Night, Neon

by Joyce Carol Oates

  The father would not have believed for an instant. The father would not have needed to smell the Deke’s sweat or any other odor of a young male body. The father would not have needed to see the emerging bruises, he’d have understood how boys put their hands on girls like the daughter if they can. But the father was not home. Not that night and not other nights. The father had begun to keep a distance between himself and the children, it was not understood why. Why did he not want them nearer? Why did he not love Juliana so much any longer? Because she was sixteen? Because she wasn’t a little girl any longer? The mother was drinking, too. Cold beer out of the refrigerator. Saying It’s kind of a lonely life after you’re married. You don’t really have your girlfriends then—they’re all married. They’ve got husbands, kids. In-laws. They can’t see you when you need them or even talk. If you were close to a sister or a cousin, that’s basically over. You can’t go out in the evening like guys do after work, hanging out in a tavern getting a load on. You do that, the marriage is over. They fuck you, then they fuck you over. The mother hiccupped, as if her own words had startled her, shocked her. Juliana was pretending to be falling asleep, no need to register hearing. In the darkened bedroom the mother sat on the edge of the bed, the bedsprings creaking beneath her weight, until Juliana really did fall asleep.

  All night long against her smarting eyelids, flickering blue neon …

  Blue Moon Blue Moon Blue Moon

  Not long afterward the bad thing happened to a girl, but not to Juliana.

  Seventeen-year-old girl badly beaten, raped, left unconscious at the edge of the Blue Moon Tavern parking lot, local media never named the girls, underage girls, but it was known that this girl was from the next town, not from Juliana’s high school, no one Juliana or her friends knew. The name, they would know, for it was a name passed about, sullied and scorned, disdained, even laughed at, her clothes torn from her, discovered unconscious, naked, no memory of what had been done to her, no arrests ever made.

  The Blue Moon Tavern was shut down pending an investigation into charges of serving alcohol to minors, eventually reopened under new management and a new name, but Juliana did not ever return.

  3.

  Pulsing red neon—THE SAND BAR.

  Cruising the strip. Ocean Avenue, at the Jersey shore. The summer before her sophomore year at the university. After dark a glittering succession of bars, lounges, cafés, motels. Flashing neon: red, blue, purple, green, stretching for thirteen undulating miles south to Atlantic City. Just to see the Harbor Island strip at night, nearing midnight, ceaseless headlights like a waterfall, blaring of car radios, slapping of waves on the beach, and the sky above the Atlantic ridged and rippled with translucent clouds through which a drunken moon sailed …

  After her employers’ children were in bed, her duties for the interminable day completed, she’d hurry out, eager to spend time with new friends at The Sand Bar.

  Mostly girls like herself. Sometimes, guys. Sometimes, older men.

  Gradually she’d become accustomed to living away from home and from her mother’s scrutiny. (Her university was Rutgers-Newark, to which she commuted with several others in a car pool.) She’d had enough of being mothered—couldn’t breathe. Daddy had moved out of the house. Juliana missed no one there, had become negligent in calling her mother. Nothing so boring as being missed. What could you say if you didn’t miss another person in turn?

  The new mother-presence in Juliana’s life was Mrs. Hermann, who’d hired Juliana as a live-in nanny for three small children but expected other work from her as well: meal preparation, kitchen cleanup, housecleaning, hauling trash to a Dumpster thirty feet away. Something about Mrs. Hermann was grating to Juliana, the very composure of the woman’s voice, low, assured, the voice of female complacency, self-satisfaction. Mrs. Hermann was accustomed to giving orders, you did not want to disappoint her, for instance taking a ridiculous amount of time to wash by hand, delicately by hand, “until they sparkle,” expensive wine and water glasses Mrs. Hermann would not allow in the dishwasher.

  “You wash delicate glasses by hand at your house, don’t you, Juliana?” Mrs. Hermann pointed out, as if it were at all probable that the hired nanny lived in a household in which such expensive, delicate glassware was likely, smiling sternly at Juliana, meaning no irony, certainly not taunting her, taking for granted what was preposterous, and so forcing Juliana to smile and nod foolishly yes, yes, of course, Mrs. Hermann.

  Juliana’s room was a maid’s room on the first floor of the Hermanns’ tri-level house on one of the most beautiful Harbor Island canals, so close by the ocean you could, at night, if you lay very still and listened hard, hear the slapping of the surf. In the room were two doors, one of which opened directly outside onto the canal, no need to make her way through the house, and so in the later evening, after nine p.m., giddy with freedom, Juliana hurried breathless and excited to Ocean Avenue to meet her new friends, like Juliana hired by well-to-do summer residents who owned property on the island. This was happiness! This was possibility.

  Quickly changing her clothes, tank top, shorts, or jeans, putting on makeup, examining herself in a mirror, and liking what she saw, or almost.

  Exhausting to be responsible for young children. Juliana’s face hurt with smiling hard, never losing her temper, never a sarcastic remark of the kind she’d be making at home; here was another mother’s territory, she was a provisional member of the family who could be dismissed at any moment on any pretext. And so she tried, tried very hard; truly she liked the little girl, but truly she’d come to dislike the spoiled older boy who sometimes swiped at her with his fist, actually daring to hit her, and once he’d spat at her like a TV brat, what was his name?—Brad Simpson?—even as Mrs. Hermann blamed her for squabbles among the children and Mr. Hermann, aloof and indifferent, pressed his hands over his ears, blaming them all.

  Yet hurrying to Ocean Avenue, Juliana is suffused with happiness, hope. Glittering waterfall of headlights on the avenue, seductive neon signs identifying bars, taverns, lounges, and the favorite of these was The Sand Bar, where dark-tanned men who’d been sailing or fishing off their yachts stayed until the bar closed, at two a.m. Often, by magic, drinks would appear at the girls’ table—“All paid for”—courtesy of these men.

  Mr. Hermann was a Philadelphia businessman, Juliana knew little more of him and his wife except that they had money, they had things. You could be scornful of the Hermanns’ things, but only if you were not up close to see them and appreciate their quality: classy, steel-colored Mercedes, dazzling-white yacht, the “summer place” that must have cost two million dollars, Juliana calculated. Being a nanny for such a couple was a fluke—Juliana had been recommended by a friend of a friend, what was said of her must have been good, for the job paid twice as much as any other summer job she’d been able to find in Asbury Park. And it was the Jersey Shore, affluent Harbor Island.

  The Hermanns were attractive people, though brusque, bossy. Both were short, compactly built. Mr. Hermann no more than five foot seven, Juliana’s height. She thought of them as hard-shelled beetles, shiny on the outside, alert, wary, insecure in their wealth; something vulnerable about them, yet dangerous, as an overturned beetle, belly exposed, might be vulnerable and yet dangerous, venomous. Mrs. Hermann’s hair was expensively styled, “frosted.” Her fingernails were perfectly manicured, her makeup flawless, Juliana came to dread the woman’s shrewd beetle eyes fixing upon her, tensing of the tight forehead as briskly she gave Juliana orders—Now what I’d like you to do, Juliana, this morning, is …

  In the woman’s mouth the name Juliana sounded like a taunt, mockery—Juli-an-na. The wide, hungry mouth was a crimson slash in the heavily made up face. But always Juliana smiled. Juliana had become practiced at smiling to signal to older women that she was a good girl, not a sarcastic or cynical girl, a girl to be trusted.

  A girl to be trusted with children. A girl to be trusted with a husband.

  Except Juliana had no
real power, only responsibility. The children knew, even the little girl knew. Juliana acquired a way of laughing that was a substitute for swearing, for never was she heard swearing by anyone in the household—not even sighing loudly, sucking in her breath in disgust. She was uneasy in Mrs. Hermann’s presence, yet she melted visibly when Mrs. Hermann praised her to her friends, which Mrs. Hermann had a way of doing, lavishly, like one waving a flag or tossing bills onto a table for a craven waitperson. Mrs. Hermann may even have been boasting of Juliana to the others, attractively groomed women like herself, in their forties, lolling beside the turquoise pool at the Harbor Island Yacht Club, or when Mrs. Hermann turned the crimson-slash mouth upon Juliana at close range, smiling unexpectedly like a generous TV host.

  “Well, Jul-i-an-na! Quite a day we had, didn’t we. You must be wrung dry. You’re looking kind of peaked. You can take the rest of the day off, we’ve got a big day tomorrow …”

  Juliana had much less to do with Mr. Hermann, fortunately. Such a busy man, such an important man, if you overheard Mrs. Hermann’s boastful complaints, it seemed that her husband couldn’t trust any subordinates to oversee his business, which was why he had to spend four nights in Philadelphia through much of the damned summer, driving out to Harbor Island late Friday and returning to Philadelphia very early Monday morning.

  Mr. Hermann’s name was Irving: June had not known any Irving before. There had been no Irving at her high school nor in her hometown. Juliana was sure.

  Irving Hermann was swarthy-skinned, darkly tanned. His dark, wavy hair was coarse yet fussily barbered. His eyes glowed with an indefinable intensity. He had the ebullient bossiness of the very fit shorter man who resents having to look up to meet another’s gaze. His white shirt—(often, Mr. Hermann wore white shirts)—seemed to glow. Oddly too, Mr. Hermann wore long-sleeved shirts even in the heat, cuffs with gold cuff links, a signet ring in the shape of a pyramid, hairs on the backs of his fingers. He was a fastidious dresser, self-conscious, vain. His trousers were seersucker, he might wear a seersucker jacket to the yacht club. White with dark blue stripes. No necktie, the white shirt open at the throat and a spigot of dark hairs showing. He had a way, fussy, particular, of rolling up his shirtsleeves to the elbows, exposing muscled forearms covered in dark hairs, which drew Juliana’s attention as if with a pang of nostalgia (though she didn’t recall that rolling up shirtsleeves had been a habit of her father’s or of any man she’d ever known). It seemed to be more and more frequently that Juliana happened to see Mr. Hermann, or a man who closely resembled him, at The Sand Bar in the later part of the evening: not in the bar area, which was likely to be rowdy and loud, patronized by younger customers, but in the lounge, in one of the candlelit booths where Juliana might glimpse her employer, or someone who resembled him, in the company of a woman, often a quite young woman, no one whom Juliana knew.

  (But was it the same woman or several women? Juliana knew better than to stare.)

  How it happened that Mrs. Hermann remained in the house on the canal on these nights, propped up in the king-size bed, sipping wine and watching TV on an enormous flat screen, in a silky nightgown from which her melon-breasts spilled abundantly—this was a mystery. Most nights when Mr. Hermann was on Harbor Island were spent on the yacht, or on friends’ yachts, or at the yacht club, and Mrs. Hermann dressed for these occasions, made up her face extravagantly, and seemed to be enjoying herself; but other nights, inexplicably, Mrs. Hermann remained at the house while Mr. Hermann turned up at The Sand Bar sometime before midnight in the company of—someone …

  As if entrusted with a precious secret, Juliana did not tell the friends with whom she was drinking. When their conversations swerved onto their employers, Juliana did not volunteer that her employer, Mr. Hermann, or someone who closely resembled him, was in The Sand Bar at that very moment.

  Nights at The Sand Bar—good memories for Juliana. Learning to appreciate high-quality beer, wine spritzers, acquiring certain tastes in wine, even “cocktails”—practice is needed, a degree of poise.

  Drinking with her newfound friends, who were all very funny. And Juliana too, hilariously funny. Girls her approximate age from backgrounds not so different from hers, working-class girls, girls with divorced parents, like herself needing money for college, not above menial labor (laundry, scrubbing toilets), but what the hell, had to be done. They told tales, they laughed riotously. Determined to have a good time on Harbor Island after work hours. The atmosphere was festive, like a tilting deck. Juliana wasn’t old enough to drink legally in New Jersey, but with a borrowed driver’s license she was rarely questioned, most of the bartenders were her friends, also it was a fact that in Harbor Island everyone looked younger than their actual age, middle-aged women like Mrs. Hermann looked a decade younger at least. Especially in dreamy-dim neon-lit places like The Sand Bar.

  Guys often joined them, easing companionably onto bar stools. Guys their own age or older who had summer work on Harbor Island: lifeguards, waiters, marina staff, gas station attendants. Some helped out on yachts, sailboats. Some were personal drivers. The more desirable were SAT tutors, paid lavishly for summer employment. Some few were computer techs, also lavishly paid. Like jellyfish drifting in the currents of summer beside the Atlantic Ocean, these young men seemed slippery and indefinable. It would be a mistake to place any hope in their excited but ephemeral interest, you could not take them seriously—their names, like their faces and hometowns, were interchangeable.

  Then there were older men, married men. Many of these.

  The wedding band was a giveaway—of course. Flash of gold, like the flash of gold cuff links. Sexual thrill, like neon.

  Bills negligently dropped onto the bar at The Sand Bar, a glimpse of a twenty-dollar bill, even a fifty-dollar bill, purchasing for the girls not beer or spritzers, but gaudy fruit concoctions with exotic names—Balinese Sunrise, Strawberry Martini, Kiss Goodbye, El Dorado Vodka Fizz, Atlantic City Blast. Sometimes there were surf-and-turf platters. Onion rings, cocktail olives. One August night, making her way to the women’s room at The Sand Bar not so steady on her feet, Juliana found herself staring at a man in profile, familiar-looking, in one of the dim-lit booths, in the company of a sleek blond female with a showgirl look, tight black spandex top, glitter-dust sprinkled on her eyelids—a face you’d see magnified on an Atlantic City billboard advertising casino gambling. The man turned, glanced toward Juliana; unmistakably, it was Irving Hermann, frowning at her, a grimace of a smile, a warning—Hey. You didn’t see me and I didn’t see you, sweetheart.

  The glamorous blonde was drinking something that resembled a daiquiri. Fruit-colored, peach? Mr. Hermann was drinking a martini.

  In the women’s room Juliana waited several minutes before emerging, making her way back to her friends at the bar like one walking a tightrope, straight and unerring, glancing neither to the left nor to the right.

  She wasn’t drunk, nor with drunken companions. Had to hope that Irving Hermann noticed her good-girl sobriety.

  Soon then leaving The Sand Bar. Not yet seeing Mr. Hermann and his woman friend leave, which was good—possibly, neither had actually seen the other.

  At about two a.m. that night, when she’d been deeply asleep in her bed in the maid’s room, there came a rap of knuckles against the outside door. Juliana woke in alarm, knowing immediately who it was, had to be, rising groggy and apprehensive from her bed and with pounding heart crouched before the door, saying in a pleading voice Who is it?—explaining that she could not open the (locked) door because she was in bed, she wasn’t dressed—Please go away!—but Mr. Hermann had a key (of course: among myriad keys on his key chain) and simply unlocked the door despite Juliana’s pleas. Rudely he switched on the bright overhead light, staring at Juliana, not smiling, but then laughing, at her frightened face perhaps, in a slurred but affable voice saying Sweetie you know that wasn’t me tonight you didn’t see me, right? And I didn’t see you, Juli-an-ya.

  Juliana brushed her hair out
of her eyes. Feeling the risk, the coercion in the man’s gravelly voice, a playful sort of threat and yet an actual threat, the shiny-beetle carapace as hard as steel, yet Juliana managed to sound flirtatious, defiant—Oh it wasn’t? Not you, Mr. Hermann?—nooo?

  Her employer was no taller than Juliana but loomed above her as she stood barefoot a few feet away. Staring frankly at Juliana, as if he’d never really looked at the nanny before and seeing her now, exposed in the too-bright light, flimsy T-shirt and panties in which she slept, no cotton pajamas imprinted with kittens but fabric so thin her taut nipples were visible, pale patch of pubic hair visible, and her naked feet, curling toes, the staring man had to laugh at the cringing girl, a sort of chiding affection, a Daddy sort of affection, reached out to seize the damp nape of her neck, squeezed hard—No, sweetie. You are correct—it wasn’t me.

  Suddenly, no joking. Suddenly, Mr. Hermann was hurting her.

  Instinctively Juliana fought back, squirmed out of the man’s grip. Pushing against him, daring to touch him, her employer, Mr. Hermann, whom she’d never previously confronted in any way, would never dream of touching, suddenly everything was changed, and Mr. Hermann was pushing Juliana back, glaring at her, his breath coming quick.

  Knocking Juliana off balance, onto the bed. Sprawling on her back, helpless and astonished on the bed.

  His hand over her mouth, hard. Gritty flat of his hand.

  Stop! Shut up! I said—shut up.

  Juliana hadn’t realized she was screaming, or trying to scream. So quickly this was happening. Desperate thrashing to throw the man off her, smelling liquor on his breath, still astonished, stunned, how abruptly the playfulness had ended, still Mr. Hermann’s face was contorted in a grin, she heard a grunting kind of laughter as he straddled her, pushed up the T-shirt, tore at the panties. Was it play? (Irving Hermann sometimes tickled his children like this, or almost—rough-playing to make them shriek with laughter, kicking wildly.) Juliana tasted acid at the back of her mouth, panicked threat of vomit even as she tried to draw her (naked) knees up to shield herself from Mr. Hermann, propel him from her, but the man was too heavy, too determined.