Night, Neon

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Grunting atop her—Oh!—uh!—uh …

  For a panicked moment Juliana couldn’t breathe. Crushed by the man’s weight that was dense, compact, like clayey earth. Then like a frantic animal she managed to squirm out from beneath him, yanking down the T-shirt, with outspread fingers trying to shield herself where he’d torn the panties, but by this time Mr. Hermann too was on his feet, chagrined, backing off, dazed, muttering to himself words Juliana could not decipher but understood were not directed toward her. With both hands he brushed his unkempt hair back from his forehead, panting as if he’d been running, angry-sounding, unable to catch his breath.

  Juliana stammered for him to leave her alone, please go away and leave her alone, she wouldn’t tell anyone Juliana promised, begged, by anyone meaning only just Mrs. Hermann of course and so hearing this Mr. Hermann laughed harshly, as if Juliana had said something meant to be funny, or so stupid that it was funny.

  Hesitating, then deciding. Deciding no, not worth the risk.

  Adjusted his clothing, gave another brisk swipe to his hair, lurched to the door, and was gone.

  Soon then, Juliana heard footsteps directly over her head, heels coming down hard on the low ceiling.

  Gone! It was over as swiftly as it had begun.

  She was weak with relief. She was smiling, a sick sort of smile, with relief. Looking then for a way to secure the lock at the door, but there appeared to be none, nor was there a double lock at the door leading into the interior of the house, so Juliana dragged a chair to this door, hoping to secure it, like a character in a movie. To secure a door with a chair like this was somehow funny.

  Trying to comprehend exactly what had happened, and what it meant, what had happened.

  Juliana would be most struck by how quickly the assault had happened, how rapid the transformation from playfulness to actual hurt and a threat of greater hurt, recalling the ordeal in the college boy’s car behind the Blue Moon Tavern years ago, exactly that, and then too the smell of the other’s breath, hot, hissing breath, drunkenness.

  No way to protect herself. If she’d screamed …

  Something with which to strike him. Hurt him.

  Something sharp, a knife. A tool of some kind, like a screwdriver.

  But then reasoning: How could she? How, hurting him, would she not be hurting herself?

  The heavy footsteps above her head faded. Mr. Hermann was ascending to the upper floor of the house where (probably) Mrs. Hermann had fallen asleep watching TV, wine bottle and glass on her bedside table.

  He was drunk, he didn’t mean it—he likes me …

  Juliana lay awake through the remainder of the night. Telling herself that Irving Hermann did like her, at least when sober, Irving Hermann liked her, he’d always smiled at her in an affable sort of way, never had she noticed her employer really seeing her, not in any overtly sexual way, until this night.

  Awake, she lay hot-skinned beneath the sheet that felt coarse to her sensitive skin, aroused in a way she could not understand was sexual, or rather knowing it had to be sexual, yet could not understand such arousal, such yearning, a wish to plead to the man for him to forgive her, no, for him to apologize to her, to beg her forgiveness for how he’d touched her, he’d hurt her, did he not understand how he’d hurt her?

  In the morning her employer would apologize to her, Juliana thought. The prospect excited her, for it was rare in her life that any adult apologized to her or seemed even to have noticed that she had been insulted.

  Hey. Sorry.

  Okay.

  Is it—okay?

  Yes.

  But next morning Irving Hermann didn’t come downstairs for breakfast while Juliana was there, taking care of the children. Mrs. Hermann, too, came downstairs late.

  Scarcely did Juliana glimpse Mr. Hermann at all that day, hearing footsteps on the stairs, muffled voices at a distance.

  There were just a few bruises on Juliana’s face, forearms, wrist, and these were easily hidden. Makeup, sleeves. Hair combed slantwise across her forehead. Mrs. Hermann’s sharp eye saw nothing, Mrs. Hermann suspected nothing. In the maid’s room, when she returned at noon from the beach with the children, Juliana was surprised, though not terribly surprised, to see several bills slid partway beneath the pillow on her bed.

  Fifty-dollar bills, unique in her experience. How many?

  Five, no six. Six!

  He would never approach her again, Juliana knew. Never would he enter the maid’s room again.

  Still, Juliana found a screwdriver in one of the kitchen drawers and hid it in her bureau. Clumsy weapon, not really sharp, but if she ever needed it, it might save her life …

  But soon then, as if the encounter in the maid’s room had been a turning point and not—as Juliana should have presumed—irrelevant to her employers’ marriage, the couple began to quarrel openly.

  Not just muffled voices behind shut doors. Now wicked exchanges like TV dialogue. Escalating profanity, shocking to Juliana’s ear, in the mouths of the well-to-do adults who were her employers.

  Abruptly, Irving Hermann appeared at the house on the canal at times unpredictable to Juliana. No longer did he drive out from Philadelphia for the weekend; now he might appear midweek, not to stay in the house, but (evidently) to stay in a motel nearby in order to see the children, whom he took out for meals or onto the yacht or swimming at the club. There were phone calls, muffled pleas of Mrs. Hermann.

  Renee was her name: Renee Hermann. Juliana thought it was a sad name, not a name she’d have wanted for herself. And never Mrs—Juliana did not want Mrs.

  Mrs. Hermann began to have difficulty waking in the morning. Half dressing, dragging herself from bed, her face not yet made up, pale, flaccid, accusing. When Mrs. Hermann finally entered the kitchen—(long after Juliana had fed the children)—there was the risk of objects clattering to the floor, cutlery, glassware. Plates slipped from Renee Hermann’s fingers, shattered on the floor. Mrs. Hermann cursed, as crude and swift as any man, any of the guys with whom Juliana drank in the late evening, as furious and despairing as Irving Hermann himself.

  The little girl cried petulantly, the boy ran wild, crazed. Their mother screamed at them but otherwise made no attempt to discipline them; that fell to Juliana, the older sister, the stepsister, whom no one had to obey or respect. Juliana was cautious of chasing the boy, fearing that he would turn and pummel her with his hard, little fists, he’d bare his glistening incisors at her, eyes flashing white-rimmed above the iris, like Mr. Hermann’s eyes when he’d straddled Juliana in triumph, flat on her back in the bed.

  More often now, Mrs. Hermann drank during the day, not just at the yacht club (where all the wives and mothers drank, no harm to it), but by herself, in the house. In the kitchen. In the bedroom. Carelessly Mrs. Hermann swallowed pills and sent Juliana to the drugstore to pick up more pills. With unseemly haste all this seemed to be happening, the Hermanns’ marriage breaking up like ice melting, breaking into chunks, and these chunks melting. Of course the fissures had been there previously but not visible (to Juliana’s eyes); even Mrs. Hermann had not seemed to know, to be genuinely surprised, outraged. Juliana tried to feel sympathy for the woman, though impatience too—What did you think was going on? Couldn’t you guess?

  She could not comprehend the sexual nature of a marriage. She had no idea, totally she was mystified. Would not Mrs. Hermann have sensed—something?

  Maybe the Hermanns hadn’t made love in years. Maybe not since the little girl was born. Maybe that was it. If she’d had a baby, Juliana thought with a little shiver of disgust, she wouldn’t want to make love again for a long, long while.

  The kind of lovemaking Juliana had experienced, somewhat rough, tentative but rough, inexpert, thrusting, a kind of pummeling, had left her insides chafed and raw; imagining the bloodied state of the uterine canal, the vagina, after childbirth, left her faint-headed. Just—no.

  Hardly the nanny’s fault, her employers’ melting-away marriage, yet Juliana fe
lt obscurely to blame. She wasn’t the showgirl blonde with the glittering eyelids in The Sand Bar, but—almost—she could imagine that she was that girl, a version of that girl. And maybe Irving Hermann—“Irv”—had been one of those married men who brought drinks for Juliana without Juliana’s realizing; sometimes in the febrile night she felt the man’s fingers at the nape of her neck, stroking and kneading. Started off gentle, teasing, then turned hard, hurtful. She heard his low, teasing, bemused voice. Sweetie! She heard the guttural moans, grunts. She felt a rippling sensation pass through her body in the region of her groin, a sharp sensation in her breasts, a sort of misery, an anguish that left her weak, faint.

  She’d secreted away the (six) fifty-dollar bills. She would tell no one, for who was there to tell? No one.

  Frequently, by day, Juliana encountered men—to her, “older” men—who resembled Irving Hermann: not tall, compactly built, dark-tanned, in white polo shirts, white cord trousers, shorts, prescription sunglasses, so that their eyes were hidden. Once, on a gusty stretch of ocean beach where she was walking alone while the children were (in theory at least) taking their late-afternoon naps and Mrs. Hermann was drinking in her bedroom and watching daytime TV, Juliana stammered—H-Hello? Mr. Hermann?—but the man in T-shirt and shorts passed by, arrogant and indifferent to her, not hearing.

  After a long day of telephone calls, Mrs. Hermann drew Juliana aside from the children to ask bluntly—Did my husband ever touch you, Juliana? Did he ever come into your room? Did he say—things—certain things—to you? You can tell me now, but Juliana shook her head no, certainly no. A guilty flush came into her face, but Mrs. Hermann did not seem to notice.

  These days, the household so unsettled, it would have been natural to ask Mrs. Hermann where her husband was. Yet Juliana could not ask.

  At The Sand Bar she saw such men, these were older, married men, possibly they were divorced men, in their forties, fifties, even older—men older than Juliana’s father, older than Irving Hermann. Perhaps she was attracted to them, but only “attracted”—she knew to avoid them, she would not accept drinks from them, shaking her head, laughing Nooo. Don’t think so.

  Like sharks they waited. Out in the waves, dark fins obscured by the froth.

  Rumors you’d hear …

  But no: not in Harbor Island, an affluent, upscale town on the Jersey Shore.

  Elsewhere, farther south in Atlantic City, that was where the murdered women began to be found that summer, dumped bodies naked and partly decomposed, banner headlines in local newspapers—prostitutes.

  In all, eight prostitutes discovered in a marsh behind a notorious motel in a derelict neighborhood of Atlantic City.

  Are you certain, Juliana? My husband—Irving—did not? Ever?

  Pleading with Juliana Say yes! Tell me.

  Pleading with Juliana Say no! Spare me.

  Juliana repeated the words she’d rehearsed. Stammering out of what might be interpreted as embarrassment, avoiding the woman’s angry, blood-veined eyes. No, Mrs. Hermann.

  But Mrs. Hermann persisted: Did you see him with other women? Don’t lie, don’t you dare lie to me.

  Finally, beginning to be nasty—Did he pay you off? Did you take money from him? Do you think I’m a fool? You—and him …

  Soon after this, the summer ended for Juliana. Three weeks before Labor Day.

  Mrs. Hermann gave notice to Juliana: her employment was ended, she would receive one more week’s salary, that was all. Her transportation home would be provided.

  No, Mrs. Hermann said, waving her beringed hands, no no. There was nothing to discuss.

  Juliana was disappointed, wounded. Her wonderful job on Harbor Island!

  True, she’d disliked the job. She’d disliked the people. (Except for the little girl, but there were times when she disliked the girl, too.) She’d loved Harbor Island, though.

  The Sand Bar. Absolutely, red-flashing neon in the windows of The Sand Bar.

  She was losing about half her salary, but she’d gained a (secret) sum from Irving Hermann, of which Mrs. Hermann could not know.

  So quickly everything was ending!—what to tell her friends? Her mother?

  The beautiful summerhouse was being shut up. Weeks ahead of time. The children were dismayed, unhappy. Grimly Mrs. Hermann spoke on the phone about putting the house on the market, not to rent but to sell. She never wanted to return to Harbor Island. She and the children were returning to Philadelphia at once, she’d hired one of the young men to drive them.

  Seeing Juliana standing uncertainly, Mrs. Hermann might say—Oh, you! Are you still here?

  Packing her things in the cramped little maid’s room that overlooked the canal. Trying not to cry, rubbing her neck. By now, no bruises remained.

  Close up, the canal was less beautiful than she liked to recall, oil spills marred the rippling surface, droppings of gulls were everywhere on the boardwalk, but Juliana would long remember the slapping of waves at the wide beach at Harbor Island, the sky at the eastern horizon lightning at dawn, that foolish tremor of hope in the heart at the sight of the red neon sign—THE SAND BAR.

  So quickly Harbor Island had ended, and what had it meant?

  4.

  MONEY BAR in flashing red neon. In fact the name was Monkey Bar, but the k had burned out.

  Here too were tropical drinks, gaily colored cocktails with little fluted umbrellas, cinnamon sticks, lime slices, grapefruit. Gin, vodka. Tequila, she’d never tasted before. Licking her lips, waiting for the rush she knew would be coming.

  Each time, the rush is a little less. Like caffeine in the morning. Nicotine. Still, the promise of flashing neon was an unfailing summons to her blood.

  At the Mon ey Bar, where the walls were covered in glossy posters of tropical/ jungle scenes. Cavorting monkeys with curlicue tails. Monkeys in red livery busboy costumes. Monkeys upright, drinking toasts to one another, paws white-gloved and so resembling hands. A mirror running the length of the bar all but hidden by glittering bottles so that it was an achievement to locate her own face there, a small but essential piece in a jigsaw puzzle.

  Juliana liked the raffish Mon ey Bar because it was far downtown, miles from campus. A place where you understood you would be lonely, because you were alone. Other bars, taverns, places nearer campus, you’d be jammed at the bar with many others shrieking with laughter and so your loneliness would seem more unnatural. More acute. Stuck listening to some guy speaking loudly into your face, spilling beer on you, glancing and grinning at his guy friends. Ramshackle houses on Fraternity Row, deafening rock music and drunk guys, girls careening in high heels, hours from wondering how they will get back to their residence halls. Sickening smell of vomit discovered on the front of your own clothing … By the end of freshman year, Juliana had had enough of that.

  There was kid drinking, binge drinking, and there was serious adult drinking. She wasn’t interested in kid stuff.

  Strange how all her life, after the Blue Moon Tavern, she’d never been a kid again. If a kid is trust, if a kid is naïve and stupid, Juliana wasn’t one of those.

  At the Mon ey Bar, patrons were older. Never any guys Juliana’s age—a relief. She liked being the youngest person in the bar. That was a distinction, flattering to her. Men were protective of her, if indeed they noticed her. The Mon ey Bar was attached to a staid old hotel called the Commodore, which gave it a classy air. The taciturn bartender came to know Juliana by name, but greeted her with only a curt nod when she entered the bar. He was her father’s age, thick, dark, oiled hair like an actor in a 1950s movie.

  Worse comes to worst, he’d protect her. She knew.

  At the Mon ey Bar her senior year, she’d had good times. Basic premise of a bar like this is that no one knows you, judges you. And usually you don’t pay for any but your first drink, sometimes not even that. Being so young, reasonably good-looking, Juliana never had to worry, she could arrive with just a few dollars and never reach for her wallet. Older men felt privileged to b
uy her a drink—“no strings attached”—which wouldn’t have been the case with asshole frat boys.

  No strings attached. The phrase made Juliana smile. What did it mean? She didn’t like strings attached to anything.

  In the Mon ey Bar she met interesting people: “characters.” Not exclusively men, one or two fascinating women, but usually men of course. Once, an older, white-haired gentleman with soft, shadowed eyes, alone at the bar nursing a drink when Juliana arrived, his eyes moved upon her at once, not smiling but staring, as if he might stare at her with impunity but she couldn’t see him; when Juliana glanced at him he remained stiff and unsmiling, observing her intensely. Juliana hadn’t felt frightened by the man but somehow privileged, honored. As if he knows me. Even if he doesn’t.

  She was drinking gin and tonic. Cool, clear. Left her clear-minded. She’d arrived at the Mon ey Bar at about ten p.m., a weeknight. She would leave by eleven thirty. She measured her drinks, took care not to drink too much. Girls she knew at the university came back from dates drunk, slurring their words, stumbling, clothing disheveled and faces swollen, God knew what had happened to them, had been done to them. Juliana felt pity for girls who couldn’t drink, contempt. If they’d been forced to have sex while drunk, it was (technically) rape, but they would never acknowledge such an incident, pretend they didn’t remember. Or, indeed, they didn’t remember. Juliana would never find herself in such a situation; she knew how to drink.