Read Online I Am No One You Know by Joyce Carol Oates - Free Book Online
Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
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shovel the driveway? He wasn’t weak then, he surprised us all.” It was true: Steven and Brandon had bundled up to shovel snow after a two-foot snowfall in northern New Jersey, and, after a while, as if reluctantly, Owen had joined them. He shoveled awkwardly at first, then got into the rhythm, cheeks flushed and nose running, joking with Steven and Brandon, quite enjoying himself. As if he’d forgotten himself. Steven had felt an unexpected bond between Owen and himself as the men shoveled the fifty-foot driveway, talking frankly of life, ideals, politics, family. He’d felt that he had established a new, significant rapport with his brother-in-law, of a kind that had made no reference to Holly. I like him. And he likes me. That’s it! But the rapport hadn’t lasted. What was genuine enough in the buoyant cold of a bright, dazzling-white winter day soon dissolved, and not long afterward there was Owen calling Holly to complain of his depression, his insomnia, “faithless” friends, yes and he needed money…
Holly says, annoyed, “Oh yes: the snow-shoveling. Fine. But my brother is a little more complicated than that, I hope.”
Steven accepts this in silence. He has brought it on himself, he knows. It’s pointless to argue with Holly about Owen: she loves him in a way impenetrable by Steven, in a way that pre-exists even her love for Brandon and Caitlin. You can call this love morbid, or admirable; a symptom of childhood pathology, or an expression of adult loyalty. But there it is.
Relenting, as if reading Steven’s thoughts, Holly says gently, “You have to understand, honey: Owen and I were Hansel and Gretel together. Once upon a time.”
This is meant to dispel tension, as a joke. Steven laughs, and Holly laughs. But is it funny, Steven wonders. It seems to him dangerous,treacherous. To perceive your childhood as mythical, out of a fairy tale.
T HEN, ONE EVENING, when Holly is at the mall with the children, Steven has what will be his final conversation with Owen.
The phone rings, he answers, and there’s his brother-in-law’s reedy, drawling voice—“Is Holly there? Can I speak with her?”
“Holly isn’t here, Owen,” Steven says, more amused than annoyed that Owen hasn’t bothered to identify himself, or to waste breath on a greeting to Steven. “What did you want with her?”
“I—don’t ‘want’ anything. Just to talk to Holly…” Owen’s voice is flat, disappointed.
“Talk to me.”
Steven has been watching CNN and now he lowers the sound. He’s in sweatshirt and jeans, drinking beer out of a can. Feeling good. Feeling generous. A productive day in his office in New York City and a warm cozy family evening coming up. He’s possibly wondering if, with Holly out of it, he and Owen can re-establish their old rapport, speak frankly and from the heart. But Owen sounds as if he’s been drinking, or is drugged. He’s vague, not very coherent; lapsing with no preamble into a monologue of complaints—his disappointing job, his botched life, migraine headaches, insomnia—night sweats, fever—“And this new symptom like an elliptic fit that doesn’t quite happen, a really weird sensation like phantom pain in a missing limb—an amputee? Like that?”
Steven guesses that Owen has meant to say “epileptic.” Steven is distracted by jarringly close-up newsreel footage taken in the Gaza Strip where several rock-throwing young Palestinian boys have been shot by Israeli border guards. He raises the TV volume slightly, not loud enough, he hopes, for Owen to detect. Politely he asks Owen to repeat what he has said; which Owen does, at length. His voice drones on, a litany of physical maladies, psychological woe, despicable “malpractice-worthy” behavior on the part of a formerly trusted doctor. In his self-concern Owen has forgotten that he’s speaking not to Holly but to Steven: he’s alluding to back in Rutherford, back there, remember when, dreamt about last night, O
Holly says, annoyed, “Oh yes: the snow-shoveling. Fine. But my brother is a little more complicated than that, I hope.”
Steven accepts this in silence. He has brought it on himself, he knows. It’s pointless to argue with Holly about Owen: she loves him in a way impenetrable by Steven, in a way that pre-exists even her love for Brandon and Caitlin. You can call this love morbid, or admirable; a symptom of childhood pathology, or an expression of adult loyalty. But there it is.
Relenting, as if reading Steven’s thoughts, Holly says gently, “You have to understand, honey: Owen and I were Hansel and Gretel together. Once upon a time.”
This is meant to dispel tension, as a joke. Steven laughs, and Holly laughs. But is it funny, Steven wonders. It seems to him dangerous,treacherous. To perceive your childhood as mythical, out of a fairy tale.
T HEN, ONE EVENING, when Holly is at the mall with the children, Steven has what will be his final conversation with Owen.
The phone rings, he answers, and there’s his brother-in-law’s reedy, drawling voice—“Is Holly there? Can I speak with her?”
“Holly isn’t here, Owen,” Steven says, more amused than annoyed that Owen hasn’t bothered to identify himself, or to waste breath on a greeting to Steven. “What did you want with her?”
“I—don’t ‘want’ anything. Just to talk to Holly…” Owen’s voice is flat, disappointed.
“Talk to me.”
Steven has been watching CNN and now he lowers the sound. He’s in sweatshirt and jeans, drinking beer out of a can. Feeling good. Feeling generous. A productive day in his office in New York City and a warm cozy family evening coming up. He’s possibly wondering if, with Holly out of it, he and Owen can re-establish their old rapport, speak frankly and from the heart. But Owen sounds as if he’s been drinking, or is drugged. He’s vague, not very coherent; lapsing with no preamble into a monologue of complaints—his disappointing job, his botched life, migraine headaches, insomnia—night sweats, fever—“And this new symptom like an elliptic fit that doesn’t quite happen, a really weird sensation like phantom pain in a missing limb—an amputee? Like that?”
Steven guesses that Owen has meant to say “epileptic.” Steven is distracted by jarringly close-up newsreel footage taken in the Gaza Strip where several rock-throwing young Palestinian boys have been shot by Israeli border guards. He raises the TV volume slightly, not loud enough, he hopes, for Owen to detect. Politely he asks Owen to repeat what he has said; which Owen does, at length. His voice drones on, a litany of physical maladies, psychological woe, despicable “malpractice-worthy” behavior on the part of a formerly trusted doctor. In his self-concern Owen has forgotten that he’s speaking not to Holly but to Steven: he’s alluding to back in Rutherford, back there, remember when, dreamt about last night, O
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