Sourland

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Wanted. Was it good to be wanted by a man, or not so good?

  Kolk confessed, he hadn’t been sure if he remembered her name. But he’d remembered Matt Quinn’s name.

  Kolk was easing closer to Sophie. Hairs on the nape of her neck—hairs on her arms, beneath her linen shirt and sweater—began to stir, in apprehension. Unless it was sexual anticipation, excitement. For it had to be a good thing, to be wanted. Kolk said that when he’d “lost his way”—his “faith”—he’d “wanted to die”—he’d “come close to dying.” He’d hiked out into the wilderness—in Alaska, in Alberta, here in Minnesota—thinking how sweet, how beautiful just to lie down in the snow and sleep, shut his eyes. It would not be a painful death once you got over the initial shock and pain of the cold.

  Sophie shuddered. Another time she wanted to touch Kolk, to comfort him.

  “And what about you, Sophie? D’you ever think about such things, too?”

  “No.”

  “Yes. I think you do. I have a feeling, you do.”

  The sudden interrogation made Sophie uneasy. Her swollen lip was throbbing, she saw how the man stared at it, as if fascinated. Elsewhere on her body the lurid little bites itched, throbbed with heat.

  To be wanted was the reward, as it would be the punishment. To be wanted was not to stumble out into the snow and die, just yet.

  Sophie conceded, yes she might have had such thoughts. But she hadn’t meant them.

  Kolk said yes. All thoughts we have, we mean. No escaping this fact.

  Fact? Fact? Sophie’s head spun, she had no idea what they were talking about.

  In a lowered voice like one suggesting an obscene or unthinkable act, that dared not be articulated openly, Kolk said they could do it now—together. This night, in Sourland…

  Kolk splashed more whiskey into their glasses. Crude jam-glasses these were, clumsy in the hand. Their commingled breaths smelled of whiskey. A twin-language, Sophie thought. No language more intimate than twin-language.

  That was why she was here: her twin had summoned her.

  This night. Together. Love me!

  Then, Kolk surprised her. Saying—this was in a murmur, a mumble: “See, I saved his life. That was why.”

  His life? Whose?

  Sophie smiled quizzically. Was she expected to know this? What exactly was she expected to know?

  In an aggrieved voice Kolk was saying that that was why he’d hated him—why Matt Quinn had hated him. Why he’d turned against him. His brother.

  His brother?

  He, Kolk, had known Matt Quinn long before Sophie had. Their connection was deeper, more permanent. On the canoe trip to Elliot Lake when Matt had almost drowned. Afterward, they’d never talked about it.

  In a wistful voice Sophie said, “You loved him!—did you.”

  Kolk spoke haltingly, not entirely coherently. He said that the canoe had overturned in white-water rapids, on a river south of Elliot Lake. It was their second day of canoeing. There were two canoes, his and Matt’s was in the lead. In the rock-strewn stream the canoe had plunged downward much faster than they’d expected, and had overturned—both men were thrown into the water—Matt struck his head on a rock—his clothes were soaked at once—except that Kolk had been able to grab hold of Matt, he’d have been swept downstream and drowned.

  So fast it happened, like all accidents. A matter of seconds and the rest of your life might be required to figure it out.

  Matt had thanked Kolk for saving his life. He’d been deeply moved, he’d been badly frightened, some sense of himself had passed from him in the white-water rapids in the Ontario wilderness, and was gone. Never would Matt Quinn regain whatever it was he’d lost.

  “We never talked about it afterward,” Kolk said.

  Sophie said, “Why did you cut yourself off from us! You could have seen us, all those years.” Quickly Sophie spoke, a little drunkenly. Saying that Matt would have wanted to see him—he’d have forgiven him, for their political quarrel. For whatever it was, he’d called Matt. An ugly word—fink. Sophie had never heard that word uttered, before or since. Whatever those old quarrels had been—“escalated resistance”—the Viet Cong, Cambodia, Kissinger, war criminals….

  She was wounded, hurt. She was very angry. Fumbling for the jam-glass. She was very drunk now. If she were to stand up—the room would tilt, lurch, spin, collapse. This was funny to anticipate—she had to be cautious, not to succumb. For she was angry, and not wanting to laugh. And when the man moved closer, she bit at her lip—her freaky swollen lip—and did not move away. Seeing her hand reach out to Kolk—to Kolk’s stiff-raised shoulder—to Kolk’s face—daring to touch the melted-away flesh at Kolk’s jawline, that was like hardened wax, serrated scar tissue.

  She felt a sick-swooning sensation, vertigo. Badly she wanted to kiss the man’s mouth, that was mutilated. Kolk grabbed her hand, twisting the fingers to make Sophie wince.

  Was he angry? Repelled by her? He touched her swollen lip, that seemed to fascinate him. Another time he murmured Sorry! Leaning close to Sophie and suddenly he was looming over her, upon her, seizing her face in his hands, kissing her. Sophie’s instinct was to shrink away but Kolk held her tight, unmoving. There came then a strange sort of kissing, mauling—the way a large cat would kiss—a panther, mountain lion—the man’s mouth was wet, hungry, groping—the man smelled of whiskey, and of his body—a sweaty-yeasty smell—a smell of unwashed clothes, bed linens, flesh—Kolk might have tried to bathe or in some way cleanse himself but dirt was embedded in his skin, beneath his fingernails. The most thorough soaking could not cleanse this man. Kolk had become a mountain-man, in a few years Kolk would be a crazed old mountain-man, beyond reclamation. No woman could live with such a man, it was folly for Sophie to have thought she might live with such a man. Wildly she began to laugh, she could not breathe for his tongue in her mouth, his hot panther-mouth pressed against hers and sucking all the oxygen from her. With the years Kolk’s whiskers would sprout more wildly from his jaws, like jimsonweed. His soot-colored eyes would grow crooked and glaring in his bald hard head like rock. His stubby-yellow teeth would grow into tusks. Winters Kolk would hibernate, in bedclothes stiffened with dirt. He and Cerberus the guard-dog of Hades, pig-pitbull with a milky eye, a freak like his master in a stuporous winter sleep, in their own filth wallowing, no woman would consent to such a life—had Sophie come here to Sourland, to this life, of her own volition?

  Yet Sophie was kissing the man—out of schoolgirl politeness, good manners—out of schoolgirl terror—Sophie dared not resist, as the man hungrily kissed her—he was a predator, ravenous for prey—he kissed and bit at her lips—he sucked into his mouth the swollen lip—this lip that beat and throbbed with venomous heat was delicious to him—and there was the taste of the man, in Sophie’s mouth—a whiskey-taste, an acrid-taste, a taste as of ashes—the man’s gigantic tongue protruding into her mouth—snaky, damp, not warm but oddly cool. He will strangle me. Choke me like this. For she could not breathe, she could not move her head away from the man’s mouth, the man’s tongue. She could not free her head from the grip of the man’s fingers. She did not want to offend the man. She knew, a woman dares not offend a man, at such a time. In the throes of desire. In the throes of a ravenous appetite. A woman who has touched a man as Sophie had touched this man, dares not then retract the touch. She did not dare to enflame him. She did not dare to provoke him. She did not dare to insult him. She did not wish him to cease liking her. She did not wish him to cease wanting her. It was essential for her survival in Sourland, as in all of the world, that the man not cease wanting her. Sophie knew this—she had been a wife, and she was now a widow—and so she knew this—with a part of her mind, calmly—yet she was losing control, her limbs seemed to be going numb—along the pathways of her nerves, eerie rippling flames. The spider bite throbbed in her lip. In other parts of her body spider bites throbbed. Like any besotted lover Kolk was saying her name—a name—Soph-ie—Soph-ie—she felt a thrill of
triumph, at last the man knew her name. She had made him know her name, finally. She felt a thrill of triumph, the man was wanting her. Now wanting began, it could not be made to stop.

  Soph-ie! Won’t hurt you Soph-ie—Kolk was urging her to come with him—pulling at her, impatiently—his strong-muscled arms lifted her to her feet—he was half-carrying her somewhere—not to the brass bed in a corner of the warm firelit room but into the other, smaller room—back to the room with the girl-sized bed, the blue-striped comforter in a tangle on the floor. Now Sophie was resisting, or trying to resist—the man was pulling at her clothes—Sophie had the option to help the man undress her, or risk the man tearing her clothes—he was laughing in delight, or moaning—he was very excited—Sophie did not want to impede his excitement—Sophie did not want to antagonize him—he was breathing heavily, arduously—still he was kissing her, hunched over her—this was a kind of kissing—the bulldog had been wakened rudely and was rushing about barking, clicking his toenails against the plank floor—Kolk cursed the dog, and kicked the dog out of his way—as one might kick a child’s toy dog out of the way, as if the fat little dog weighed no more than a child’s toy dog Kolk kicked S’reebi aside—pushed Sophie onto the bed and with his foot shut the door behind them, as the dog yipped and whined like one bereft.

  Kolk was telling Sophie that he loved her—he loved her and he wanted her—he loved her, that she had come to him—in Sourland, where he’d dreamt of her—for so long he’d dreamt of her in Sourland—mistaking the woman’s agitation for passion, for a sexual need ravenous as his own—was this it?—was this what was happening?—for it was true, Sophie clutched at the man—as a drunken dancer clutches at her partner, so Sophie clutched at the man, to keep from falling—each was only part-dressed now—the man’s shirt was open, the man’s trousers were open—he’d pulled the cashmere sweater over her head—the linen shirt he’d unbuttoned hurriedly, tearing off a button—on the bed amid the rumpled bedclothes the lovers were lying asprawl—like lovers drowning together they were clutching at each other’s bodies—Kolk pushed Sophie’s legs apart—Kolk pushed Sophie’s thighs apart with his knees—he’d pulled down her fine-woolen trousers, he’d torn at her white silk panties—his fingers were inside her suddenly—Sophie screamed, Sophie gripped his shoulders with her fingernails Oh oh oh! the man’s fist was rubbing against her, hard between her legs, her crinkly pubic hair, her tender vagina—with his knuckles the man was rubbing against her—in a rhythmic beat the man was rubbing against her—he was breathing hotly, crudely into her face—in terror of drowning Sophie clutched at him, his back, his shoulders, his muscled upper arms—in terror she was kissing him, trying to kiss him—this was a way of placating the man, kissing the man—hoping to control the man or at least to accommodate him, she feared the man’s roughness, she feared the man’s superior strength, she feared the man’s impatience and his abruptness and his waywardness which was the waywardness of a runaway vehicle on a steep grade and she feared the pain he could inflict if he wished to inflict pain—she felt a quivering sort of sensation, a sudden desire for him—a desire delicate as the fluttering of a candle flame—if the man was rough with her in an instant all sensation would vanish, her sense of herself that was her bodily self would vanish, a net of sheer sensation, the slightest mis-touch tore the net, she would feel nothing except discomfort, pain. His knee between her legs, the man was moaning, angry-sounding the man was moaning for possibly he believed that Sophie liked this, a woman would like this, the woman’s response was passionate and not fearful, the woman’s response was ardent and not panicked, it was sexual yearning that made her cry, pant, half-sob, now the man was mashing his hot scarred face against her thigh, the soft skin of her thighs, and between her legs where she was open to him, split open like a nut—she gave a cry, a sharp startled cry, the man had touched the very quick of her, with his mouth, his tongue—as if he’d reached inside her—as if in his fingers he held her quivering heart.

  Trying to speak but she could not speak. Her throat was shut up tight, her eyeballs turned in their sockets. Trying to protest No! Trying to tell him No she did not want this not like this, she was frightened of him, she was terrified of such sensation, now truly she was resisting him, trying to push him off. The whiskers like steel wool scratched her skin. The rough serrated skin like an animal’s hide was wearing her skin raw. She had never kissed a man with such a beard before, the sensation was so very strange. She had never kissed a man with a mutilated face, a ruin of a mouth, the sensation was so very strange. The man lay with his full weight on her, as a wrestler might lie on his opponent, naked, sweating, determined to triumph. Like some bare smooth-skinned creature she squirmed and thrashed beneath him, she could not breathe, another time he was smothering her, his hungry-sucking mouth on hers was suffocating her, his penis was immense and terrible as a club, she could not believe the size and hardness of this club sprouting from the man, such a thing thrust against her blindly, stupidly, a blind brute thing, that had no idea where to enter her, by sheer force pushing inside her as she gasped for breath her eyes flung open Oh! oh oh in the girl-sized bed that creaked and jangled beneath their struggling bodies she was being pounded—hammered—beaten into submission—beaten into unconsciousness—she was clutching at the man’s heaving sweat-slick shoulders, her nails tore and broke on the man’s back, she felt scar tissue like Braille beneath her fingertips as between her legs she was torn open, eviscerated as darkness rushed at her, into her, in the bliss of utter extinction.

  Waking then, later. How many hours later. In the tangled and smelly bedsheets. And the man was gone from her. Rising painfully—she was naked, barefoot—her hair in her face and her eyelashes stuck together—she began to pull on her clothing—what she could find of her clothing—the fine-woolen trousers, the linen shirt, the sweater—quickly and clumsily she dressed—she stumbled to the door, that was shut—she turned the knob, and the door opened—she had not expected the door to open.

  In the other room the man turned to her, startled—in waning firelight his face was a demon’s face, she could not bear to see it.

  Sophie told him she wanted to leave. She was desperate to leave this place. She would leave now, he must drive her back to Grand Rapids now, she’d been very sick, her head pounded. She’d been very drunk. She was certain, she was not drunk now. Except she’d been sleeping with her mouth agape, the interior of her mouth was parched as sand.

  Kolk came to Sophie, to touch her—to calm her. Sophie threw off his hand, like a snake. Sophie could not have said what was wrong, why she was so furious with the man. She began to scream—Take me away from here. I hate it here take me away from here. The man seized her arms, her elbows. The man was speaking harshly to her. The man was shouting at her. Sophie kicked at him, or tried to. Sophie wrenched her arms free and beat at him with her fists—his head, shoulders. He cursed her, and pushed her back into the room. He pushed her back onto the bed. In the doorway, the little pig-dog was barking hysterically. Flames rippled in Sophie’s brain, blue-rippling flames of madness. With furious strength she struggled with the man, like a panicked cat, trying to claw him, trying to bite but the man was too quick for her. He left her—he shut the door—she heard the door being locked from the outside and knew that it had happened now.

  All that she had dreaded in Sourland, had happened.

  What happened next, Sophie would not fully recall.

  She’d been furious with her captor—she’d been hysterical—she shook and turned the doorknob, to no effect—she pounded her fists against the door, to no effect—the door was solid planks, it would not yield. In the other room the fierce little dog continued to bark, there was a hysterical elation in the dog’s barking. The man stood close outside the door and spoke to Sophie—he was telling her to be still, to be quiet, to lie down and try to sleep, he would not hurt her, he would not touch her, but she could not leave.

  In a voice of forced calm the man spoke to Sophie but she knew, the m
an was furious, shaken. His manhood had been insulted, he would never forgive her. He would keep her captive forever, he would murder her. He was not to be trusted. The mock-calm of his speech, the “logic” of his manner—he was not to be trusted. Between her legs Sophie was raw, luminous with pain. Something liquid-hot ran down the insides of her thighs, revolting to her. She smelled of her body, and of the man’s body. She could not bear it, she’d been violated by him. She would never forgive him. The man was saying she couldn’t leave by herself—it was the middle of the night—and he wasn’t about to drive her. He had driven more than six hours that day, he was not going to drive her anywhere now. In the morning, maybe—if she still wanted to leave. In the morning—maybe—he would drive her to the airport at Grand Rapids.

  This, he told her: but she paid no heed to him. She did not trust him, she detested him. Her body crawled with the memory of having been touched by him, there was no part of her that had not been violated by him. She was screaming until her throat was raw, she was pounding at the door with both her fists. Everywhere, her body was covered in bruises. Her fists throbbed with pain, her knuckles were skinned, bruised. She could not bear it, the man had locked the door and would not open it. The man had locked her in the room, and would not release her. She was his captive now, he had triumphed over her and would not release her until she was broken by him, annihilated. In a faint she stumbled back to the bed. All her senses were alert, spinning. Her brain was so alert, so alive the nerve-endings pained her. She was so distraught she’d begun to hyperventilate, she could not breathe normally. She crawled onto the bed, she burrowed beneath the blue-striped comforter that was a soft-down comforter, and kept her warm.

  She woke later, it was very quiet. The air in the cave-like room was close and stale and chilly but beneath the comforter, she’d been warm. She stood now, shakily. She was not so furious now. The hysteria had subsided. Her quick sharp vaulting breath had subsided. She breathed more normally, her thoughts came more normally. The door—she tried the door—was still locked. She was at the man’s mercy—was she? He would wait for her to beg him—would he? Through the single window she saw a bright moon. Half the moon’s face had been battered, there were bruises, creases. Yet the moon was cunning, glaring light into the clearing. Snow had ceased falling hours ago, now the sky was clear. The air was very cold, a scrim of snow remained on the ground, un-melted. She tasted vomit at the back of her mouth—she’d been very drunk—but no longer. With frantic fingers she managed to loosen the window—it was opened by a crank. Her heart beat quickly, in astonishment. It was not possible, what she was doing!—while the man slept in the other room drunk and oblivious.