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Selected Shorts
Twisty Tales: O’Henry Prize Winners with Edward P. Jones
00:58:13
Host Meg Wolitzer presents two O’Henry Prize-winn…
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When I say O. Henry, maybe you think of the old candy bar. For literature lovers, though, O. Henry often means stories with a twist. I'm Meg Wolitzer, and coming up on Selected Shorts, we feature prize winning stories from contemporary authors whose work, while not twisty in that same way, has been honored in a collection that bears his name and is, like all good fiction, certain, certainly surprising. Stay with us. You're listening to Selected Shorts where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction one short story at a time. Everybody loves a surprise. Now, I see some of you wrinkling your noses like you smelled a tuna sandwich abandoned in the desert sun. So just hear me out. I'm not talking about all surprises, not practical jokes or the birthday party where your friends lie to you about their evening plans, only to hide behind your couch in the dark and jump up and scream when you walk in the door. Those surprises are loved by only some of us, and we're not even going to touch the scary life, surprises for which you cannot plan. But every one of us loves surprises in our stories, whether it's a TV show, a play, or one of Uncle Dave's wild tales about growing up poor in Albuquerque. We do not want to know what is coming. If it's predictable, it's boring. And part of a storyteller's job is to keep us on the hook, leaning in, delivering periodic surprises that ensure we're not going anywhere or saying, I've heard that one, Uncle Dave, you take a bite of that tuna sandwich on a dare. It was the first ambulance ride of your life. All that is to say, short stories are the perfect vehicle for the kinds of twists and turns we crave. And no one understood that better than 19th century Writer 1 William Sidney Porter, whose pen name was O. Henry. Stories, including his famed gift of the magi, inspired friends and devotees to create a literary prize for excellence in short stories in his honor. Just to be clear, these stories in the collection are not chosen for twists. They are chosen for literary merit. Over 100 years after the prize was established, adjudicators are still giving away O. Henry Prizes and collecting winning stories into a new volume every year. Now let's actually dive into the 2025 edition of the Best short stories. The O. Henry Prize winners with two of the winning entries. One is a lyrical story about a woman searching for new life and a new home in Mexico. The other is a quiet pot boiler about a family's need to escape modern day Russia. Both are about borders, but each has its unique take on the idea. Our live show featuring these stories was co hosted by Edward P. Jones, the Pulitzer Prize winning author of the Known. Jones guest edited the O. Henry Prize Winning Stories volume for 2025. We'll begin with a story by Mexican writer Daniel Saldana Paris. He's the author of the essay collection Planes Flying Over a Monster and the novel the Dance and the Fire, which was published in English in 2025. While using an artful metaphor, this story has a lot to say about contemporary issues of migration from a perspective just south of the border. Reading this story is Shorts regular Sonia Manzano. In addition to acting, Manzano is a writer of books and creator of the animated series Alma's Way. And if you don't recognize her name, you will probably know her as the voice of Maria from the long running PBS show Sesame Street. Now reading Rosaura at Dawn by Daniel Saldana Paris and Translated by Christina McSweeney Here is Sonia Manzano.
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Rosaura at dawn the fence is topped with barbed wire and winds between the shrubs, climbs dry hillsides, zigzags capriciously and extends into the Ocean for about 100 yards. It stands tall and threatening, rusting in the sunlight, the northernmost limit of a dream gone bad. People peer through it, projecting hopes and a new version of themselves. Beyond the ice patrols, there is no escape from this place. I came to Tijuana four years ago after the accident. I remember that when I arrived I just had the stitches removed from the wound on my leg, which looked a little like a bird's eye view of that frontier line. For a time I tried to carry on as normal. Back in Mexico City, I went to work and said thanks when offered condolences. I smiled when people looked at me in pity, pretending I didn't know what they were saying behind my back. That's the lady who killed her mother. But I didn't kill my mom. It was an accident. There's no reason why I should smile if I damn well don't feel like it. At night, my husband would turn on the TV and fall asleep in front of it. In the bedroom, I'd pretend to be asleep, and I did, in fact, sometimes doze for 20 minutes or half an hour before waking again, as if I'd been shaken. In the early hours, my husband would come to bed and kiss my forehead. But we weren't really together, just sharing a refrigerator and increasingly profound silence. I was given a lot of advice during the first weeks. Meditate, see a therapist, find a lover, give up sugar. The only tip I followed was the one that Took me by surprise. Go to Tijuana. It was offered by a colleague who was a widow. By the way her eyes shone, I was immediately certain that she knew what she was talking about. The next day I packed a bag and before leaving for the bus terminal, told my husband I was heading north and and not to expect me back. He embraced me. I think it was the first time he'd done that without our having sex first and gave me 5,000 pesos from a cookie jar. He seemed relieved that I was leaving. The first months weren't easy. I worked in a hotel, a pharmacy and a party costume store whose only clients were prostitutes. Have you got a bee costume for adults? A Bigfoot costume? Zorro, but with a miniskirt. I found a small apartment in a noisy street, but as I didn't sleep much, I'd spend the night looking out the window. All sorts of people passed by. Tourists, drunks, drug dealers, Haitians, lone teenagers. That's how I met Severiano. Through the window, I saw a man of around 50 standing under a streetlight on the corner near my building. He was wearing a hat and carrying a cardboard box tied up with a cord. I thought he must be a migraine, probably waiting for a pollo to take him to the other side. But after smoking in silence for a while, he untied the box and a huge, white, majestic bird appeared. Severiano grasped its legs as though it were a chicken, and when no one was around, he launched it into the air. The bird initially flapped uncertainly, but then found its balance and flew away. Its wings extended like a white brushstroke in the Tijuana night sky. Sky Severero followed its progress until it was lost in the darkness above my building. And that's when he saw me in the open window. He smiled. It had been a long time since anyone had smiled at me. Hello, he said from below, raising his hat like someone in a Pedro Infante movie. We chatted a while, making small talk, but some shady characters came by and were looking hard at him. So I invited him up to my apartment. I know you shouldn't do that sort of thing, especially not in Tijuana. But at that time I wasn't worried about being killed. I couldn't have cared less. I made chamomile tea and we sat in the living room, which also held the dinner table and my wardrobe. I asked Sebliano what kind of bird he'd freed, and he said he wasn't sure, but thought she was some sort of giant cockatoo. Her name was Rosaura, but he hadn't freed her. He said every so often at night he released Rosaura in different parts of the city and she always found her way home. He went on to say that he had other birds, a lot of them, and one or two reptiles. When the police detained smugglers of exotic avian species, the wildlife department would contact Severiano and ask him to look after the birds until they found a biologist or a nature reserve to take them. They usually stayed with him for a month or two, but sometimes nobody came to collect them, and Sebediano ended up caring for the animals for years or forever. He told me he had a farm in the hills near Tijuana with a view of the border, and as he said this, I felt him turning to look at my legs, at the thick scar resulting from the accident. I asked if I could visit his farm. I wanted to see Rosaura close up in daylight. Something about her whiteness had me spellbound. Instead of going to work the following day, I visited Sevilliano's farm. In the mid morning they called me from the store to tell me I was fired. But it didn't bother me, because by then I knew my destiny was to be with Rosauda, Pinocchio, Amarillo and Rubeola. My fate was to help Seviriano with the birds, learn to clean the aviary and to feed the hawk. It was kept apart from the others with raw chicken and live mice, allowing the zigzagging scar on my leg to fade slowly and the pure white of Rosaura flapping her wings in the borderland night to erase every trace of that fateful accident. Semiriano said I could stay in a small cabin some 40 yards from his house. There was no bathroom, but that wasn't a problem. If I needed to piss during the night, I could do it outdoors, among the rocks and shrubs surrounding the cabin. I still hadn't recovered my fear of death and thought that dying like that, squatting, bitten by a viper, was as good a way to go as any other. The aviary was awesome. A palace 45ft high and at least 90in diameter, constructed from metal tubes like the ones used in market stands and completely covered in chicken wire. Sevilliano, who had been an engineer before buying the farm, had designed it single handedly. Inside there were areas of shade fruit trees, a small pond, a scaled down mountain of rocks with a gold mine, and even three smaller cages that housed the punk birds, as Seve called them, the misfits, the unhappy or aggressive birds that attacked the others. And had to be on their own. It was like a city inside there. And I very soon started to add my own ideas. I planted a nopal so the bentebeo would peck the fruit. I designed a Jacuzzi with a fish tank motor for the pair of iguanas that roamed the grounds. On that basis, Seviriano ceded me a section of the aviary, and that small kingdom, a tributary of his, became the center of my life. I bought sacks of corn and made a pyramid of cobs. It was a real success. Pinocchio and Oro Pendola spent a lot of time in there, making a little noise, and Sebabiano told me before I came. He never spoke. He was a traumatized bird. I noticed that despite his usually undemonstrative nature, my teacher was proud of me. Naturally, the animals didn't like all my ideas. I once managed to get a hold of one of those fat red Buddhas and put it in my section, surrounded by a small stream, so it looked like a Chinese water feature. But after a few days I realized that Amarillo, a pheasant who wouldn't fly and just hopped from one place to another, was afraid of the and would take long detours to avoid it. So I removed the Buddha to my cabin, where it stood facing the wall, because I felt it watching me at night while I was undressing. I don't want this to seem like a lack of respect. If a Christ figure had made me feel that way, I'd have done the same thing. We all have our beliefs, and that's okay by me. Severiano was a reserved, you could even say unsociable man, and being around animals for so long had done nothing for his manners. But he became fond of me and after a couple of years offered to add a bathroom to my cabin. We completed the task together, and during those three weeks of heavy work under the hot as healthy Juana sun, I got to know him much better than in the previous two and a half years, since he normally only spoke to ask me to buy birdseed, clean the cage, or take out Rubeola, the female iguana, to administer her eye drops while we were building the bathroom. He told me that he'd once been married, but had gotten divorced 13 years before and hadn't fallen in love again. He told me he was from Zacatecas originally, but had come to Tijuana as an adolescent with the dream of crossing over the border just like everyone else, and that dream had come true. He lived in San Diego and then Santa Monica, had been a gardener and dishwasher, and for nearly five years had driven a truck delivering fertilizer. But then he'd gotten mixed up in drugs, spent a few months in the can and ended up being deported. After that, he had no desire to cross over again and preferred to view the line that scar splitting the world in two from up here. In return, I confided that I was married and had caused my mother's death. Severiano just nodded and after a pause asked me to fetch a shovel. For the first time, it seemed that someone had offered me the condolences I'd hoped for, that someone had said something that made me feel a little better. Or maybe it was simply that time had passed and I was now living in Tijuana and didn't have to listen to my husband watching TV at night. But the thing is that from then on I finally began to think that my mother's death was going to be just one more event in my life. When we completed the bathroom, Seviriano told me he had to make a trip, had matters to settle in Zacatecas. I asked what sort of matters? But he skirted around this subject, and I understood that he didn't want to tell me. The moment for confidences had passed and it would be best to return to our previous relationship, where he was something approaching my boss or my mentor, my master in the art of caring for birds. Before leaving, Seviriano entrusted me with the last secret he kept during all that time working together. He taught me how to take Rosaura out and prepare her for one of her flights. He told me I had to feed her just a little, and that before freeing her, I must whisper some words in her ear, close to her beak. I can't repeat those words because Sevilliano told me to promise not to share them. On the third night after Severiano's departure, I got Rosaura ready, put her in her cardboard box, tied it with cord, and drove to the city in Cebe's car. I chose a dangerous street near Calle Caahuila, where sex workers hang out to pick up clients. At around one in the morning, when my eyelids were drooping, I got out of the car with the box, untied the cord, and, following Severiano's instructions, spoke the secret words to Rosaura before launching her into the air. I was afraid that some idiot would take a potshot at her, but no one was looking. Rosaura took flight, and I experienced a strange sensation, like a weight of sadness in my chest that stayed with me all the Way back to the farm, I sat outside the cabin all night. When I lit a fire, all the birds went crazy and began to sing and make a frightful racket. I think I dozed briefly or was maybe lost in my thoughts. But at first light, I heard the flapping of wings, looked toward the border and saw Rosaura, a white smudge gradually taking form, flying towards me over the horizon. I can't describe my feelings. It was as if she were an angel rather than a bird. Rosaura circled over the cage a few times, and the other birds seemed to be celebrating her arrival with chaotic screeches. And although I'd witnessed the spectacle before, when Severiano had released Rosaura, it had never felt so personal, as though the birds were celebrating me too, rejoicing that something inside me had also returned. The one who never came back with Sere. Two months later, a lawyer turned up to tell me that he'd left the farm to me.
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That was Sonia Manzano reading Rosaura at Dawn. By Daniel Saldana Paris. As with the best, most effective stories, the personal trumps the political in that one. And also, like the best, most effective stories, the end feels somehow both inevitable and unexpected. How do writers do that? How do they marshal both the sense of this had to happen as well as. But wow, it's startling that it did. I suspect it isn't always as carefully planned during the early drafts as you might think. There's probably often a one to one correspondence between how a story sneaks up on a reader and how, during its creation, it snuck up on the writer. We spoke with Sonia Manzano about the story before she stepped on stage.
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I don't think we need to force
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symbolism onto stories, but there is something
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about birds that suggests this idea of freedom. Do you feel that? Absolutely. Birds do mean freedom to us. And it's interesting that in this story, the main bird that we're talking about of its own accord, stays not trapped, but somehow not free. Certainly thoughts and feelings of freedom have everything to do with the animals that she takes care of. What about the growing bond with their caretaker? That was very interesting because of course I was looking for a romance and there was never a romance. She refers to him as her master and teacher in taking care of these animals and actually makes a joke about how he doesn't have the greatest manners because he's only been around animals. But obviously there was a real bond between them.
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Ultimately, that was Sonia Manzano backstage at Symphony Space. When we return, if all the escape routes are blocked, can you jimmy open a window. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to selected Shorts recorded live and performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide. Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. In this episode of Shorts, we're listening to stories from the annual collection of O. Henry Prize winners. O. Henry was born in Austin, but he lived in New Orleans and Honduras and North Carolina and New York City. All of which is to say, good fiction is all over the place. And so are we. Check out our website, selectedshorts.org for our touring schedule. The second story of the hour is by Anthony Mara. He's the author of novels including Mercury Pictures Presents and A Constellation of Vital Phenomena, and fans will have heard several of his stories on shorts. He is a smart, funny writer who brings real vitality to uncommon circumstances. Here's Edward P. Jones, guest editor of the best short stories 2025, the O. Henry Prize winners, reflecting on Mara's story
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in the 80s or 90s, I think it was in a New York Times magazine. There was an article about bombings in Beirut and the author, I remember he started in the first paragraphs. He wrote about what happens when a bomb hits a tree. And it struck me that war is war. But sometimes there are stories just to decide. And that's what happened when I read Countdown, that we know about the war in Ukraine, the Russian invasion and everything, and that's the center of everything. But sometimes there are stories to decide, and that's what this story is about.
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That was Edward P. Jones on stage at Symphony Space. The actor reading the story is Morgan Spector. He's known for series including Homeland and the Gilded Age. He's also appeared on Broadway and in films, including the recent I Don't Understand you'd. We were so happy to have him make his shorts debut with this story, which he knocks out of the park. Now here's Morgan Specter reading Countdown by Anthony Mara.
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Countdown. Their UK visas were all of five hours old when Sonia's husband Alexei, looked up from the computer and announced they would never escape Russia. Come on, she said, ticket prices can't be that bad. By now, Sonia was inured to Alexei's bouts of melodrama and declarations of doom. He was the sort of easily persuaded catastrophist who sourced his medical advice and political opinions from Reddit. Sonia set her passport on the kitchen table. She'd been smelling the visa itself, which had the fresh fibrous scent of a newly minted banknote. According to the lady at the British Embassy, the paper was fitted with microchips for enhanced security. Paper that was part computer. What better gestured to the brave new world awaiting them in England. We're not going to England, alexei repeated. There are no fucking flights. Language, sonia said, nodding to their six year old daughter, Masha. Since when has she ever listened to me? Fucking fucking fuck, Masha said. You see, Sonia said. She's a sponge, Alexei. Yesterday in the car, she was giving other drivers the middle finger. Alexei refreshed the page again. There are no flights. Sonya leaned over his shoulder, assuming, not without reason, that he had no idea what he was doing. The perpetually astonishing fact that her husband, a philology PhD who kept his logins and passwords taped to his computer monitor, had found work as a cybersecurity consultant spoke both to his natural charisma and to and to the wishful thinking of his superiors. Befuddled by entertainment systems with multiple remotes, powerless to disable Siri after weeks of effort he had, while in the throes of postdoctoral desperation, applied for a job in IT at the headquarters of a grocery chain a few hours east of Moscow. An arrest for buying cocaine on the dark web doesn't qualify as IT expertise, Sonia had told him, but she'd underestimated his talent for bullshit. Of course she had. She'd married him. No one at his office knew enough to know that Alexei knew nothing. Refresh it again, sonia said. Alexei did, but the website still showed no available departures. Even flights to Pyongyang are fully booked. What the fuck? Language, Alexei said. Maybe someone broke the Internet. You can't break the Internet. That's a meme. It's not something that happens. Who's the IT professional, Me or you? In my professional opinion, someone broke the Internet. The Internet's not broken, sonia repeated, though her husband wasn't as idiotic as he sounded. Since the first days of the war, everything reliant on Western technology had begun breaking down. The shift was neither immediate nor dramatic, a gradual regression rather than a total collapse, as if Putin were less the president of a nation than the conductor of a time machine. Reversing into the past Two years earlier, they could have relied on airfare aggregators to filter and sort flights based on departure and arrival times, layover durations, baggage allowances, legroom. Now that sanctions had severed the Russian banking system from the international economy, the only options were easily hacked.rue tailors that catapulted pop up ads across your screen and planted malware in your hard drive. This is the best one I could find, alexei said, highlighting an itinerary that swelled to 16 days, 13 connections, and €63,000. We should have left months ago. We had to wait for our visas. We could have waited for them in Georgia or Kazakhstan. Somewhere with airplanes. Sonia glanced to the kitchen table where Masha was watching tv. The misadventures of a dim witted cartoon bear and his gaggle of woodland pals. We agreed that we didn't want to disrupt her schedule, sonia said. Masha is about to become a six year old exile and you're worried about disrupting her schedule? It's harder for some of us to simply pack up and leave, sonia said. She was referring, of course, to her mother, who'd been diagnosed with dementia the prior spring and wouldn't understand, or if she did understand, wouldn't remember why her daughter, son in law, and granddaughter had to emigrate. She would assume they'd forgotten her, at least until she forgot them. I'm sorry, alexei said. Let's not fight this whole year.
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Jesus.
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Sonia touched his arm, felt him recoil, and then relax under the heat of her hand. I know it's a lot to ask, but do you think Galena could help us again? Alexei had said he would reach out to Galina a few months earlier, after the Kremlin had begun insisting it had no intention of ordering a general mobilization. Sonya thought he was joking because, come on, who was Alexei Kalugin, with his air of cheerful failure and his unaddressed eczema to slide into Galina Ivanovna's DMs? Like most of their generation, Sonia could still quote lines from Deceit Web, a movie of unremitting stupidity and irresistible nostalgia. Following its release, Galena had enjoyed a couple years of cultural ubiquity before marrying an oligarch and fading from public view. I knew her in Kirovsk, alexei had explained. Bullshit. It's true. She dated Kolya in high school. Alexei rarely spoke of his older brother, who'd returned from the First Chechen War, transformed when the Russian army re invaded in 1999, Alexei was 18 years old, a chronic underachiever with no prospects and no capacity to survive Putin's murderous imperial project. That he evaded conscription was due entirely to Kolya, who re enlisted as a contract soldier and leveraged the hefty signing bonus to buy Alexei's way into university, a guarantee of military deferment. All this history complicated Alexei's natural inclination to avoid compulsory service in Ukraine A war he found as politically senseless and morally repugnant as the one that claimed his brother's life Deep in the Chechen highlands on a summer day in 2000, Sonia recalled Alexei taking a few belts of vodka after DMing Galena. An unpracticed drinker, he misjudged the effects of mixing alcohol with the prescription sleeping aid on which he depended for his eight hours, growing increasingly loopy and confessional. Who are you most afraid of turning into?
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He asked.
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I don't know. My mother. Your mother's sweet. Only because of the dementia. She's forgotten that she's actually a monster. He rattled the pill bottle. Why'd the doctor say not to take these with booze?
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It's great.
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Hey, would you brush my teeth for me? I'm changing my answer. The person I'm most afraid of turning into is you.
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Come on.
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The bathroom so far? Didn't you accuse me of infantilizing you the other day? Doesn't sound like me. Sonia rested her head on his shoulder. Oh no, that doesn't sound like you at all. You know your six year old daughter can brush her own teeth. Well, she has to keep that filthy mouth of hers clean. You're the one teaching her curse words, not me. She's self taught. Like Van Gogh. Our daughter, the Van Gogh of vulgarity. Terrific. Sonia sighed. What about you? Who are you afraid of turning into? My brother. Sonia didn't respond, turning her eyes to watch him. He was a murderer. He murdered people. He was a soldier. Semantics. You're a lot of things, Alexei, but you're not a murderer. Yeah? How do you know? You're a vegetarian. So was Hitler, but Hitler had ambition. Kolya did too. He had hopes for after. You know what else Kolya had? She said, taking the pill bottle from his hand. A good heart. And you have a good heart. At least you did before you started playing pharmacist. To Sonia's surprise, Galina not only responded to Alexei's message the next morning, she offered to help. While her popular profile had evaporated in the two decades since her name last topped the marquee, her actual stature had materialized. She'd relocated to London with her husband and their 16 room Knightsbridge residence had become an informal seat of Russian influence in the uk Sponsoring visas for an old acquaintance and his family was so easy, Galena didn't even consider it a favor. Alexei stood from the computer, opened his Instagram account Phorismsby Alexei and tapped out a message to Galena. He was dressed in a rumpled linen shirt and faded jeans, his hairline receding, his temples graying the 15 kilos he'd vowed to shed for the duration of their marriage still anchored to his waistline. Prescription lenses magnified his eyes, emphasizing his expression of genial naivety. Five days before, Sonia had returned home from dropping Masha at school when her phone dinged with the news of Putin's partial mobilization order, mustering young men, and ex conspiracy. Alexei was still asleep, his glasses on the nightstand. She didn't wake him, as if she could stay. The next chapter. Is Galina online? She asked. I don't know. She's not responding. Alexei grabbed his jacket. How much cash do you have on you? Check my purse. This should be a few thousand rubles. Why? Maybe I'll have better luck at the airport ticket counter. Alexei, don't be an idiot. I'm losing my mind here. I can't just sit around refreshing Instagram all night. And what if the police pull you out of line? I read Moscow has stationed recruitment officers in the metro. There won't be police at the airport. It's an international fucking airport. Language, masha chimed in. Of course there are police. I'll go, okay? I'll go. Alexei stuffed cash from Sonia's purse into his pocket. What about Masha's homework? He said as he walked out the door. We don't want to disrupt her schedule. Asshole. It felt wrong to think in such terms, but the war had likely saved their marriage or postponed its dissolution. At least Masha's birth had clarified certain matters for Sonia, namely that she had two children, which wouldn't have been an issue if she weren't married to one of them. In the course of dead end arguments, Alexei accused her of changing. I don't even recognize you. You've changed Sonia. As if maturation were a character flawless. Yes, in a normal world, she would have left him. Yet in this grotesque and precarious one, she was leaving Russia with him. Okay, sonia told Masha, that's enough TV for today. Let's do your homework. It's boring. I know it is. Then why do I have to do it? Because enduring boredom with good cheer will serve you well for the rest of your life. And for the next 20 minutes, Masha plodded through a passage glorifying the genocidal exploits of Paul Peter the Great. She'd always struggled with reading comprehension, even in her native language. God knew how she'd fare in British schools. Sonia was trying to coax an answer from her daughter about the vanquishing of the evil Swedes. When she heard footsteps in the hallway, they stopped at the door. The intensity of her relief startled Sonya. Alexei had come home. She listened for the jangling of his keys instead. A knock. Sonia crossed soundlessly to the door and peered through the peephole. If not for their uniforms, she would have assumed the two military recruitment officers were food delivery men. One officer straining under the weight of four bags bulging with groceries, the other flipping through a folio stuffed with what she first took for receipts until recognizing them for draft notices. The latter brought his fist to the door and pounded so forcefully the peephole's metal collar bruised her eye socket. She stepped back and bumped the coat rack. The pounding stopped. You can open the door or we can break it down, said the blue eyed officer brandishing the draft notices. Please choose how we come in. So chivalry isn't dead, Sonia ghoulishly thought as she opened the door. I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. She didn't hear us, Boris, the officer with the grocery bags deadpanned. That's the fourth flat in a row. Do you suppose this is a home for the hard of hearing? There's a plague of deafness going around, Sasha, said the officer with the draft notices. It's a miracle we can still hear ourselves think. We're here to serve Alexei Kalugin. He about? Sonia shook her head. Imagine that, said the officer with the grocery bags. Come on, buddies. The two men pushed past Sonia, trailing cigarette smoke, waffling the floorboards with grimy boot prints. Masha slipped behind her mother. Good evening, little person, said the officer with the grocery bags. Is your father home? Masha shook her head. Imagine that, said the officer with the draft notices. Like mother, like daughter. We should check the kitchen, buddies, just to be thorough. Right you are, Sasha. It's the burden of perfectionism. Sonia watched the two officers commit a home invasion of her refrigerator. While one rooted around the crisper drawer, the other enumerated the provisions pilfered from her neighbors. Lettuce, tomato, onions, mushrooms, hard boiled eggs, black bread, smoked trout, ham, chicken breast, mayonnaise, mustard, butter, caviar. Perhaps enough for a sandwich. Nonsense. We haven't any cheese. There's a jar of pickles in back. Pass it here. Mashing the fifth spear into his mouth, the officer called Sasha noticed a photograph stuck to the fridge door. Alexei on his 38th birthday. Look here, I found him. Poor fellow, said the other as he added a bottle of horseradish and a jar of chutney to their haul. Don't suppose he'll live to see his next one, do you, Sasha? Not in front of the Mrs. Buddies. It's unprofessional. But she's deaf, Sasha, Remember? She can't hear us at all. Is that orange juice? Fortified with extra vitamin C. You tell me. You're the health nut. The officer called. Sasha tip the carton to his mouth and Sonia watched the juice spill over his cheeks, staining his uniform and splashing across the floor. You know, Sasha, I've always had a kind of affection for Ukraine. You have relatives there? My father. He's buried in Odessa. Killed himself on a family vacation.
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How awful.
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Oh, it was. His wife found him hanging in the closet of their hotel, then found out about my mother at the funeral. I'm not sure which upset her more. At least he killed himself with his other family. At least you have that. It is a consolation, though. Hardly the sort of thing printed on a sympathy card. Perhaps there's a market these days. The most calamitous stories are often the most common. He's a hard man. My father survived three years in Afghanistan and eight years in a Siberian prison, but no more than a few days on the Black Sea with his other family before deciding to end it all. And if that's what Ukraine did to him, just imagine what it'll do to a fat middle aged IT worker with 10 days training. So why the affection for such a place? Because my father was a motherfucking prick. Language, Buddies. The young are so impressionable. Okay, Sasha, okay. Let's see if the officer flipped through the draft notices. Dmitri Morozov next door has any brie. Why did they come here? Masha asked once the recruitment officers had gone. They were hungry, sonia said. Why did they want dad? Your father makes the best sandwiches. Isn't that what you're always telling me? Masha nodded. How much did she understand? Sonia and Alexei had tried to shelter their daughter from the turmoil. The move to England wasn't a harrowing escape, but rather a thrilling vacation. Masha was too young and Sonia wouldn't burden her with the truth of a world she would learn about soon enough. And yet protecting Masha meant replicating the Kremlin's distortions, denials, and silences within their home. Lying to her became inseparable from loving her. How else could they keep her safe? Shall we call your father and see where he is? Sonia suggested. Alexei's line went directly to voicemail. Where is he? Masha asked. On his way home. Sonia tried to smile. Come on, let's read a Book while we wait, okay? Curious George Alexei had purchased Curious George as part of a campaign to improve Masha's English, and for the prior few weeks Masha had asked Sonia to read it to her every night. There were only so many times Sonia could recite the Misadventures of an Inquisitive Primate before hoping the poachers would show up. But now, as Masha curled beside her, she wondered if her daughter wished to return to this story precisely because she already knew it by heart. In a reality where recruitment officers could barge into your flat, demand your father, and steal your pickles, what was better than a fantasy swept clean of uncertainty or suspense? Footsteps boomed down the hallway. Masha's grip tightened on Sonia's wrist. How many fathers had been marched out into the dull daylight by uniformed men? How many mothers had sat in darkness in this very flat, silently praying the footsteps wouldn't stop at their door? The footsteps stopped at her door then, thank God, the jangle of keys, the lock snapping open, and as Alexei appeared bearing more disappointment. Sanctions prevented Galina from wiring money into Russia, and every international flight was sold out anyway. Sonia and Masha embraced him as if he delivered the best possible news. It was two in the morning when they finally finished packing the car with one suitcase, four cardboard boxes, and eight trash bags, their most valuable possessions. The family photos lived on their phones and in the cloud. Alexei hauled the television down the apartment stairs only to find a dozen of Masha's stuffed animals occupying the last of the backseat. Real estate. Are you really sure you need to bring all of them? He asked. I'm really sure, masha said. It's just that this is beginning to look like Noah's Lada. We can't leave anyone behind. What the hell? He said, setting the television on the sidewalk. We watch too much TV anyway. He wrapped an arm around Sonia's shoulder, and when she didn't shrug it off, Alexei chose to interpret this as the most positive omen. Perhaps a new age of peace and harmony was dawning. A new city, a new country, a new life. They climbed into the car, Masha in back with her menagerie, Sonia riding shotgun, trash bags of clothes obscuring the rear window. It was a 27 hour drive to the Georgian border, and Alexei couldn't remember when he'd last changed. Allotta's oil crossing into the Baltic States or Finland would save hours, but on telegram Alexei had found conflicting reports on European port of entry closures. Were he an actual cybersecurity expert, he might have known if Any were from credible sources. You ready? No, sonia said. Not remotely. Me neither. He put the car into gear. They stopped for gasoline in Tula, bathrooms in Voronezh. Everywhere, Alexei saw men in need of a shave, a shower, a nap. Men much like himself driving to the border alone or with their families, their earthly goods jammed in the trunk, tied to the roof, left by the side of the road, swiping at their phones at the gas pumps, spreading news of traffic apprehensions, closed crossings, each one bleary eyed, exhausted, kept alert by cigarettes and energy drinks and adrenalized panic. The simplest questions of basic time and space where will I be tomorrow? Became existential mysteries. The known world receded, and no matter what Yandek's map suggested to the contrary, it was all uncharted wilderness. Sonia yawned and rubbed her eyes. How long was I out? A couple hours. You want me to take over? I've got it, blexei said, and he did. The difficult conversations he and Sonia would have down the line. None of that mattered. What mattered was shrinking the distance to their deliverance. How long has the motor been making that noise? He'd hoped she wouldn't notice the clang coming from the well, whatever those parts were called. A couple hundred kilometers. When did you last have it serviced? I've never had it serviced, Alexei. If I'd thought we'd be driving this shitbox across half of Eurasia, I'd have brought it in for a tune up first. Those gun nut survivalists in America convinced the world is about to end, what do they call them? Republicans? Alexei said. No, the ones who can build an internal combustion engine out of the odds and ends they hoard in their bunkers. Oh, preppers. That's right, preppers. I used to think they were crazy, she said. Maybe they're just early. They're definitely crazy. Perhaps. But while we still have a signal, I might search the Internet for one of their diatribes on fashioning a fan belt from a pair of stockings. You know what the real culprit is? Alexei said. Diy. You start baking your own bread and you end up living in a basement with a few thousand rounds of ammunition and a filtration system for drinking your own urine. Is this how you justify abstaining from your share of the cooking? All I'm saying is that I've never seen a person who makes their own clothes and thought, now here's someone in full control of their faculties. What are we even talking about? The end of the world, alexei said. As rain detonated against the windshield, several silent kilometers passed before he spoke again. My brother and I used to pretend that the world was ending. We were preppers before the Internet made it fashionable. What, you collected canned food? We built a spaceship. Excuse me? Sonia stared at him with genuine curiosity, trying to recall the last time he'd surprised her in a good way. How have you never told me this? It was just a bunch of junk we cobbled together and wrapped in tinfoil. A DIY spaceship, and here you are sneering at people who make their own clothes. We'd pretend that the Americans had launched a nuclear attack and we had to blast off before the bombs landed. The two of you floating around in space, huh? No. Just one of us. There was only one seat in the capsule, so one of us would escape and the other. Well, you know, I remember the countdown. Those last moments together. You never talk about your brother. What's there to say? I hate him for what he did. Because he loved me. Look, sonia said, nodding to the rearview mirror. She's finally asleep. Alexei listened to their daughter snore in the back seat while the wipers sloshed rain across the windshield and hoped the clanging engine wouldn't wake her. We're here, alexei said. Sonia stirred and looked at her phone. The map says we're still 30km from the border. There must be an accident. Alexei opened the door and peered ahead. The highway was bricked over in taillights to the horizon. I don't think there's an accident. I think this is the line to leave. Hours passed. Alexei measured distance not in kilometers but in car lengths. Sonia asked again if she might take over. I'm good, he said. You haven't slept in two nights. I'll rest once we get through, he said. He unzipped his cassette case, popped a mixtape into the tape player, tapped his thumb on the steering wheel to the beat. Finally, the border came into view. A line of security fencing, sheet metal, stripped paint, signage with clear instructions belied the general disorder. He counted the cars ahead. 28, then 27, then 26. We're nearly there, he said. Who were they? Sonia asked. A half dozen uniformed officers had pulled the driver, a young man, from the next car in line. After glancing at his passport, they hauled him to a bus idling on the other side of the road, a bus with bars over shatterproof windows, pointing opposite the fleeing traffic. Turn around, sonia said. We're so close. 20 cars. 19. 18. Turn around, Alexei. We'll find a different way. We'll cross into Kazakhstan. Not in this car. It's got nothing left Then we'll go back home. Masha's only missed two days of school. We'll go back to the way we were. Just turn around. The alarm in her eyes made him feel bewilderingly, unjustifiably loved. You have Galena's address, he said. She'll ensure you have everything you need in London. Turn back, Alexei.
- [52:26]
E
Please.
- [52:28]
C
17, 16, 15. An officer tapped on Alexei's window. You're right, Sonia. You should take over driving for a while. Make something of yourself. These were the last words his brother had spoken to him at a bus depot in Kirovsk before beginning the journey that would end 10 months later in a mined pasture south of the Terek river, and they were the words by which Alexei had, in the 24 years since, measured his failures. Now, as the officers wrenched him from the driver's seat, he gazed back at the distraught family. He'd delivered to the border a 33 hour slog without pause, except for gas and bathroom breaks, and he'd driven every kilometer. That was something, surely. But was it enough? The wind was kicking Sonia's hair all over as she stood in the road, her fists bald, her eyes radiating desperation. Don't turn back, he thought.
- [53:32]
E
Please.
- [53:34]
C
The driver behind the llotta laid on his horn and Alexei watched, heartbroken, as his wife froze, flustered and uncertain, with this asshole's impatient clamor blaring in her ears. Then the Lada's back door flung open and Masha stepped out, flipping off the driver and uncorking a torrent of the most magnificent profanities. Oh, my little vulgarian, you make your father so proud. By the time Sonia managed to corral her, there were only four cars ahead. Alexei stared through the window of the army bus. Three cars. I love you. Two.
- [54:20]
E
Just go
- [54:23]
C
one.
- [54:36]
A
That was Countdown by Anthony Mara, read by Morgan Spector. That one stings, doesn't it? Again, there's a surprise that also feels somehow inevitable when you as a reader or listener, think about the start of the story, but you only really appreciate it, or the meaning of the title Countdown when it's already finished. I originally came to Mara through his novel A Constellation of Vital Phenomena, which was harrowing and tender as it reckoned with the horrors of war and the personal navigations of daily life within those horrors. I was pleased, but maybe not all that surprised, to learn that the novel had begun as a short story. Mara's tight control of large themes and pointillous details is on display in all his work. It's certainly in evidence here. Morgan Spector spoke to us about Mara's story before his performance.
- [55:28]
E
This mechanism of the countdown that he's built in, the way he sets it up and then the way he sort of cashes it in, it's quite. I don't know, it's like if it was a film score, you'd sort of hear it start to build, you know, as the horses were coming over the hill or something like that. I don't know. It's very impressive the way he finishes the story and sort of turns it into this tale of martial sacrifice. You know, it goes from being this very contemporary sort of story of a marriage on the rocks to something that's far more fatal. I love the story because I think this question of who is a refugee, who becomes a refugee, who's at risk of becoming a refugee, and why, I think is in some way like one of the main questions of our century. And I think we all, if we're looking at the way things are going, need to think that this could be us anytime. The person who doesn't. Who is stateless, who doesn't have the passport, who doesn't have the right papers, and for whom home is no longer an option. And I think that's. He's. You know, it's only 20 pages, but he's managed to really, really draw that out in a really kind of brutal way.
- [56:44]
A
That was actor Morgan Spector backstage at Symphony Space. Both of these stories, like all the stories in the O. Henry Prize collections, were chosen for their excellence. They do what a good story always does, keep us focused on every word until it's all over. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Myles B. Smith. Our programs, presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles, are recorded by Phil Richards. Our mix engineer for this episode was Joe Plourd. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal with performed by the Deardorf Petersen Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.
- [58:03]
E
Sa.