Home.

  Mrs. Baumann has a joyous rising voice—“Hello! Hel-lo! Here is Brandon who has come to visit you! And you know me—Meg!”

  We have brought a bag of clementines from Safeway to the elderly residents. It is not good for them to have sweet things, so we are to bring them fruit. We help them peel the clementines, if they have trouble.

  We read from the Bible to the ailing and elderly residents of Toms River Haven who listen eagerly at first as if we have brought news to them of their own lives, it is crucial for them to know. And there are some whose eyesight is so poor, they can no longer read their own Bibles. Mrs. Baumann talks happily about Jesus to the residents—“Jesus is an old friend of yours—you’ve known Him a lot longer than I have, I’m sure!” She has a high-pitched laugh and a habit of clutching at my arm as if she is in pain but it is a happy pain.

  Soon, the residents begin to be sleepy. Especially those in wheelchairs begin to doze off as Mrs. Baumann and I alternate readings from the Gospels, the Book of Esther, Psalms—

  “‘O sing unto the Lord a new song: for He hath done marvelous things: His right hand, and His holy arm, hath gotten Him the victory. The Lord has made known His salvation: His righteousness hath He openly shewed in the sight of the heathen . . .”

  My voice wavers but is strong. And Meg Baumann reaches out to take my hand in her warm dry fingers, to lend support.

  Often I return to the Toms River Haven Home. None of the ailing and elderly residents recognize me, there is a comfort in this.

  What a nice young man. A nice polite young man.

  An elderly woman takes my hand and whispers to me—“Have you come to take me home? You are Harvey—are you? Please?”

  The nursing staff knows me of course—“Hello, Brandon!”

  My life would be a happy life, I think, if I were on the staff of the nursing home. It is good to bring happiness to strangers. Sometimes I eat lunch there, at a table with the residents. There is a music hour, one of the residents plays the piano with heavy chords like an organ and we sing together, Christian hymns. I have spoken with Reverend Baumann who advises me to return to school when the second trial is over and my name is cleared; I will enroll in Glassboro Community College where I will pursue a major that would allow me to work in a nursing facility like Tom River Haven Home—not as an attendant or a nurse’s aide but as a health care administrator or assistant.

  The staff is friendly to me. Most of the staff is friendly to me.

  I have become acquainted with some of the nurses. One of the nurses is Irma who is my age or a little older, a big-boned woman with short curly blond hair and a nice smile, and one day Irma says to me when we’re alone and no one else can hear, “I just want to say, Brandon, what a courageous thing you did! You stood up to those punks, it was just you against five of them, and they learned they better not push us around . . . There’s been black men followed me, and said things to me, if I’d had a gun maybe I’d have stood up to them better than I did.”

  Irma asks me to sign a notepad for her, my autograph.

  Uncle T. has told me The war that will undo this country is the race war. It is not acknowledged by the Government, that is in collusion with the immigrants and nigras that vote for the welfare state.

  One evening, the Cassells introduce me to Mr. Jorgenson who is a vice president of American Ace Firearms, Inc. with headquarters in Wilmington, Delaware. Mr. Jorgenson shakes my hand and is very friendly. He surprises me by right-away saying that his company is willing to help pay for my new trial, or possibly pay entirely for a new trial, if I will agree to a private lawyer of their choice—“One who is skilled in ‘self-defense’ law.”

  I am excited by this offer but feel guilty at the thought of firing my court-appointed lawyer. After some time discussing the situation with Mr. Jorgenson and with the Cassells, as it is pointed out to me that no public defender really has time and resources to present a defense like a private lawyer, and that the lawyer who would be hired by American Ace Firearms is one of the five top defense lawyers in the U.S., I say yes, and agree to switch to a new, private lawyer; and the Cassells tell me what a wise decision this is.

  Mr. Jorgenson calls me “son.” He pats my shoulder, squeezes my hand hard, calls me a hero.

  “In our way of looking at this tragedy, which should be presented to the jury and to the U.S. public in a more forceful way than your attorney has done, you are being crucified for defending your own life. Except for the liberal media making a stink for political reasons, there is not a person living who would blame you or in your place would behave differently.”

  Later this week a photographer hired by American Ace Firearms arrives at the Cassells’s house to take pictures of me though I have tried to explain to them, I hate to have my picture taken . . . (This goes back to high school when my senior yearbook picture was so fucking ugly, I would’ve liked to tear it out of every copy of the yearbook I could get my hands on.)

  American Ace wants a “boyish”—“sensitive”—portrait of me, not with any firearm—of course!—to offset the ugly images of Brandon Schrank that have been circulating since April. It is important (they say) that my posture is “perfect”—that my head is held high and that in my face there is a look of “pride.”

  It is astonishing to me how many pictures the photographer takes, through much of an afternoon, and how fussy he is about lighting. For when we see a picture of a person we think—“This is how he is.”

  A website has been established for BRANDON SCHRANK and here, the new photos are posted. At first I hardly recognize myself—the portraits have been “Photoshopped” to remove blemishes on my forehead, shadows beneath my eyes—but gradually I am not so embarrassed, and come to see that I am actually kind of good-looking when my face is smiling and not so dour.

  There is a T-shirt you can purchase for a donation of any sum beyond twenty-five dollars. In XL, L, M, S, XS sizes, in white, stamped front and back with my picture and live free or die brandon schrank.

  Response to the website is amazing. Letters and donations pour in each day. Many requests for the T-shirt. The Cassells do not keep me from seeing many of these, that are passed on to me by their assistants—

  You are our hero Brandon Schwrank. We are praying for you.

  We are enclosing a donation to help seccure Justice for you Brandon. And we are praying for you.

  Soon, more than fifty thousand dollars has been received for the defense fund. And with each day, more donations arrive.

  There is a race war. There is a war of atheism against the Christian people. The country is at war, the Government is the enemy. The president is guilty of treason. Brandon Schrank you are a soldier in this war, you must not give up hope. The second trial will end with AQUITTAL—this is a prediction!!!

  My new lawyer Mr. Perrine calls with good news: the second trial has been postponed!

  It is set now for Monday, October 6.

  It is always to the advantage of the defendant, Mr. Perrine says, when trials are postponed. Witnesses can change their minds over time, in some cases witnesses can disappear. The second trial lawyer profits from the mistakes of the first lawyer and he is not surprised by the prosecution’s case.

  “We will throw a bomb at them, son—we will put you on the stand to testify on your own behalf.”

  This is a surprise! The public-defender lawyer said no no no never, we would never put you on the stand Brandon, to be eviscerated by the prosecution. And I had to wonder about that, for if I am innocent—if I am not guilty—it would seem strange to the jurors that I am not willing to testify.

  “Don’t worry, we will rehearse your every word. You will be a fledgling whos
e every wing-tremor will be rehearsed. The radiance of truth will shine in your face, son. All who look upon you will be blinded.”

  Mr. Perrine talked like that. Like Reverend Baumann when he was worked up. There was a flamey sensation you felt if you stood too near Mr. Perrine, a fear but an excitement too that you would catch flame. His wide mouth gleamed with silvery spittle.

  America Unite! has joined American Ace Firearms to take on expenses of the trial. The Cassells explain to me that America Unite! is an organization of several million members dedicated to the preservation and protection of the English language, the Second Amendment, and the right of states to administer capital punishment, among other campaigns. Photographs of Brandon Schrank are posted on America Unite!’s website to be many times replicated online.

  It is very exciting. It is so exciting, I am not able to sleep except with sleeping pills the Cassells provide for me. And then, when I sleep, I do not dream. It is like switching off the TV—just blank, black.

  In our dealings with them we should always hold the line. We should never move the line—not a foot, not an inch! And we should never show our weakness, and never give in.

  I am holding the revolver in both hands. My finger is on the trigger. From a faraway star the thought comes to me dazzling my head—This is the start of the new life.

  Irma asks me, what was it like? When did you know . . . ?

  (I think Irma means: When did I know that I would shoot to kill.)

  But even at such a time, when we are alone together in the darkness of Irma’s bedroom, and there is no one to see my face, or record my words, I will never speak of the shooting.

  It is not just that I have been warned not to speak of the shooting. Not just that I have been warned not to speak of that day in my life, the decision I made, or presumably made, when I entered my uncle’s kitchen and took away his .45 caliber police service revolver without telling him, and concealed it in my waterproof polyester jacket; when I carried the gun against my heart for how many hours, how many minutes of mounting excitement, as one might feel carrying a bomb strapped around his waist that is set to explode at an unknown time. Not just that I have been warned not to speak of these minutes of which many are lost to me, like water that has plunged into water in a deafening cascade, many tributaries that flow into a single rushing river, but that I don’t know how to speak of what happened—what happened to me—not what I did.