I just finished reading Elizabeth Strout’s “Oh William!” in which the protagonist is Lucy Barton, a fascinating character from Strout’s Olive Kitteridge books. I was puzzled by the title, not knowing how it was being said—with a sigh or a stomp of the foot?
The first occurrence in the book is when Lucy sees her ex-husband standing with khaki pants that are too short, showing his oddly patterned socks. “Oh William,” she thinks, with a mix of fondness (they’re still friends) and mild exasperation because he looks like a dork. Later she says “Oh William” with disappointment and frustration because on a long car ride they take together he talks about a lot of things except his real feelings. By the end of the book, its title has taken on a different intonation and a far broader significance.
Lucy’s words made me think of all the people (including myself) who could say some variation of “Oh Carlene,” certainly with annoyance, frustration, even anger, but hopefully some forgiveness too—and ultimately with Lucy’s wisdom.
First my mother, who would look at my messy hair and sloppy clothes and say, “Oh Carlene,” with woeful yearning for the kempt daughter she had expected and never got. Or with annoyance in her voice when she would find me reading all summer afternoon instead of “doing something.” Again in college when I phoned home with one of my thoughtlessly infrequent calls. “Hi, mom,” I would say cheerily as her voice said hello. Silence. Then, “Oh.” Silence. “Carlene” in a chilly, flat voice, exacerbating the guilt I already felt.
“Oh mother,” my teenage kids would wail with utter frustration when I told them they couldn’t go to the party 50 miles away with someone I had never met who could very well be a serial killer.
Arranging things they’d brought for dinner, my adult girls, frantically opening drawers and cupboards, say, not for the first time, “Oh mom. You still don’t have a sharp knife or a pair of salad utensils.” I can hear their despair.
“Oh Mrs. Phillips,” my students groaned in agony as I announced a writing assignment or started passing out a pop quiz. A bit of a plaintive tone mixed with some of the groans, carrying some hope that I could be persuaded from my evil intention.
“Oh Grammie,” a lilting voice from the child sent on the mission by three other grandchildren would question. This was followed by, “Can we stay up and watch ‘The Monster Dripping Blood’ at midnight? Please, oh please.” Then a forlorn chorus of “Oh grandma” from all four as the messenger delivered the bad news. They often had their revenge as I fell asleep during a harmless family show and they turned the channel to something wildly inappropriate.
Discussing with two friends who of us would drive to Boston to meet other friends for lunch, two pairs of eyes look at me. I can imagine their “Oh Carlene” as they realize, again, not with possibility but with futility, that I’m totally useless for driving into the city.
And I’ve certainly had my share of saying or at least thinking, “Oh Somebody,” with frustration at what I see as stubbornness or ridiculous behavior.
In the novel, Lucy remembers how she had thought, “Oh Catherine,” with disappointment at how little her mother-in-law understood her. When Lucy had asked for a gift certificate to a bookstore for her birthday, Catherine gave her a set of golf clubs.
By the end of the novel, Lucy has learned a lot more about Catherine’s hardscrabble past and also much that explains William’s inability to communicate his emotions. She realizes how impossible it is to truly know another person and how easy to misjudge them. So it is not with annoyance but with empathy that she says, “Oh Catherine, Oh William! Oh Lucy! Oh Everyone in this whole wide world. We do not know anybody, not even ourselves.”
With this insight Lucy realizes that all anyone can do is try to be physically present and emotionally generous with other people and to think about others: “What is it like to be you?”
