Freaky Green Eyes

by Joyce Carol Oates

  I said, “I’m sure he isn’t.” But I ran to Dad’s bedroom to check, and looked into his study, and the family room, and the basement fitness center. Of course, Dad wasn’t here. One of his cars, the new Mercedes, was gone from the garage.

  Later, around noon, Holly Merchant called back to report that Dad was on location, not to worry. He’d gone first to an emergency room in Seattle to get medication for his sinus headache.

  When Dad came home at about seven P.M., he was walking unsteadily, and his eyes glistened. There was something strange about him, as if he was running a fever, and light-headed. He’d wiped the makeup partially off his face, but you could see some of it, caked and grainy, across his forehead. He repeated what Holly Merchant had said on the phone—he’d gone to an emergency room, had been put on medication with a codeine base, which had gotten him through hours of taping. He was told to eat an early dinner, take another pill, go to bed immediately afterward, and sleep for twelve hours.

  So we had an early dinner, in the kitchen. The Peruvian food was tasty but sort of rich and heavy, so Dad couldn’t eat much of it but tried, washing mouthfuls down with ice water and small sips of red wine. Todd was home from four weeks at a summer football camp in the Cascade Mountains, so most of the conversation was between Todd and Dad. Todd’s big news was that he’d transferred from Washington State to Western Washington, in Bellingham, where he had a better chance of playing varsity football. (Evidently Dad had helped arrange for the transfer, since Todd had missed the application deadline.)

  I wanted to join in the conversation—I hated it that Samantha and I were left out—so I said, smiling, “Gosh, that’s great, Todd. That’s great news. We’ll be looking forward to football season.”

  Todd said, hardly glancing at me, “Sure.” His attention was focused exclusively on Dad, as usual.

  Todd was heavier than he’d been earlier in the summer. I guess he was getting into condition to be a linebacker. His neck and upper arms were dense with muscle. There were pimples on his forehead, and his face was ruddy, roughened. He laughed a lot but seemed jumpy. The thought came to me: He’s on steroids.

  This was a scary thought. Not just that steroids were dangerous, but Todd was the son of Reid Pierson who, like all TV sports personalities, had come out strongly against drugs for athletes.

  Midway through dinner, Dad shut his eyes and murmured, “God. I’m dead.” He’d eaten about half the food on his plate, and he’d drunk an entire glass of wine, which probably wasn’t such a great idea with codeine medication. He tried to laugh, lurching to his feet. Samantha, Todd, and I stared at him, concerned. “C’mon, girl nurses. Your poor old dad needs nurses. One pretty nurse under each arm. Ooops!” It was like Dad to make a joke of being sick; he hated any kind of weakness, especially his own. So Samantha and I helped him make his way downstairs to his bedroom, while Todd followed close behind in case he needed more help. Dad was heavy, and very warm, leaning on us. It wasn’t a joke—he truly needed us. By the time we got downstairs to his bedroom, we were all panting, including Todd, who was steering Dad into his room. But Dad refused to allow us to help him undress. “G’night, girls. G’night, Todd. You’re terrific kids. I love you.” He sat heavily on the edge of his bed, pulling at a shoe. “Hope your poor old dad makes it through the night.”

  Todd shut the door. The three of us stood in the hall for a long moment, waiting for Dad to call us back. But he didn’t, of course. He had too much pride.

  Todd turned and walked away, clearly not wanting to bother with his sisters, but we trailed after him, lonely and worried. Samantha was whimpering, “What if Daddy is sick? Bad sick?” Todd glared at us and said, “She’s the reason he’s sick. He’s allergic to that woman.”

  “What woman? Who?”

  For a confused moment I thought Todd meant our new housekeeper.

  “Her. In Skagit Harbor. The whore.”

  “Todd!” I was so shocked, I almost couldn’t speak. It was terrible to hear my brother say such a thing about our mother, and in Samantha’s hearing. I protested weakly, “She’s your mother, too.”

  Todd said, sneering, over his shoulder as he walked away, “No. She’s my stepmother. She’s your mother.”

  II

  MISSING

  FOURTEEN

  the interview: september 1

  When, where did I see my mother last?

  In Skagit Harbor. Sometime in July.

  I guess . . . I don’t remember the date. I haven’t thought much about it since.

  Nobody can arrest me for that, can they?

  No. I told you, I never heard them quarreling.

  If some of my mother’s things are missing from home, she must’ve come to get them. In the night, maybe. I don’t know.

  No. I never go into my mother’s studio. Actually, I can’t remember the last time I was in it. I never look in her closets—why should I?

  No. Definitely not close.

  It’s my dad I’m close to. Everybody is.

  I told you, I guess so. I guess I met Mero Okawa.

  I remember him sort of. Unless I’m mixing him up with someone else. My mother’s new friends in Skagit Harbor weren’t very real to me.

  Make me take a lie detector test, you don’t believe me.

  When did I speak to my mother last?

  I’d prefer that you call her “Krista Connor.” I’d prefer that you didn’t constantly refer to her as my mother.

  “Krista Connor” is her professional name. She signed her art with that name. In Skagit Harbor she was never “Krista Pierson.” She was never our mother there. It was her decision.

  She sent us away. She said the cabin was too small for us. For the three of us.

  Was it too small?

  I don’t remember.

  Ask Dad. He will tell you.

  Dad will tell you the truth.

  When did I speak with Krista Connor last?

  How do you know it was a different time from when I saw her last?

  Well, it’s pretty obvious. What you’re saying. You asked two separate questions. So probably you know.

  Because if you know to ask two separate questions, when did I see my mother last, when did I speak with my mother last, you know that the time I spoke with Mom last must have been on the phone, not in person.

  So you know that Mom called, and I picked up the phone. You would know how long the call lasted. Dad’s lawyer Mr. Sheehan says that you have the right to examine phone records, so you know, so why are you asking me if you know?

  It was sometime in July. Late July. When she invited us to Skagit Harbor, then sent us away.

  After that, I don’t know. I’ve told you. Our housekeeper answered the phone mostly.

  No. Dad has not “instructed” us to hang up if Mom calls. We make our own moral decisions, Dad says.

  It was sometime in late August she called. I mean, when I answered the phone.

  You know this, you have her phone records, why ask me how long we talked?

  Except “we” didn’t talk, really. Mom talked to me.

  Why did she call?

  I don’t know.

  I don’t remember.

  I’ve told you: I don’t remember.

  . . . Well maybe it was to say she missed us. Samantha and me.

  Maybe that was it.

  How long did she talk?

  Before I hung up?

  Why ask me, you have her phone records. Unless you’re trying to trick me.

  Unless this is a game.

  Do I have any idea where Krista Connor is?

  I told you NO I DO NOT.

  NO she did not tell me where she was going. NO she did not tell me who she was going with. NO I don’t know any reason why she would “disappear.”

  NO I am not angry with Krista Connor. I feel no emotion for Krista Connor.

  None of us do. In our family.

  Because she abandoned us.

  Because she betrayed us.

  Because she moved
away from us, to live in her own zone.

  She even took Rabbit with her.

  Rabbit? Our Jack Russell terrier.

  We miss him. It’s lonely without Rabbit in our house. . . . See, Mom had no right to take Rabbit away with her, that’s why Dad says she’s a selfish woman.

  And now Rabbit is gone, too. “Disappeared.”

  NO Dad never “struck or kicked” Rabbit!

  Who told you that?

  NO Dad has never “struck or threatened” me. NO Dad has never “hurt” me.

  And not Samantha either.

  If my aunt Vicky is saying these things, she’s . . . lying.

  If my mother’s family is saying these things . . .

  If Mom’s friends are saying these things, they are all lying, and I hate them.

  Maria? Maria said . . . ?

  She’s lying. She’s confused.

  No, I don’t know why Maria would make up such things. Maybe Mom told her, and Mom was lying. Pretending Dad had hurt her when she’d hurt herself somehow.

  Bruises on her neck. Welts. Then she’d hide them with a scarf.

  No. I don’t know. If she was doing these things to herself, I don’t know why.

  Maybe Maria wants to get back at Dad. Because he fired her he said for stealing.

  Dad told us. Not her. Never her. She told us not to make her explain. She screamed at us, Go away! So we went away. But we don’t hate her.

  No, it was Dad. Driving back from Skagit Harbor. He said—

  Your mother is in love with another man.

  She has chosen him over her family.

  We can never forgive her.

  Absolutely we’re on Dad’s side.

  No. Dad didn’t say who the other man is.

  No. I don’t know if he knows. If she told him.

  No. Dad wasn’t angry. Isn’t angry. My Dad never gets angry.

  Todd is the most disgusted. Todd made Samantha and me cry saying our mother is a whore.

  Do I think that Krista Connor is a . . .

  I don’t know. I don’t think about it.

  I’ll take a lie detector test, you don’t believe me.

  Yes, Todd had a different mother. Not Krista Connor. His own mother died, and Dad remarried. Todd was four, I guess. It all happened a long time ago. We never think of it.

  YES Dad was home all that night. I’ve TOLD YOU.

  YES I would know if he’d left the house. YES I would swear.

  NO Dad has not told me what to say.

  NO I did not discuss this with Samantha and Todd.

  Mr. Sheehan has said not to answer that question but that isn’t the reason I’m not answering it, I’m not answering it because I’ve TOLD YOU I DON’T KNOW.

  Yes I love him very much. He’s a wonderful father, and I . . . I love him very much.

  Mero Okawa? I told you, I don’t know anything about him.

  Except I know he’s “missing,” too.

  I’ve told you, I don’t remember. I guess he owned one of the galleries. He took Polaroid pictures of lots of people, not just us.

  No. Dad never met Mero Okawa.

  Yes, Dad drove to Skagit Harbor. He came to take Samantha and me home. But Dad didn’t meet Mero Okawa, I know.

  How do I know? I know.

  Because Dad says so. Dad never lies.

  I’m starting to forget lots of things. I don’t sleep very well, so it’s like my brain is shutting down during the day. Especially about Krista Connor, I’m starting to forget.

  Because she forgot me, that’s why.

  Even before August 26 she was forgetting me. I can’t forgive her for that.

  Nobody can make me remember. It’s my right to forget.

  FIFTEEN

  the disappearance: august 27

  Here is what I know, and what I have had to imagine.

  Around noon of that day, a Wednesday, when Melanie Blanchard, Krista Connor’s friend and neighbor, dropped by Krista’s cabin on Deer Point Road, and seeing that Krista’s car was in the lane, and knowing that Krista always worked through the morning, she knocked on the door, which was a screen door, but no one answered. She saw that lights were on inside. She called through the door, “Krista? Hi, it’s Melanie.” No answer. Rabbit, who usually barked to greet her, did not bark. Krista did not reply. Melanie said, “Krista? Are you here?”

  Melanie checked again: yes, Krista’s station wagon was in the driveway. Now Melanie saw that Mero Okawa’s SUV was parked at the edge of the road, in front of Krista’s cabin.

  Melanie pushed open the screen door and stepped inside.

  She saw: an overturned cane-back chair, a clay vase of dried flowers shattered on the floor, a toppled easel, art supplies on the floor. One of Krista’s hand-sewn quilts had been pulled off the sofa. There were stains on it . . . bloodstains? Melanie stared, horrified.

  Her friend’s cabin looked as if a violent wind had blown through it, knocking some things down and sparing others.

  Melanie called to her collie, Princess, who’d been sniffing around out in the driveway, to come inside. Now Princess was sniffing and barking excitedly, in the cabin, at the stained quilt, turning in circles as if an invisible adversary was snapping at her.

  “Krista? Are you—anywhere?”

  Frightened, Melanie checked the small bathroom beside the kitchen alcove, which smelled of sweet-spicy dried herbs and flowers: empty.

  Melanie climbed up the ladder to check the loft: empty. The antique brass bed was neatly made up, with a quilt bedspread and several needlepoint cushions Krista had made undisturbed.

  Melanie would say afterward, pressing her hand to her heart, “I knew. I knew something was wrong. Those lights burning, and things knocked down . . . and the bloodstains. Oh God, I knew.”

  But Melanie didn’t want to be an alarmist. She checked with Krista’s neighbors up and down Deer Point Road, but no one had seen Krista Connor that morning. One of them, a woman, accompanied Melanie and Princess as they walked about Krista’s property, peering into the old storage shed and into the hay barn next door. On her cell phone Melanie began dialing mutual friends. First, Mero Okawa at home: a recording. At the Orca Gallery: a recording. When Melanie called other friends, they said they had not seen Krista that morning; some had seen her the previous evening, in town. She’d been at a gallery opening reception, then at dinner with a large, casual group including Mero Okawa and several other organizers of the Skagit Harbor Arts Festival. The party broke up at about ten P.M., and Krista and Mero were observed leaving together. They had more to discuss, and Mero was going to drive Krista home.

  Finally, in the early afternoon, Melanie called the Skagit Harbor police.

  “I—I want to report a woman missing.”

  SIXTEEN

  the vow: september 2

  First he spoke in private with Todd. Then with Samantha. Then—

  “Franky? You believe me, don’t you?”

  He was holding both my hands in his strong warm hands that were twice the size of mine. He was speaking to me earnestly and anxiously as he’d never spoken to me before.

  He would protect me and never betray me as she had done.

  He would not abandon me. He would fight, fight, fight to stay with me.

  “Honey, I’ve never hurt your mother. I’ve never touched her. I don’t know where she is, or who she’s with, or why she’s doing this to us. Why she would want to hurt her own family.”

  Dad’s eyes shone with tears. Since the day that my mother, Krista Connor, was reported missing in Skagit Harbor, since police and media people were intruding into our lives, we were like a family in a fortress, surrounded by enemies. A fierce flame coursed through us, binding us together.

  Dad was saying gently, “I vow to you, honey. I don’t know where your mother is. She’s disappeared of her own volition. It was something she’d threatened to do, many times. The police will find her, eventually. She’ll be exposed. . . .”

  The venetian blinds in this room, a
study with heavy leather furniture and a darkened computer, were drawn. My head ached—I had to think where we were. Not at home: at Dad’s lawyer’s house in Pinewood Grove, a gated community on Vashon Island. Mr. Sheehan had brought us here after the front-page article appeared in The Seattle Times with the headline—

  WIFE OF REID PIERSON REPORTED MISSING IN SKAGIT HARBOR AREA

  Police Questioning Pierson, Others

  There was a large photo of my parents in glamorous evening clothes taken at a public event back in January.

  After that, things happened quickly.

  There had been stories on all the local TV channels. Scavengers, Mr. Sheehan fumed. Strangers swarmed over our lawn and driveway—reporters, photographers, TV crews with cameras like monstrous eyes. No one could leave the house without being confronted. When Dad appeared anywhere, for instance outside police headquarters, accompanied by Mr. Sheehan and one of Mr. Sheehan’s assistants, even more media people surrounded him. He tried to smile, as Reid Pierson always did. He tried to be gracious, but the questions were rude and abusive—“Mr. Pierson? Reid? Where’s your wife? What’s happened to your wife? Is it true you’ve been separated? Is it true your wife has a lover? What have the police been asking you? What have you told them?” Hurrying Dad to a waiting limousine with dark-tinted windows so that no one could see inside, Mr. Sheehan would wave these awful people angrily away, like flies.

  Except, like flies, they couldn’t be waved away long in public.

  But now, for a while at least, we were safe. Dad had been questioned for long hours and was fully cooperating with the police investigation. Todd, Samantha, and I were staying with Dad in Mr. Sheehan’s big house on Vashon Island, surrounded by a ten-foot wrought-iron fence, safe. Mr. Sheehan was a famous defense attorney and often brought clients to his house for protection from the media. Dad trusted him, and he told us we could trust him, too.

  Now Dad was gripping my hands tight, explaining to me that what was happening was Krista Connor’s way of punishing her family. Her way of revenge. “I wish I could have spared you, honey. I didn’t want to tell you and Samantha this, but I have told Todd. Your mother has been trying since last spring to win you over. That’s what she says—she will ‘win the girls over.’ Because she wants a divorce, and she wants full custody of you. She’s met someone else she wants to marry. It’s all about money, this thing she’s staged. Blackmail. She’s been demanding millions of dollars as a settlement plus monthly payments, plus child-support payments, and I’ve refused, because I don’t want our family destroyed. I don’t give a damn about money. I just care about you, Samantha, and Todd. I don’t believe in divorce. I refused her, and this is what she’s doing, not just to me, but to all of us. . . . You believe me, honey, don’t you?”