Expensive People

by Joyce Carol Oates

“You didn't tell him about me?”

  “Just a little surprise for the kid,” Father said, rubbing his hands and looking busily around. “Ah-hah, I see the painters finished in here. Very nice. Very good taste.”

  Nada touched my forehead. With her cool, soft hands she framed my face and looked at me. “Do you hate me?” she said.

  “Don't talk morbid, please,” Father said, turning back suddenly. “Richard is just a little surprised, as I said. I didn't mean to upset him.”

  I was embarrassed that they could see my heart thudding so violently in my chest. Nada said, “Richard? Are you all right?” and I managed to nod. She embraced me happily as if I'd given the right answer. “Do you love me? Do you forgive me?” she said.

  I told her yes.

  “Do you love me?” she said fiercely.

  I said, “Yes, Nada.”

  “Oh, Nada,” she said, laughing, “we should get rid of that foolish name. It was the first thing you said and I wanted to hang onto it, but it's foolish, your father is right. Richard, I will never leave you again. Never. You know that, don't you?”

  I nodded again and let my eyes close.

  11

  In a day or two we had a ceremony and baptized the new house. This lovely, lovely house that Nada loved so much! “And your father picked it out himself. Your wonderful father!” Nada said. Oh, he was wonderful! There were big white flowers for Nada every day. Then the movers arrived and the furniture procession began again, inward this time, and rooms filled up slowly and the garage filled up with boxes and the basement with furniture that wouldn't be used (Nada wanted many new pieces of furniture), and when everything was settled we had our ceremony. Nada lay on the French love seat that now found its resting place in the hallway, and Father sat at one end so that her long lovely legs could lie across his lap, and I sat, like a little prince, on a stool at their feet, and she wore a green velvet dressing gown, and her hair was long and silky down to her shoulders, and she held the plastic Princess telephone in her graceful fingers and prepared to make calls. I had on my lap the two telephone books.

  In the background was a strain of violin music—Father had requested Mozart. The records were in a jumble and I put on Bartok, knowing Father wouldn't notice the difference. Close about us was the perfumy but civil odor of white roses, Nada's favorites.

  First of all Nada asked me the number of the Cedar Grove Employment Services and she called to request a maid, and before she hung the plastic Princess phone up again a mysterious person was being contacted and would be on her way to us. The first call had been a success! What now? I said the groceries, but Father overruled me by saying, “Better send over a plumber for that bathroom.” And I looked up another number for Nada and she called Cedar Grove Plumbing, and sure enough, in a few minutes someone else was on his way over.

  “And now what?” said Nada. She was regal and soft as any queen. Father couldn't help but stroke the tassels of her robe.

  “The lawn service,” I said.

  “The lawn service it is,” Nada said briskly. She dialed the magic numbers and in no time was connected with the Cedar Grove Green Carpet Lawn Service. “Labyrinth Drive, in the village,” Nada said. “Oh, what do we want, Darling?—my husband says everything. Mowing, fertilizing, shrub and tree spraying, weed and insect spraying. Yes, what? Yes, fungus prevention, everything, edging, thinning, rolling, flattening. The usual. Everything.”

  “Now the Gas Company,” Father said wisely.

  And Nada called the Gas Company.

  “And the Insurance Company.”

  And she called the Badger Insurance Company.

  “And Vernon White, to let his secretary know I'm here.”

  And she called Vernon White, her hair falling over the side of her face.

  “The garbage disposal is broken,” I said.

  “Ah, yes, the garbage disposal.” Nada sighed. She thanked me by touching my hair briefly, then called the Cedar Grove Garbage Disposal Service.

  “And better call the sanitation department. There's a lot of junk out front,” Father said, playing with Nada's silky green tassel.

  And Nada made that call.

  “And all that junk in the basement—better call the Good Will.”

  And Nada called the Good Will, to get rid of our junk.

  “What about the swimming pool?” I said.

  “Too early to clean that yet,” Father pointed out kindly.

  “There's something dead in there, birds or something,” I said. “I looked under the canvas.”

  “They'll keep,” Father said. “Too early for the swimming pool.”

  We all thought for a moment, and Nada said, “I was thinking about school for Richard. St. Ann's?”

  “What's that, not Catholic?”

  “Well, yes. It's a junior and senior high.”

  “Catholic, Nada?”

  “I was just thinking of it.”

  “Well, Honey, I'm not so sure about a Catholic school.”

  Nada smiled at once. “If you aren't sure, Elwood, then I'm not sure either. Cedar Grove Junior High, then?”

  “Absolutely!”

  And I looked up this number for her, and she called the school and made an appointment to bring me in. “Yes, he wants to attend summer school,” Nada said.

  When she hung up Father said, “What about the bank?”

  And Nada called the Cedar Grove Bank of the Commonwealth.

  “A dentist for Buster here?”

  And she called a Dr. Bellow and made an appointment for me.

  “Eyes examined too,” Father said, grinning at me as if I'd tried to put something over on him but hadn't been quick enough. “He needs the works.”

  So Nada called the Cedar Grove Eye Clinic and made another appointment.

  “What about that scabby rash on your feet? Do you still have it, Richard?” Nada said. I had to admit I did. She pursed her lips and looked sorry and said, “Then we'll take you to a skin doctor too.” She called a “skin doctor” and made another appointment.

  “And reservations for dinner tonight, at the Roman Wall?” Father said.

  “Absolutely,” Nada said and dialed that number.

  “Don't forget the Electric Company,” Father said.

  “Not at all,” said Nada, “and while I think of it, the Water Company.” In no time at all she had made both these calls.

  “And the Telephone Company!” Father laughed.

  “That's right too,” said Nada. She dialed the proper number and smiled at us. “How many rooms in our house? I'm not sure, we've just moved in. Five, six bedrooms, I think. What? Oh, we want three or four phones. No, none in the basement. But I don't work in the basement, of course not! Yes. All black. Yes, black, we want to save money. Black.” She hung up. “They're such talkers,” she said, rubbing her offended ear.

  “Why not buzz Armada and tell her you're in town?”

  “Oh, Elwood, she wouldn't be home!”

  “You could try.”

  “Later. And anyway I want to spend more time at home. With you and Richard. I don't want to be going out to lunch all the time.”

  “Ah-hah, I thought of another one: window washers. The windows are absolutely filthy.”

  “Right,” said Nada grimly.

  When she had finished with that call I said, “Now the grocery store,” but Father outbid me by saying in a loud voice, “Now the drugstore. Send over some aspirin. The most expensive kind.”

  And she called the drugstore.

  “And the hi-fi up in the Family Room doesn't work,” Father said.

  Nada called a television and phonograph repair shop.

  “And my lawyer, what's-his-name, Voyd, Maxwell Voyd, to get a little money out of the man who sold me this place. There's some wiring that doesn't work.”

  “But no one will pay, now. Isn't it too late?”

  “We'll see,” said Father.

  So I looked up Mr. Voyd's number for Nada.

  After that call Nada
said, “Before I forget, an appointment for myself, to get my hair cut! Look how long it is!”

  And she called the Cedar Grove House of Beauty.

  “Ah, while I think of it, we need new keys for all the locks,” Father said shrewdly.

  I looked up the number of Cedar Grove Key Makers and Nada called them.

  “Now the groceries?” I said.

  “That pane in the Family Room that's broken, better call about that,” Father said.

  And Nada did that.

  “Someone to clean out the chimneys?”

  “Absolutely”

  “To fix the slate on the roof?”

  “Right again.”

  “Someone to install the chandelier from the other house?”

  “Yes, right.”

  When she finished with all these calls she lay back and pretended to be exhausted. Then she said, “Now, Richard, look up the number of the Continental Market Basket and we will have some groceries!” And she called this exquisite store. “Yes, please, we have a charge account from years and years ago. I want it reactivated. Mrs. Elwood Everett. Yes. Will you please send me over some groceries? It's 4500 Labyrinth Drive, yes. We would like, please, three wonderful steaks, the best you have, and a large jar of bamboo shoots, Huang Brand, and three packages of hors d'oeuvre shells. The kind that look like snails, yes. And from your bakery counter, while I think of it, a nice loaf of French bread and a lemon meringue pie. Is it on special today? That's fine, and—what, Honey?—my husband says to send us a case of shrimp, the big king-sized kind, and a case of boned turkey, any brand, and a case of—what?—Cheerios. Will they keep? And a case of Wash-Wight for the dishwasher—that reminds me, Elwood, the dishwasher isn't working right—and a plastic thing of sponges, you know, all different colors, and some steelwool things for cleaning out. Yes, pots and pans, and my husband says a case of Sylvan Ale, and a case of good cooking sherry, I'm not familiar with the brand names, and a case of red catsup, and a case of Big-Bite Peaches. Oh, moderate-sized cans, I should think, and a case of tabasco sauce, any kind, a case of noodles, that's the kind about the width of a pencil. Yes, that kind, and send us, please, a case of Midget-Treat Pickles—Elwood, just for youl—and five gallons of ice cream, different flavors. What's on special, vanilla? All right, all of vanilla, and three heads of lettuce and half-a-dozen nice bananas, not too ripe, and—what, Richard?—oh, God, yes, milk, plain milk, white milk, and a dozen eggs medium-sized— what, Elwood?—oh, large size. Grade AA, yes. And please send us a case of toilet paper, some pink and some yellow, and a case of tissue, any brand, but pink and yellow, to go with the bathrooms, you know, and a case of Shine-Eeze Floor Polish, the big bottle, and some Teutonic Stewed Tomatoes. No, absolutely no frozen things. In cans if you have them and if not, not. Fine. And two packages of butter. And salt, one container. Yes. Yes. I think that's all. No, don't bother repeating it, just send it over. Thank you so much.”

  When she hung up Father said, “Nada, you're so wonderful!”

  She showed us the tip of her pink tongue and laughed. “I'm back home again and I'm never leaving. Never again!”

  12

  In a week the phone began to ring, Nada began to chat brightly in her old suburban style, people dropped in for cocktails, Nada dashed out in a brilliant pink dress to meet Elwood at someone's house for cocktails, people arrived and took them to the Old Mill Country Club, the delivery boy brought flowers for Nada's first dinner party, a box that was Nada's new late-spring suit, another box that was a surprise for me (not much of a surprise, just a Madras jacket).

  One evening at dinner Nada and Father had this conversation:

  “We'll have to have the Veals over,” Father said.

  “The Veals, Honey?”

  “I know how you feel, but—”

  “But Elwood, the Veals are dead. They died in that awful plane crash, didn't they?”

  “What? Dead? No, Tashya. I just met them the other day at Vernon White's, didn't I mention it?”

  “Not the Veals, Elwood. You didn't meet them, they're dead.”

  “Who says they're dead?”

  “Everyone said what a shame it was, don't you remember?”

  “But they're not dead, I just met them! I just met them.”

  “Are you sure it was the Veals?”

  “Of course. I think it was Thelma and Artie.”

  “They might have relatives—”

  “But this looked like the Veals. You must remember them— middle-aged and sort of athletic? Always tanned?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Well, we should invite them over. Thelma was very nice to you.”

  “But they're dead.”

  “I don't think so.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “Tashya, I think so. I'm not positive, of course, but I think they're alive. Maybe we should wait a while before having them over though.”

  “It might be better.”

  “Still, I think—”

  “I'm not sure myself, but…”

  13

  One day I went down to the library and there on the steps, clucking at some pigeons, was a boy who looked rather like myself. Skinny, hollow-chested, in a plaid shirt and wearing pink transparent-rimmed glasses. I looked again, and it was Gustave!

  We greeted each other warmly. “I didn't know you were moving here,” I said.

  “I didn't know you were moving at all,” said Gustave.

  We were so overjoyed at meeting that we went immediately to his house and began a long, ingenious game of chess. Oh, it was wonderful, wonderful. I hoped we would never stop dreaming this time.

  14

  On another day I entered the library and found what I was looking for: a copy of The Quarterly Review of Literature with one of Nada's stories in it. I will reproduce for you here this story, which I have read and reread now some twenty, thirty times.

  THE MOLESTERS

  I

  I am six years old. There, at the end of the porch, is the old lilac tree. Everything is blurred with misty light, because there was a fog the night before and it is lifting slowly. I am sitting on the porch step playing with something—a doll. It has no clothes and is scuffed. It is neither a boy nor a girl; its hair was pulled off; its body is smooth and its eyes staring as if they saw something that frightened them. In the lilac tree some blackbirds are arguing. Not too far away is the cherry orchard; the birds fly over from the cherry trees and in a minute will fly back again. My father has put tinfoil up in the trees to scare the birds away, but it doesn't work. If I lean forward I can see the brilliant tinfoil gleaming high up in the trees—it moves with the rocking of the limbs, in the wind. My father has gone to work and does not come home until supper. The odor of supper and the harsh sound of my father's car turning into the cinder drive go together; everything goes together.

  I climb up into the lilac tree. The first branch is hard to hold. The birds fly away. The doll is back there, by the steps. My grandmother gave me that doll, and the funny thing about it is this: I never remember it or think about it until I see it lying somewhere, then I pick it up and hug it. There is a little chair in the lilac tree made by three branches that come together. I like to sit here and hide. Once I fell down and cried and Mommy ran out onto the porch, but that was a long time ago when I was little. I am much bigger now. My legs dangle beneath me, scuffed like the doll's skin. My knees are marred with old scratches that are about to flake off and one milky white scar that will never go away.

  My mother comes outside. The chickens run toward her even though they know it isn't time to be fed; they come anyway. My mother puts something up on the clothesline. The clothesline is always up, running from tree to tree.

  “What are you doing?” Mommy says. I thought she couldn't see me but she can.

  “Can I go down to the crick?” I ask her.

  There, in the grass, her feet are almost hidden. The grass is jagged and seems like waves of water. “Tommy isn't home,” she says, without
looking around. She finishes hanging the towels up—she has clothespins in her pocket and they make her stomach look funny. “Why do you always want to play there?” she says. “Can't you play up here?”

  “Tommy can go down anytime—”

  “Tommy's bigger, Tommy doesn't fall down.” She looks past me. There is something soft about her face—nothing bad stays in it. When I was little I kept going back into the kitchen to make sure she was there and she was always there. The big kids teased me and said she was gone, but she was always there. She would pick me up with a laugh.

  I take the path through the field to the creek. There is more than one path: a path from our house and the Sullivans' house, and a path for fishermen who come from the road. Our path runs along flat but curves around, and there are prickly bushes that scratch you. By the creek the path dips downhill and goes to the bank. The fishermen's path comes down from the road, alongside the bridge. Fishermen leave their cars up on the road and come down the path, slipping and sliding because it is so steep. When fishermen come we have to leave. Mommy says we have to leave. One of the big boys threw stones in the creek once, to scare the fish away, and the fisherman ran up to the Sullivans' house and was mad. He was from the city.

  The creek has a smell I like. I always forget it until I come back to it; there it is. There are big flat white rocks by the shore, covered with dried-up moss that is green in the water but white outside. This is what smells. It smells dry and strange; there is something dead about it. There are dead things by the creek. Little fish and yellow birds and toads; once a garter snake. The fishermen throw little fish down on the stones and let them rot. When the fishermen are from around here we can stay and watch—they're like my father, they talk like him. When they're from the city they talk different.

  Everybody has their rocks. Tommy's rock is the biggest one and nobody can sit on it but him. I have a rock too. I sit on it and my feet get in the water by mistake. That's bad. My mother will holler. I try not to let them slip in but my rock is too little, I can't sit on it right. I let my feet go back in the water. I like the way the water feels.