Read Online Wonderland by Joyce Carol Oates - Free Book Online Page B

the pockets of his navy jacket. He stares at Jesse. He has not shaved for two or three days. His eyes seem very white above the dark, shadowy beard; a limp strand of hair has fallen onto his forehead.
    He takes the broom from Jesse, finishes the stroke Jesse has begun, and sets the broom aside.

2
    “Get your jacket,” his father says.
    “But—”
    “Come on, get your jacket. We’re going home.”
    “But why did you … why did you drive in?”
    “Just tell Harder you’re leaving. Come on.”
    “But Pa …”
    His father stuffs his hands back in the pockets of the old jacket, so that his arms stick out jauntily on either side. His face is pale, his teeth almost chattering with cold. The whites of his eyes are almost luminous. Jesse looks at him and begins to protest, but his facial muscles go slack. He wants to tell his father how wrong this is—why should he leave his job early? Why? He is confused and embarrassed, his heart is pounding tightly with embarrassment because Mr. Harder is watching them and his father is standing there, just standing there, in his soiled old jacket, his trousers worn and shiny and stained, probably with grease, his boots stained with something dark and moist, probably oil that has soaked into the leather. The lower part of his face is shaded, shadowy. His jaw moves sideways, the teeth grinding together silently. Jesse can sill taste the vomit in the very back of his mouth, as if there is a permanent stain there.
    “But Pa, Walter Hill will come to pick me up at five.…”
    “I’ll see to that.”
    “But why did you drive in to get me? What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing.”
    His father’s jaw moves again, almost imperceptibly. Jesse sometimes hears his father grind his teeth at night—that eerie, light sound, as of charms being rolled about gently in the palm of a hand, charms from a gum-ball machine. How strange, how intimate, to hear that sound at night and to picture his father finally asleep, his father’s big arm flung across his face as if he is ashamed, even in sleep, of being so open, so innocent! There is always a shame beginning deep in his father’s face, a dark blood-red glow that creeps up from his throat.
    “Do I have to leave right now?” Jesse persists.
    “I told you.”
    His father doesn’t wait for him but leaves the store. Jesse goes to get his jacket, goes to explain to Mr. Harder that he must leave early.
    “Is something wrong at home?” Mr. Harder says.
    “No,” says Jesse.
    He hurries to catch up with his father. His father is walking ahead, to the car. He walks quickly, striding along, and there is something jerky and mechanical about his walk. Is he drunk? Jesse can’t tell. The battered old car is parked in front of the Five Bridges Tavern, but maybe this is just a coincidence. Somehow there is an air of formality about Jesse’s father this afternoon, not that smiling, boyish, arrogant tilt to his shoulders that comes from drinking. When a little drunk he sways to one side, as if to emphasize his playfulness; when he is very drunk he is mean, short-tempered, it’s better to avoid him; when sober, he is himself, clear-eyed and impatient, eager to make jokes, restlessly slapping the palms of his hands together or against his thighs, humming under his breath, singing snatches of nonsense syllables under his breath. But now, today, he is different, he seems altogether different. Jesse runs after him and gets in the car. There is no figuring this out, he thinks.
    “Is Ma sick?” he asks.
    His father jabs the key toward the ignition, missing the first time, leaning over the steering wheel and breathing heavily. A fine cloud of steam forms at his mouth. His nostrils expand darkly with the effort of putting the key in the ignition.
    “Ma’s sick?” Jesse says, frightened.
    He stares at his father. Nothing. That blunt, hawkish profile, that bush of hair, the eyes rather heavy-lidded as if with concentration, weighed down with concentration on the