I Am No One You Know (6 page)

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 Jesus.
The Gaza Strip footage breaks off and an antic SUV ad comes on. Steven laughs.

There’s a shocked silence. Then Owen says, in a small, hurt voice, “I’m sorry if I’m amusing you, Steve.”

Steven will recall how easily he spoke, with no premeditation: “Owen, why be sorry to be amusing? I’d say, from you, that was a good thing.”

Owen is silent for so long, Steven thinks he must have laid down the phone receiver. Steven has switched to NBC news, there’s an exposé of deplorable conditions in the New Orleans Parish Prison which detains Asian and Haitian immigrants for the federal Immigration and Naturalization Service, interviews with visibly scarred, injured men, protestations and denials from prison authorities. Steven listens appalled as Owen resumes his monologue of complaints with renewed fervor, how hurt he’s been, how depressed, the past six months have been hell, his thirtieth birthday is imminent and sometimes he wonders, with so much pain, his paintings rejected that are “every bit as strong” as Lucien Freud’s nudes, Philip Pearlstein’s overrated nudes, and friends letting him down, and the world so vicious, sometimes he wonders whether it’s worth it to keep going. Steven, listening to the testimony of a hospitalized Asian detainee who’d been beaten nearly to death by Caucasian prison guards, says vaguely, “I suppose so, Owen.” Owen says, “What?” Steven says, “Or—maybe it isn’t. It’s your call.” Again there’s shocked silence.

Then Owen says quietly, “You’re saying, Steve, I should—give up?”

“From your perspective? Maybe.”

There. Steven has said it.

Breathlessly, almost eagerly Owen says, “You think—? In my place—? You’d—”

“Owen, yes. Frankly, I would.”

Steven switches back to CNN. The President stepping out of Air Force One somewhere in Europe. Steven’s heart is beating quickly, as after an invigorating sprint. But he’s frightened, too. Uttering words he has only fantasized.
Die, why don’t you. You pathetic loser. Put yourself out of your misery. Give us a break.

Of course, in the next moment Steven regrets what he’s said. He’s been blunt, cruel. Owen must be crushed. Quickly, he says, lowering the TV volume, “Owen? Maybe not. No. I’m sorry I said that.”

He can hear Owen’s humid-sounding breathing. Then Owen says, in a strange, elated voice, “Steve, thanks! You’re the only person in my entire life who has ever spoken to me
the truth.
”

This forced, phony circumlocution. Steven perceives that his brother-in-law is posturing, taking on a role. He hates Owen with a pure scintillant savage hatred.

Owen is saying, “—the only one who has ever done me the honor of taking me seriously, not humoring me. Taking me as a man and not a, a cripple.
Thank you.
”

Steven has turned away from the TV. He’s on his feet, suddenly sober, repentant. “Owen, hey: I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I was just—”

“—speaking from the heart, Steve! Yes. And I appreciate it. From you—I know you hate my guts, I admire you for that!—from you, my sister’s husband and the daddy of her children, I’ve just had the best f-fucking advice of my life.”

“I only meant—”

“Believe me, Steve, I’ve been thinking of killing myself for a long time. I mean
seriously.
I mean—the real thing. Not bullshitting.” Owen pauses dramatically. He too is breathing hard as after a fast hard sprint. “I can’t discuss anything serious with Holly, she’s too emotional. She’s too close to the edge herself. She tried some little-girl stuff, in high school, ‘slashing’ her wrists—but not too deep. Bet she never told ya, Steve! What I need to decide is how.”

Steven is stunned. “How—what?”

“Not pills, not carbon monoxide,” Owen snorts in derision, vastly amused, “not a razor blade—ugh! I was thinking of—in my car? Driving?”

Steven says in a lowered voice, “Driving—would be good. An accident.”

“Steering my car into a, what do you call it—abutment? On Route 1, by an overpass—”

“That would do it.”

“That would! That would do it! And nobody would freaking fucking
know.
”

Abruptly the line goes dead. Steven, on his feet, not knowing
where he is, colliding painfully with a chair, cries into the receiver, “Owen? Owen? Owen!”

But he doesn’t call Owen back.

“D
ADDY, SEE?
”

When Holly returns with Caitlin and Brandon and their new purchases, Steven hugs them eagerly as if they’ve been gone for days. As if they’ve been in danger. His little family! He would die for them, he knows. Yet for their sake he must hide the ferocity of his love. Caitlin is wearing a new purple quilted jacket with a hood, peeping out at Daddy as he lifts her in his arms to kiss her. And Brandon is sporting new hiker’s boots—“Look, Daddy. Cool, huh?”

Through that evening, through the mostly sleepless night that follows, Steven relives the remarkable exchange between his brother-in-law and himself, disbelieving his own words. Did he really say such things? He’s astonished. He’s sick with apprehension. He’s elated, exhilarated.
Die, why don’t you. Give us a break.

A terrible thing to say to another person. Especially your own brother-in-law. “Family.”

Steven smiles. Maybe the truth is terrible? And someone must utter it for once.

It’s Holly’s custom to take the phone off the hook each night when she and Steven go to bed, not wanting a ringing phone to wake the family, and in the morning when Steven checks, with some apprehension, he hears only a dial tone. No messages recorded during the night.

He’s relieved. It hasn’t happened yet. Holly is Owen’s next of kin, named in his wallet identification in case of accident. But there has been no “accident” involving Owen during the night, evidently. Steven tells himself that Owen will probably just forget their conversation. Probably he’s already forgotten. The man is too narcissistic, too shallow and cowardly for suicide.

Days pass, and a week. And no word from Owen. And no word of Owen. And no emergency call from a medical worker or police officer. Casually Holly mentions that Owen must be away, he hasn’t called in a while. Her dinner-hour preparation isn’t interrupted, she’s relieved and yet, Steven knows, she’s beginning to worry about Owen.
He tells her that Owen is fine, he’s spoken with him recently, briefly. And remember the numerous times when Owen has ceased to call? Once he’d gone to Morocco with a friend, away for a month without a word to Holly.

Then one evening when Steven returns from the city, Holly tells him happily that Owen finally called, and dropped by the house; in a “very upbeat mood”; he stayed for only a few minutes because he was driving to see a friend in Manhattan. Fine, Steven says. Didn’t I tell you nothing was wrong. Steven isn’t disappointed, in truth he’s relieved. Of course he hasn’t wanted Holly’s brother to die…But then Holly goes on to say, “Owen volunteered to drop Brandon off at Scott’s house, he’s staying the night,” and now Steven stares at her, for a stunned moment unable to react. Then he says, choosing his words with care, “You let Brandon ride with Owen? In his car?” Holly says, “It’s just across town, honey. You know where Scott lives.” Steven says, dry-mouthed, “Alone with Owen? In his
car?
” Holly says uncertainly, “Well—why not? I mean—”

Holly sees a look in Steven’s face he can’t hide. She says:

“But—what is it? Do you—know something about Owen?
What do you know about Owen?
”

A moment’s panic. Holly is thinking: pedophilia?

Quickly Steven assures her it’s nothing. Only just that he’s disappointed—Brandon won’t be with them at dinner.

T
HERE!—THE PHONE
ringing.

But it’s only a solicitor. Steven hangs up rudely.

Now he’s waiting for the phone to ring. Or waiting for the phone not to ring. Without Holly overhearing, he has called Scott’s parents, who tell him that Brandon hasn’t yet arrived. It’s been forty minutes since Owen left, and Scott’s house is a ten-minute drive from theirs, but Steven tells himself there’s no need for alarm, yet. Owen and Brandon might have stopped at a video store, a McDonald’s…Holly is in the kitchen preparing dinner. Steven sits in the family room, the portable phone at his elbow, Caitlin in the crook of his arm reading from
The Wind in the Willows;
the TV’s on, CNN with the sound nearly inaudible; Steven’s thumb on the remote control, poised and ready to strike.

C
RAZY IN LOVE
with the man. Such a man! She laughed shaking her head in wonderment: her luck he was crazy in love with
her.

So they were married. In quick succession she had his children who were beautiful like him, though lighter-skinned, the girl, the youngest, nearly as light as she, the mother. He’d warned her in the early giddy days of their love (it was one of many jokes between them: his pretending to think that she might require such a warning) that most of his family was dark-skinned, very dark, black you might say, tarry-black, up from Georgia in the 1950’s and settled in and around Detroit, Michigan. It wasn’t until the wedding that she met his mother, two older sisters, and three brothers of whom one, D., was a child of eleven, his family smiling but stiffly silent in her presence; not out of resentment, she believed, of her creamy pale skin and wheat-colored gold-glinting hair but out of their sense of being alien to her, and she to them, a difference so profound it might have been molecular, cellular. Afterward in his arms hearing herself say almost in self-pity, hurt, “I’m afraid your family doesn’t like me,” and her husband said, laughing, teasing, “Never met anybody before who didn’t fall all over you, eh girl?—that’s the problem?”

He was joking, of course. Teasing. His playful sometimes rough manner. So she’d catch her breath, almost frightened. But only almost. Knowing he loved her, adored her. Their souls merging like flame in flame.

Must not make others envy us.
Her Quaker modesty checked her gloating pride.

It was not the color of her husband’s skin that had so powerfully attracted her to him, she was certain. Except of course it was
his
skin,
his
color; and all that was
his
was exalted, ennobled in her eyes. His maleness, his blackness. His “personality” like no other. Because as the daughter of white liberal Quakers (wealthy Philadelphians, a family history dating to pre-Revolutionary times) she was truly without prejudice. No longer a practicing Quaker (as he, her husband, was no longer a practicing Baptist) but retaining the old Quaker principles of respect for others, common decency, fair-mindedness, the interior light; perhaps in her heart she did still believe there existed a secret flamelike luminosity inside her she would have named, had she been sentimentally inclined,
my soul.
Or was it rather, simply
soul.
The divine essence, breath of God, sacred radiance—whatever. You knew somehow it did exist, does exist. And love, physical love, love between a man and a woman—in their fierce lovemaking sometimes especially in the early years of their marriage it seemed to her the
soulness
of their beings merged startling and incandescent as flame in flame.

It surprised no one, least of all her who loved him, that the man was such a success. In college, in graduate school. In New York City where he rose rapidly through the ranks of quality publishing, a black intellectual who was also an athlete (tennis, golf) and an amateur jazz pianist and handsome and
kind.
And when at the age of thirty-two he left his New York job to accept a position as director of a university press in California, a very good but not yet distinguished press, she, his wife, understood what none of his puzzled friends and acquaintances understood: it wasn’t New York he was leaving, but a proximity to Detroit. For often there were calls from his mothers, his sisters. Requests for money (which, so far as she knew, he usually sent: rarely did he confide in her about his family and never did she feel comfortable about inquiring), appeals to him to come visit.

He was too busy, he had his own life. He’d been gone from Detroit
since the age of seventeen and didn’t even, he claimed, dream about it any longer.

So they moved across the continent to northern California, twenty-five hundred miles from Detroit. In their new community which was mainly white, Asian-American, and affluent they were an attractive, popular couple, as they’d been in New York.
Two such special people
they were spoken of, sometimes even within their hearing. And she thought
Yes. I’ve become special as his wife.

Yet that was to underestimate herself, surely? For she, too, had an advanced degree. She published poetry, essays in first-rate literary magazines. She taught a poetry workshop at the university, was active in parent-teacher events at the prestigious day school their children attended. Not a beautiful woman (she knew) yet in her husband’s company she became beautiful, her face shining, exalted. Sometimes by chance she glimpsed her husband at a distance striding along a sidewalk, entering a public room, her breath caught in her throat, she felt a sense of unreality sweep over her, a vertigo. It was love, it was terror of the man—his maleness, his blackness. For perhaps without her understanding it, his maleness was his blackness, and his blackness his maleness.

She was not a vain woman so she did not think, seeing him,
Can I keep him? A man like that?
for in her innocent egotism she retained un-examined the secret knowledge
He is black, and I am white: no black woman can take him from me because no black woman is so attractive to him as I am, and another white woman would be frightened of him.

And then one night, when they’d been married for nine years, a call came.

A
ND VERY LATE
that night, at 2
A.M.
while the children were sleeping, her husband’s brother D. arrived, now twenty years old and unrecognizable to her, who had not glimpsed him nor heard his voice since the day of the wedding; unshaven, disheveled, smelling of his body, driving a car with Ohio license plates which would turn out to have been stolen, in Toledo; his eyes dilated, snatching at her for a moment without recognition. As if he’d forgotten his brother was married to her, a white woman. As if he’d forgotten her existence.

The call, the arrival of D. had not been entirely unexpected. He’d
been missing from home for five weeks, wanted by Detroit police for questioning in a nightclub shooting-murder. And her husband had not turned D. away, could not turn him away, how could he? Saying to her
You know white cops are after a black kid’s ass, he wouldn’t have a chance back there.

She would prepare a meal for D. She would not object to him sleeping in the family room for how could she who was the wife of D.’s older brother, the mother of his beautiful children, object. Her husband was angry with D. and frightened for D. and bitter and protective, the brothers shut in together in the family room talking in subdued, rapid voices until past 4
A.M.
while she cleaned up in the kitchen rinsing plates to set in the dishwasher, carefully wiping with a sponge the Formica-topped breakfast table where D. had ravenously eaten without a further glance at her, hunched over his plate, young-looking for twenty, scared. And afterward quietly slipping from the house, descending the grassy slope to the river; her breath quickened, shallow; her feet in open-toed sandals wet from the grass; sitting then at this undefined twilit hour of early morning on the lowermost, just slightly rotted wooden steps leading to the dock. (Their house was a handsome multi-level structure with numerous plate-glass windows, sliding doors, and decks, built at the top of an incline above a narrow, deep river; in a residential area of tall trees, two-acre lots, a rural-suburban neighborhood.) Staring at the dark water lapping against the dock, the pebbly shoreline. Thinking
I am his wife, I love him. What his life is, it’s mine.
Except when he came to her, she flinched at his footsteps above her, steeled herself against his voice though she knew it would be a voice of calm, of control. He said, quietly, “Come back to the house, he’ll think you don’t want him here.” She was shivering, she drew breath to reply yet could not, so he said, “Should I send him away?” and still she could not reply, seeing how across the river the treeline was dense as a single tarry substance, thickly smudged as with a trowel. Above the Mendocino mountains miles away heat lightning was pulsing forked and silent. “All right, then,” her husband said, “I’ll send him away,” and now she spoke, her voice hoarse, “No. You can’t do that,” and affably he said, “No. That’s right, I can’t,” not ironic, or not ironic in such a way she would be left with no choice but to register as ironic; for always at such moments, such was her husband’s subtlety,
his kindness and tact, he would allow her a margin of not-knowing, not acknowledging; and she said, not wanting to sound as if she were begging, “I love you,” and he said, “But I could go away, if you’d like that,” and she said quickly, in pain, “No,” and he said, patiently, as if addressing a frightened or intimidated child, “Then come back to the house, now.” She was staring at the slow-lapping shadowed water that might have been not water at all but molten lead, waves of whatever minor and inconsequential river flowing to what destination she could not, in the exigency of the moment, have named; understanding how it might be dangerous in this man’s presence to seem not to have heard when in fact one had heard but she still could not speak, nor did she glance back as with an exhalation of breath and a muttered inaudible expletive her husband ascended the steps, and was gone. She saw herself climbing up the steps, hurrying after him,
Wait! I’m coming!
clutching at his muscled forearm
Yes of course I’m here
yet she remained sitting on the steps, motionless, paralyzed, as if lost in a dream, in that suspension of volition and even thought between sleep and waking, staring at the river waiting to understand what she would do, or had already done.