A Garden of Earthly Delights by Joyce Carol Oates Read Free Book Online Page A

Carleton by three-four years.
    Carleton was impatient to get out of here but had to be polite with Helen teasing and flirting like a dog desperate to have its head stroked, asking how's the family, how's Pearl, and when Carleton shrugged not taking the hint he didn't want to speak of such things saying with a pulled-down mouth how pretty Pearl's hair was if she'd fix it up more and Carleton muttered something inaudible not rude exactly, but Helen persisted, “You know, Carl'ton, I try real hard to be friendly with that wife of yours but she don't give me the time of day, why's that?” And Carleton said, “My wife ain't got the time of day, honey. What's going on in her head, it ain't got a thing to do with the time of day or what month or year on the calendar. Got it?” Carleton was speaking in almost his pleasant-Daddy voice, and the bitch caught on like he'd reached out and pinched that floppy white breast on the nipple.
    There came Rafe to join him with a yodel—“Whoooeee!”
    Rafe was in a damn good mood, Carleton saw.
    Seeing too that his friend's living quarters weren't much cleaner than his own. Kids running wild, and flies—a sticky ribbon of fly-catcher hanging down from the light above the kitchen table like a Christmas tree decoration, must've been twenty fat black flies stuck in the thing and some of 'em buzzing and wriggling their wings. Enough to make you sick, you had to eat supper there. And Helen wasn't a mental case. Beneath the cabin that was propped up on concrete blocks was a shadowy space where bits of garbage and trash lay strewn, a scuttling of palmetto bugs you would not want to investigate.
    The men walked through the camp to the highway. Just each other's company, it was like oxygen pumped in the lungs.
    For a man requires a good friend like a soldier requires a buddy he can trust. Closer than a brother, even. 'Cause you can't trust your brother. Can't trust any woman for sure.
    They were almost at the highway when there came a thin little cry—“Dad-
dy
!”
    Carleton whipped around: it was Clara.
    The little blond girl with fingers stuck in her mouth, smiling at her daddy who was shaking a forefinger at her. It hurt Carleton's heart to see how small she was, there in the rutted lane. “You, Clara! What the hell you doin followin me? Get the hell back home.”
    “Daddy take me with you? Dad-dy?”
    “Damn little brat, you are not going anywhere tonight with your
dad-dy.
”
    Carleton hot-faced and riled up. Always embarrassed of some kid of his acting up in public. Clara wavered in the lane, then ran to hide behind the corner of a tar-paper shanty, peeking out. Rafe said with seeming sincerity, “That's Clara? Pretty little girl.”
    Carleton said, “Pretty little ass is gonna get warmed, I warn you.” He was worrying, if he kept on walking out of the camp, along the shoulder of the highway, his daughter would follow him; there was a bold streak in Clara, small as she was. Daddy tried sweet talk: “Be a good girl, kitten. Said I'd bring you something, didn't I? You can have it tomorrow.” His fingers twitched with wanting to grab on to her and break the brat's neck.
    Clara giggled, hid behind a straggly tree and peeked out at herdaddy through her fingers. Rafe was trying to be polite, which burned Carleton's ass: “What's she, four? Three?”
    “Five.”
    Carleton chucked some dried mud toward Clara, not to hit her but scare her like you'd scare a damn dog, and finally Clara lit out running back toward home. It was unspoken between the men that Clara was young to be wandering through the camp this time of early evening.
    The men walked on. Carleton said, “The other day some nigger kids were teasing my girls.”
    Rafe cursed. His words were hissing, scintillant.
    Carleton said, “If anybody gets hurt, it ain't going to be my fault. But a man will protect his children.” He was conscious of making a statement, like to the man with the clipboard who'd asked him questions.