Джойс Оутс - Prison Noir

Reno set for himself the long-term goal of clearing the property of such litter and a short-term goal of building a flagstone terrace beside the front steps, where the earth was rocky and overgrown with weeds; there had once been a makeshift brick terrace or walkway here, now broken. Evidence of previous tenants — rather, the negligence of previous tenants — was a cause of annoyance to Reno as if this property dear to him had been purposefully desecrated by others.

During the winter in their house in East Orange, Reno had studied photos he’d taken of the new camp. Tirelessly he’d made sketches of the redwood deck he meant to extend and rebuild, and of the “sleeping porch” he meant to add. Marlena suggested a second bathroom, with both a shower and a tub. And a screened porch that could be transformed into a glassed-in porch in cold weather. Reno would build — or cause to be built — a carport, a new fieldstone fireplace, a barbecue on the deck. And there was the ground-level terrace he would construct himself with flagstones from a local garden supply store, once he’d dug up and removed the old, broken bricks half-buried in the earth.

Reno understood that his new wife’s enthusiasm for Paraquarry Lake and the Delaware Water Gap was limited. Marlena would comply with his wishes — anyway, most of them — so long as he didn’t press her too far. The high-wattage smile might quickly fade, the eyes brimming with love turn tearful. For divorce is a devastation, Reno knew. The children were more readily excited by the prospect of spending time at the lake — but they were children, impressionable. And bad weather in what was essentially an outdoor setting — its entire raison d’etre was outdoors —would be new to them. Reno understood that he must not make with this new family the mistake he’d made the first time — insisting that his wife and children not only accompany him to Paraquarry Lake but that they enjoy it — visibly.

Maybe he’d been mistaken, trying so hard to make his wife and young children happy. Maybe it’s always a mistake, trying to assure the happiness of others.

His daughter was attending a state college in Sacramento — her major was something called communication arts. His son had flunked out of Cal Tech and was enrolled at a “computer arts” school in San Francisco. The wife had long ago removed herself from Reno’s life and truly he rarely thought of any of them, who seemed so rarely to think of him.

But the daughter. Reno’s daughter. Oh hi, Dad. Hi. Damn, I’m sorry — I’m just on my way out.

Reno had ceased calling her. Both the kids. For they never called him. Even to thank him for birthday gifts. Their e-mails were rudely short, perfunctory.

The years of child support had ended. Both were beyond eighteen. And the years of alimony, now that the ex-wife had remarried. How many hundreds of thousands of dollars … Though of course, Reno understood.

But the new children! In this new family!

Like wind rippling over the surface of Paraquarry Lake — emotion flooded into Reno at the thought of his new family. He would adopt the children — soon. For Kevin and Devra adored their new Daddy who was so kind, funny, patient, and — yes — predictable — with them; who had not yet raised his voice to them a single time.

Especially little Devra captivated him — he stared at her in amazement, the child was so small —tiny rib cage, collarbone, wrists — after her bath, the white-blond hair thin as feathers against her delicate skull.

“Love you — I love you — all — so much.”

It was a declaration made to the new wife only in the dark of their bed. In her embrace, her strong warm fingers gripping his back, and his hot face that felt to him like a ferret’s face, hungry, ravenous with hunger, pressed into her neck.

At Paraquarry Lake, in the new camp, there was a new Reno emerging.

It was hard work but thrilling, satisfying — to chop his own firewood and stack it beside the fireplace. The old muscles were reasserting themselves in his shoulders, upper arms, thighs. He was developing a considerable axe swing, and was learning to anticipate the jar of the axe head against wood which he supposed was equivalent to the kick of a shotgun against a man’s shoulder — if you weren’t prepared, the shock ran down your spine like an electric charge.

Working outdoors he wore gloves which Marlena gave him—“Your hands are getting too calloused, scratchy.” When he caressed her, she meant. Marlena was a shy woman and did not speak of their lovemaking but Reno wanted to think that it meant a good deal to her as it meant to him, after years of pointless celibacy.

He was thrilled too when they went shopping together — at the mall, at secondhand furniture stores — choosing Adirondack chairs, a black leather sofa, rattan settee, handwoven rugs, andirons for the fireplace. It was deeply moving to Reno to be in the presence of this attractive woman who took such care and turned to him continually for his opinion as if she’d never furnished a household before.

Reno even visited marinas in the area, compared prices: sailboats, Chris-Craft power boats. In truth he was just a little afraid of the lake — of how he might perform as a sailor on it. A rowboat was one thing, but even a canoe — he felt shaky in a canoe, with another passenger. With this new family vulnerable as a small creature cupped in the palm of a hand — he didn’t want to take any risks.

The first warm days in June, a wading pool for the children. For there was no beach, only just a pebbly shore of sand hard-packed as cement. And sharp-edged rocks in the shallows. But a plastic wading pool, hardly more than a foot of water — that was fine. Little Kevin splashed happily. And Devra in a puckered yellow Spandex swimsuit that fit her little body like a second skin. Reno tried not to stare at the little girl — the astonishing white-blond hair, the widened pale-blue eyes — thinking how strange it was, how strange Marlena would think it was, that the child of a father not known to him should have so totally supplanted Reno’s memory of his own daughter at that age; for Reno’s daughter too must have been beautiful, adorable — but he couldn’t recall. Terrifying how parts of his life were being shut to him like rooms in a house shut and their doors sealed and once you’ve crossed the threshold, you can’t return. Waking in the night with a pounding heart Reno would catch his breath thinking, But I have my new family now. My new life now.

Sometimes in the woods above the lake there was a powerful smell — a stink — of skunk, or something dead and rotted; not the decaying compost Marlena had begun which exuded a pleasurable odor for the most part, but something ranker, darker. Reno’s sinuses ached, his eyes watered, and he began sneezing — in a sudden panic that he’d acquired an allergy for something at Paraquarry Lake.

That weekend, Kevin injured himself running along the rocky shore — as his mother had warned him not to — falling, twisting his ankle. And little Devra, stung by yellow jackets that erupted out of nowhere — in fact, out of a hive in the earth that Reno had disturbed with his shovel.

Screaming! High-pitched screams that tore at Reno’s heart. If only the yellow jackets had stung him —Reno might have used the occasion to give the children some instruction.

Having soothed two weeping children in a single afternoon Marlena said ruefully, “Camp can be treacherous!” The remark was meant to be amusing but there was seriousness beneath, even a subtle warning, Reno knew.

He swallowed hard and promised it wouldn’t happen again.

This warm-humid June afternoon shading now into early evening and Reno was still digging—“excavating”—the old ruin of a terrace. The project was turning out to be harder and more protracted than he had anticipated. For the earth below the part-elevated house was a rocky sort of subsoil, of a texture like fertilizer; moldering bricks were everywhere, part-buried; also jagged pieces of concrete and rusted spikes, broken glass amid shattered bits of red shale. The previous owners had simply dumped things here. Going back for decades, probably. Generations. Reno hoped these slovenly people hadn’t dumped anything toxic.