Joyce Oates - The Gravedigger’s Daughter

Why’d anybody give a shit about you, girl!

A man’s scornful voice. She wasn’t sure whose.

Niley was sick. A bad cold, and now flu.

Rebecca tried to take his temperature: 101° F?

Her hand trembled, holding the thermometer to the light.

“Tignor? Niley needs to see a doctor.”

“A doctor where?”

It was a question that made no sense. Tignor seemed confused, shaken.

Yet he carried Niley, wrapped in a blanket, out to his car. He drove Niley and Rebecca into Chautauqua Falls and waited in the car in the parking lot outside the doctor’s office, smoking. He’d given Rebecca a fifty-dollar bill for the doctor but had not offered to come inside. Rebecca thought He’s afraid . Of sickness, of any kind of weakness .

She was angry with him, in that instant. Shoving a fifty-dollar bill at her, the mother of the sick child. She would not give him change from the fifty dollars, she would hide it away in her closet.

Tignor was away from home often. But never more than two or three days at a stretch. Rebecca was coming to see he’d lost his job with the brewery. Yet she could not ask him, he’d have been furious with her. She could not plead with him What has happened to you? Why can’t you talk to me?

When Rebecca returned to the car with Niley, an hour later, she saw Tignor on his feet, leaning against a front fender, smoking. In the instant before he glanced up at her she thought That man! He is no one I know .

Quickly she said, “Niley just has a touch of the flu, Tignor. The doctor says not to worry. He says-”

“Did he give you a prescription?”

“He says just to give Niley some children’s aspirin. I have some at home, I’ve been giving him.”

Tignor frowned. “Nothing stronger?”

“It’s just flu, Tignor. This aspirin is supposed to be strong enough.”

“It better be, honey. If it ain’t, this ”peedy-trician‘ is gonna get his head broke.“

Tignor spoke with defiance, bravado. Rebecca stooped to kiss Niley’s warm forehead in consolation.

They drove back to Four Corners. Rebecca held Niley on her lap in the passenger’s seat, beside Tignor who was silent and brooding as if he’d been obscurely insulted. “I’d think you would be relieved, Tignor, like me. The doctor was very nice.”

Rebecca leaned against Tignor, just slightly. The contact with the man’s warm, somehow aggrieved skin gave her pleasure. A small jolt of pleasure she hadn’t felt in some time.

“The doctor says that Niley is very healthy, overall. His growth. His ”reflexes.“ Listening through a stethoscope to his heart and lungs.” She paused, knowing that Tignor was listening, and that this was good news.

Tignor drove for another few minutes in silence but he was softening, melting. Glancing down at Rebecca, his girl. His Gypsy-girl. At last he squeezed Rebecca’s thigh, hard enough to hurt. He reached over to tousle Niley’s damp hair.

“Hey you two: love ya.”

Love ya . It was the first time Tignor had ever said such a thing to them.

And so she thought I will never leave him .

“He loves us. He loves his son. He would never hurt us. He is only just…Sometimes…”

Waiting? Was Tignor waiting?

But for what was Tignor waiting?

He’d ceased to shave every day. His clothes were not so stylish as they’d been. He no longer had his hair trimmed regularly by a hotel barber. He no longer had his clothes laundered and dry cleaned in hotels. He’d spent money to look good though he’d never been overly fastidious, fussy. Now he wore the same shirt for several days in a row. He slept in his underwear. Kicked dirty socks into a corner of the bedroom for his wife to discover.

Of course, Rebecca was expected to launder and iron most of Tignor’s clothes now. What required dry cleaning, he didn’t trouble to have cleaned.

The damned old washing machine Rebecca was expected to use-! Almost as bad as her mother’s had been. It broke down often, spilling soapy water onto the linoleum floor of the washroom. And then Rebecca had to iron, or try to iron, Tignor’s white cotton shirts.

The iron was heavy, her wrist ached. Bad as Niagara Tubing except the smells weren’t so sickening. Ma had taught her to iron but only just flat things, sheets, towels. Pa’s few shirts she’d ironed herself taking care frowning over the ironing board as if all of her life, her female yearning, had been bound up in a man’s shirt spread out before her.

“Jesus. A blind cripple could do better than this.”

It was Tignor, examining one of his shirts. The iron had made creases at the collar. Ma had told her The collar is the hardest part, next are the shoulders. Front, back, and sleeves are easy .

“Oh, Tignor. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t wear this shit! You’ll have to wash it again, and iron it again.”

Rebecca took the shirt from him. It was a white cotton dress shirt with long sleeves. Still warm from the iron. She would not re-wash it, only just soak it and hang it to dry and try ironing it again in the morning.

In fact she stood mute, sullen. After Tignor went away. God damn she worked eight hours five days a week at fucking Niagara Tubing, did all the housework, took care of Niley and him and why wasn’t that enough?

“This factory job. What’s it pay?”

Out of nowhere came Tignor’s question. But Rebecca had the idea Tignor had wanted to ask for a long time.

She hesitated. Then told him.

(If she lied, and he found out. He would know then that she was trying to save money out of the salary.)

“ That little? For a forty-hour week? Christ.”

Tignor was personally hurt, insulted.

“Tignor, it’s just the machine shop. I didn’t have any experience. They don’t want women.”

It was nearing the end of October. The sky was a hard steely knife-blade-blue. By midday the air was still cold, begrudging. Rebecca had not wished to think How will we endure the winter together in this old house!

She’d missed Tignor, in his absences. Now that Tignor was living with them, she missed her old loneliness.

And she was frightened of him: his physical presence, the swerve of his emotions, his eyes like the eyes of a blind man who has suddenly been gifted with sight, and doesn’t like what he sees.

Tignor’s new habit was running both his hands through his ravaged hair in a gesture of impatience. His hair had grown back slowly, was no longer thick. It was the hair of an ordinary man now: thin, lank, faded brown. Beneath, his skull was bony to the touch.

Tignor was ashamed for Rebecca and of her and of himself as her husband, for a long trembling moment he could not speak. Then he said, spitting the words, “I told you, Rebecca. You wouldn’t have to work anymore, that day we drove to Niagara Falls I told you. Didn’t I?”

He was almost pleading. Rebecca felt a stab of love for him, she knew she must console him. Yet she said:

“You said I didn’t have to work at the hotel. That’s all you said.”

“God damn, I meant any kind of job. That’s what I meant and you fucking know it.”

He was becoming angry. She knew, she knew!-she must not provoke him. Yet she said:

“I only took the job at Niagara Tubing because I needed money for Niley and me. A young child needs clothes, Tignor. And food. And you were away, Tignor, I hadn’t heard from you…”

“Bullshit. I sent you money. In the U.S. mail, I sent it.”

No. You did not.

You are remembering wrongly. You are lying .

Rebecca knew the warning signals, she must say nothing more.

Tignor went away, furious. She heard his footsteps. Vibrations of footsteps pulsing in her head. So Jacob Schwart in his righteous anger had walked heavily, on the heels of his boots. That after his shotgun-death had had to be cut from his feet like hooves grown into the flesh.