Joyce Oates - The Gravedigger’s Daughter

Wistfully Thaddeus asked, “Don’t you love my son? Why would you live with him, if you don’t love him?”

“He loves me. He loves our son.”

The words escaped from Hazel Jones as in a dream. For all her shrewdness she had not known she would utter them until that moment.

She saw in the old man’s face an expression of shock, triumph.

“I knew! I knew that was it!”

Worriedly Hazel said, with the air of one who has confided too much, “He can’t know that I’ve told you, Mr. Gallagher. He can’t bear the thought of being talked about.”

Thaddeus said, panting, “I knew. Somehow, seeing you. I did know. Hazel Jones: this will be our secret.”

A blind, dazed expression came over the old man’s face. For some seconds he sat silent, breathing hard. Hazel felt the terrible pounding of his heart in that massive body. Thaddeus was deeply gratified yet suddenly very tired. Cavorting in the pool had exhausted him. This long scene had exhausted him. Hazel would summon one of the servants to help him but Thaddeus continued to grip her hand, hard. Pleading, “You won’t stay for dinner, Hazel? You don’t think that Chet could be talked into changing his mind?”

Gently Hazel said no. She didn’t think so.

“I will miss you, then. I will think of you, Hazel. And of-”Zacharias Jones.“ I will hear the boy play piano, when I can. I will not push myself upon you, I understand that that would be a tactical error. My son is a sensitive man, Hazel. He’s also a jealous man. If-if Chester ever disappoints you, dear, you must come to me . Will you promise, Hazel?”

Gently Hazel said yes. She promised.

In a sudden clumsy gesture Thaddeus lifted her hand to his lips, to kiss. Long Hazel would feel the imprint of that kiss on her skin, the fleshy, unexpectedly chill sensation.

The fat dimpled spider, the gravedigger’s daughter . Who might have predicted!

The wound was such, Gallagher would not speak of it initially.

In silence they drove back to Vermont. Gallagher’s face was still unnaturally pale, drawn. Hazel surmised he’d been sick to his stomach vomiting in one of the bathrooms of his father’s house and he was deeply ashamed.

She did love him, she supposed. In the man’s very weakness that filled her with a wild flailing contempt like a maddened winged creature trapped against a screen she loved him.

The remainder of the day passed in a kind of dream. They were uneasily aware of each other without speaking, nor even touching. They had dinner with Zack and some others. By quick degrees, Gallagher recovered from the visit at Ardmoor Park. He was very much his usual self at dinner, and at a reception following that evening’s symphony concert. Only when he and Hazel were alone together in their hotel room did Gallagher say at last, in a genial tone to allow Hazel to know he was bemused and not angry: “You and my father got along very well, didn’t you! I heard you laughing together. From the window of my old room I saw him wheezing and splashing in the pool like a deranged elephant. Something of a couple: Beauty and the Beast.”

Gallagher was brushing his teeth in the bathroom, the door ajar. Spitting into the sink, harshly. Hazel knew without seeing that he was grimacing into the mirror.

She said, “He seems sad, Chet. A lonely old man fearful of dying.”

“Is he!” Gallagher spoke flatly, yet wanting to be appeased.

“He seems hurt by life.”

“By me, you mean.”

“Are you all of ”life‘ to your father, Chet?“

It was an unexpected response. When Hazel Jones said such things, Gallagher seemed often not to hear.

Later she slipped her arms around his chest. She held him tight, gravely she intoned, “”My son is a man of integrity, I wish that he would let me love him.“”

Gallagher’s laughter was startled, uneasy.

“Don’t try to tell me my father said that, Hazel.”

“He did.”

“Bullshit, Hazel. Don’t tell me.”

“He has prostate cancer, Chet. He has colon cancer.”

“Since when?”

“He doesn’t want you to know, I think. He made a joke of it.”

“I wouldn’t believe anything he says, Hazel. He’s quite the joker.” Clumsily Gallagher moved about the room, not-seeing. The staring vacant look had come into his face. “That crap about the ” Jew York Times ‘-he’s got a feud going, the Times wins Pulitzer Prizes every year and the Gallagher chain wins a Pulitzer every five years if they get lucky. That’s what’s behind that .“ Gallagher was incensed, close to tears.

“He loves you, though. Somehow, he feels ashamed before you.”

“Bullshit, Hazel.”

“It may be bullshit, but it happens to be true.”

In bed, in Gallagher’s ropey-muscled arms, Hazel felt at last that she might tease him. She felt the heat of her lover’s skin, she lay very still against him. He would forgive her now. He adored Hazel Jones, always he was looking for plausible ways to forgive her.

Hazel whispered in his ear how shocked she’d been, to discover that Thaddeus Gallagher was an invalid in a wheelchair!

“He is? An invalid?” Gallagher squirmed and twitched beneath the bedclothes, staring toward the ceiling. “Christ. I guess he is.”

Hazel Jones: this will be our secret .

For the remainder of his life he would send her small gifts. Flowers. Every four or five weeks, and often following a public performance of Zack’s. Somehow he knew, he made it his business to know, when Gallagher would be gone from the house, and timed deliveries for those mornings.

The first came soon after Hazel returned to Delaware Park, Buffalo, to the house Gallagher had bought for them near the music school. Numerous red climber roses, small-petalled roses, in a thorny cluster that was awkward to fit into even a tall vase. The accompanying note was handwritten, as if in haste.

August 22, 1970

Dearest Hazel Jones,

I have not stopped thinking of you for a single momment since last week. I had a (secret!!!) tape made of Zachiaras playing at the music festival, truly your son is a suberb musician! So hard to believe he is only 13. I have photographs of him, he is so young. Of course in his heart he is no child is he! As I at 13 was no longer a child. For my heart was hardened young, I knew the “way of the world” from boyhood on & had no illusions of the “natural good” of mankind etcetera. Dear Hazel, I hope I am not offending you! Your husband must not know. We will keep our secret will we! Tho‘ I think always of you, your beautiful dark kind eyes that forgive & do not judge. If you would be so kind Hazel you might call me sometime, my number is below. This is my privvate line Hazel, no one will pick up. But if notdear, I will not be hurt. You have brought into the world the remarkable boy. That he is my grandson is our secret (!!!) & I will meet him sometime but in secret. Do not fear me. You have given me so much I did not expect or hope. I will not be hurt. I will think of you always. Chester is a good man I know, but he is weak & Jealous as his father at that age. Utnil another time, dear

Your Loving “InLaw” Thad

Hazel read this letter in astonishment, distracted by the numerous spelling errors. “He’s crazy! He’s in love with her.” She had not expected such a response. She felt a pang of guilt, if Gallagher should know.

She threw the letter away, she would not reply to it. Never would Hazel Jones reply to Thaddeus Gallagher’s impassioned letters, which became more incoherent with time, nor would she thank him for the numerous gifts. Hazel Jones was a woman of dignity, integrity. Hazel Jones would not encourage the old man, yet she would not discourage him. She supposed that he would be true to his word, he would not confront her or Zack. He would admire them from a discreet distance. Gallagher seemed never to notice the gifts in the household: vases of flowers, a heart-shaped crystal paperweight, a brass frame for a photograph, a silk scarf printed with rosebuds. The old man was discreet enough to send Hazel only small, relatively inexpensive and inconspicuous gifts. And never money.