Carthage. Joyce Carol Oates

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ need to position herself out of the range of a man’s sudden lunging grasp.

      “I’m afraid I don’t know, Mr. Mayfield. Brett’s friends don’t come to the house, he goes to them. I think he goes to them.”

      Mr. Mayfield was uttered with a pointless sort of spite. Surely they were social equals, or had been, when Zeno’s daughter had become engaged to Ethel’s son.

      Zeno remembered Arlette remarking that Brett’s mother was so unfriendly. Even Juliet who rarely spoke of others in a critical manner murmured of her fiancé’s mother She is not naturally warmhearted or easy to get to know. But—we will try!

      Poor Juliet had tried, and failed.

      Arlette had tried, and failed.

      “Ethel, I’m sorry to disturb you at such an early hour. I tried to call, but there was no answer. It’s crucial that I speak with Brett—or at least know where I can find him. This isn’t about Juliet, incidentally—it involves my daughter Cressida.” Zeno was making it a point to speak slowly and clearly and without any suggestion of the pent-up fury he felt for this unhelpful woman who’d taken a step back from him, clutching at the front of her rumpled kimono as if fearing he might snatch it open. “We’ve been told that they were together for a while last night—at the Roebuck Inn. And Cressida hasn’t come home all night, and we don’t know where she is. And we think—your son might know.”

      Ethel Kincaid was shaking her head. A tangle of graying dirty-blond hair, falling to her shoulders, uncombed. A smell as of dried sweat and talcum powder wafting from her soft loose fleshy body inside her clothing.

      Now a look of apprehension came into her face. And cunning.

      Ethel shook her head emphatically no—“I don’t know anything that my son does.”

      “Could I see his room, please?”

      “His room? You want to see his—room? In this house?”

      “Yes. Please.”

      “But—why?”

      Zeno had no idea why. The impulse had come to him, desperately; he could not retreat without attempting something.

      Ethel was looking confused now. She was a woman in her mid-fifties whom life had used negligently—her skin was sallow, her eyelashes and eyebrows so scanty as to be near-invisible, her mouth was a sullen smudge. She took another step back into the dimly lighted hall of the house as if the glare in Zeno Mayfield’s face was such, she shrank from it. Stammering she said he couldn’t come inside, that wasn’t a good idea, and she had to say good-bye to him now, she had to close the door now, she could not speak to him any longer.

      “Ethel—wait! Just let me see Brett’s room. Maybe—there will be something there, that will help me . . .”

      “No. That isn’t a good idea. I’m going to close the door now.”

      “Ethel, please. I’m sure there is some explanation for this, but—at the moment—Arlette and I are terribly worried. And we’ve been told that Brett was seen with her, last night. It can’t be a coincidence, your son and my daughter . . .”

      “If you don’t have a warrant, Mr. Mayfield, I don’t have to let you in.”

      “A warrant? I’m not a police officer, Ethel. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not even a city official any longer. I just want to see Brett’s room, just for a minute. How can you possibly object to that?”

      “No. I can’t. Brett wouldn’t want that—he hates all of you.”

      Ethel Kincaid was about to shut the door in Zeno’s face but he pressed the palm of his hand against it, holding it open. A pulse beat wildly in his forehead. He could not believe what Ethel Kincaid had so heedlessly uttered but he would never forget it.

      Hates all of you. You.

      “If your son has hurt my daughter—my daughter Cressida—if anything has happened to Cressida—I will kill him.”

      Ethel Kincaid threw her weight against the door, to shut it. And Zeno released the door.

      He was stunned. He could not think clearly. He knew, he had better return to the Land Rover and drive home before he did something irrevocable like pounding violently on the God-damned door that had been shut rudely in his face.

      Like breaking into the Kincaid house.

      The spiteful woman would call 911, he knew. Give her the slightest pretext, she would fuck up Zeno Mayfield and his family all she could.

      He returned to the Land Rover, that had been parked crookedly at the curb. He saw that a seat belt trailed out from the driver’s seat, like something broken, discarded. A swift vision came to him of the pile of debris in the Episcopal churchyard. Driving away from the Kincaid house without a backward glance he thought Maybe she didn’t hear me. Maybe she won’t remember.

      IN THE DRIVEWAY Arlette stood waiting for Zeno to return.

      Waiting to see if he was bringing their daughter home with him.

      And so in her face, as Zeno climbed out of the Land Rover, he saw the disappointment.

      “She wasn’t there?”

      “No.”

      “Did you talk to—Ethel? Was Brett there?”

      “Ethel was no help. Brett wasn’t there.”

      Arlette hurried to keep up with Zeno, who was headed into the house.

      Suddenly it had become 8:20 A.M. So swiftly, the night had passed into dawn and now into a sunny and shimmering-hot morning.

      The privacy of the night. The exposure of the morning.

      Arlette asked, in a shaky voice, “Do you think that Cressida and Brett might have gone away together?—or, he took her somewhere? To hurt her? To embarrass us? Zeno?”

      “Cressida is nineteen. She’s an adult. If she chooses to stay away overnight, that’s her prerogative.”

      Zeno spoke harshly, ironically. He had not the slightest faith in what he was saying but he believed these words must be reiterated.

      Arlette clutched at his arm. Arlette’s fingers dug into his arm.

      “But—if she didn’t choose? If someone has hurt her? Taken her? We have to help our daughter, Zeno. She has no one but us.”

      Unspoken between them was the thought She isn’t really an adult. She is a child. For all her pose of maturity, a child.

      There was no choice now, no postponing the call, even as Zeno stood in the driveway staring with eyes that felt seared, ravaged with such futile staring in the direction of Cumberland Avenue as into an abyss out of which at any moment—(feasibly! Not illogically and not impossibly!—for as a young aggressive attorney Zeno Mayfield had often conjured the attractive possibilities of alternate universes in which alternate narratives revealed his [guilty] clients to be “innocent” of the charges that had been brought against them)—his daughter СКАЧАТЬ