Джойс Оутс: Night. Sleep. Death. The Stars

And this too was a relief. (Was it?)

And quickly then calling their mother.

Oh why didn’t Jessalyn answer the phone? That was not like Jessalyn, if she was home.

Five rings, a forlorn sound.

Then Whitey’s solemn voice mail clicked on.

Hello. This is the McClaren residence. Unfortunately neither Jessalyn nor Whitey—that’s to say, John Earle—John Earle McClaren—can come to the phone at this time. If you will leave a detailed message, complete with your phone number, we will call you back as soon as we are able. At the sound of the beep.

Beverly left a message:

“Mom? Hi! Sorry to miss you. Guess who was just here just now—on that ridiculous bicycle of his—Virgil… I was upstairs and couldn’t get to the door in time so—he went away looking miffed. Any idea what is going on with him?”

Wanting to say what the hell is going on . But Beverly’s phone voice to her mother was her good-daughter voice, bright-glittering like bubbles on a stream beneath which, if you looked closely, you’d see sharp-edged rocks and rubble.

Hung up. Waited thirty seconds. Called back.

No answer. She was sure that Jessalyn should be home.

John Earle McClaren’s computer-voice recording like something out of a mausoleum.

If you will leave a detailed message… At the sound of the beep…

But by this time, late afternoon, Jessalyn should have been home. Beverly was the only person apart from Jessalyn who knew her mother’s weekday schedule virtually hour by hour.

Through Jessalyn she kept tabs on Whitey’s (much busier) schedule. He’d had a Hammond Public Library trustees’ meeting that day, downtown at the library.

Whitey had a cell phone, in theory. But he rarely took it with him. He didn’t want personal calls, and he didn’t want interruptions at the office.

Beverly called her sister Lorene at North Hammond High, where Lorene McClaren was principal. Had to leave a message with a secretary, of course; Lorene would never answer her own phone and if she had, she’d probably have been rude— Yes? What do you want, Bev?

“Just tell her—‘Please call Beverly immediately.’”

There was a pause. Beverly could hear the secretary breathing.

“Oh.”

“‘Oh’—? What?”

“You are a relative of Dr. McClaren? She is out of the office for the rest of the day…”

“‘Rest of the day’—why?”

“I think—I think—I think Dr. McClaren said—there is a ‘family emergency.’”

Beverly was astounded. “‘Family emergency’? What kind of—‘family emergency’?”

But the secretary was sounding frightened, as if she’d revealed too much. She would pass on Beverly’s message to Dr. McClaren, that was all she could do.

Family emergency . Beverly was frightened now.

Called her father’s number at McClaren, Inc. And here too a secretary informed her that Mr. McClaren was out of the office.

“When will he be back, do you know?”

“Mr. McClaren didn’t say.”

“This is Mr. McClaren’s daughter Beverly. I need to reach him. Can you give him a message…”

“Yes, ma’am. I will try.”

Oh, why didn’t Whitey carry a cell phone! Though Whitey did use a computer he was of the generation of Americans who were quietly waiting for the “electronic revolution” to go away.

Hurriedly then Beverly left the house. Jamming her key into the SUV ignition. She’d had time only to grab a corduroy jacket, her oversized purse, cell phone. It was crucial to get there—to the house on Old Farm Road.

There was no direct route. There was only a circuitous route. Long ago Beverly had memorized every turn, every intersection, every four-way and two-way stop, every blind corner and landmark of the slightly more than three miles between Stone Ridge Drive and Old Farm Road.

Fumbling with her cell phone trying to call her younger sister Sophia, who worked in a biology lab and (probably) had her cell turned off. Trying to call (again) Jessalyn who might now be home. And Lorene on Lorene’s cell phone—which was virtually always turned off.

Even Thom seventy miles away in Rochester—their big brother.

No one answered. All the phones went at once to voice mail.

It was eerie, unsettling. Like the end of the world.

Like the Rapture—and only Beverly left below, of the McClaren family.

In an emergency Whitey could be tracked down. Of course. During the day he would check in at the office for messages.

He’d said that he hoped to retire at the age of seventy—but that time was coming faster than he’d anticipated. No one believed that Whitey would retire before seventy-five. Or ever.

Your father’s secret is, he has to keep in motion.

Jessalyn had said this, admiringly. For Jessalyn was the still point in the McClaren family about whom the others revolved.

Their beautiful mother with the soft voice and unfaltering optimism.

Pleading now into the silence, “Mom? Aren’t you home? Pick up? Please?”

Family emergency —what could that mean?

Someone should have called Beverly. For it seemed that someone must have called Lorene.

Bitterly Beverly resented it, whoever had failed to call her . In fact, Lorene should have called her. Might’ve had her secretary call her.

As a little girl Beverly had tormented herself with the question: Which of her parents did she love best? If there were a car crash or an earthquake or fire which parent would she hope would survive to take care of her?

“Mommy.”

Immediately came the answer, unhesitatingly: Mommy .

All the children would have answered Mommy . When they’d been younger, at least.

They’d loved Mommy the most. Everyone who knew their mommy loved her. Yet, it was their father whose respect and admiration they sought, precisely because John Earle McClaren’s respect and admiration were not easy to attain.

Their mother loved them without qualification. Their father loved them, with many qualifications.

There was Whitey McClaren, good-natured and approachable. But there was John Earle McClaren who was capable of looking at you, forehead creased and eyes narrowed, as if he had no idea who the hell you were and why you were daring to take up his time.

In the McClaren family, sisters and brothers contended for the father’s attention. Each family occasion was a test of some sort from which you could not exclude yourself even if you’d had an idea how this might be done.

Like gold coins Whitey might toss at you with that special dimple-Daddy smile that signaled Hey kid. You know, I love you best.

“Oh. God.”

She thought too much about this. She knew.

It wasn’t that Whitey—their father—was rich, that was the surprising fact. If Whitey hadn’t a dime, if Whitey were in debt, they’d have felt the same way about him, Beverly was sure.

Like dirty water the memory washed over her: that birthday dinner she’d given for Virgil. Tried to give, and been rebuffed.

The first time she’d realized that Virgil didn’t love her. How rude, how indifferent he was, she counted for so little in his life. How embarrassing it was, to be so snubbed.

Poor Beverly! — she tries so hard.

Poor Mom! —the teenagers made mouths at one another, dangerously close to laughing, under their mother’s very nose.

A place at the beautifully decorated table—Virgil’s place—empty.

Like a missing tooth, an emptiness in the mouth which the tongue seeks, irresistibly.

“I spoke with him. Just the other day. I made it a point to—remind him. And he’d seemed…”

Jessalyn had laid her soft, calming hand on Beverly’s tremulous hand. Telling her not to feel bad—“It’s just a misunderstanding, I’m sure. Virgil would never—you know—be deliberately rude .”