Джойс Оутс - Night. Sleep. Death. The Stars

Well, all right. Now you put it that way, I guess—you are correct.

She is his best self, he tells her. His bright angel.

Of all the world, she was/is his salvation. Not in the next world but in this. Only Jessalyn could make of John Earle McClaren the person he was meant to be—so he has told her as he has told others.

Is it rare, that a husband can be so assertive in his dealings with others, yet so compliant in his dealings with his wife? Of course, the harsh term dealings does not quite apply.

He’d fallen in love just once in his life. Seeing Jessalyn at seventeen. Shy, soft-spoken, demure .

But frankly very pretty. John Earle had stared and stared at her face, her smooth-plaited hair. Her breasts.

She’d seen. That helplessness in a man’s face. A boy’s face. No one can moralize, no one can legislate.

Might as well call it love.

Their first time, holding hands. Johnny Earle had seemed embarrassed. He’d wanted to hold Jessalyn’s hand—tight; but (he said) he hadn’t wanted to “mangle” it.

She’d laughed. She had never, ever forgotten— mangle .

You can mangle my hand now, darling.

She’d been slower to fall in love with John Earle McClaren whose personality was so strongly defined, even in his early twenties. But eventually, she had fallen in love. She had not resisted.

Wishing he would grip her hand hard—yes, now.

But it is not Jessalyn’s way, she is resolved. To burden another with your need for them.

Better to be the one to take the other’s hand. Firmly.

As for so many years—an inexhaustible span of time, she’d thought—she had gripped a child’s hand, often the hands of two children, crossing a street, in a public place, on a flight of stairs— “Chick-chick!” had been her signal, in an undertone, a cheerful sound, a sound to alert the child, yes it is necessary, Mommy wants your hand.

Without hesitation, the child lets you take his/her hand. Nothing quite so wonderful, that trusting grip.

Her terror had been that one of the children would slip from her grasp and run into a street, or—in some other way manage to kill or maim herself when for a fleet moment Mommy had not been alert.

Mom? We’re taking you home now.

We’ll be back first thing in the morning.

Jessalyn is reluctant to leave Whitey’s bedside. Oh, how can she abandon poor ravaged Whitey! When Whitey’s eyes flutter open, the first face he sees should be hers.

Of course, I’m here. I will always be here.

Stares at her watch confused for a moment if it might be morning, not night. And where exactly is this place?

Whitey seems to take up less space in this hospital bed than he does in their bed at home where the mattress sags comfortably on his side. Each night sleeping with Whitey has been an adventure: Whitey sprawls, sighs, turns restlessly in the night, flings an arm over her, or an arm in her direction; wakes, or seems to wake, with a clicking sound in his throat, but sinks back into sleep at once like one sinking beneath the surface of water, deep, deeper while Jessalyn lies beside him in a trance of wonderment, in awe that sleep comes to her husband so easily, that must be caught, as in a flimsy net, by her.

But in this bed, on his back, clamped in place, poor Whitey seems—well, smaller. Diminished. It is what the man has been fighting for all of his life—not to be run down.

His breathing has become so arduous, the strain so extreme, Jessalyn wants to crawl into the bed beside him to hold him and help him breathe, as often she holds him in the night, in their bed, as he sinks in a series of twitches and missteps into sleep; but the bed is too narrow, this would never be allowed by the hospital staff.

Oh, what is she thinking! Thoughts rattling in her head like dried seeds in a clay pot. Or—loose coins, rolls of adhesive tape, spools of thread in one of the kitchen drawers swiftly opened.

So sleepy! She sees what appears to be loose macaroni, that has fallen from a box onto a kitchen shelf… This is wrong. It is not like Jessalyn to be so careless a housekeeper.

Newspaper pages scattered on the counter. Dishes soaking in the sink, she’d been about to rinse and put into the dishwasher.

Pouring seed into the bird feeders. Exacting, trying not to spill too much, which draws squirrels. Whitey’s feud with resident squirrels— Go on! Get the hell out of here! Damn you! They’d laughed at Whitey exasperated chasing squirrels who fled scarcely a few yards before stopping, squawking at him, shaking their enormous tails like livid jeering rats. Sophia had said Oh Daddy, the squirrels are hungry, too.

Another feud of Whitey’s, Canada geese on the back lawn. Each day, more Canada geese. Nothing enraged Whitey McClaren like Canada goose droppings.

Go on! Get the hell out of here! Go back to Canada where you belong and take your crap with you.

He’d enlisted the boys to help him. Long-legged Thom, rushing at the geese with a hockey stick, laughing.

Short-legged, six years old, Virgil trailed behind.

Where will Thom stay the night? In his old room, at the house?

And Virgil—where is Virgil?

Too many McClarens to fit into the Intensive Care room. A limit of two visitors. The rest are waiting outside in the hospital corridor—(she wants to think that’s where they are).

Even in the surgical waiting area Virgil had been too restless to stay in one place. She’d seen him pacing in the corridor. Talking with one of the night nurses. Fascinated to observe Virgil (too thin, shoulders bowed as if to minimize his height, dark blond hair tied back in a ponytail, skimpy beard—how exasperated Whitey would be, to see him in this public place!—and wearing loose-fitting overalls, embroidered Indian-looking shirt Whitey would categorize as hippie, his usual chewed-looking leather sandals) speaking with a stranger, seemingly an admiring stranger, whatever could he be telling her?—as the nurse (a woman of about Virgil’s age, or a little older) blinked at him, nodding, smiling as if she’d never encountered anyone so eloquent .

Virgil’s bullshit —Thom has a way of sneering.

That is cruel. Unfair. You don’t always know what Virgil is getting at but Virgil certainly does, and Virgil takes it all very seriously.

Scrub my soul clean.

Effort of a lifetime.

Only Jessalyn knows how Virgil antagonized Whitey a few years before by suggesting that people like him should double-tithe. You can’t spend your money, Dad. You just keep re-investing it.

Of course, Virgil doesn’t know how much money the elder McClarens donate to charitable organizations each year. Virgil has no idea.

What had hurt Whitey was the tactless phrase People like you .

Jessalyn had been hurt, too. What does it even mean— People like you ?

Wanting to plead even now, on Whitey’s behalf— We are not perfect people but we are living the best lives we know how to live.

And Virgil would smile his maddening-Virgil smile without needing to say But that best isn’t good enough, Mom. Sorry.

Has Whitey squeezed her hand?—Jessalyn’s heart pitches forward.

“Whitey? Oh—Whitey?”—so excited, she is feeling faint.

The handknit heather-colored sweater has fallen to the floor. The eldest daughter is gripping her shoulders to steady her.

But no, possibly Whitey has not squeezed her hand. Possibly she’d imagined it…

Mom! We’d better take you home. Now.

We’ll be back first thing in the morning…