← Selected Shorts
Selected Shorts
Celebrating the O’Henry Prize, with Amor Towles
00:58:14
Host Meg Wolitzer is presents two stories from a live SELECTED SHORTS evening celebrating the O’Henry Prize, with guest editor Amor Towles, bestselling author of volumes including A Gentleman from Moscow. On today’s show, Allegra Hyde imagines the very near future as a never-ending road trip, in “Mobilization,” read by Jane Kaczmarek. And a family is disrupted by the arrival of a young woman in “The Import,” by Jai Chakrabarti, read by Arjun Gupta.
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- [00:01]
Meg Wolitzer
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- [03:02]
Amor Toles
I was going through the process of selecting these stories right at the same time that I was finishing my own collection. And so I was thinking a great deal at that time about the differences between show short fiction and long fiction. In novel writing, the author, consciously or unconsciously, has thought a great deal about orientation, introducing you to the characters, what their personalities are like, what their connections are. You're being introduced to the setting. The author's gonna orient you around the timing of it when it takes place. There may be elements of the past of these characters that need mentioning to sort of lay the groundwork for the rest of the book. There may be motifs which are established that will be returned to. The way that meaning is accumulated and transmitted in a novel is largely through forms of evolution. So you take a character, and the character goes through changes. There's events, interconnected events which unfold, one leading to another. There might be images that are stacked up over time and that accumulate to give us a sense of what the inner meaning of the story might be. So you really need to know where you begin. Now, none of this happens in short fiction. The best way to understand the difference is that it's like you go to a restaurant and you sit down at a table, and at the table right next to you is a woman and a man, and they're having at it, you know, so you can hear the whole thing. You're listening, right? And you're asking yourself, wait a minute, wait a second. Are they married? How old is she? What did he do last night? And who's Tony? You know, you start to piece it together, and just as you're beginning to get a sense of what it might be, they pay their check, they get up and they leave. And you want to follow them out into the street and be like, wait, I have questions. So there you are, and you have to sort of just imagine the rest. And this is very much to me what the short story experience is like. We're not given the luxury of a big orientation process. Instead, as the story's unfolding, we have to try to assemble the setting, the timing relationships of the people, the recent events, through little glimpses and through clues. And just at the moment where it's coming into focus and we think we understand these people and what's going on in their lives. It's over. And I think there's something very beautiful and liberating about this, both for the writer and for the readers.
- [05:23]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Amor Tolle speaking from the stage at Symphony Space. Our first story is Allegra Hyde's Mobilization. Hyde is the author of the story collection the Last Catastrophe, and the novel Eleutheria. Mobilization is read by a Shorts regular, Jane Kaczmarek, known for her work on television in Malcolm in the Middle and on stage at such venues as the Geffen Theatre and the Williamstown Festival. Her latest project is the Netflix series the Burroughs.
- [06:00]
Jane Kaczmarek
See Funny already. Thank you. We were multitudes. We were millions. We lived within dimensions up to 50ft long, 14ft high, but never more than 9ft wide. We were drivers, asphalt lickers, road runners, gearheads, the denizens of motorhomes who rolled across the country en masse, a fleet of rubber sold seekers. We were a city on wheels, a city on the go, a growing city. More motorists joined us every day. Newbies drove shiny RVs off the lot, Class A motorhomes with leather interiors, granite countertops, TVs, bonus sleeper sofas. Or they purchased tow along teardrops, fifth wheels, cab overs, pop ups for pickup trucks. A wealthy actor built a double decker apartment on a tractor trailer, hot tub on the roof. We let them join, too. We didn't discriminate. We welcomed families of five crammed into campers as well as heavy metal screamers straying from bandmates, from their touring paths. Oddballs joined in custom trolleys made from salvaged wood and glue. Whatever works, we said. What mattered was that everyone was always at home, but always away. Gas pedal down. We cracked the code humanity had wrestled with for too many millennia. How to have an adventure yet keep your home close. How to wander the world yet never get lost. If Odysseus could have taken Penelope and Telemachus with him, could have taken the old lady and the looms, the goats and farmers and the grapevines and Ithaca's gravelly shores because we did. We brought our Siamese cats, our Welsh corgis. One man had a 60 year old Greek tortoise that rode in his passenger seat. He let it roam during pit stops. It never got far. We brought our children, cousins, parents, partners, best friends, neighbors packing together, as condensed as the sardines we ate. Everyone headphone wearing, video game twitching, knitting, audio book listening, steering wheel gripping. The cramped quarters were worth having the whole country to roam. We furnished our vehicles with macrame strings of dried chili peppers, prayer beads. Great Grandma's ashes sat in an urn on the dashboard. May she rest in peace, we said, forever on the move. We stowed gold bullion in our glove compartments, just in case. Also a couple of revolvers, hydroponic pot plants Trembled over speed bumps. Cacti we kept duct taped to windows. Bicycles we lashed to the roof. We towed jeeps, skidoos, kayaks by Lake Erie. We splashed into the water, kept an eye out for snakes. In Telluride we'd made hundreds of snow sculptures, left them to liquefy. And down south, outside El Paso, we lay in the sun and let its rays fry us. There was always room in the desert, we told one another, and we meant it. In Quartzsite, Arizona, we purchased gemstones by the armful, installed amethysts by our sinks. It helps with digestion. We pulled into grocery stores, bought out their tuna, pita, eggs, cinnamon pickles, orange juice, coca cola, basil, bananas, hot dogs, buns, ribs, batteries, coffee grounds, band aids, beer, pop tarts, gummy bears, Gatorade, iceberg lettuce, salsa, ham slice, sugar free gum, hand soap, toilet paper. And then we moved on. Sometimes stationary. People decried us, jeered at us, protested us. Local kids watched wide eyed from scooters. Local teens shot our flanks with paintball guns. We waved back nonetheless, we tossed candy from our windows in one long parade. We set off fireworks to show our shared patriotism, our love of the country. We roamed. We played our radios loud, tuning them to many thousand frequencies and once in a while to the same station. Everybody loved talking heads. Take you there, take you there. We're on the road to nowhere. We pitied these stationary citizens, stuck, trapped, misguided. We pitied their homes rooted into the earth, the burden of a basement. We pitied the necessities of lawn care, mailbox bursting with bills. We pitied their scorn. They didn't know what they were missing. Well, sometimes they did. A few jeerors always slipped in among our ranks. They rigged up their minivans, followed our trail in the night or they made hasty romances. Often a glance was enough and found a seat in a cockpit. Teens stowed away in our storage spaces, emerged tousle haired and sheepish a hundred miles from home. Well, we never turned them away. We made arrangements and we just kept going. We flooded Walmart parking lots, NASCAR racetracks, dried out lake beds. We coated mountaintops like cubed snow. We saturated cities when we parked. We stretched for miles in every direction and we parked where we wanted. Who's going to stop us? We were too numerous to ticket. We always skipped town. Once we took up the length of every bridge spanning San Francisco Bay. We liked the view, the squawk of the gulls and we tried not to litter. But often we couldn't help it leaflets, leftovers, stray bits of plastic wrap. They fluttered from our windows. Sometimes our hubcaps detached and rolled away. But we'll get new ones later, we told ourselves. We can't stop now. We scattered seeds, too, the fuzzy inflorescence of Midwestern maiden grass, pinecones from giant sequoias, every kind of acorn flushed with the miracle of our country's fecundity. We had sex wildly on the roofs of our motorhomes, the open plains of Kansas stretching big and balmy in every direction, the moon a voyeur. And afterwards, in the night air, we kept driving. We stuck our heads out windows like dogs. We tasted snowflakes, blackfies, smog, the sulfuric fumes of a chemical fire burning in the West. Motion spared us from disaster. In Oklahoma, we outpaced a tornado. We circumvented riots and civil unrest, infectious diseases, mourning of all kinds. Well, true, some phone calls found us. Your great aunt passed even the occasional letter. You owe the government $29,700 in back taxes. We didn't mind. We could just out drive it all. We piped in Internet, but not because the news would affect us. A grave tragedy in Rochester, New York, as rescue teams rushed to news was a show we tuned into and tuned out of just as quick. And anyway, we tried not to read much, lest we get carsick. True, there were times we broke down, leaks happened, we crashed. But we also got ourselves patched up, inflated, recalibrated, jump started. We were good at using duct tape. We pooled knowledge, our tools at rest stops. We intubated fuel lines, wastewater lines. We drank diesel gasoline, suckled it from gas station pumps, guzzling with greedy abandon because we knew the fuel gave us a few more miles. We released gray water, black water, chemically sweetened in an aqueous trade that lubricated our plumbing. We tightened lug nuts. We checked windshield wipers, batteries. We sizzled liquid and limber. And then street signs, construction signs, political signs, lost children signs, personal injury lawyer signs, memorial signs. We whisked past it all. We honked. We whisked past dates, too, dangling lights out of the vehicle for holidays, Christmas, Hanukkah, Chinese New Year, eat Al Fita, Diwali, Liberalia. Though often we got those dates wrong, time warped, minutes meaningful only in their relation to one place and the next. Women gave birth at 60 miles an hour on highways stretching straight into the sun, the birth locale changing as we cross state lines. I'll call her Texarkana. We adopted bumper stickers, line drawn figures Accounting for passengers phrases for what we wanted to say. Brake for moose. This car climbed Mount Washington. I'd rather be fishing. USA Nash lv. Lol. Not old, just a classic. God bless America. Coexist. Smoke tires, not drugs. My Colley is smarter than your honor student. Until we filled the backsides of our motorhomes, the text piling on top of itself, the moon squinted down a skeptic. Like we cared. We were fiberglass and steel, plywood and polystyrene. We were a polymer infused spray when the mood struck and we waxed the sides of our vehicles. Rainwater beaded every droplet, demonstrated our invincible ease. During storms we hydroplaned, skidded, threw our heads back and laughed. We pissed in restaurants and behind trees. We forgot stuffed animals at rest stops we shoplifted Jolly Ranchers, Crocs, designer sunglasses and held up an occasional mid tier jeweler. Just keep the engines running. We hurried onward, counting roadkill to keep our minds busy. Death as distant as a possum in the mirror. Children started school with new landscapes out the window. You're lucky to see the country like this, we told them. You get to meet people from all over. You hear every accent, every perspective. You'll see every side of a sunset. You know the meaning of a mile of fresh asphalt and old potholes. We had our favorite places, sure, but we never let ourselves stay long. Not staying kept those places special. Kept them loved. Leave while you still want more. Promise to come back even if you know you never will. Don't let a place hurt you. Don't ever think of slowing down. We were ephemeral, a current on the tar trails, the interstate webbing connecting the country, our movements a synaptic pulse, the wink and blink of a possibility. We were everywhere and nowhere, and we went on for generations. Then one day we heard the gas was gone. We didn't believe it. We encountered such talk before, theories about peak oil, unstable supply chains. Well, we didn't think the news applied to us. It was somebody else's problem, and that was someone else's life. Probably a localized issue, we said. These issues usually are. And anyway, we were in Texas, in wide open country between San Antonio and Houston, where the black beaks of pump jacks perched over the earth. If there's fuel anywhere, it's here. We pulled off the highway into a small town with roads that crumbled into dusty paths. Houses had tin roofs. A quiet closed door church displayed a sign condemning sinners. Inside the town's gas station there were bags of salted corn chips, jerky lighters with wolves howling on their sides. No fuel. Clerk shrugged. Told us to try down the road. We tried down the road. That town was out of fuel, too. So was the next one, and the one after that. The newspaper outlined a disastrous trade embargo. Governments in chaos, a domestic strike, delayed shipments, blah, blah, blah. We took a deep breath. Fuel could be found. We just had to be strategic. We pointed ourselves southeast. The highway stretched long and flat. We tried to coast to let the wind push us, holding our speedometers steady. We lost a few motorhomes right away, folks with fuel tanks knocking empty. We'll come back for your camper, we said. Climb in. Climb in. We gripped our steering wheels and willed ourselves onward. We decided on Galveston. Maybe we'd already gone a bit mad. I mean, among us a hypothesis had circulated, swelled into the inevitable reality. They would have fuel in this island city. We remembered RV hookups flush with gasoline, potable water, propane. We recalled driving onto the beach, the sand firm beneath our tires, the Gulf of Mexico sweeping open like a stage set, dolphin fins dicing the surf. The island an easy drive from Houston's energy headquarters, from corporate offices, refineries, chemical plants. The island a vacation spot for oil executives and rig workers alike. Yes, we assured ourselves, it'll have what we need. The sky darkened. We lost more vehicles. Climb in, climb in, climb in. Those of us with spare gas canisters sloshed around our last cups, spreading the remaining fuel like a sacrament. Nearly nightfall, i45 ushered us towards marshy fields, past the prickly watch of utility towers. We held our breath as we crossed the long, low bridge that stretched from the mainland to the island, our vehicles running on fumes. Stoic palm trees, boat dealerships, chain hotels, fake vacation homes whose windows blinked with the fretfulness of lighthouses. There was no fuel in Galveston either. One by one, we ground to a halt. We were stranded. A few among us, the oddballs really had custom electric rigs, and they went for help, spiriting back over the bridge, their taillights as bright red as brimstone in the night. Come back for us, we called, and we parked along the shore, a frozen flock. We stared at the ocean stretching away into darkness. Sea grasses whispered. The night sky stood tall. A pause, we told one another. Temporary flashlights beamed. Beach chairs were dragged out on vehicles. Unfolded cigars smoked skyward. Children hula hooped grills sizzled. AC units were methodically unclogged around us, the wet murmur of the sea above the moon as bored and unbending as a God Rain the next day and the day after. The ocean sloshed. Sediment filled, turning the color of chocolate milk. Algae on the jetty, rocks slick as hair, bright green and swaying. Thundery skies. Skies hysterical, pinched by lightning. Then a fever flush of heat. Our vehicles deadened by stillness, leaning, exhaling through leaks. Tires going flaccid, garbage swirling, sewage smells. Beach chairs rusting, sinking into the ground. Bumper stickers peeling, flags shredding, sun fading, grills gone cold. Our bodies prostrate, slumped over steering wheels. Twin yellow lines racing along the backs of our eyelids. The road right there, waiting. The others never came back. Sand, wind driven, making dunes of our vehicles, making tombs of our vehicles. Heat as heavy as a fist pummeling the island. More rain. The sea kicked up, frantic. A storm surge rising over the beach. The ocean like a salt blanket. A bed cover pulled over our heads, a demand for dreaming. Darkness comes quick suck down, down into the sea. Our vehicles clasp us here. Algae blooms to toxic proportions, maddened by phosphorus runoff over warm waters. The rotting carcasses of fish free fall in slow motion. Expired zooplankton, phytoplankton, creatures too tiny to see bacteria get busy cleaning. Our skulls, achieve anaerobic ecstasy. The Gulf, a gullet. It swallows us, grinds us. Our caravan. Crushed axles crunching fiberglass. Flying cabinet doors already fall into pieces. Those bones of our motorhomes buried with us. Mud and murk pressed down on top, sediment piling, solidifying. The ocean boils, bulges with glacial melt that claws land masses into muddy plains, stirs atmospheric anomalies into continual tempests. We are pressed and squeezed beneath all that weight in our lightless, airless underwater coffins. Down where the moon can't find us, we are fossilized, liquefied, transmogrified. We ooze. The continents creak, make their slow passages. Fault lines find reasons to agitate tectonic kisses, making the whole planet shudder, blush. Hot lava throbbing red rock stems into the sky. And underneath it all, we are chemicals, superheated. We are millions of years in the making. Time skids along. We wait to be called up, summoned to burst to the surface, burned into motion. We are ready.
- [24:28]
Meg Wolitzer
Jane Kaczmarek performed mobilization by Allegra Hyde. Hello, I'm Meg Wolitzer. Hyde's post apocalyptic story opens like a Mad Max movie and ends like a prophecy. Is our gas guzzling society driving backward to primordial times? Critics as well as writers of blurbs on the backs of books often use the word moving to describe fiction they love. But in allegra Hyde's story, the word moving takes on another meaning, too. The lively and very full narrative roars and putters and zooms and coasts along until, like its imperiled world, it no longer can. I loved the inventive energy of the language and the vehicles. So did reader Jane Kaczmarek, who spoke with us backstage at Symphony Space.
- [25:14]
Jane Kaczmarek
I really recognize the structure. She has lists and lists and lists of things, and sometimes there's a comma between each word and sometimes there's a period. And I thought, gosh darn it, this author is doing something on purpose that I need to pay attention to. Because if you honor her periods versus her commas and you really break it down into beats the way you would a script, it takes you on this incredible journey that's really quite fanciful and uplifting. You really kind of don't know what's going on, but you recognize all the elements. But then it takes a very, very decided turn in the last two, three pages when gas is gone and the world changes and they go on. The odyssey of becoming fossils. I've never read an author who writes like this. Fun words. Duct tape, cacti to the dashboard. You know, fun, fun words she's put together. I'm not a writer, but boy, she must have had a blast writing this.
- [26:11]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Jane Kaczmarek backstage at Symphony Space. When we return, a marriage is tested by a child and a stranger. You're listening to Selected Shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues. NationW. 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. On this show, we're celebrating some winners of the O. Henry Prize. It's one of the many sources for our treasure trove of classic and contemporary short fiction by writers from across the country and around the globe. To revisit works by some of your favorites and meet newer writers such as those featured today, visit our website@pledshorts.org or find us on your favorite podcasting platform. Our second selection from our show celebrating the O. Henry Prize is Jai Chakrabarti's the Import. Chakrabarti is the author of the novel A Play for the End of the World and the story collection A Small Sacrifice for an Enormous Happiness. The import is read by Arjun Gupta, making his selected Shorts debut. He's a multi talented performer known for roles in the Magicians and Nurse Jackie, among other shows. Here he is with Jai Chakrabarti's the importance.
- [27:59]
Arjun Gupta
The import. Right away, Raj could tell Rupa apart from the other passengers, even though he'd encouraged his mother to send her in American travel gear. She'd arrived in a sari that looked like a hand me down, beleaguered and wrinkled as it was from the long journey. She clasped her hands together in greeting and tried to touch his feet, which alarmed Bethany. Oh, no, that's all right, said his wife. Like Rupa, she wore a nose ring, a little gem that once upon a time had set her apart. Rupa blinked in response. The question of how well she understood English was a hotly debated topic. Raja's mother had claimed that she had enough education to be a barista, though any claim made by Raj's mother was inevitably questioned by Bethany, who still believed that Rupa knew little English and even less of the ways of the world. He had tried his best to stay out of the fray. They'd made a decision, and for the next six months they'd have to abide. Raj located Roopa's luggage. When Bethany was out of earshot, he spoke to her in Bengali. It's all right, he said. Don't mind Bethany Didi. When she smiled at him, he could see a winsome gap between her two front teeth, slight enough to be at once memorable and charming. They'd left Shea at home with his temporary babysitter, also a college aged girl, but one who spent more time on her phone than watching Shay's antics, which, as he'd turned three, had grown increasingly complicated, the turns of his imagination both rousing and enervating. Shay ran to the door as soon as he saw them, though when Rupa entered, dragging her one large duffel bag, he retreated behind the COVID of Raj's legs. Who's that one? Shrieked Shay. This is your new babysitter, bethany said. Her name is Roopa, and Rupa is going to be staying with us. Oh, why is she wearing that? Asked Shay. He came out from Raja's legs and tugged at Rupa's sari. She held the fabric tight against her body. Hello, friend, she said in staccato English. You are not my friend, shay said. That's not how we treat our guests, bethany said. Raj thought he heard a pleased note in her voice when he'd first revealed the plan. She laughed, thinking it a joke, then, on realizing how committed he was to the notion, had argued at every turn. One of her fears, he believed, though she'd never say it outright, was that of being usurped. But here Was their little boy showing his loyalties? That night he put Shay down. As Roopa looked on. He demonstrated how much milk to pour, which books to read for bedtime, what songs to sing. At Bethany's insistence, they had installed a nanny cam in Shay's room, so they watched from their bedroom as Rupa laid next to his crib, stroked his forehead. Once or twice Shay called for his parents, but the day had been long and he had little fight left. Rupa sang her own song when Shay cried. Roger recognized the tune, thinking at first it was one of those film numbers, until he heard the song for what it was, a harbinger of rain of harvest. Let's go on a date, he said. You're crazy, bethany whispered, though Rupa was out of earshot. We barely know her. We've got the baby monitor, he said. Don't worry so much. Okay, but I'm keeping the monitor open the whole time, bethany said. They ended up having two cocktails apiece at their favorite local bar, which was just two doors down and close enough perhaps to even hear Shay crying, if it came to that. He asked me where the moon comes from, raj told Bethany. He knew dates were meant to exclude talk of Shay, but he couldn't help but reminisce about all that his son was saying. She smiled as if confronted with a fading beauty, which meant that she wasn't listening to him. Maybe she was thinking about work or the roses he'd once ordered her from Kyoto. Time was passing her by. She was on business trips a quarter of the year, which meant she missed Shay more than he did. Time was passing him by, though he couldn't account for the reason. He chugged his cocktail and asked, now, do you think it's a good plan, darling, she said, coming back to him. Your mother is always right. It was, in fact his mother's plan. Rupa was part of an entourage of servants that hung around their old colonial home in Kolkata. He didn't know her from Adam, but trusted his mother's judgment. She'd offered up Rupa, for whom the six month salary was equal to several years wages. Not only that, but she'd arranged for Rupa's visa, her flight costs, and even her salary. Inch by inch, Bethany had caved in. We can go out on the town and be who we were, he said. Trust me, we can't be who we were. This village girl or no. Just you wait, he said. Just you wait and see. He had visions of reliving his early New York life, only this time with Bethany in tow they'd met 11 years ago, speed dating at a speakeasy. He won her favor by holding her gaze. Now they were parents living through the weather. Ever since Shay had been born. They tried to leave the city, but something held them there. Some vital force prevented egress. And even though they'd had their fill of dazzle and moonshot, even though their bank accounts said nothing for their time, toiling away, they remained as they were. What does the import eat? Bethany asked. Two cocktails in, she'd found a nickname for Rupa that tickled them both. Mac and cheese? He asked. Cocoa Puffs with chocolate milk. That first week he stayed home to help Rupa acclimate. She marveled at the many settings of the dishwasher and the washing machine. Mostly she admired the wide variety of snacks that were available to Shay at any time. Goldfish is not really a fish. It's more like a cracker, raj explained. Goldfish is not fish, said Shay, who was already lording over his new babysitter. That first morning they went to Prospect Park, Rupa bonded with Shay as he ran around a playground with a statue of a dragon whose mouth spewed water. Up the stairs she walked, and down the slide she came. He could tell that Shay loved the singularity of the attention. She was speaking Bengali to him, which had always struck Raj as a child's language, full of soft cooing sounds, and Shay seemed to be following along fine enough. That was the other reason for Rupa. Raj's mother had wanted her grandson to learn her language. Raj hardly spoke to Shay in Bengali, so it was Rupa's task to bring the language to his son. After the park and lunch, he put Shea down for his nap. There's some business I have to attend to, he told Roopa when Shea was asleep. Of course, she said. I'm here now. It was a thrill to leave his boy with Rupa. He wasn't sure if he could, but now he had. That she wouldn't tell Bethany was the sweetest part. He walked to the other side of the park, where rents were a little more affordable and the greenery less plentiful. It had been there that during one of his early morning runs as a new father, he'd met Molly Choi. She was running as he was, and they matched each other's pace on the straightaway and struck up a conversation. Even though they were measuring a good clip. He could smell a cloud of lavender every time he leaned close to hear something she'd said. She was neither as pretty nor as worldly as Bethany, he came to discover. But but she was better in bed this afternoon, even though he'd explained to Molly in advance that he'd be free all week during the day hours, even though he knew that she herself had arranged to work from home. He desisted 10ft from the musty hallway of her pre war building. He texted her back, kid won't go down. Sorry, the kid he told her about, just not the wife. He jogged back across the length of Prospect park, nearly trampled at one point by a spandex clad cyclist. He realized he'd left his child, his precious, valuable creature, in the hands of a person he barely knew. His jog turned into a sprint. When he got home, Shay was up from his nap and roaming in the kitchen. He was trying to explain that he only wanted to eat animal crackers. Rupo was cutting fig sized grapes into little pieces. He just got up, she said, continuing to slice even as she held his gaze, a display of culinary competence he found endearing. He only wants to eat sweet things. We have to be careful about that, he said breathlessly. There was no fire to put out. He was relieved, though no fire to put out was also a little disappointing. Once he finishes his snack, would it be possible for me to make a call? She asked. To India. What's India? Shay interrupted. He seemed to enjoy the challenge of having to learn their new language. It's the far, far away place where Rupa and I came from, he said in English. It's just that it's getting late, rupa said. Over there. I mean, you could just call your mother on video. She'll have everyone come over. Hold on, Skipper, he told his little boy. We're establishing cross Atlantic communications. His mother answered the video chat, her face so close to the camera that he was level with the blackheads on her nose. Beta, it's almost midnight. What is the matter, Ma? Rupa said, squeezing beside him so he could feel the press of her hip on his. Can I speak with her? Who? Raj asked. Hold on, his mother said. Is that Grandma? Shay asked, trying to burrow between their bodies. Oh, raj's mother said, returning moments later. It seems they've been waiting by my door. Who? Raj asked again. His mother panned the camera to show all the faces that had entered her room. He hadn't been home in over a decade and didn't recognize a soul. There was a gang of them, squinting into the screen. I don't see Lakshmi, roopa said. A little girl's face emerged into the camera. She was wearing a lacy dress that could have been used for a christening. Hi, Ma, she said. Who's that? Shay and Raj said, almost as one. That's my daughter, rupa said. She's turning five next week. Can I have a minute to talk with her? I want to introduce her to little Shay. Your what? My child? Did Ma not explain? Of course, Ma. I'm gonna call you on your cell. He locked himself in his bedroom and considered what he'd say to his mother. This was her idea, though he'd been the one to sell it to Bethany. Apparently she'd left out a little detail. Completely unacceptable, he said when he'd gotten hold of his mother on his cell phone. Why didn't you tell me she had a little girl? I thought she was like 22 or something. She is 22, his mother said. It just so happens that she started early. Pretty common for village people, actually. But you didn't tell me, he said. You didn't ask, his mother replied. Anyway, what does it matter? She has a history. All people do. That is why she's doing the job. With the money she gets, she'll start sending Lakshmi to private school. Six months is not long, you know. There's hardly a change in that time. Perhaps that was true of him once he'd landed his job. At the times, he'd steadily put in enough hours to be neither fired nor promoted. Do enough was his mantra. It had been like that for most of his life until Shea was born and he decided to go part time to become the primary caregiver, a duty he'd come to regret in his life. Little seemed to change in six months, but for Shay, the same period had meant the difference between incoherent babbling and semi coherent speech. There's something not right about it. I'm dreading telling Bethany, raj said. Why would you tell Bethany? His mother asked, as if he were the dunce in the room. We don't keep things from each other, he said, thinking of Molly Choi's violet bedsheets. Then you are stupider than you look, his mother said. Anyway, what will you do? Send her back. If you want, I can arrange her return home next week. Oh, he said, feeling a shiver run through his heart. Besides Molly Choi, he'd planned a host of activities that were to be timed with Rupa's visit. The potential loss of those afternoons at the bar or at the beach or winding his way through the couple's intimacy workshops he'd signed himself and Bethany up for was too much to bear. It's just I need to wrap my head around this. Anyway, it's late over there. Goodbye, Ma. When Bethany came home that night, she flashed a smile that signaled just how bone tired she was. They'd entered the news world at the same time, but she desperately wanted to climb the ranks. So she had, from running features to becoming managing editor of a travel journal and then editor at large of a magazine that did travel entrepreneurship, a term he still barely understood. They'd prepared dinner in her honor. When motivated, Raj knew how to make a meal delight all the senses, and tonight he was motivated, that is. They'd all three made a trip to the market, where Rupa had marveled at the ubiquity of every fruit and vegetable, wrapped her sari around her shoulders as they passed through the frozen aisle. She made a few suggestions along the way, picking up bitter gourd, which he tempura battered as an appetizer. What's that saying? The fastest way to a girl's heart is through her stomach, bethany said, relishing the gazpacho he'd made with heirloom tomatoes and fresh lavender. We had such a nice day, he said. Didn't we, little man? Shay vehemently shook his head. No, we went to the park. We got groceries. We acquainted Rupa with the neighborhood. Yes, rupa added. Yes, very good. Oh, I'm so glad things are working out, bethany said. That night Rupa again put Shay to bed, and this time his boy put up less of a fight. Raj thought of telling his wife that he'd learned something of Rupa's history, but the dinner had gone so well that he let the moment pass. He lay with Bethany in the dark of their bedroom, cluttered with the detritus from their travels, the trinkets all around him, the stars from Mexico with their little inner lights which they hung in the ceiling. Occasionally they lit those lights and had sex, though this had been abated by Shay's coming, or simply by the exhaustion of their bodies, the familiar smells and snores. This night he tried again by stroking Bethany's thigh. She murmured something. What is it, darling? He asked, but it passed like a signal from a faraway planet. The summer burned on. Bethany took a trip to Iceland to cover a music festival, and when she returned she seemed rejuvenated. In her absence, Rupa had continued to learn the neighborhood. A month into her tenure, she'd even improved her English. She'd made friends with the bodega owner down the block, who regally opened the door just for her and Shay, Raj, and Bethany had reached the age when most of their friends had either tied the knot or committed to the single life the city offered. There were, however, still a few in betweens, divorced men and women who threw potlucks to celebrate the Second Coming, or partnerships that were made for the sake of the children promised. It was for one of these that they had been invited to Maine. When he suggested that they try to leave Rupa alone with Shay for the weekend, Bethany threw her shoe at him. She hardly speaks English, Bethany yelled. What if something happens? How will she communicate? She'll call me on the cell and I'll translate, he said. Besides, she's picking up a few words. Give me two mangoes for price one, he'd heard her say to the bodega owner, who had mysteriously complied. He'd enjoyed the role of translator, his language the primary link to the person who is safekeeping their child. This frustrated Bethany. He knew that she spoke three languages, but not the one she'd need to understand what her son was now beginning to learn. So Rupa came along, as did Shea. Raj's mood soured from the moment he picked up the minivan, which was the only rental left that could fit all of them. Driving it through the palisades and onto I95, he felt ancient. Every time Shea cried or had a tantrum in the car, he felt another little strand of himself wither into old age. Helen, the bride to be, had attended Bethany's alma mater, and in bygone summers Bethany had spent weeks at their house on the lake. Now they'd rented a cabin next to the wedding plot. It was also on the lake but allowed for more privacy. There had been an option for them to stay with other families at the wedding, but Bethany had declined. He suspected it was because she was embarrassed about Rupa, who still rotated through the same three saris she had brought from India, fastidiously washing each day's garments in the bathtub. They arrived on a Friday afternoon with the wedding not until Sunday. They had a whole day to laze around the lake. The water felt too cold to him and to Rupa also, who for once declined to follow Shay as he ran from the beach into the clear water, instead letting Bethany run alongside her son. Have you ever been to the sea in India? He asked Rupa. I was in North Calcutta. I was in my village, and now I'm here. Nowhere in between. Oh, he said. He was going to tell her a story about the time his parents had taken him to a seaside resort as a child, which no longer felt apropos well. Do you like it here? The lake is beautiful. Yes. No, I mean America, he said. Do you like being with our family? She looked at him for a long moment. Your little boy has a good heart, she said. But I miss my Lakshmi. Since that first call with his mother, he'd almost forgotten about the existence of her own child. She hadn't asked to see her daughter again, and he hadn't offered. It had seemed for the best. Once the time to tell Bethany the truth had passed. A gentle forgetting was all anyone could hope for. We can call her again when we get back to Brooklyn, he said. He would have offered they try this weekend in Maine, but his cell phone didn't work and neither did the Wi fi, Helen's family having chosen to forego anything that would interrupt their connection to the bucolic setting. When Shea took his nap, Raj and Bethany visited Helen and Rob, her husband to be in their house. Rob fixed margaritas for everyone, and Helen shared their honeymoon plans for Tahiti. A bungalow on the beach is exactly what I need. It's on stilts, so it sways whenever there's a wave, which means you sleep more deeply. Rob licked the salt off his margarita glass. He was into watches that told him things about his body at the moment he was testing and wearing three separate ones, one of which caught the light from the lake and glowed like an orb. So who's the refugee? He asked. Hey, that's not nice, said Helen. Unless, of course, she is a refugee, which is perfectly fine. Of course she's not a refugee. She's here on a legal visa, raj said. More to the point, Bethany said, she's here to take care of Shay. Plus she's being paid for by Raj's mother, so cheers to that. They all clinked glasses, including Raj, who pretended he was enjoying the joke as much as anyone. Slowly, he zoned himself out of the conversation, smiling at the right time so no one would notice. There was an extraordinary amount of pink Himalayan salt on the lip of his glass, and he took his time to surreptitiously lick it off. It was nearly evening when they thought to return to their cabin. Bethany was the one who'd realized, even though she'd had one more margarita than he, that the afternoon had flown by. He's up from his nap, I'm sure. Our little man, bethany said. The tequila failed to mask the anxiety in her voice. Don't worry, the import's there, and she's more responsible than both you and me, he said, which he'd meant to Elicit a chuckle, but no one joined in. They walked back to their cabin as the sun began to set on the lake. Even the old house next to theirs, where no one lived, which was being subsumed by the land, seemed. Seemed as if it were made of impressions and follies, the nails on the clawed wood of the dock shining like white teeth. The door to their cabin was open. No one bothered to lock doors here, but the house was quiet. Shay, baby, Bethany called. She couldn't help but sound chirpy whenever she was worried, but Raj knew the difference. Maybe they're playing hide and seek, he offered. They searched all through the rooms. Shay's stuffed octopus was in his crib. His diaper bag with its travel toys was missing, as was Roopa's pea coat, which was too warm for the weather but which she brought anyway. Obviously they went for a walk, Raj said. Even he had begun to feel it in his belly, the beginning of trouble. One of these houses must have a landline. We could call the police, get them to help us. That's a little premature, isn't it? Raj said. He led them into the twilight, unsure of how to begin their search. We'll split up, bethany said, taking charge. I'll go get Helen. You look in the other direction. The other direction meant the road that led off the island. A road was an exaggeration, though it was a graveled stretch of land. There weren't even barriers to keep cars from falling into the water as it darkened. He used his cell phone as a flashlight. The lock screen photo was one of Shea at seven months, an epoch before, when they'd been barely sleeping through the night and when he'd questioned his life choices, as he was doing now, walking alone on that path where few of the cabins were lit. He kept telling himself that Rupa was a village girl, which meant that she knew something more about the darkness than he did. Probably she was not even afraid, wherever she was. Nearing the end of the island, he saw a canoe in the middle of the lake. He couldn't tell if it was Rupa and his little boy until he shined his light toward them and heard a response. Or in the water. Rupa called. Okay, stay where you are, he yelled back, as if they had a choice. He ran back towards the cabin and found Helen, Bethany, and Rob carrying life vests and a giant flashlight. I found them, he said triumphantly. They went out on a boat and lost their oars, so they're just floating there. You Shaw, Shay? He's all right. I heard Rupa. She said everything was fine. He said. In fact, he hadn't seen his boy or heard from him, the boat too far in the water to make out faces. Years later, sitting with his therapist, he would also begin to question whether in fact he'd heard Rupa or in the water. He couldn't think of the Bengali phrase for that, and Rupa wouldn't have said it in English. I'll get our boat, rob said. They all squeezed into a motorized dinghy that had been beached on Helen's dock. The Orlas canoe was still there, floating perhaps a little further away from the island. I've got some ropes so we can just tie them to us, helen said. For what seemed like minutes, Bethany hadn't said a word. He held her hand, felt her quickened pulse. She would as likely choke him now as give him the time of day. A reckoning was what she was planning, though he didn't know the details. He wanted to calm her and seem strong. She flexed her wrist and took his hand away as if it were a soiled napkin. Nearing the boat, Rob dimmed the lights. It was still hard to see, but there was Rupa waving at them. You will go into that boat, bethany said quietly. You will bring my boy back. I don't care if you leave her there. Rob steered the boats close together. When he lurched into the canoe, Raj saw Shay asleep in cat pose. Rupa had a hand on his forehead. She didn't seem at all surprised to see him. That's when he noticed the oar lying in the middle of the canoe. He kneeled to examine it for any defects, but it seemed right as mud. What are you doing out here? He asked. I didn't want to remain inside, she said. He was having a fit. We needed air. But it's dark and I called you from the shore. Didn't you hear me? She gazed into the dark water, the slant of her face reminding him of a hunting knife held in shadows, a thin, sharp instrument. His knees began to shake. The stars edged closer to the lake, or so it followed. Felt as if on this night the cosmos were aiming to suffocate him. Finally she returned to him and spoke in a voice so low that only he could hear. You worry at the wrong times and about the wrong things. What is she saying? Bethany shouted. What did she do to my son? What you should worry about is a woman who fails to love you, said Rupa. She put the hood of her sari over her head, rocking in her seat as if muttering a prayer. Bring him here right now. Bethany called Rupa stood to her full height. Perhaps there'd been a river in the village, for she balanced in the canoe like a natural, she bent to pass him Shea. For a moment her calloused hands met his before he brought his boy back into the dinghy. Helen attached a rope to the canoe and they set off for the shore. Back in his mother's arms, Shay awoke. He seemed startled by the moonlight. The night was alive with the chorus of bullfrogs and crickets and the hum of a myriad of other insects. For a long moment he remained quiet. Why are there so many frogs? He finally said. The love for his little boy roared out of Raj. There are a million frogs here, he said in his first language, which had become for them like a secret tongue. But Bethany was holding Shay to her breast, cooing into his ear as if he were newly emerged from the womb. Behind them he could see Rupa clearly, a cheap nose ring, a dark face in the pale light. They were pulling her towards the shore as if she were their prisoner. But it was not like that at all. She had come of her own intent. It was that you could know a person only so well. Then their own ideas would muddy the water. Then you'd have to return them to where they belonged.
- [56:21]
Meg Wolitzer
Arjun Gupta performed Jai Chakrabarti's the Import. We spoke to him backstage about the story and his performance.
- [56:29]
Arjun Gupta
It's a thrill to read because the characters really reveal themselves. This is a trite way of describing it, but onions just peeling themselves layer by layer and use the impact of cultures coming together. You see the impact of when you are disconnected from home and your heritage, and then your heritage comes screaming back into your life. What does that do to you? There's so many themes going on, one of them being marriage, one of them being different cultures within marriage, one of them being how does a child affect a marriage and relationship and your dreams? What I love is that it hints at these things and allows you to kind of play with it. It's not prescriptive or trying to send a specific message. It really just feels descriptive in a really beautiful way. I'm really drawn to stories that allow me to engage with them, and I really felt like I got to with this one.
- [57:16]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Arjun Gupta backstage at Symphony Space. I'm Meg Wolitzer. This story evolves so subtly, morphing from a familiar narrative into something that feels more like a mere and Rupa as a character fits in well. Partly it's because she's barely seen or known by the couple who employs her, and so what she says at the end has the feeling of a mythic pronouncement. And how about that ending? I wasn't sure what to expect, but I was in a state of held breath dread for quite some time, and it still hasn't quite dissipated. These two stories, featured in the 2024 O. Henry Prize anthology edited by Amor Toles, demonstrate the breadth of the prize's honorees and illustrate the continuing evolution of the form writers from two different cultures creating two different worlds linked by journeys without clear ends. But these skillful authors leave us with a sense that something has been resolved, even if it's only a better way to seek our own answers. 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 Miles B. Smith. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, 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.