This far out, it was safe to go for walks. She and Harold walked out often, in no hurry, taking in the sights. Police cars were always passing on Seven Mile Road. Carriers with troops in them were parked at the curb, and National Guardsmen, looking like boys, watched Loretta and Harold pass solemnly, sadly—were they thinking of their own parents, in other parts of the state? Some Guardsmen were assigned to guard buildings. They had to stand for hours, with their rifles out, and Loretta felt very sorry for them. Everywhere she looked there were police, police cars, soldiers, but the activity was slowed down, unexcited. The excitement was in another part of the city.
On Thursday evening everyone watched television, a local show on WDET-TV, broadcast by Wayne State University. They sat in a room off the living-room, with paneled walls. Loretta had never seen walls like this before. The program dealt with the riot. Loretta was sitting beside her friend from the Post Office, who always gravitated toward her, with his sweet, amazed, kindly look, and the lady of the house sat on the floor, with her bony wrists crossed at her knees, wearing slacks. Loretta was very happy just to be here, in this room, this lovely room, with all these people! Everyone tried so hard to be kind. The two Negro women in the group tried especially hard to be kind; they hardly spoke, and when they spoke it was only in very soft, apologetic voices. Loretta was so pleased with her new life that for a few minutes she did not pay much attention to the program. It had no real interest for her—newsreels of the riot, the smoke-filled streets, the broken shops, the carriers of soldiers, and the monotonous shots of tanks and Army paratroopers had been run and rerun, constantly, and these had wearied her; but programs that were all talk wearied her more.
There had been many discussion programs since the beginning of the riot, as soon as it was decided that it was a “riot.” And a priest, a handsome, graying man, a friend of the family, had led them all in after-dinner discussions here at the house, his coffee cup in his hand, very eloquent and earnest. The television program was all talk, jerky and unrehearsed. A man was asking other men their opinions. On and on went the opinions! A grave and tragic time for white America…The sins of the fathers…oppression…evil…discrimination…
“And now, let us turn to Dr. Piercy,” the moderator said. “Dr. Piercy, many of us are familiar with your stand on race relations here in Detroit, but would you care to explain to our audience once more. Dr. Piercy is the new head of the United Action Against Poverty Program in Detroit, a very high-voltage, well-financed adjunct of the Federal Poverty Program, and an Assistant Professor of Sociology at Wayne State University…”
Dr. Piercy had the look of a man whose glasses had been snatched off his face. His eyes were pale and hollow; his face was fixed in a squint. “Everything is going to have to be leveled,” he said in a wild and yet polite manner, and the moderator smiled blandly at him and at the television audience. “I’m sorry to say this, but the truth must be told.” Loretta could tell, though she wasn’t paying much attention to his words, that he was from a good family. He kept reaching up with one hand to steady his glasses, though he was wearing no glasses. Loretta wondered if they had been broken in the riot. “I have been in rat-infested buildings, in filthy rooms where fifteen or more people live and sleep, and I know,” he said, his eyes jumping about, “I know that our society must be leveled before a new, beautiful, peaceful society can be erected. This means the end of the world as we have known it, we middle-class whites, but it must be realized, it must be acknowledged, and we ourselves must work to attain it—or go down in history on the side of the Hitlers and Stalins, the oppressors of mankind, involved at this very moment in a bloody war to put down a revolution in Vietnam—”
“Excuse me, Dr. Piercy, and do your co-workers feel the same way? May we hear from your co-workers?”
The camera moved to show a young Negro dressed in a suit, but this must have been a mistake—the Negro shook his head, frightened, to indicate that he wasn’t one of the co-workers. The camera turned onto another man, a white man, dark-haired and pale, leaner and sharper than Dr. Piercy.
Loretta stared. This man was her own son, Jules! “My God,” she whispered.
Jules was wearing a dark shirt and no tie, no coat. Why couldn’t he have borrowed a coat? Loretta’s face went hot with blood, ashamed. She dug her nails into her flesh.
“Yes, I’m new on this committee,” Jules said in response to a question, clearing his throat, speaking too loud. “Dr. Piercy has just appointed me…”
Why was he speaking so loud? And there was something on the side of his face—a long scratch. It looked absurd. Loretta wanted to jump up and turn off the television set.
“Mr. Wendall, your view of the immediate future? What does this spell for America?”
“Everything in America is coming alive. It’s breaking out and coming alive,” Jules said eagerly. He had a pleasant face, a handsome though battered face, but there was something unfocused about it. His rapid, hoarse voice ran on with the urgency of someone speaking in a strong wind. Loretta closed her eyes. Her heart was hammering in misery.
“I would like to explain to everyone how necessary the fires are, and people in the streets, not as Mort says here—Dr. Piercy—so that things can be built up again, black and white living together, no, or black living by itself, by themselves—no, that has no importance, that is something for the newspapers or the insurance companies. It is only necessary to understand that fire burns and does its duty, perpetually, and the fires will never be put out—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Wentwell, are you saying—did you say—fire burns and does its duty?”
Loretta opened her eyes, she couldn’t help it. Her son was leaning forward toward the camera. Beside him Dr. Piercy sat, uncomfortable in his chair, wiping his face nervously and glancing sideways at Jules.
“Violence can’t be singled out from an ordinary day!” Jules cried. “Everyone must live through it again and again, there’s no end to it, no land to get to, no clearing in the midst of the cities—who wants parks in the midst of the cities!—parks won’t burn!”
“Thank you, Mr. Wentwell,” the moderator said, “and now…”
Though the camera moved away Jules kept talking. “It won’t hurt,” his voice was saying earnestly. “The rapist and his victim rise up from rubble, eventually, at dawn, and brush themselves off and go down the street to a diner. Believe me, passion can’t endure! It will come back again and again but it can’t endure!”
The camera moved on jerkily. The moderator singled out another man, an older man with a turned-around collar. Loretta sat in a hot daze, unable to move. Where was her son? Even his voice had been cut off, someone else was talking now, someone else had taken over. What had happened to Jules? Why had he said such crazy things? She was ashamed of him. She remembered him burning down a barn, as a child. She remembered him pushing through a crowd to stare at a burning plane. Why, he’s a murderer! She thought clearly, He is a murderer, and she had given birth to a murderer. A man with the turned-around collar, an Anglican priest, was speaking in a solemn, clear voice. “…the misfortunes of history we must not give in to, nor must we, dare we, give in to despair. I cannot agree with our young friend here that this is on its way and will change us all, or whatever he meant. I must admit that I cannot understand him. I’m of an older generation. My total commitment is for education, enormously enlarged funds for education and the cleaning-up of slums, in order to bring about a new America for all our children…”
Loretta began to weep. Everyone turned to her, surprised. She put her hands to her face, weeping. The lady of the house scrambled to her feet and cried, “What’s wrong? Please don’t cry, what’s wrong? Let us help you…”
Loretta stood. She wept but with dignity; she was conscious of herself being watched, stared at. Why was she crying? What good did it do? Jesus Christ, this is a waste, she thought. Why should I cry over him? The lady led her out of the room, into a hallway bathroom.
But still she could not stop crying.
9
Maureen answered the doorbell one evening in early August and there he stood, Jules himself. She was carrying a magazine she’d been reading; she tried to put the magazine down somewhere but couldn’t think where to put it. She stood staring at Jules and could think of nothing to say.
“Well, what’s wrong? Are you surprised I found out your address?” he said.
“Jules, my God—”
“Can’t I come in? Just for a minute?”
She stared at him. Now that she was married and living out of the city, in an apartment building, she rarely thought of her family and never expected to see them. Even Jules. Her husband had asked her, seeing this name Jules Wendall in the newspaper, whether that was her brother Jules, and she had said no, that wasn’t her brother, not him. And now, seeing Jules, she felt a little sick.
“Is your husband home?”
“No, he’s teaching night school.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“It’s such a surprise to see you.”
“Do I look bad?”
“No, you don’t look bad.”
But she felt really sickened, not by his face or his presence but by her own presence, so close to him, her own existence so closely tied to his; she stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind her. “We can talk out here. Please. What…what did you want?”
“Can’t I stay around and meet your husband?”
“He won’t be home for a long time.”
“Maureen, you look so pale, you look terrible. Is this because of me? You don’t want to see me? Why not?”
“I…I…I want to see you…” she stammered and was silent.
Jules reached over to look at the cover of her magazine, as if it might be a clue to her silence: it was a glossy picture of a pie topped with whipped cream.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“Nothing.”
“Your marriage is very secret, huh? I was over to say good-by to Ma—I’m going away—and she was complaining about you, you not calling, she’s worried about you and all that. Why didn’t you call her, Maureen? She went through an awful lot, being burned out. Even Betty stopped around to see if she could help. Ma’s staying with some friend of hers, named Ethel, she’s doing all right—she’s maybe going to get married again, did she tell you?”
“I heard something about it,” Maureen said with distaste.
“But aren’t you interested?”
She looked sideways at her brother. He wore a dark pullover shirt and dark slacks. He had the air of a successful thief. His very being, so close to her, was a terrible burden.
“Aren’t you interested?” he asked.
“I love Ma and all of them, you know that, Jules, but I have my own life to live now and I’ve got to…I’ve got to live it….”
“Even Betty came by and gave her a few dollars! It’s the least you could do, give her some money or telephone her—”
“I have my own life to live.”
“What’s so hard about living?”
“Don’t talk to me like that! You know! You know everything I know! Jules, please, could you leave now? I don’t feel well. I feel sort of sick. We don’t have any money, he has to pay child support and…and all that. We don’t have enough money for ourselves—”
“All right.”
“We’re going to have a baby, we can’t afford to give any money away—”
“All right, I’m leaving.” Jules reached over and stroked her head.
Like a cat, sulky and slow, Maureen inclined her head toward him. They stood for a few seconds in silence. Then Jules said, “Mort got transferred to Los Angeles and he’s taking me along with him. We’ve got a hundred-thousand-dollar budget to take care of. Outside is my car—I’ve already bought a car for the trip, with air-conditioning. And once I get on my feet out there I’m going to go into business of some kind. I can make good contacts, through the government. I might go into real estate, something solid.”
“But in the paper it sounded like you were a Communist. Didn’t somebody say you were a Communist and want you fired?”
“A Communist! So what? I don’t know what a Communist is!” Jules laughed. “I’m not anything. I’m just trying to get along. My boss, Mort, Dr. Piercy, is really crazy, he’s out of his mind. Some black kids beat him up last Tuesday—he was out with a police patrol and asking questions, and the police wouldn’t do a thing to stop it. The funniest thing, funny…his glasses got broken for the second time, and he only got the job because the head of the committee had a nervous breakdown. He got me on the committee because he likes me. He has a certain idea about me, about my life. He say he’d like to write my life up, as a case history, but I said What the hell? Everything that happened to me before this is nothing—it doesn’t exist!—my life is only beginning now. So I’m on my way to California and I don’t mean to upset you, I just came over to say good-by. I understand that you might not want your husband to meet me, though really, kid, I’m not as bad as some of our family.”
“Jules, I didn’t mean that!” Maureen said. “You’re a wonderful man, you were a wonderful brother to me, and I love you. I will always remember you—taking care of me, your letters when I was sick, all of that, what we had to live through together, but…but I want it over with, I’m through with it, all I have to remember of it is nightmares once in a while. I can take that, bad dreams. If that’s the worst it is I can take it.”
“I understand.”
“And we don’t have enough money now for ourselves. I…I’d give her some money if we had it, but…Jules, I don’t want to remember any of it! A few bad dreams, that’s all, nothing more…please. I wake up sweating and next to this man, a man I don’t know, I mean I don’t remember if it’s my husband or not or some other man, someone who picked me up. I can’t go through it any more, Jules, I’m finished. I’m going to forget everything and everybody. I’m going to have a baby. I’m a different person.”
“Do you love your husband?”
“I’m going to have a baby, I’m a different person.”
“What about Ma and the others?”
“What others?”
“Oh, you know, all of them—Ma and her brother, if he ever shows up, and Betty, and Connie, and Ma’s crazy friends—”
“I guess I’m not going to see them any more.”
Jules gave the back of her neck an affectionate squeeze. He seemed really quite joyful, a Jules she recalled from years ago, light on his feet and filled with surprises.
“But, honey, aren’t you one of them yourself?”
She did not answer.
She had led him to the stairway, back to the stairway. Why didn’t he leave! With one hand he reached out to touch the railing of the stairwell—it was plastic—and she saw how wobbly it was, ready to fall off if someone bumped against it. Thoughtfully, Jules drew his hand away. He said in a low, murmurous, almost ardent voice, “Sweetheart, I understand. I love you too. I’ll always think of you, and maybe when I’ve done better, gotten on my feet, when I come back here and get married—I want to marry her anyway, that woman, the one who tried to kill me, I still love her and I’ll make some money and come back and marry her, wait and see—when I come back, a little better off, we can see each other. All right? I love you for being such a sweet sister and suffering so much and getting out of it, using your head, but don’t forget that this place here can burn down too. Men can come back in your life, Maureen, they can beat you up again and force your knees apart, why not? There’s so much of it in the world, so much semen, so many men! Can’t it happen? Won’t it happen? Wouldn’t you really want it to happen?”
“No!”
“Maureen, really? Tell me.”
“No, never. Never.”
He stood looking down at her. She pressed her hands against her ears. She wa
s going to have a baby, she was heavy with pregnancy, but sure-footed, pretty, clean, married. She did not look at him.
“Well, I don’t want to make life harder than it should be,” Jules said.
He took his sister’s hand and kissed it and said good-by, making an ironic, affectionate bow over her with his head: it was the Jules she had always loved, and now she loved him for going away, saying good-by, leaving her forever.
AFTERWORD
Joyce Carol Oates
The poetic epigram from John Webster’s tragedy The White Devil asks, “…because we are poor / Shall we be vicious?” This is the question to which the novel them provides an extended answer.
Them is also imagined as an American epic in domestic terms, for what is life, in essence, but an epic adventure? We set sail without knowing where we will end up; our destinations are more likely to be random than chosen; of such chance, we hope to fashion Destiny. Yet the fact remains, especially in youth, that anything can happen; and the exhilarating adventure of life is that, possibly, it will. Them is the chronicle of the Wendalls, a family of distinctly American adventurers. There’s an immediate breathlessness to the narrative that begins with dreamy sixteen-year-old Loretta on the eve of losing her virginity to her young lover, losing her young lover to a bullet fired by her brother, yet gaining a husband within the space of a few desperate hours. Even before Loretta moves to the thunderous city of Detroit, there’s a sense of urgency in the very air, wayward and hopeful and hungry, the hunger for life, life at any cost, in the face of virtually any risk. The percussive beat of a crude and prospering American city runs through them: the fever pulse of Motor City, U.S.A. (as Detroit was known at the time) and, less formally, Murder City, U.S.A.