Read Online Black Dahlia & White Rose: Stories by Joyce Carol Oates - Free Book Online
Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
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at the board with her squeaky chalk, and there was J-C slouched in his desk, silk hair falling into his face—and Keisha, who breathed through her mouth when she was excited, or scared—and there was Lisette’s own desk, empty—but now it was later, it was third period and J-C wasn’t in English class with Lisette—but—there was the cafeteria—when the bell rang at 11:45 A.M. , it was lunchtime and you lined up outside the doors—bright-lit fluorescent lights and a smell of greasy fried food—french fries . . . Macaroni and cheese, chili on buns . . . Lisette’s mouth flooded with saliva.
Smiling seeing the purple-lipstick kiss on the Kleenex, as J-C would see if when he unfolded it—a surprise!
Actually the lipstick-kiss was kind of pretty, on the Kleenex. She’d blotted her lips with care.
Her mother didn’t want her to wear lipstick but fuck Momma, all the girls her age did.
Last time she’d seen Momma with Daddy, Daddy had been in his soldier’s dress uniform and had looked very handsome. His hair had been cut so short.
Not then but an earlier time when Daddy had returned from Iraq for the first time Lisette’s mother had covered his face in purple-lipstick-kisses. Lisette had been so young she’d thought the lipstick-kisses were some kind of wounds, her daddy was hurt and bleeding and it was a bearded face she hadn’t known too well, she had not recognized at first so it scared her.
The times were confused. There were many times. You could not “see” more than one time though there were many.
There were many Daddys—you could not “see” them all.
There was the time Daddy took Momma to Fort Lauderdale for what they called their second honeymoon. They’d wanted to take Lisette but—it hadn’t worked out—Lisette had to be in school at that time of year, in February.
She’d gone to stay with her mother’s friend Misty who’d worked at Bally’s at that time. But when Momma called from Florida, Lisette refused to come to the phone. They’d planned on ten days in Florida but Lisette’s mother surprised her by returning after just a week saying that was it, that was the end, she’d had to call the police when he’d gotten drunk and beat her, and in a restaurant he’d knocked over a chair he was so angry, that was it for her, no more.
At Thanksgiving, he’d returned. Not to live in Atlantic City but to visit before he was deployed again to Iraq.
Yvette had man friends she met in the casinos. Most of them, Lisette never met. Never wished to meet. One of them was a real estate agent in Monmouth County, Lisette could remember just the first name which was some unusual name like Upton, Upwell . . .
The Indian-looking man was speaking to Lisette but she could not comprehend a word he said. He was very young-looking to be a doctor. He wore a neat white jacket and white pants, crepe-soled shoes. Behind wire-rimmed glasses his eyes were soft-black, somber. His hair was black, but coarse and not silky-fine like J-C’s hair.
He was leading the cops and Lisette into a fluorescent-lit refrigerated room. Firmly Molina had hold of Lisette’s hand—the icy fingers.
“We will make it as easy for you as we can, Lisette. All you have to do is squeeze my hand—that will mean yes. ”
Yes? Yes what? Desperately Lisette was picturing the school cafeteria—the long table in the corner where the coolest guys sat—J-C and his friends—his “posse”—and sometimes certain girls were invited to sit with them—today maybe J-C would call over to Lisette to sit with them— Lisette! Hey Liz-zette!— because he’d liked the purple-lipstick kiss, and what it promised. Lisette c’mere— this would be so cool . . .
“Take your time, Lisette. I’ll be right beside you.”
*
Then—so quick it was over!
The female body she was meant to I.D. was not anyone she knew let alone not her mother.
This one was not Yvette’s size, and not Yvette’s shape. This one had hair that was
Smiling seeing the purple-lipstick kiss on the Kleenex, as J-C would see if when he unfolded it—a surprise!
Actually the lipstick-kiss was kind of pretty, on the Kleenex. She’d blotted her lips with care.
Her mother didn’t want her to wear lipstick but fuck Momma, all the girls her age did.
Last time she’d seen Momma with Daddy, Daddy had been in his soldier’s dress uniform and had looked very handsome. His hair had been cut so short.
Not then but an earlier time when Daddy had returned from Iraq for the first time Lisette’s mother had covered his face in purple-lipstick-kisses. Lisette had been so young she’d thought the lipstick-kisses were some kind of wounds, her daddy was hurt and bleeding and it was a bearded face she hadn’t known too well, she had not recognized at first so it scared her.
The times were confused. There were many times. You could not “see” more than one time though there were many.
There were many Daddys—you could not “see” them all.
There was the time Daddy took Momma to Fort Lauderdale for what they called their second honeymoon. They’d wanted to take Lisette but—it hadn’t worked out—Lisette had to be in school at that time of year, in February.
She’d gone to stay with her mother’s friend Misty who’d worked at Bally’s at that time. But when Momma called from Florida, Lisette refused to come to the phone. They’d planned on ten days in Florida but Lisette’s mother surprised her by returning after just a week saying that was it, that was the end, she’d had to call the police when he’d gotten drunk and beat her, and in a restaurant he’d knocked over a chair he was so angry, that was it for her, no more.
At Thanksgiving, he’d returned. Not to live in Atlantic City but to visit before he was deployed again to Iraq.
Yvette had man friends she met in the casinos. Most of them, Lisette never met. Never wished to meet. One of them was a real estate agent in Monmouth County, Lisette could remember just the first name which was some unusual name like Upton, Upwell . . .
The Indian-looking man was speaking to Lisette but she could not comprehend a word he said. He was very young-looking to be a doctor. He wore a neat white jacket and white pants, crepe-soled shoes. Behind wire-rimmed glasses his eyes were soft-black, somber. His hair was black, but coarse and not silky-fine like J-C’s hair.
He was leading the cops and Lisette into a fluorescent-lit refrigerated room. Firmly Molina had hold of Lisette’s hand—the icy fingers.
“We will make it as easy for you as we can, Lisette. All you have to do is squeeze my hand—that will mean yes. ”
Yes? Yes what? Desperately Lisette was picturing the school cafeteria—the long table in the corner where the coolest guys sat—J-C and his friends—his “posse”—and sometimes certain girls were invited to sit with them—today maybe J-C would call over to Lisette to sit with them— Lisette! Hey Liz-zette!— because he’d liked the purple-lipstick kiss, and what it promised. Lisette c’mere— this would be so cool . . .
“Take your time, Lisette. I’ll be right beside you.”
*
Then—so quick it was over!
The female body she was meant to I.D. was not anyone she knew let alone not her mother.
This one was not Yvette’s size, and not Yvette’s shape. This one had hair that was
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