Read Online The Falls by Joyce Carol Oates - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
Ads: Link
she stumbled. They were walking on a graveled path below the veranda, between the hotel and a terraced lawn and rose garden. Guests dined in the open air, and in a lavender Victorian gazebo set upon the lawn like something in a child’s storybook. A few of the guests glanced up as they passed, curiously.
“You don’t see your husband anywhere, Mrs. Erskine?”
“Oh, we won’t find him. I told you. He’s gone.”
“But how can you be so certain?” The concierge was trying to remain patient. “If he left no word? It might simply be a misunderstanding.”
Gravely the red-haired woman nodded. “Yes. I believe it is. It was.
A tragic misunderstanding.”
The concierge wanted to ask if they’d quarreled, but couldn’t bring himself to say the words.
They passed the tennis courts. They passed badminton players, croquet players. Middle-aged men in sports clothes laughing loudly, drinking beer, smoking. At the large outdoor pool there were numerous swimmers, sunbathers. The atmosphere was festive, even rau-cous. Popular music was amplified overhead. The red-haired woman shielded her eyes as if she felt pain.
“We should check your car, ma’am. Just to see.”
This, the concierge would have done immediately if he’d been Mrs. Erskine, but she didn’t seem to have thought of it. “Do you remember where your car is parked, Mrs. Erskine?” the concierge asked, as they approached the lot behind and below the hotel, and the 48 W Joyce Carol Oates
woman said dreamily, “It was Gilbert who parked it, of course. He wouldn’t allow me to drive his car. I don’t believe he would ever have allowed me to drive his car. Though I’ve had a driver’s license since I was sixteen. But of course it was his car . I mean, it is . There, by the fence—see? The Packard.”
It was a sign of the red-haired woman’s state of shock that, seeing her husband’s car in the lot after all, she was only mildly surprised, and not at all relieved. In fact the concierge noted how she stood frozen in place, simply staring at the car and not coming near it. As if the gleaming black Packard were another riddle for her to contend with that day, and she wasn’t capable.
The concierge checked the Packard’s doors and trunk—all locked.
He peered into the shadowy interior which was cushioned in pale gray, spotlessly clean. Not a single item of clothing or a scrap of paper in the backseat. The concierge didn’t know if the presence of this car, which Mrs. Erskine seemed to have taken for granted would be missing, was a good sign, or not so good. The clergyman might have come to harm somehow, somewhere. Met with “foul play”—there were elements in the city of Niagara Falls known to be dangerous.
The concierge said heartily, “Well! You see, Mrs. Erskine, he can’t have gone far on foot. Probably when we return to the hotel he’ll be there, waiting.”
It had become so balmy a June day, after the mist and chill of the morning, such an optimistic pronouncement seemed appropriate.
But Mrs. Erskine shuddered. “Back in the room? In the ‘Rosebud Suite’? No.”
She was frowning, turning her rings rapidly as if she wanted to twist them off her finger.
The concierge tried to comfort her, taking her arm to lead her back to the hotel, but the red-haired woman began speaking quickly.
“Please, you don’t need to humor me! You’ve been very kind. I hoped not to involve anyone in this, especially strangers, but I don’t seem to know what to do next. Where to look. Where to wait.” She paused, her lips trembling. She was trying to choose her words with care.
“Especially if Gilbert is gone, and won’t be back. I can’t face his parents. Or my parents. They will blame me. And I am to blame, I know.
The Falls X 49
But I must be practical, too. My days of dreaming are past. I will be thirty years old in November. I do have money saved, in a bank account in Troy,” she went on earnestly. “I can pay for the hotel suite. If
“You don’t see your husband anywhere, Mrs. Erskine?”
“Oh, we won’t find him. I told you. He’s gone.”
“But how can you be so certain?” The concierge was trying to remain patient. “If he left no word? It might simply be a misunderstanding.”
Gravely the red-haired woman nodded. “Yes. I believe it is. It was.
A tragic misunderstanding.”
The concierge wanted to ask if they’d quarreled, but couldn’t bring himself to say the words.
They passed the tennis courts. They passed badminton players, croquet players. Middle-aged men in sports clothes laughing loudly, drinking beer, smoking. At the large outdoor pool there were numerous swimmers, sunbathers. The atmosphere was festive, even rau-cous. Popular music was amplified overhead. The red-haired woman shielded her eyes as if she felt pain.
“We should check your car, ma’am. Just to see.”
This, the concierge would have done immediately if he’d been Mrs. Erskine, but she didn’t seem to have thought of it. “Do you remember where your car is parked, Mrs. Erskine?” the concierge asked, as they approached the lot behind and below the hotel, and the 48 W Joyce Carol Oates
woman said dreamily, “It was Gilbert who parked it, of course. He wouldn’t allow me to drive his car. I don’t believe he would ever have allowed me to drive his car. Though I’ve had a driver’s license since I was sixteen. But of course it was his car . I mean, it is . There, by the fence—see? The Packard.”
It was a sign of the red-haired woman’s state of shock that, seeing her husband’s car in the lot after all, she was only mildly surprised, and not at all relieved. In fact the concierge noted how she stood frozen in place, simply staring at the car and not coming near it. As if the gleaming black Packard were another riddle for her to contend with that day, and she wasn’t capable.
The concierge checked the Packard’s doors and trunk—all locked.
He peered into the shadowy interior which was cushioned in pale gray, spotlessly clean. Not a single item of clothing or a scrap of paper in the backseat. The concierge didn’t know if the presence of this car, which Mrs. Erskine seemed to have taken for granted would be missing, was a good sign, or not so good. The clergyman might have come to harm somehow, somewhere. Met with “foul play”—there were elements in the city of Niagara Falls known to be dangerous.
The concierge said heartily, “Well! You see, Mrs. Erskine, he can’t have gone far on foot. Probably when we return to the hotel he’ll be there, waiting.”
It had become so balmy a June day, after the mist and chill of the morning, such an optimistic pronouncement seemed appropriate.
But Mrs. Erskine shuddered. “Back in the room? In the ‘Rosebud Suite’? No.”
She was frowning, turning her rings rapidly as if she wanted to twist them off her finger.
The concierge tried to comfort her, taking her arm to lead her back to the hotel, but the red-haired woman began speaking quickly.
“Please, you don’t need to humor me! You’ve been very kind. I hoped not to involve anyone in this, especially strangers, but I don’t seem to know what to do next. Where to look. Where to wait.” She paused, her lips trembling. She was trying to choose her words with care.
“Especially if Gilbert is gone, and won’t be back. I can’t face his parents. Or my parents. They will blame me. And I am to blame, I know.
The Falls X 49
But I must be practical, too. My days of dreaming are past. I will be thirty years old in November. I do have money saved, in a bank account in Troy,” she went on earnestly. “I can pay for the hotel suite. If
Similar Books
