Joyce Oates - Sourland

Adrienne felt a stab of horror, shame. How could this be! How could Tracy Myer who’d been so courteous, so kindly, such a good decent gentlemanly man who’d taken care with every aspect of his work have been, at the same time, so careless, reckless — hiding such obscenities in his study, in his legal files where they would be discovered after his death?

Yet thinking But they are not real, at least! Not real girls, or women. Real amputees .

“You may take these back, Mrs. Myer. Please.”

“‘Take them back ’? They don’t belong to me, or to my husband — I’m sure. I’ve never seen these before…”

Capgrass removed his crooked plastic glasses and polished the lenses vigorously with a strip of chamois. His eyes, exposed, were small, rust-colored and primly disapproving; the crude hot blush had expanded to cover most of his face, and the gleaming-bald dome of his head. Clumsily Adrienne took up the offensive sheets of paper, which were in fact not photographs but Xerox photocopies of photographs, several to a page: not wanting to see she saw nonetheless that the figures were both painfully lifelike and perversely artificial; she had the idea that they were artworks of another era, perhaps “Germanic” maybe it was possible to interpret the reproductions as a historian’s assiduous and uncensored research, and not pornography. Adrienne tried to explain that her husband Tracy Myer — Professor Tracy Myer, who’d taught at Princeton for nearly thirty years — had been a distinguished historian , his field of specialization was post—World War I twentieth-century European history and this included the notorious — decadent — Weimar era. Though deeply embarrassed Adrienne managed to sound convincing: “By accident my husband must have filed these — documents — in the wrong folder. They seem to be ‘art’ of some kind — posed manikins or dolls — maybe Surrealist. Or — Dada. Tracy was always fascinated by art — by what art ‘reveals’ of the culture that gives rise to it, as well as of the artist. They are not…” Adrienne couldn’t bring herself to utter the ugly word pornography .

Capgrass interrupted Adrienne to inform her disdainfully that there appeared to be “irregularities” in her husband’s will; he’d had time only to peruse the document in a cursory fashion but had noticed that the first codicil hadn’t been properly notarized — the notary public had used a seal with what appeared to be several broken letters which undermined the validity of the transaction, should litigants want to take issue.

Litigants! Adrienne’s heart beat in alarm.

“Though it’s unambiguous that you’ve been designated your husband’s primary beneficiary, as well as the executrix of his estate, it would appear, from a strictly legal standpoint, that the document is of questionable authenticity. I’m sure that ‘Tracy Emmet Myer’ was indeed your husband, and that he has indeed died — but, unfortunately, if there is a pre-existing will, either in your possession or elsewhere, it might take precedent over the one we have here.”

“But I — don’t understand…‘Pre-existing’ — there is none…”

“How many times such a claim has been made, and a pre-existing document turns up, that is fully legal . Mrs. Myer, please understand that we can’t proceed to ‘probate’ your husband’s will in its present state. There are no legal grounds for the assumption that you are, in fact, the executrix of Tracy Myer’s estate.”

“But — I am his wife. You’ve seen my I.D., and the marriage certificate — ”

“And if there are claims against the estate — these must be processed.”

“‘Claims against the estate’…”

Adrienne spoke faintly. What a nightmare this was!

She remembered how several years before — following the unexpected death of one of Tracy’s brothers — he’d made arrangements for both their wills to be drawn up. This was a task — a necessity — Tracy had postponed as Adrienne had postponed even considering it and at the signing in the attorney’s office she’d so dreaded reading through the dense legal language that she’d signed both wills without reading them assured by the attorney that everything was in order.

It was the future Adrienne had dreaded when one or another of the wills would be consulted. Now, the widow was living in that future, and it was more terrible than she’d anticipated.

“Letters will have to be sent by you, Mrs. Myer, by certified mail, to all of your husband’s relatives and business partners, if he had these, as well as to anyone else who might have a legitimate claim upon the estate.” Capgrass spoke in a flat perfunctory voice in which there lurked a frisson of something insolent, disruptive. “This is standard procedure in probate, and it is very important.”

“But — why would anyone make a ‘claim’ against the estate? Why would this happen?”

“Mrs. Myer, this is probate . The court must determine if your husband’s estate is ‘free and clear’ before allowing the estate to be divided among beneficiaries and administered by any executor or executrix.”

“But — how would I know how to begin?” Adrienne’s voice rose in alarm. “My husband took care of all of our finances — our taxes — insurance — anything ‘legal.’ He has — had — relatives living in many parts of the country — he didn’t have business partners, but — he’d invested in his older brother’s roofing business, to help him financially…” Adrienne recalled hearing about this, years ago, though Tracy hadn’t discussed it with her at any length. And hadn’t the brother’s business gone bankrupt just the same? A part of Adrienne’s mind began to shut down.

Suttee . She’d wakened that morning thinking of suttee .

The ancient Hindu custom of burning the widow, alive, on her husband’s funeral pyre. A cruel and barbaric custom said to be practiced still in the more remote parts of India and Adrienne thought There is a cruel logic to this .

“Your husband was married previously —?”

“‘Married previously’? Why do you say that? He was not .”

“Our records show — ”

Capgrass was typing into a computer, hunched forward like a broken-backed vulture peering at the screen. A small thin smile played about his lips. “It seems here — our records show — unless there are two distinct ‘Tracy Emmet Myers’…Your husband was required by law to inform you of any prior marriages as he was required to inform the individual who performed the wedding ceremony and if he failed to comply with this law, Mrs. Myer, there may be some question about whether your marriage to him was fully legal . You may want to retain an attorney as soon as possible to press your claim.”

Press your claim. Adrienne sat stunned.

“But — I know my husband. I knew him. It is just not possible …”

Capgrass continued to type into the computer. In a matter-of-fact voice reading off data to the widow who could not hear what he was saying through a roaring in her ears. This is wrong. This is not right. You don’t know him. None of you knew him.

Yet, had Adrienne known Tracy? Had she known the man, except as her husband ? In the hospital an altered personality had emerged from time to time, unexpectedly. Adrienne couldn’t forget a curious remark Tracy had made that was wholly unlike the man she knew: one evening he’d muttered in a wistful voice as a cheery Jamaican attendant left his room chattering like a tropical bird — a fleshy girl bearing away soiled linen, the remains of a meal — “If only we could be so simple! It’s as if they don’t realize they are to die.”