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J oyc e C arol Oate s I Am No One You Know S TO R I E S to Robert and Peggy Boyers CONTENTS part one Curly Red 3 In Hiding 21 I’m Not Your Son, I Am No One You Know Aiding and Abetting Fugitive 37 49 Me & Wolfie, 1979 54 The Girl with the Blackened Eye part two Cumberland Breakdown Upholstery 105 Wolf ’s Head Lake Happiness Fire 117 119 138 The Instructor 157 87 73 28 contents part thre e The Skull: A Love Story The Deaths: An Elegy 191 213 Jorie (& Jamie): A Deposition 233 Mrs. Halifax and Rickie Swann: A Ballad part four Three Girls 271 The Mutants Acknowledgments 281 289 About the Author Recent Story Collections by Joyce Carol Oates Credits Cover Copyright About the Publisher 245 Part One CURLY RED I was D ad dy ’ s favo r it e of his seven kids, but still he sent me into exile when I was thirteen and refused to speak to me for twenty-seven years, nor would he allow me to return to our house on Crescent Avenue, Perrysburg, New York, even when Grandma died (though he couldn’t keep me away from the funeral mass at St. Stephen’s and afterward the burial in the church cemetery, where I stood at a distance, crying) when I was twenty-two. Only in the final months of his life, when Daddy was weakened with emphysema and the anger leaked from him, was I allowed to return to help Mom sometimes. Because now Mom needed me. But it was never the same between us. Daddy was only seventy-three when he died, but he looked much older, ravaged. Always he’d driven himself hard, working (plumber, pipe fitter), drinking heavily, smoking, raging. He’d been involved all his working life with union politics. Feuds with employers, and with other union members and organizers. Every election, Daddy was in a fever for weeks. One of those men involved behind the scenes. “Delivering the Perrysburg labor vote.” A hard-muscled man with a roostery air of self-esteem, yet edgy, suspicious. Daddy was a local 4 i am no one you know character, a known person. He’d been an amateur boxer, light heavyweight, in the U.S. Army (1950–52), and worked out at a downtown gym, had a punching bag and a heavy bag in the garage, sparred with my brothers, who could never, swift on their feet as they were, stay out of reach of his “dynamite” right cross. When I was living with relatives across town, in what I call my exile, I knew my father at a distance: caught glimpses of him on the street, saw his picture in the paper. Then things changed, younger men were coming up in the union, Daddy and his friends lost power, Daddy got sick, and one sickness led to another. By the time I was allowed back in the house on Crescent Avenue, Daddy was under hospice care, and he’d turned into an old man, shrunken by fifty pounds, furrows in his face like you’d make in a piecrust with a fork. I stared and stared. Was this my father? That face I knew to be ruddy-skinned, good-looking, now gaunt and strangely collapsed about the mouth. Even his shrewd eyes were smaller and shifting worriedly in their sockets as if he was thinking, Is it in the room with me yet? John Dellamora, who’d always been contemptuous of weakness in others and in himself, now dependent upon breathing oxygen through a nose piece. Watching me sidelong as I approached his bed bearing a bouquet of white carnations in my trembling hand. “Daddy? It’s Lili Rose . . .” When the hospice nurse took me aside and said, If there’s some bitterness between you and your father now’s the time to make it up, later will be too late, I said right away, “That’s up to my father, I think.”