She managed to open the window, that was no more than two-foot-square. She pushed her coat through it—she pushed her gloves, her scarf. Her shoe-boots, that fell with a thud. She pulled a chair to the window and climbed onto it trembling with excitement, she forced herself through the window as a cat would force itself through a small space, squirming, writhing. She forced herself through the window like one giving birth, the creature to which she was giving birth was herself.
The night air was very cold. She was panting, her breath steamed. Where she would go, how she would find her way to a road, or to another house—she had no idea. She could not think coherently, the circuits of her brain were jammed. Enough for her to escape. Enough for her to escape the spiders’ nest. The man’s crude groping hands, the thing he had jammed up inside her. The man’s hungry mouth, so like her own—she had escaped it. She was sick with disgust, to recall what she’d escaped. On the snowy ground she groped for her coat, she shoved her arms into the sleeves. She had lost the gloves—she couldn’t find the gloves. She would tie the wool scarf around her head, her face. She would protect her face, that smarted from the man’s hateful beard, against the cold. Her swollen lip was not so swollen now yet ached, throbbed. The man had gnawed at her mouth like a ravenous animal. She set off behind the cabin, in the direction of a trail she’d seen the previous day. How long ago that had been—a lifetime ago!
She was too clever to follow the driveway out to the road for the man would simply follow her in the jeep, he would bring her back and lock her in the cabin. And so she set out into the Preserve, ascending the hill behind the cabin. When she looked back she saw that the cabin was darkened, or semi-darkened. Smoke drifted upward in languid white streams like dreaming thoughts. The man was asleep—was he? She had escaped him—had she? What a fool he was, to imagine he could keep her captive—she laughed to think of how surprised he would be, in the morning. She did not want to think that the man would track her in the morning, like an animal. He would set the ugly little dog after her. He could follow her footprints in the snow, the dog would follow her scent. She did not want to think this, she was desperate not to think this. Though knowing better she began to run. The trail was slippery from fresh snow, the exposed rock-strata were slippery, a fall in the woods could be fatal to her, she dared not risk it. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to walk at a normal pace, she was desperate to escape the man. By moonlight she could see the ground, not clearly but as in a dream, just enough to make out her footing. She saw a faint trail, rotted leaves covered with snow. With childish gloating as she thought He won’t find me. By the time he looks for me I will be a hundred miles away.
How surprised she was then—within a few minutes the man was calling after her—Soph-ie! Soph-ie! She was shocked, and she was frightened. Truly she had thought she could escape the man, in the wilderness. Though she had no idea where she was going she understood that she was going away from him. Yet he’d wakened, and discovered her missing—that must have happened. And now he was outside, and following her. She began to run, desperate and panting. It was hopeless to run from the man yet she could not help herself. She had no wish except to escape the man. To punish the man by escaping from him, even if she injured herself. Thinking If I am lost, I will die. I will die in these millions of acres of wilderness. That will be his revenge.
Behind her then she heard his voice sharp in the cold air, like knife-blades. “Soph-ie! Soph-ie!” He was in pursuit of her, and he was walking—hiking—fast. He knew the trail, he had hiked this trail hundreds of times. She was in terror that he would set the dog after her—but she didn’t hear the dog. Behind a tree, she hid. She hid, and tried to rest. She’d been ascending the trail—this was a mountainside trail, strewn with boulders—an ancient volcanic upheaval, the Sourlands of north central Minnesota—she was badly short of breath, climbing the trail. Also she was very cold, trembling. Her eyelashes were stuck together as if frozen. Her eyes spilled frozen tears. Her husband had died and abandoned her and this now was her fate, in Sourland. Even the spider bites on her body throbbed with the heat of accusation. There was a hot ribaldry to these itches. She fumbled to pick something up with which to protect herself—a broken tree limb. She would strike the man with it, if he came too close. If he set the dog after her, she would murder the dog. She was running, hunched-over. Her limbs ached, her head ached, she tasted vomit. She slipped on an icy rock, fell and cut her hand. She forced herself to her feet. She was talking to herself, whispering. She’d become a hunted creature. The man shouted after her knowing exactly where she was. From the first, he’d known. She could not hide from him, her footprints were revealed to him. He carried a flashlight in one hand and in the other hand he gripped a walking-stick like a figure in a Grimm’s fairy tale. He would seize her and drag her back to the cabin by her hair. She would be cleaved in two, the man would jam his fist into her, his penis hard as a club deep inside her body. She would be cleaved in two, she would die. She could not survive another assault, she would die.
Something screamed nearby—a screech owl. There was a blurred frenzy of wings not twenty feet away overhead in the pine boughs, an owl striking its prey in the shadow of a boulder, a rabbit’s shriek, the tiny death was over in an instant.
All this while the moon hung crooked in the sky. The man was hunting her, swiftly yet not in haste. His movements were never careless, he knew the trail by night. In his left hand he held a flashlight and in his right hand he gripped a five-foot walking-stick. It is a terrible thing, to be pursued in the night by a man with a five-foot walking-stick. Sophie tried to hide, she’d crawled behind one of the great white boulders like the eggs of a giant prehistoric bird. Soph-ie! Come here! You’ll hurt yourself for Christ sake.
She heard the click! of the walking-stick. The stick against the frozen earth. Striking the rocks, deflected from the rocks. By now it was well past midnight. By now the moon was careening across the sky, toward a distant horizon. Sophie scrambled to her feet, stumbling into the wild for she’d lost the trail. Yet telling herself I want to live. This is proof, I want to live and I will live. She slipped, she fell. She fell hard, injuring her wrist. And her ankle—she’d turned her ankle. Oh! her ankle had twisted beneath her, she cried with pain, disappointment. She was sure she’d heard the bone crack. She was sick with loathing for herself. For now the man was close behind her, closing the distance between them. The light of the flashlight swarmed onto her, blinding her. How he’d known that she’d left the cabin, she could not imagine. She’d been so quiet, so circumspect! Now the man loomed above her. He’d put away the flashlight, he had no need of the flashlight now. And there was moonlight, that came splotched and strangely glowing through the trees. Like a cornered animal she struck out at him, a small vicious creature, a mink, a ferret, she had only her claws to protect her, and her teeth. But the man was too quick for her, and wary. She could only flail with her hands, that were numb as with frostbite. She was on the snowy ground now, amid the rocks, sprawled, helpless. She was crying softly, all passion had drained from her. The man had triumphed, he was lifting her, grunting as he lifted her, in triumph, gloating. She knew, he had to be gloating. He had to be laughing at her. She had not the strength to scream at him to tell him how she hated him, she despised him, all that he’d done to her and would do to her, he was repulsive to her. In silence he lifted her, his arm around her waist. He was a man who would say little, Sophie knew. She would have to communicate with such a man in a way more primitive than words.
He held her, standing. She could not have stood, on her own. Her right ankle throbbed with pain. Her clothes were torn, her hair was wild as tangled briars. Still he held her steady. She was sobbing, pushing at him, yet weakly now. There was no hope, she could not escape him. She’d gotten less than a mile from the cabin, for all her cunning and desperation. By daylight you would be able to see how far. By daylight he would laugh at her. The pig-bulldog would laugh at her. Footprints in the snow, her prints and his prints in p
ursuit, until he’d caught up with her, hauled her to her feet, he would half-carry her back down the trail to the cabin where a fire still smoldered in the fireplace, where the bulldog had been confined and yipped frantically as they approached. Bitterly she was saying she didn’t want to be with him, she didn’t want this. She had made a mistake, she didn’t want this nor did she want him. She was sobbing with pain, frustration. She leaned against him, with great difficulty she walked, her right ankle was near-useless. Still the man held her, walked with her bearing the brunt of her weight as they made their way cautiously in slow downhill skids, on the icy rock. His was a perverse and unyielding strength, she understood would not fail them. She could feel the heat pulsing from his body, through the nylon parka. She asked how much farther it was back to the cabin and the man said, “Not far.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks are due to the editors of the magazines and journals in which, often in slightly different versions, these stories originally appeared.
“Pumpkin-Head” in The New Yorker.
“The Story of the Stabbing” in The Dark End of the Street, edited by Jonathan Santlofer.
“Babysitter” in Ellery Queen; reprinted in Horror: The Best of the Year 2006.
“Lost Daddy” in Playboy.
“Bonobo Momma” in Michigan Quarterly Review; reprinted in Pushcart Prize XXXIII: Best of the Small Presses 2009, edited by William Henderson.
“Bitch” in Boulevard.
“Amputee” in Shenandoah.
“The Beating” in Conjunctions.
“Bounty Hunter” in The Guardian.
“The Barter” in Story.
“Honor Code” in Ellery Queen; reprinted in The Finest Crime and Mystery Novellas of the Year, edited by Ed Gormand and Martin Greenberg.
“Probate” in Salmagundi.
“Donor Organs” in Michigan Quarterly Review.
“Death Certificate” in Boulevard.
“Uranus” in Conjunctions.
“Sourland” in Boulevard.
About the Author
JOYCE CAROL OATES is a recipient of the National Book Award and the PEN/Malamud Award for Excellence in Short Fiction. She has written some of the most enduring fiction of our time, including the national bestsellers We Were the Mulvaneys; Blonde, which was nominated for the National Book Award; and the New York Times bestseller The Falls, which won the 2005 Prix Femina. She is a Professor of Humanities at Princeton University and has been a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters since 1978. In 2003 she received the Commonwealth Award for Distinguished Service in Literature, and in 2006 she received the Chicago Tribune Lifetime Achievement Award. She is the 2010 recipient of the National Book Critics Circle Ivan Sandrof Lifetime Achievement Award.
www.harpercollins.com/joycecaroloates
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ALSO BY JOYCE CAROL OATES
STORY COLLECTIONS
By the North Gate (1963)
Upon Sweeping Flood and Other Stories (1966)
The Wheel of Love (1970)
Marriages and Infidelities (1972)
The Goddess and Other Women (1974)
The Poisoned Kiss (1975)
Crossing the Border (1976)
Night-Side (1977)
A Sentimental Education (1980)
Last Days (1984)
Raven’s Wing (1986)
The Assignation (1988)
Heat and Other Stories (1991)
Where Is Here? (1992)
Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? Selected Early Stories (1993)
Haunted: Tales of the Grotesque (1994)
Will You Always Love Me? (1996)
The Collector of Hearts: New Tales of the Grotesque (1998)
Faithless: Tales of Transgression (2001)
High Lonesome: New and Selected Stories 1966–2006 (2006)
Wild Nights! (2008)
Dear Husband, (2009)
Credits
Jacket design by Allison Saltzman
Jacket photograph © Karl Gough/Trevillion
Copyright
SOURLAND. Copyright © 2010 by The Ontario Review. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
EPub Edition © August 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-201072-8
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