Sourland by Joyce Carol Oates Page B

Shore Mall—my face is stony & composed & in fact I am very uneasy—I am very excited—pushing open the rear door that bears on the outside the admonition No Admittance—Library Staff Only —& at once the man in the herringbone coat steps forward to take hold of the door & pull it farther open, as if I required assistance. In a thrilled voice saying, “May I help you, Ms. Erdley? Let me get this door.”
    â€œThank you—but no. I can manage the door myself.”
    â€œThen—let me carry this bag for you.”
    â€œNo. I can carry this bag myself.”
    On my crutches I’m strong, capable—swinging my Step Up! legs like a girl-athlete in a gym. On my crutches I exude an air of such headlong & relentless competence, your instinct would be to jump out of my way.
    No I tell him. And again No . Almost I’m laughing—the sound of my laughter is startling, high-pitched—a laughter like breaking glass—it’s astonishing to me, this sudden sexual boldness in the man in the tweed coat & white shirt who’d been so polite, earnest & proper, inside the library. No one is close by—no one is a witness—he can loom over me, taller than I am by several inches—he can coerce me with his height & the authority of his maleness. Very deliberately & tenderly he appropriates my leather bag—slips the strap from my shoulder and onto his own.
    â€œYes. This is very heavy. I can carry this.”
    I can’t tug at the shoulder bag—I don’t want to get into a struggle with the man. We’re walking together awkwardly—as if neither of us has a sure footing—the sidewalk is wet, icy—my crutches are impediments, obstacles—my crutches are weapons, of a kind, & make me laugh, so ugly & clumsy & this man isn’t sure how to appropriate me, armed as I am with both crutches & prosthetic lower limbs that clearly fascinate him even as they frighten him—I can’t help but laughat the situation, & at him—he’s trying to laugh, too—but agitated, embarrassed—daring to grip my arm at the elbow as if to steady me.
    â€œMs. Erdley—maybe I should carry you? This pavement is all ice…”
    â€œNo. You can’t carry me.”
    â€œYes. I think I should.”
    â€œNo. Don’t be ridiculous.”
    â€œWhere is your car?”
    â€œI don’t have a car.”
    â€œYou don’t have a car?”
    â€œI said no. Now leave me alone, please.”
    â€œBut—how are you getting home?”
    â€œHow do you know I’m going home?”
    â€œWherever you’re going, then—how will you get there?”
    â€œThe way I got here.”
    â€œMs. Erdley—how is that?”
    â€œI think that’s my business.”
    â€œJust tell me—how? You’re not walking home, are you?”
    â€œAnd what if I am?”
    â€œWell—are you?”
    â€œNo. I am not walking home.”
    â€œThen—where are you going?”
    â€œI’m taking the bus.”
    â€œThe bus! No—I’ll drive you.”
    â€œHow do you know where I live?”
    â€œI’ll drive you.”
    Â 
    How we meet, people like us.
    Â 
    He tells me his name: Tyrell Beckmann.
    He knows my name: Jane Erdley.
    He was born in Barnegat Sound, thirty-seven years ago this month. Moved away for all of his adult life & just recently moved back for “family & business reasons.”
    He has a wife, two young daughters.
    Matter-of-factly enunciating Wife, two young daughters in the stoic way of one acknowledging an act of God.
    A miracle. Or a natural disaster.
    Solemnly he confides in me: “After my father died last fall the family put pressure on me to return to Barnegat—to work with my brothers in the family business—‘Beckmann & Sons’—I’d rather not discuss it, Jane! In February I enrolled in a computer course at the community