Night, Neon

by Joyce Carol Oates

  “Oh, I guess—mostly films by Jim Jarmusch …”

  “Who?”

  “Jim Jarmusch.”

  “Jar-munsch?”

  “Jarmusch.”

  Juliana laughed, as if she were being tickled.

  “What’s his nationality, this Jar-musch?”

  “American.”

  “Yes, but what kind of American? Semitic?”

  During this exchange Gordon was quiet. Excluded from the conversation, from time to time checking his cell phone.

  Not checking for email, Juliana knew. Checking the time, the weather, the constellations. News bulletins.

  Oh, why wasn’t Gordon more assertive? Juliana was feeling vexed with her fiancé. How readily he’d surrendered her to his domineering father, as if out of spite.

  “My dear, I see that you are not—yet—wearing an engagement ring. Is that deliberate?”

  “Is it deliberate? I think—I don’t think—we’ve been thinking about it …”

  Juliana turned to Gordon, who was staring at his cell phone.

  “ … we aren’t conventional, I guess. We haven’t discussed it.”

  “Bullshit, my dear,” Mr. Kechel said affably. “You don’t believe that yourself.”

  “Believe what? That we aren’t conventional?”

  “If you are to be married, you must be engaged. That is the convention.”

  Then, with a wide smile: “Why don’t we look for one tomorrow? I’ll be staying over, you know. There must be a decent jewelry store in this hick town.”

  Juliana laughed again, not certain what to think. Was Mr. Kechel serious? Gordon seemed scarcely to be listening.

  “Do you like diamonds, my dear? Emeralds? Sapphires?”—it wasn’t clear if Norman Kechel was teasing.

  Juliana had no idea how to reply. The rich man’s self-confidence was intimidating to her, unsettling.

  Their table was booked in the hotel steak house for eight p.m., but Mr. Kechel was in no hurry to curtail the levity of the Mon ey Bar, where more patrons, mainly men, were entering, seating themselves at the bar, facing the glittering wall of bottles.

  How like an altar, such a wall of bottles. Juliana had not so clearly noticed in the past.

  Wishing she were alone, in the Mon ey Bar. So much easier in life, alone.

  Most of the patrons of the Mon ey Bar were men of Mr. Kechel’s age, social class. They were possibly businessmen. Travelers. This was his kind of bar, Norman Kechel told Juliana—“Somewhere between classy and sleazy.” Overpriced, to keep out riffraff and frat boys. High-quality whiskey, scotch, bourbon. Impressive. Like the dour old Commodore Hotel, with fifteen-foot ceilings and cramped bathrooms, old-style bathtubs with dripping showers. Marble floors, antique chandeliers. The hotel was the real thing, even if nobody much wanted the real thing any longer.

  “My room smells like somebody blew out his brains there. Not recently—nineteen twenty-nine.”

  Juliana laughed, though the humor of this remark was lost upon her. Was nineteen twenty-nine the stock market crash? The start of the Great Depression? How old was Norman Kechel? She liked the man’s low-keyed, deadpan humor. He could be on late-night TV, muttering innuendos out of the corner of his mouth. Unlike his earnest son, he liked to drink and made no secret of it. Indeed, Norman Kechel was a drinker. Must have made his money as a younger man, when he took that sort of thing seriously, and now he was happiest in a dim-lit neon place like the Mon ey Bar, sipping a whiskey and chewing stale nuts that left his fingers covered in salt. In the long, horizontal mirror behind the bar his blunt face bobbed, as flushed and amorphous as an undersea life-form.

  That the man was a drinker, Juliana understood. She knew Norman Kechel intuitively, from the inside. Yet it was crucial to her that Norman Kechel not quite guess how kindred the two of them were.

  Counting each sip of the strawberry daiquiri. Calculating when she might plausibly order another.

  But no, maybe not. Maybe wait for dinner in the restaurant, have a glass of wine then, or two. Mr. Kechel would insist upon excellent wine, a treat for Juliana.

  When Gordon excused himself to use the men’s room, Mr. Kechel shocked Juliana by laying his hand on her hand and pressing it firm against the tabletop. “How on earth did you meet my son, dear? You’re far too beautiful for him.”

  Juliana laughed, blushing.

  “You’re far too sexual for him.”

  Wanting to yank her hand away from beneath the man’s hand but not wanting to offend him or draw attention to herself. The taciturn bartender, keeping an eye on their party, would notice.

  “He’s a very lucky young man, my son. Oblivious as all hell.”

  Juliana had no idea how to reply, though no reply would seem to mean acquiescence.

  “You love him, eh? You’re sleeping with him? Since when?”

  Juliana shook her head. This was going too far. Now she did extricate her hand from beneath his as he murmured an (insincere?) apology—“Hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.”

  Juliana, flush-cheeked, made no reply.

  “Did I offend? That was not my intention.”

  When Gordon returned, it was nearly eight thirty. The young couple had to convince Mr. Kechel that they should move into the dining room now, before the restaurant kitchen closed.

  Mr. Kechel agreed, reluctantly. A waiter carried their drinks to a table in the adjoining room, as stately and dour as the Mon ey Bar had been raffish and rowdy.

  “Okay, kids. Order anything you like on the menu, within reason. The old man’s paying the bill, right?”

  Juliana ordered filet of sole, daintiest of white fishes. Mr. Kechel, “rare” plank steak, and Gordon a turkey platter with stuffing, mashed potatoes.

  “More drinks, kids? No? Just me? Hey.”

  At dinner it was decided, by Norman Kechel, that the three of them shop for a “suitable” engagement ring the next day. Of course, Norman would be paying for the ring.

  “The least I can do, welcoming such a fresh-faced young woman into our family.”

  Fresh-faced. These words seemed vaguely mocking, silly. Were not all faces of the living fresh?

  Plans were imprecise and improbable, and Juliana was hardly surprised when in the morning a text came to her from Gordon; he wouldn’t have time that afternoon to look for a ring, they would have to postpone. Of course, it was a school day: Gordon had a three-hour graduate seminar in international finance that afternoon. Juliana had two classes, which she didn’t mind missing: art history and psychology, both lectures. No sooner had Juliana agreed to a postponement than she had a call from Norman Kechel, who informed her that their plans had not been postponed—“Not yours and mine.”

  It would be a surprise for Gordon, Norman Kechel told her. Choosing a beautiful ring by themselves. Of course, Juliana would select the ring. He, the father of the groom, would merely purchase it.

  Juliana was uncertain how to reply. She hadn’t given much thought to an engagement ring until Mr. Kechel had brought up the subject, and now she’d begun to anticipate a ring … Mr. Kechel was sounding jaunty, ebullient at eleven a.m. Juliana wondered if the older man had had his first drink of the day. His voice was as smooth as the smoothest whiskey poured over ice, and there was no hint of the preposterous nature of what he was suggesting.

  When Juliana offered the weak excuse of having no way to get downtown except a city bus, Mr. Kechel arranged for a taxi to pick her up at her residence and bring her to the Commodore, where she was to meet him, not in the lobby, but in his room on the fourth floor. “In your room? Really?”—Juliana laughed at the man’s effrontery. “I’ll leave the door ajar,” Kechel said, “just in case.” Just in case—what? Juliana had no intention of going to Kechel’s room, she would call him from the lobby. She dressed carefully in a white linen jacket, red-striped scarf, pressed dark slacks, and good sandals. She did not look like a college girl, rather more a young professional woman or a model. Brushed her chestnut hair until it shone and bristled
about her head with static electricity.

  Juliana was curious about what would happen between her and Kechel. She did not really believe that anything would happen. Through their strained dinner Kechel had cast bemused glances at her, and she’d tried to ignore the intensity and hungry intimacy of his gaze. He’d overridden her choice of filet of sole and insisted that she order filet mignon—“A women’s meat.”

  He’d all but cut pieces of the meat for her on her plate. Several times he’d called her “Princess.” He’d ordered a second glass of wine for her, over her protests. (Juliana did not drink this second glass. Pointedly.) At the table with them, Gordon sat silent, sullen, eating his bland turkey dinner and affecting an air of indifference, unconcern; on the table beside him he’d set his cell phone, which was registering notifications, at which he did little more than glance.

  Afterward Juliana asked Gordon why had he ignored her at dinner, and Gordon said she’d seemed to be enjoying herself pretty much. Why’d she require him?

  “Your father talked to me, mostly. I had no choice. But you didn’t talk to either of us. Why was that?”

  But all Gordon could do was repeat, Juliana had seemed to be enjoying herself pretty much. He hadn’t wanted to interrupt.

  This new edge to her fiancé. Juliana felt a stab of dismay, dislike.

  Next day, Juliana arrived at the Commodore Hotel in the early afternoon and, as Mr. Kechel had suggested, called his room from a phone in the lobby. After three rings Kechel answered and told Juliana in his bright affable voice—“Come right up, dear! I’ve been waiting.”

  Juliana demurred. Why didn’t he come down to meet her.

  “A drink is in order, dear. We have privacy here.”

  “If you want a drink, Mr. Kechel, we could have a drink in the Monkey Bar.”

  Juliana had meant to sound playful. Realizing belatedly that Mr. Kechel probably had no idea that the hotel bar was called the Monkey Bar.

  He’d prefer up in his room, Kechel said curtly—“I’m waiting, dear.”

  Juliana laughed, annoyed. Why should she come upstairs?

  There was a pause. Had Kechel hung up the phone? He had!

  Juliana felt her cheeks smart. She would take an elevator to the fourth floor, but maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t go shopping with the old man for an engagement ring after all.

  Upstairs, Juliana saw that the door to Kechel’s room was ajar. On the doorknob a sign—DO NOT DISTURB.

  “Hello?”—Juliana pushed the door open. She was prepared to be amused, to laugh.

  The room was indeed spacious, with a small adjoining sitting room, a wainscoted ceiling. The blinds had not been opened. The furnishings were opulent, stately; the look of the room slovenly. The king-size bed was enormous; a heavy satin bedspread had been pulled up negligently over rumpled bedclothes. Breakfast things on a tray, and on a sideboard an opened bottle of whiskey. From the minibar, Juliana supposed.

  From the left, as Juliana entered the room, Norman Kechel approached her quickly, silently. Without a word of greeting, he gripped her shoulder, pulled her farther into the room, shut the door. His mouth plunged at hers, hard, sucking like a pike’s.

  Kechel was unshaven. Shoeless, barefoot—shorter than Juliana recalled. His breath tasted of whiskey but was sour, not sweet.

  “Good morning, Julie—Juli-an-ya!”

  Pushing her against a bureau. Juliana’s back against the bureau. She was laughing, trying to laugh, this was so absurd, such an assault, a man so much older than she, what was he thinking? She did not actively resist, though she was certainly not compliant. Thinking—I am not really here. Does he think that I am here? Not me!

  She felt both incensed and yet gay, giddy. She might have been drinking with the old man, just the two of them, through the morning. She might have been explaining herself to Gordon, or to any observer. The raffish atmosphere of the Mon ey Bar had spilled out into daylight and prevailed now everywhere: nothing mattered, or could be made to matter. Monkeys cavorted, monkeys were laughable. Against the insides of her eyelids, a seductive-red glow of neon.

  She’d wakened that morning with a faint, dull headache. The hanging-over it was, of a pleasurable high.

  What is a hangover but a kind of memory, deep in the brain.

  Kechel seemed to be assessing Juliana with a low growl of approval. He was one who liked to bestow such words upon women—beautiful, gorgeous. Juliana understood that it was thrilling to him, the man, the elder, doling out such compliments, assessing. For he was the one to assess others, he himself would not be judged. He gripped Juliana’s shoulders harder, taking possession. He began kissing her, harder. This time he forced her mouth open, the intention was to overcome, to hurt. She might have shoved him away—an elbow in the fatty chest—in the very heart that is the heart of the beast—but she did not.

  They would search for a ring together, and it would be a beautiful ring. How many thousands of dollars would the groom’s father pay. Gordon would be impressed. Gordon would be jealous. Juliana felt a shudder pass through her, contempt for the weak son who could not stand up to his father. In that instant Gordon Kechel disappeared: disintegrated.

  If I marry the son, Juliana thought, this will be the understanding between us.

  A wild sort of gaiety came over her. A gaiety of desperation, profound loss.

  She felt powerless before him. The authority of the older man. It was privilege he exerted, this authority. She, the son’s fiancée, was part of his privilege.

  His hands clutched at her hands, she could not push him away.

  He was walking her somewhere. As you’d help a child walk. But Juliana did not need help. She was not drunk. Her breath came quick, in anticipation. Apprehension. She’d kicked off her shoes. She was shorter than the man, this was good. He would not be threatened by her, he would not be tempted to hurt her. He could lean over her, commanding her. She instructed herself—I can slip away from him at any time. This is just a game. This is not serious.

  They were at the enormous bed. Juliana was curious now, what would happen. She was not drunk but was feeling giddy-gay, drunken. Her heart raged in contempt of the weak, younger man who might have been observing the scene with horror. Too late now, too late to turn back. No choice but to loosen her clothes before the impatient, fumbling man could tear them.

  Kechel had been drinking, she recognized him as a drinker. He would be her father-in-law, they would be drinkers together. Except she would keep her secret from him, if she could. For as long as she could.

  In his vanity Kechel turned from Juliana, removing his clothes, or most of his clothes, self-conscious of his body, the body of a man of late middle age. Juliana caught a glimpse of a fatty-muscled chest, a broad chest covered in gray hairs, pale, flaccid skin, loose flesh at the waist.

  She felt a thrill of superiority. She was young, the man was not young. Though Juliana did not much value young, she understood that the older man did.

  Her own body was smooth, slender, as supple as a dancer’s body. Her breasts, her waist, the curve of her thighs—graceful, desirable. There was something mocking in the young female body, its negligent beauty. Kechel was the witness. Kechel was strongly attracted to her, yet Juliana could sense his resentment of her. Flesh quivered at his belly and at his groin. The fat slug of his groin was slow to thicken with blood. Kechel urged her toward the bed and onto the bed, and Juliana did not resist. A kind of paralysis had overcome her, a kind of anesthesia. Her body was something she merely inhabited; she could not defend it from harm.

  With little ceremony Kechel parted her legs, her beautiful, slender legs, scarcely was he aware of Juliana now as he labored to summon hardness from some netherworld of the soul that he might ram himself into her. His grunting came more quickly. Perspiration from his straining face fell upon Juliana’s face. And there was Juliana’s head being pushed against the headboard of the bed. Oh!—oh … This was too raw, she could not bear such rawness without a drink. Drinks.

&
nbsp; A vision came to her of someone listening in the adjacent room. A middle-aged woman, an embittered woman. Mrs. Kechel, Gordon’s mother, forced to hear the mechanical rhythmic thudding, the panting of the male, impersonal, brainless …

  Kechel groaned, falling on Juliana. His tensed muscles softened, collapsed. After a dazed moment he muttered something Juliana could not interpret, perhaps not meant for her ear.

  Heaving himself, panting, from the damp, tangled sheets, staggering to the sideboard to pour drinks: straight whiskey. Juliana had no intention of drinking straight whiskey at this hour of the day. Juliana had no intention of drinking straight whiskey at this hour of the day in a hotel room with the (naked) father of her fiancé.

  Somehow Juliana had become naked. She’d allowed the man to reduce her to himself—naked.

  They were drinkers together. He’d seemed to know. The previous night, he’d known. But she could not acknowledge it, she would not.

  The fat, hard slug had hurt her, she hadn’t been prepared for its force. Misjudging the man because he was decades older than she and wheezed so piteously. But harder and rougher than she’d anticipated. Kechel was sitting on the edge of the bed now, still breathing heavily, stroking her thigh. There appeared to be a kind of delirium in his face, a flushed, dazed expression.

  Wanting to ease away from the weight of the man’s hand but not wishing to risk insulting him. Juliana knew from past experience that an affable man is likely to be the most easily insulted. No, you did not want to arouse the enmity of the affable man.

  The fat, hard slug at his groin was soft and flaccid now, harmless. A sort of oily-milky secretion had been released from it. Taking the whiskey glass from Kechel’s fingers, Juliana considered striking the ugly slug with something. Kicking with her foot. But Juliana’s foot was bare, the bare sole of her foot would not seriously injure the fat, thick thing. Better not try to injure it if you could not destroy it altogether. Juliana laughed, for this is the wisdom of the ages.

  Not intending even to taste the whiskey, Juliana found herself sipping it. She wasn’t an expert in hard liquor, but she guessed that this was good, expensive whiskey. Out of the minibar, double the usual price.