Black Dahlia White Rose: Stories

by Joyce Carol Oates

  The starched white shirt-collar & cuffs—the stubby hands but nails manicured & very clean—the pressed trousers & shiny shoes not scuffed or battered in the slightest—the third finger of the left hand with a just-perceptible paleness & impress where—(Betty Short had a sharp eye for such clues!)—a wedding band had been removed—all this I absorbed without seeming to be staring. My hands were clasped on my knees & my nails were dark-maroon polish—to match my dark-maroon lipstick—& my face powdered very white like (as K.K. would say part-sneering & part-admiring) a geisha. & I am wearing black of course—a black satin flared skirt & a lacy black blouse & black “pearls” at my throat—each of these borrowed from friends at Buena Vista except the “pearls” a gift from Mr. Hansen—& I am smiling & mentioned to Dr. M. that the concrete in the sun glittered in my eyes reminding me of the snow of Medford Mass. of my childhood & Dr. M. said You are from New England, Betty?—(for I had told him my name Betty Short by this time)—you do not seem like you are from New England.

  Where does it seem that I am from, then?—I asked him with a sidelong smile.

  He continued to drive the Packard slow along the street as other vehicles passed us & his forehead furrowed & he said finally—I could not guess. I would think that you are born of Hollywood—you have stepped out of a movie—or of the night.

  Out of the night—this struck me, it was a strange thing to say & flattering to me & so I thought He is attracted to me. He will fall in love with me—he will be in my power.

  & I smiled to think how K.K. would be surprised! That bastard treating us like shit on his shoes & taking such advantage of us.

  Dr. M. let me out at Mr. Hansen’s stucco “mansion” (as it would be called in the newspapers) asking did I have a roommate & I said yes & Dr. M. said with a catch in his throat Is your roommate that little blond girl—“Norma Jeane”—& I had to say yes.

  What is her last name? he asked & I said stiffly I am not comfortable talking about Norma Jeane, she is so dear to me. I’m sorry.

  Dr. M. asked me for my phone number—he did not ask for Norma Jeane’s phone number—(which was identical to my own in fact—the phone did not belong to either of us but was shared by girls on the second floor of the house)—& so I thought maybe he would call me; & hoped that he would, for he did seem like a “gentleman” though old & starched-stuffy as hell but clearly he had $$$ & seemed kindly disposed & not a tightwad. & the next day a call did come for “Elizabeth Short”; & he was shy at first clearing his throat & saying did I remember him?—& I said yes of course—& he said he would like to see me again & also—if it was possible—my friend Norma Jeane; he would like to take us to dinner that night to a nice restaurant he knew of, on Sunset Boulevard, if we were free—& I said Yes I believe we are both free, Norma Jeane & me—yes. & a date was made, he would come to pick us up at the Buena Vista at 7 P.M.

  & at 7 P.M. I was dressed & waiting—from our friend Phoebe who was away I borrowed a beautiful black satin dress with a “plunging” neckline—around my neck the black “pearls” Mr. Hansen gave me—& my black patent-leather shoes & silk stockings—(also borrowed from Phoebe, who had more than one pair)—& there came Dr. M. exactly on time—no one saw me depart, I think—I hurried to the curb & slipped into the front passenger seat of the shiny black Packard came & hoped not to see in the man’s face a look of disappointment that Norma Jeane was not with me—(for I did not ask Norma Jeane to join us of course—& I would not have told Dr. M. that Norma Jeane was not coming for Dr. M. might have said he would not wish to see me alone)—& quickly said Norma Jeane is not free after all—& he said Oh—but where is she?—she is not coming with us?—like he was hard of hearing & I said in a louder voice smiling at him to put him at ease for he seemed stiff & unyielding—Oh Norma Jeane leads a crazy life, you see—she has a former husband very jealous of her—he is her “ex” but he is always spying on her & threatening to “beat to a pulp” her man-friends & after this, Dr. M. said nothing more of that simpering baby-face Norma; but paid attention to me.

  Before the dinner we would stop by a place he knew, Dr. M. said. For he had forgot something essential—his wallet. (He said with an awkward wink.) & asked would I come inside & I said Oh—I don’t know . . . for I did not want the “gentleman” to think that I was not shy & fearful of being alone with a strange man; & he said he was an artiste in his heart & was learning photography too—he would like to take photographs of me he said—for I was so beautiful—But only with your consent, Betty. & we entered into this house on Norfolk St.—which did not seem like a nice enough house for Dr. M. to be staying in & also did not seem to be furnished—& a strange smell came to my nostrils, a chemical-smell like some kind of strong disinfectant—but I was thinking how Dr. M.’s hair was the color of a sparrow’s feathers & Dr. M. was not very tall so that in my high heels I was almost his height—& he was not a muscled man but lean & stringy—I was smiling thinking I could handle him if necessary; & he said, taking my elbow to help me up a step, in the most gentlemanly way as we further entered the house he said Betty, may I kiss you? Just once please may I kiss you, you are so beautiful Betty Short & his breath was quickened & his eyes moist & intense behind the glittery glasses & I leaned to him & held my breath against the starchy-stuffy smell & shut my eyes knowing how gorgeous the Black Dahlia was at this time of dusk, & in the wan light of a single lamp inside, & lifted my lips to be kissed that were dark-plum in hue & “kissable” as Hedy Lamarr’s. & I thought—Maybe he is the one. Maybe—this will be the one.

  NORMA JEANE BAKER:

  In the Top Hat I waited for Betty & she did not come.

  Oh gosh I was getting mad at Betty!

  Ohhh damn you Betty I was thinking!

  & my heart hardened against her for Betty had promised she would join me—there were two guys wanting to buy me drinks—& I needed to get home because I wanted to wash out some things & dry them on the radiator & in the morning iron—my flannel skirt & my white cotton eyelet blouse—I would wear these to acting class, the others wore slacks & cheap sweaters—I had the philosophy It is always an audition, you don’t know who is observing you & so I needed to be in bed by midnight & needed at least seven hours sleep or there would be blue shadows beneath my eyes but damn Betty would come into the room later, I knew—for Betty was always coming home late & stumbling-drunk—& if you scolded her she would cry Go to hell! Screw you! like she did not even know me & did not care for me any more than she did for the other girls in the Buena Vista.

  For her heart was broken Betty had said, she’d been engaged to a wonderful man she had loved so much, Major Matt Gordon of the U.S. Army Air Corps & they were to be married several years before but Major Gordon died in a plane crash far away in India & his body never recovered & Betty confessed she’d been so broken-hearted & a little crazed she had told her fiancé’s family that they had actually been married—in secret—& had had a little baby that had died at birth; & the family refused to believe this & scorned her & kept her from them & finally pretended that “Elizabeth Short” did not exist—so she had ruined her chances with the Gordon family, & was sick to think of it—So much that I have lost, I hate God sometimes He has cursed me. & I said to Betty Don’t ever say that! Don’t give God any reason to hurt you more.

  & Betty cried in my arms like a little girl as no one had ever seen her except me—for Betty did not wish anyone to know her weakness, she said—& swore me to secrecy, I would never tell; & I held her & said We can help each other, Betty. We will!

  But then, you could not trust her. My new lipstick missing, & one of my good blouses—& I knew it was Betty doing what Betty did which was take advantage of a friend. & I knew a time was coming when we would split up—& Betty would have no place to stay for the girls of Buena Vista were getting sick of her & then what? Where would she go?

  That January night it was cold & rainy & I came back to the Buena Vista finally in a taxi by 1 A.M. & climbed the stairs to the second floor & there was the door to
our room shut & I thought Maybe Betty is here: maybe Betty did not feel well & did not go out at all tonight—& when I came inside I stumbled in the darkness & groped for the light switch & I could see someone in Betty’s bed sprawled & helpless-seeming—limp & not-breathing—I was so scared!—then managed to switch on the light & saw that it was just bedclothes twisted in Betty’s messy bed, coiled together like a human body.

  “Oh Betty! Gosh I thought it was you.”

  I.D.

  For eiii-dee they were saying.

  If your name is Lisette.

  This was weird! This was unexpected.

  In second-period class, 9:40 A.M., some damn Monday in some damn winter month she’d lost track of and even the year—a “new” year—was weird to her, like a movie set in a faraway galaxy.

  It was one of those school mornings—some older guys had got her high on beer, for a joke. Well, it was funny—not just the guys laughing at her but Lisette laughing at herself—not mean-laughing—she didn’t think so—but, like, they liked her. “Liz-zette”—“Lizzzz-ette”—was their name for her, high-pitched piping like bats, and they’d touch her—run their fingers, fast, along her arms, her back—like she was scalding-hot to the touch.

  Picked her up on the way to school. The middle school was on the way to the high school. This wasn’t the first time. Most times, she was with a girlfriend—Keisha, or Tanya. They were mature girls for their age—Keisha especially—and not shy like other middle-school girls—they knew how to talk to guys, and guys knew how to talk to them, but it was just talk mostly, the girls were so young, just eighth graders.

  Funny to see the young girls swilling beer out of cans, taking a drag from a cigarette, or a joint trying not to cough till they were red-faced. Funny!

  Now this was—math?—damn math class Lisette hated—made her feel so stupid—not that she was stupid—only just, sometimes, her thoughts were snarled bad as her hair—eyes leaking tears behind her dark-purple-tinted glasses—pres-ciption lenses—so she couldn’t see what the hell the teacher was scribbling on the board, even the shape of it—“triangle”—“rectangle”—was fuzzy to her. And Mz. Nowicki would say in her bright hopeful voice Who can help me here? Who can tell us what the next step is here?

  Most of the class just sat on their asses, staring. Smirking. Not wanting to be called on—but then, Lisette was rarely called on in math class—Lisette might shut her eyes pretending she was thinking really hard—frowning and thinking really really hard—and when she opened her eyes there was one of the three or four smart kids in the class at the board taking the chalk from Nowicki.

  She tried to watch, and she tried to comprehend. Something about the chalk clicking on the board—not a blackboard, for it was green—and the numerals she was expected to make sense of—she’d begin to feel dizzy, sickish.

  Math, mathematics. Just the sound made her feel funny. Like when you know you’re going to fuck up, and you’re going to feel bad, and there is nothing you can do about it.

  Her mother, Yvette Mueller, was a blackjack dealer at the Tropicana.

  You had to be smart, and you had to think fast—you had to know what the hell you were doing—to be a blackjack dealer.

  Counting cards. This was forbidden. If you caught somebody counting cards you signaled for help. Yvette liked to say how one day soon she would change her name, her hair color, all that she could about herself, drive out to Vegas, or some lesser place, like Reno, and play blackjack in such a way they’d never catch on—counting cards like no amateur could do.

  But if Lisette said Any time you’re going take me with you Momma, OK? her mother would frown as if Lisette had said something really stupid, and laugh—Sweetie I am joking. Obviously—you don’t fuck with these casino guys—I am JOKING.

  Vegas or Reno wasn’t where she’d gone. Lisette was certain. She’d gone so far away, where it wasn’t winter the way it was in New Jersey, she’d have taken lots more clothes, and a different kind of clothes.

  In seventh grade the previous year Lisette hadn’t had trouble with arithmetic. She hadn’t had trouble with any of her school subjects, she’d gotten mostly B’s and her mother had placed her report card, opened like a greeting card, on top of the refrigerator. All that seemed long ago like in another galaxy.

  She was having a hard time sitting still. Like red ants were crawling inside her clothes, in her armpits, groin, and between her legs. Stinging, and tickling. Making her itch. Except she couldn’t scratch as she wanted, with her fingernails really hard, to draw blood, so there was no point in just touching where her skin itched. That would only make it worse.

  And her eye—her left eye. And the ridge of her nose where the cartilage/bone had been “rebuilt.” A numb sensation there, except the eye leaked tears continuously. Liz-zette’s cry-ing! Hey—Liz-zette’s cry-ing! Why’re you cry-ing Liz-zz-zette—hey?

  They liked her, the older guys. That was why they teased her. Like she was some kind of cute little animal, like—mascot?

  First time she’d seen J-C—(he’d transferred into their class in sixth grade)—she’d nudged Keisha saying Ohhhh—like in some MTV video, a moan to signal sex-pain.

  She didn’t know what it was, exactly. She had an idea.

  Her mother’s favorite music videos were soft rock, retro rock, country and western, disco. You’d hear her in the shower singing-moaning in a way you couldn’t decipher was it angry, or happy—outside the bathroom Lisette listened transfixed. Momma never revealed such a raw yearning secret-self to her.

  Oh she hated math class! Hated this place! Her school desk in the outside row by the windows, at the front of the classroom, made Lisette feel like she was at the edge of the glarey-bright-lit room looking in—like she wasn’t a part of the class—Nowicki said it’s to keep you involved, up close like this, so Lisette wouldn’t daydream or lose her way but just the opposite was true, most days Lisette felt like she wasn’t there at all.

  Swiped at her eyes. Shifted her buttocks hoping to alleviate the red-stinging-ants. Nearly fifteen damn minutes she’d been waiting for their teacher to turn her fat back so Lisette could flip the folded-over note across the aisle to her friend Keisha—for Keisha to flip over to J-C—(Jimmy Chang)—who sat across the aisle from Keisha—this note that wasn’t paper but a Kleenex—and on the Kleenex a lipstick-kiss—luscious grape-colored lipstick-kiss for J-C from Lisette.

  She’d felt so dreamy blotting her lips on the Kleenex. A brand-new lipstick Deep Purple which her mother knew nothing about for like her girlfriends Lisette wore lipstick only away from home, giggling together they smeared lipstick on their lips and it was startling how different they looked within seconds, how mature and how sexy.

  Out of the corner of her eye she was watching Keisha in the desk beside her and past Keisha’s head there was J-C in the next row—J-C seemingly oblivious of either girl, or indifferent—stretching his long legs in the aisle, silky black hair falling across his forehead and when J-C’s eyes moved onto Lisette—which happened sometimes, like by accident—(but it couldn’t always be just accident)—she felt a sensation in her lower belly like you feel when there’s a lightning flash and deafening thunder a second later—you’re OK, you didn’t get killed, but almost not.

  J-C wasn’t a guy you trifled with. That was a fact. Not J-C or his friends—his “posse.” She’d been told. She’d been warned. These were older guys by a year or maybe two—they’d been kept back in school, or had started school later than their classmates. Except the beer-buzz at the back of Lisette’s head—that made her careless, reckless. Or could be, a few drags from some guy’s joint, or a diet pill, or two—or glue sniffing—(which was what little kids did, younger than eighth grade)—Lisette would blurt out some word she shouldn’t know—or she’d do some weird impulsive thing to make her girlfriends scream with laughter, like waving to get the attention of a stranger driving a car, or actually running out into the street, narrowly missing being hit; lately, it seemed to be happening more
frequently—making people laugh, and making them stare.

  From older girls at the high school she’d picked up the trick of pursing her lips tight like for kissing—Kiss-kiss!—poking her pink tongue out—just a peep of her tongue—Look look look at me damn you. But J-C wouldn’t glance at her—no matter how hard she tried.

  I can make you look at me. I can make you love me. Look!

  J-C’s father worked at the Trump Taj Mahal. Where he’d come from, somewhere called Bay-jing, in China, he’d driven a car for some high government official. Or, he’d been a bodyguard. J-C boasted that his father carried a gun, J-C had held in his hand. Man, he’d fired it!

  A girl asked J-C if he’d ever shot anybody and J-C shrugged and laughed.

  Lisette’s mother had moved Lisette and herself from Edison, New Jersey, to Atlantic City when Lisette was nine years old. She’d been separated from Lisette’s father but later, Daddy came to stay with them in Atlantic City when he was on leave from the army.

  Later, they were separated again. Now, they were divorced.

  Lisette liked to name the places her mother had worked, that had such special names: Trump Taj Mahal—Bally’s Atlantic City—Harrah’s—the Tropicana.

  Except it wasn’t certain if Yvette worked at the Tropicana any longer—if she was a blackjack dealer any longer. Could be, Yvette was back to being a cocktail waitress.

  It made Lisette so damn—fucking—angry!—you could ask her mother the most direct question like Exactly where the hell are you working now Momma and her mother would find a way to give an answer that made some kind of sense at the time but afterward you would discover it had melted away like a tissue dipped in water.

  But J-C’s father was a security guard at the Taj. That was a fact. J-C and his friends never approached the Taj or any of the new glittery hotel-casinos where security was tight and there were cameras on you every step of the way but hung out instead at the south end of the Strip where there were cheap motels, fast-food restaurants, pawnshops and bail-bond shops and storefront churches, sprawling parking lots and not parking garages so they could cruise the lots and side streets after dark and break into parked vehicles if no one was watching. The guys laughed how easy it was to force open a locked door or a trunk where people left things like for instance a woman’s heavy handbag she didn’t want to carry walking on the boardwalk. Assholes! Some of them were so dumb you almost felt sorry for them.