Black Dahlia & White Rose: Stories by Joyce Carol Oates Read Free Book Online

alone use it— Officer Molina ! That had to be a joke.
    The other cop was a man—a little younger than the Hispanic woman—his skin so acne-scarred and smudged-looking you’d be hard put to say he was white.
    Both of them looking at Lisette like—what? Like they felt sorry for her, or were disgusted with her, or—what? She saw the male cop’s eyes drop to her tight-fitting jeans with a red-rag-patch at the knee, then up again to her blank scared face.
    It wouldn’t be note-passing in math class, they’d come to arrest her for. Maybe at the Rite Aid—the other day—plastic lipstick tubes marked down to sixty-nine cents in a bin—almost, Lisette’s fingers had snatched three of them up, and into her pocket, without her knowing what she did . . .
    “You are—‘Lisette Mueller’—daughter of ‘Yvette Mueller’—yes?”
    Numbly Lisette nodded—yes.
    “Resident of—‘2991 North Seventh Street, Atlantic City’—yes?”
    Numbly Lisette nodded—yes.
    Officer Molina did the talking. Lisette’s heart was beating hard and quick. She was too frightened to react when Molina took hold of her arm at the elbow—not forcibly but firmly—as a female relation might; walking Lisette to the stairs, and down the stairs, talking to her in a calm kindly matter-of-fact voice signaling You will be all right. This will be all right. Just come with us, you will be all right.
    “How recently did you see your mother, Lisette? Or speak with your mother? Was it—today?”
    Today? What was today? Lisette couldn’t remember.
    “Has your mother been away, Lisette? And did she call you?”
    Numbly Lisette shook her head—no.
    “Your mother isn’t away? But she isn’t at home—is she?”
    Lisette tried to think. What was the right answer. A weird scared smile made her mouth twist in the way that pissed her mother who mistook the smile for something else.
    They’d been to the house, maybe. They’d been to the house looking for Yvette Mueller and knew she wasn’t there. Molina said:
    “When did you speak with your mother last, Lisette?”
    This was hard to determine. It wouldn’t be the right answer, Lisette reasoned, to say that her mother had called and left a phone message—would it?
    Shyly Lisette mumbled she didn’t know.
    “But not this morning? Before you went to school?”
    “No. Not—this morning.” Lisette shook her head grateful for something to say that was definite.
    They were outside, at the rear of the school. A police cruiser was parked in the fire lane. Lisette felt a taste of panic—were they taking her to the cruiser? She was being arrested, taken to juvie court. The boys in J-C’s posse joked about juvie court, fam’ly court.
    In the cold wet air smelling of the ocean Lisette felt the last of the beer-buzz evaporate. She hated it how the cops—both cops—were staring at her like they’d never seen anything so sad, so pathetic, maybe disgusting before—like some sniveling little mangy dog. They could see her pimply skin at her hairline and every snarl in her dirt-colored frizz-hair she hadn’t taken the time to comb, or run a brush through, let alone shampoo for four, five days. And she hadn’t had a shower, either.
    That long, her mother had been away.
    Away for the weekend with—who?—that was one of Momma’s secrets. Could be a new friend—“Exciting new friend” Yvette always described them on the phone—some man she’d met at the casino probably—there were lots of roving unattached men in Atlantic City—if they won in the casino they needed to celebrate with someone, and if they lost in the casino they needed to be cheered up by someone—Yvette Mueller was the one!—honey-colored hair not dirt-colored (which was her natural hair color) in waves to her shoulder, sparkly eyes, a quick nice soothing laugh that was what a man wanted to hear, not something sharp and ice-picky driving him up the wall.
    Lisette had asked her mother who this was she was going away for the