Solstice by Joyce Carol Oates

Author:Joyce Carol Oates
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-02-20T16:00:00+00:00

9

No call came; but Sheila herself dropped by, uninvited, without giving Monica a warning, clearly high—alcohol, pills?—the strain of Halleron’s visit?—the following evening.

She brought a six-pack of beer, she seemed rudely unaware of Monica’s concern (for Monica had work to do: truly, Monica had a good deal of work to do), she sat on Monica’s sofa and talked, chattered, yawned, joked, complained wistfully and bitterly and with a wild despairing humor, for an hour—for an hour and a half—while Monica made an effort to calm her, to puzzle out what was wrong. This visit, impromptu and not entirely desired, reminded Monica uncomfortably of Sheila’s very first visit to the house—that surprise visit—it seemed so long ago, now—years ago—when Monica had been too confused to know whether she liked Sheila Trask, felt a powerful attraction to her, or was, in fact, repulsed by her. So brash!—so loud!—so self-absorbed, even as she expressed the most damning sort of judgment against herself, as if challenging Monica to agree.

Yes, she was drunk. And though Monica had no choice but to “like” her now—they had gone too far for that—she wished the woman gone for the evening—for the night. For the remainder of the year.

Sheila did not resemble a country squire’s wife now. Her hair was uncombed, she’d thrown on a dirty sweatshirt and manure-stained jeans, for, clearly, it little mattered in Monica’s house what she looked like; nor did it matter what sorts of wayward, bizarre, pointless things she said. No need for pretense, here. She spoke bitterly of enemies—detractors—hers and Morton’s—gallery owners who had cheated them—“friends” who were misleading Sheila even now—the world of art parasites—reviewers, critics, promoters, dealers, collectors, “art historians”—all parasites, yet highly regarded—richly rewarded—admired, pursued, sucked-up-to. God, how she detested them!—wished them all dead!

She finished one can of beer, opened another, tossed the ring-pull on Monica’s coffee table. Monica asked about Halleron—was he married, was he still working—but Sheila seemed scarcely to hear. She said: “But what am I speaking of except—mortality. Always and forever mortality. Nothing else engages me, nothing else terrifies me, but I can’t seem to translate it into work, my mind is racing, spinning, it’s going around in circles and I can’t get off, every syllable I utter is the sheerest self-pity and I’m not imagining it—my brushes are lousy. Fucking bloody lousy my very brushes, it’s no wonder I can’t work, have you ever heard anything more pathetic—?”

Of course the woman was funny, deftly funny, her facial mannerisms, her gesturings, her verbal timing—all very skillful indeed. But Monica refused to laugh. Monica stared at her, unsmiling, and said: “Sheila, please. Don’t. Don’t go on like that. If I can do anything to help, I will, but . . .”

Sheila regarded Monica with a look of affectionate contempt. Deliberately she sucked at her beer, wiped her mouth, rose to her feet with an air of precarious dignity. “‘But,’ says Mary Beth quietly, ‘But,’ says sweet little Mary Beth, meaning ‘Get out of my house,’ meaning ‘I

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