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Executive Times |
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2005 Book Reviews |
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The Good
Wife by Stewart O’Nan |
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Rating: ••• (Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Faithful Stewart O’Nan’s
latest novel, The Good
Wife, introduces the title character, Patty Dickerson, who lives her life
in a committed marriage and friendship with her husband, Tommy. That
description belies the exceptional relationship. Tommy heads to prison in the
early part of the novel while Patty is pregnant with their child, and over
the next twenty eight years their relationship involves the reality of
separation. Patty faithfully visits Tommy and makes her way through life’s
struggles raising their child, and holding down what jobs she can get. Thanks
to O’Nan’s writing skills, The Good
Wife is not a story about an extraordinary woman. This is an ordinary Everywoman
who gets by as best she can to what life’s thrown at her. Her faithfulness
appears ordinary, her life not unique. In that way, this novel can be extraordinary
for O’Nan’s ability to convey reality and exercise
restraint through a lyrical narrative. Here’s an excerpt, all of the chapter
titled, “The Difference,” pp. 16-24: The
plows are out, scraping the main roads, but the snow’s falling hard and they
can’t keep up. It’s a blowing snow, swirling, flying sideways, cars coming
the other way suddenly bursting through the white curtain with their brights on and their wipers flipping. The clouds are
right down on them, the hills invisible. The windows are steamed. She can
barely see the trees at the far edge of the fields, just a dark band that
follows them down the valley. Eileen’s driving too fast, Patty thinks,
because now she pictures the worst happening, disaster lurking everywhere.
She’s afraid they’ll never get there, the Bronco overturned in a ditch or
rammed under the back of a salt truck. She’s afraid they’ll be too late to
save him. She
has her bankbook and her checkbook, for what little good it will do them.
Perry’s lawyer wanted a retainer of five thousand dollars up front. The only
way she could raise that much would be to sell his truck,
and that was just to look at the case, that didn’t include the actual cost of
the trial. When she started to cry~ the guy told her that public defenders
are better than most people think and gave her some names. The list is in her
purse, along with the title to the truck. She’s
called in sick—another thing to feel guilty about. Russ must have talked with
Perry or Donna; he knew Tommy wasn’t coming in. At
least her mother won’t tell anyone. They
approach Owego from the west, snaking along the river with the railroad
tracks, past the boat launch and the cemetery and the speedway. It’s the
heart of rush hour, a parade of taillights. It
feels like a trap, as if they’ll arrest her once she steps out of the car,
wrestle her to the ground. The Great American is lit, posters in the windows
advertising the price of turkey and canned pumpkin pie filling. She’s
surprised to see the drive-thru of the Dunkin’ Donuts where she sometimes
stops is doing its usual business, as if it were any other day. The
courthouse is different too, no longer a beautiful antique, harmless and
picturesque. She’s driven by it thousands of times yet has never been inside.
In third grade she missed the field trip to the mayor’s office because she
had chicken pox; when Eileen got busted she would have gone to her trial
except Eileen pleaded guilty. It’s as if the place has been waiting for her
all these years. “Ready?”
Eileen asks. She
clambers down out of the Bronco. It’s snowing, and her coat doesn’t zip all
the way closed. The footing’s tricky; Eileen takes her arm. They put their
heads down and trudge for the side entrance, jostling each other—tracked, she
imagines, by every passing car. The
door’s locked, and they check their watches. Any regular day, she’d already
be at work. She’s imagining herself in one of the cars smoking past, headed
across the bridge, when Donna comes slipping and sliding up the sidewalk in
her kneeboots and jeans and black leather jacket,
her dark hair blowing across her face like a scarf. Her
eyes are a mess, her nose red. Patty thinks she’s dressed wrong for the part
but doesn’t say anything, just holds her a minute before passing her on to
Eileen. It’s like their father’s funeral; they don’t know what to say. “You
guys hear anything?” Donna asks. “No,”
Patty says, “you?” “I
talked to Lori. Her brother went out on a call last night around two-thirty.” “What
else did “He
said it was an accident. The old lady was supposed to be away. I guess she
hit her head on something.” “What
were they doing there?” “What
do you think, Patty?” Donna asks. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know.” “I
don’t,” Patty says. “I swear to God.” “They
were drunk and riding around. Things just got out of hand.” “No
shit they got out of hand,” Eileen says. “The
old lady freaked on them. I talked to a lawyer in Drunk,
an accident. Patty clings to these facts as Donna goes on—and Donna can’t
stop talking, it’s like they’re the only people who’ll listen to her. Patty
feels sorry for her. It’s unfair to blame her for something If it’s not manslaughter, it’s murder,
and that’s a lot harder to prove. Inside, a shriveled security guard with
a white shirt and a gold badge is walking up the hall, picking through his
keys. The three of them turn to him, then wait as he
fiddles with the lock. He holds the door for them. Her shoes
are wet and the marble floor is treacherous. She was so eager to get inside;
now she realizes she has no idea where she’s going. The old guy waves for
them to follow him. The courtroom resembles a bare church,
the judge’s bench a pulpit surrounded by high-backed pews, the dozen empty
chairs of the tiered jury box a choir stall. The ceiling is vaulted; their
footsteps echo. They hesitate in the aisle, not wanting to sit down yet, as
if taking the front row amounts to a confession. “I’m so tired,” Donna says. “I swear I
haven’t sat down since I got the call.” She can’t stop babbling, her hands
flapping like birds. Patty worries that Tommy will be mad at
her for sitting with Donna. She tries to think of a way to tell him they
can’t afford a lawyer, that they’re just going to
have to trust a public defender. She has the names in her bag, and knows she
won’t share them with Donna. It’s selfish, but they’re not married, Donna’s
not about to have a baby. She doesn’t need “What is taking them so long?”
Donna interrupts herself. “I know,” Patty says. “My butt’s
falling asleep.” From the hall comes a flurry, the clash
of heavy doors closing, a herd of footsteps. They turn in time to see a team
of cops tromp past. Beside her, Donna rises. It’s “Did
you see Tommy?” “No,”
Donna says, still standing and staring at the open door as if they might
reappear. “Just
Gary,” Eileen seconds. Secretly,
Patty’s glad. She thinks it’s a good sign that Donna
sits down, then gets up again and hurries to the door for another look. She
comes walking back, followed by a guy in a suit who looks like a
lawyer—wearing glasses, carrying a thick file of papers. He notices them but
passes without a nod, pushes through the waist-high gate and takes a seat at
a table. A
door opens in the paneling beside the jury box, and in wander two cops and
another guy in a suit. He goes over to the lawyer and shakes his hand. The
two of them stand there chatting like old country club buddies. They’re only
a couple of feet away from Patty but it’s like the rail’s a force field. “Excuse
me,” Eileen says, to get their attention. “Excuse me?” They both turn to her.
“Is this the hearing for Gary Rooker and Tommy
Dickerson?” The
guy with the file has to look at his paperwork. “Rooker’s
first, Dickerson’ll be right after him.” Behind
them, the doors to the hallway fall shut with a clank. From
the door in the paneling come two more cops, “All
rise,” one of the other cops announces, and the paneling behind the bench
opens. The place is like a haunted house, full of secret passages and
trapdoors. To
Patty’s surprise, the judge is a woman a little younger than her mother, and
tiny, child-sized in her black robe, her hair neatly
pulled back, dark lipstick. Under one arm she has a yellow legal pad on a
clipboard. She surveys the court like a queen before letting them sit
down—all of them except The
lawyer takes a paper from his file and approaches the bench with it, hands it
up to the judge, who glances at it—too fast to actually read it—then looks
directly at Donna
takes Patty’s hand and squeezes. Patty feels Eileen doing the same on the
other side. “Mr.
Rooker, you are charged by the State of She
runs through the words too fast. Patty’s still catching up to “murder.”
Beside her, Donna is biting back tears. “Do
you understand, Mr. Rooker?” “Yes,
ma’am.” “Will
you be hiring a private lawyer to represent you?” “No,
your honor. I can’t afford that.” “All
right then, I’ll assign a lawyer to represent you. Please have them here with
you for arraignment tomorrow, the twenty-second of November. In the matter of
bail, I’ll ask for a recommendation from the district attorney’s office.” The
lawyer stands up at his table. “The district attorney’s office advises that
the charge is a class A felony, therefore defendant must be remanded without
bail.” “Defendant
is ordered held without bail at this point.” The
judge smacks the gavel, and that’s it. The cops start hauling It
seems too short, like they’ve skipped something. Donna
gets up and heads for the hall. Patty’s first reaction is to go after her,
but Eileen reaches over and stays her. She
didn’t notice anyone come in, but there are more people in the court than
before, including two younger guys in suits a few rows behind them, both of
them sitting alone and taking notes. “I
thought she said it was going to be manslaughter,” Eileen whispers. “That’s
what she thought. I don’t know what the difference is exactly.” Patty’s
expecting the worst now. Donna’s leather jacket slumps between them, and she
thinks she doesn’t really wish her any harm, she
just wants things to be fair for Tommy. They both know She
wonders if it would have happened if he hadn’t scored that goal. If they
hadn’t won, there would have been nothing to celebrate. It’s
going to be murder, she knows it the same way she knows she’s going to have a
boy. Meanwhile,
they wait. Donna hasn’t come back. The lawyer is talking with the other guy
again, jabbing at his tie to make a point. The judge straightens her papers
like an anchorwoman. The tall radiators hiss. The snow from Patty’s boots
has melted to a dirty puddle someone will have to clean up, and she thinks
of the building standing in the middle of town all these years, how she never
suspected things like this went on inside it day after day. They were just
stories in the paper or on TV, juicy rumors her mother brought home from the
beauty parlor and unwrapped like gifts over dinner. Donna
returns. They’re just getting settled when the door by the jury box opens again,
followed by the scuff and clatter of footsteps. The lawyers separate, the
judge looks over. Eileen takes Patty’s hand and stands with her. So does
Donna, and she takes back every selfish thing she’s thought so far. It’s
him, in the same scrubs, except his are far too small, stretched across the
chest, tight at the biceps. Two cops hold his elbows like he might break
free, and she wonders if they chose the shortest ones to make him look
bigger. His hair’s better than He
signals her, palms down at his waist: Be cool, everything’s okay. The cops
lead him in front of the judge, then stand with
their backs to her. The
judge fixes him with the same damning look. “Mr.
Dickerson,” she announces, “you are charged by the State of She
goes on but Patty hears none of it. She needs to get out of here and looks to
the aisle, the quickest escape route, takes one step and crumples backward
onto the bench, pulling Donna down on top of her. “She’s
fine,” Eileen tells a cop who comes over. Patty
sees the lawyer look back and then turn away again. Donna’s rubbing the back
of her hand. The judge is saying something. Patty’s surprised the hearing is
going on without her, as if it might stop for a pregnant woman fainting. “Do
you understand, Mr. Dickerson?” “I
do, your honor,” Tommy says. “I’m going to use my own lawyer.” “All
right, please have them with you for arraignment tomorrow,” the judge says,
and goes on before Patty can jump up and interrupt. What is he doing? They
can’t afford a lawyer. But he doesn’t know that, she thinks; she hasn’t told
him. It’s all her fault. There’s
no bail—everything’s a copy of Is
that it? She doesn’t know why, but she thought she’d get to say something. Murder.
She can’t imagine telling her mother. Eileen
pats her on the back and leaves her hand there. Donna digs in her purse for
her cigs. The rest of the court is noisily packing up. The judge has already
disappeared through her secret passage, and the cops. Only the two reporters
have nowhere to go. It’s only when Donna stands and pulls on her jacket that
both men slide toward the aisle and Patty realizes they’ve been waiting for
them. The Good
Wife moves through her life, day after day, during the 28 years covered
in this book, faithful to Tommy, a good mother to their son, Casey, and as a
person just like us: doing the best one can with the circumstances we face
every day. Steve Hopkins,
July 25, 2005 |
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ã 2005 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the August 2005
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Good Wife.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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