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Selected Shorts
Domestic Rearrangements
00:58:39
A routine that never changes can get old. So this week on Selected Shorts, host Meg Wolitzer presents three stories that shake up domestic life, teaching the characters something new about themselves and their circumstances. In “Scaffolding Man” by Jenny Allen, performed by Patricia Kalember, a woman in a drab marriage is intrigued by a “hot” stranger. In "Myrna's Dad" by Cyn Vargas, a father’s changing occupations hide a family secret. The reader is Krystina Alabado. And in “Overtime” by Hilma Wolitzer (Meg’s mom), read by Becky Ann Baker, a happy couple gets a jolt when the man’s ex moves into their apartment. After the story, Meg interviews Hilma about what gave her the idea and her writing in general.
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- [00:00]
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Meg Wolitzer
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- [00:30]
Meg Wolitzer
Nobody does selling better than Shopify, home of the number one checkout on the planet. The Shop Pay feature even boosts conversions up to 50%. So if you're into growing your business, your commerce platform better be ready to sell wherever your customers are scrolling or strolling. Upgrade your business and get the same checkout top brands like Allbirds use. Sign up for your $1 per month trial period at shopify.com podcastfree all lowercase go to shopify.com podcastfree to upgrade your selling today. Move the couch here, Put that picture on another wall. Or if moving furniture around isn't doing much for you, why not rearrange your life? Do a whole feng shui thing. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Next on Selected Shorts, when life gets boring, it's time to shake things up a bit. 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. Humans are creatures of habit, and we crave our creature comforts. I'm someone who gets up early to walk the dog, then knocks back a couple of glasses of unsweetened Japanese iced green tea. Then I play a few online Scrabble games with strangers trying to win at least one game before I settle in to work on my novel. And then, once I finally win a game, which can take a while, I work, work, work, and before I know it, the light has drained from the sky. It's time to think about dinner and about which British mystery to watch, and about what tomorrow's schedule holds. It most definitely holds a dog walk, more Japanese ice cream tea, Scrabble work, and the next installment of the same British mystery in which we learn that the child was actually the one who set fire to the estate that had been in the family for centuries. But let's face it, a routine that never changes can get old. That's why this week on Selected Shorts, we're shaking things up like a snow globe with stories of domestic rearrangements These stories are about remodeling or remaking your home life entirely in order to see some new version of yourself emerge. Some of these changes take place in the real world, some are imagined, and all of them help the story's protagonists see their usual circumstances in a new light. In one piece, a woman lamenting her marriage encounters a hot stranger. In another, a dad's changing occupations hide a family secret. And in a third, a happy couple gets a jolt when the man's ex moves into their apartment. Lets get started with something from the writer Jenny Allen. She is the author of the essay collection Would Everybody Please Stop? And is the rare Selected Shorts author who's also a solo show performer. Plus she's got a great laugh. But for this story, which was featured in selected Shorts story collection Small Odysseys, we got one of our regulars, Patricia Callamber. She is well remembered for series including sisters and hey, an old favorite of mine, 30 something, and has been a regular on recent hits including Power Now Patricia Kalimber reads Scaffolding man by Jenny Allen.
- [04:01]
Patricia Kalimber
Don'T ever marry a writer. Just don't do it. It's like living in an alternate reality and not in a good way. Do you think writers talk about writing? About books? About literature? You know what writers actually talk about? Their agents. Their last agent who sucked. Their new agent who's great until he too sucks. Their book deals. Who got a better book deal? Someone always gets a better book deal, the one they should have gotten. Even when they get prizes, someone else always gets the better prize, the prize they should have gotten. Someone else gets invited to the American Academy in Rome, someone else gets a MacArthur grant, someone who isn't a genius at all. Someone else sold their crappy book to the movies for half a million dollars and doesn't deserve it. And this is usually before lunch. No, no, I'm kidding. But it's endless. It really is. You do get breaks at some point. They go into their study to write and they write and they write and they write and then they come out and sometimes they're in a good mood because the writing is going well, or they've invented some new way of working which is going to make their writing even better. Like they've decided to print out every page after they finish WR and then tape it to the far wall of their study and then look at it through binoculars so they can get some distance on it. But usually they're in a bad mood because it's not going that well. And they say, who ate the last banana? And you say I did. I thought it was going bad. And they say, you should have asked me. And you think I did not sign up for this? Years pass, many years, and one spring they go off to Arizona to teach writing at some college for a term. And this happens to be the same period of time when the front of your apartment building is getting repointed. So one morning you walk into your living room and you scream because the scaffolding is right outside your window, and there's a man in coverall standing on the scaffolding platform, looking right at you in your old terry cloth bathrobe. He looks stricken, as if he's done something awful. He says loudly, so you can hear him through the glass, I'm very sorry to surprise you. You open the window a bit. I'm sorry I screamed. He smiles and says, ah, everyone does. He spends the whole day working right outside your window, and the next day, too, he waves when you pass by, and he keeps apologizing for being there. He says it'll only be a few days and that he should know because he. He's the foreman on the crew. He's not young, but he's not old either, and he has a sweet, wide smile. The second morning, you ask him if he'd like a cup of coffee, and he says, well, that's very generous. So you pass him a mug of coffee out the window. The third day, just on a whim, you say, would you like to come in and have your coffee in a chair? And he says, that's very nice of you, but I don't think the building would like it. So you call your super and say, I'm inviting the boss of the pointing job in for coffee and I don't want him to get in trouble, and the super says, I could care less. So he comes in through the window for coffee, which is a little trickier than it sounds because of the child guards on the window, but he's nimble and manages it, and you and the foreman, whose name is Patrick, have a lovely time. He's from Queens, he tells you, and his father owned the business before him. He has three children, and one of them, his son, is taking over the business as soon as he finishes college. He has an ex wife named Gloria, but they're friendly. They live a couple of blocks from each other, and she still does the books for his business. Then he notices some very ripe bananas covered in brown spots in a bowl on the kitchen counter. You see him looking at them, so you say, would you like a banana? They might be A little too ripe, though. And he says, yeah, but they'd be perfect for banana bread. And you say, you've never made banana bread. You're not much of a baker. And he says, oh, it's easy. Takes about 10 minutes. Would you like me to show you? So you say, well, sure, why not? And he does. He whips up a batch of banana bread in about 10 minutes, and you sit there and talk while it bakes. And when it's done, he takes it out of the oven, and you share thick slices of the delicious warm bread with butter and some more hot coffee. So eventually, you marry him. Well, first your husband comes home from Tucson and tells you he's in love with somebody named Gretchen, who's one of his students. And then he goes away back to Tucson, never to be heard from again, except when he calls late at night after a few drinks to ask you the name of his old podiatrist or if you recall, the city where he gave some speech once because he's writing his memoirs and he can't remember and you really, really don't want to tell him. But you do, because Patrick says from his side of the bed, ah, go ahead. The Scaffolding man is the most wonderful husband. He's an excellent cook. He buys you flowers for no occasion at all. You don't have to go to any literary parties anymore, so you spend a lot of evenings just watching old movies on TV and holding hands. Sometimes you go to Coney island with his little grandchildren, Bridget and Teresa and Patrick iii. Coney island is the greatest. The Cyclone, the Wonder Wheel, Nathan's Hot Dogs. And you think, man, this is the life.
- [11:44]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Patricia Kalimber performing Jenny Allen's story Scaffolding Man. I guess part of the quiet moral of that story is even if you're married to a writer, you too can escape lackluster domestic circumstances by opening a metaphorical window and letting in a good story. Our next story about changing domestic circumstances is by CYN Vargas. Her first short story collection, on the Way, won her many accolades, including being named one of the Chicago Book Review's favorite titles of 2015. She's also been featured in publications including Glimmer Train and the Chicago Reader, which is where we first found this story to perform it. Christina Alabado, an actor we were very happy to welcome back to Shorts. She's been on Broadway in shows including Mean Girls and in films such as Better Nate than Ever. And here she is, Christina Alabado, performing Myrna's dad by Sin Vargas.
- [12:47]
Cristina Alabado
My younger Cousin Myrna came out of the womb asking questions. Why does a dog bark? Why is the sun hot? Where is my daddy? I was four years older than her, so I could tell her why dogs barked or why the sun, but I had no answer to where her dad was. My Tia Concha never spoke about him. Once, while my Tia Concha was driving us to church, a five year old Myrna muttered, where's my daddy? From the backseat Tia Concho was driving us and I saw her hands grip the wheel tighter and the big old car jerked a little. He's a clown with the Venezuelan circus, she said. Hey, how about some ice cream before mass? This was the first I heard there was a clown in the family. I guess it made sense since we never saw him. Myrna giggled, clapped her hands, then said she wanted vanilla. After that Myrna started telling everyone that her dad was a clown. She'd hit herself on the nose and make a high pitched sound. She even asked for big red shoes for Christmas. She had super curly hair that looked like our neighbor's poodle and both her front teeth had fallen out. She'd skip around in a rainbow wig that was so big it dwarfed her face. The plop plop of Myrna's oversized plastic shoes drove my Tia Concha crazy. I could tell by the way her shoulders scrunched up like she was about to see knees. But she never did tell Myrna to take them off. At 7, when Myrna and my Tia Concha moved in with my parents and me, she walked up to my father who was very focused on his lunch, and said, dio, Manuel, do you know where my daddy is? As he choked on his tostada, my mother said, myrna want Sonia's doll. And they gave her my favorite doll that cried, drank milk, and burped. I found this out later when Tia Concha and I got home from the market. I went to my room and there on my bed, on my pillow, was nothing. Mama, where's Gertrude? I asked, entering the kitchen, where she was at the sink washing dishes. I gave it to Myrna. You're much too old for dolls, mija, she said, not looking at me. I'm 11, Mom. You still have the same doll from when you were a kid sitting on your dresser. Sonia, go do your homework. I heard Myrna ask again about her dad, and my Tia Concha said, no, he's not with the circus anymore. Now he's an astronaut with the Venezuelan version of NASA. They don't have good phone reception up in space. I had never heard about Venezuelans in space in science class. We were learning about the different countries that had space programs, and Venezuela was not on the list. I was going to ask about it, but my mother coughed and when our eyes met I saw the look she gave my dad when he had one too many drinks with his compadres. It was the look where her eyes lowered and her lips tried to touch her nose. I decided to keep quiet that night and for a few weeks following. Myrna drew pictures of jagged stars and crooked planets on paper and napkins and one time on my forehead with an orange highlighter when I had fallen asleep on the couch. Here I was, an 11 year old with Pluto right above my left eye. As I scrubbed my forehead hard with a wet towel, I told Myrna there was no way her dad was in space. She started to cry and my mom yanked me into the kitchen. Sonia, you don't say anything about her father, you understand? You let Myrna have her dreams. Then she told me to never bring it up again and sent me to my room. When Myrna was nine, I caught her crying in the hallway in front of her classroom as my 8th grade class made our way out to the gym. What's wrong? She thrust a paper flyer at me. Daddy Daughter Dance was printed at the top in some fancy curly font. All the other girls dads are going. She cried. When we get home, we'll ask your mom to tell us where your dad is now, okay? She nodded and sniffled. That night at dinner we all ate frijoles again. I took the flyer out of my pocket and I opened it. Diaconcha, I said as she finished slathering sour cream on her plate. Myrna wants to go to this, so can you tell her where her dad is, please, Sonia. My mother cried. Everyone stared at the flyer on the table. My dad shook his head and gripped his fork tighter. Myrna's frown was so low I thought her face was going to droop into her arroz con gandules. It's okay, Tia, concha said, putting down her fork. It's time you know the truth, Myrna. Myrna and I leaned in so we could hear every word. The table was really for a family of four, not five, and most of the time plates touched and elbows collided. Concha, do you really think this is the story for the kids to hear? My father asked. Myrna deserves to finally know. Really know. Myrna's dad was neither a Venezuelan clown nor a Venezuelan astronaut. He was a Venezuelan undercover agent for the past nine years. Almost all of Myrna's life. He'd been disguised as a coca plant in the Amazon rainforest, trying to catch drug smugglers. He couldn't contact anyone in fear of putting his family in danger. Myrna's face was like a spotlight, bright and round. Wow, my dad is cool, she said before going to bed that night. That is cool, I said. The coolest job my dad ever had was filling vending machines, so sometimes he'd come home with expired Cheetos or M and Ms. That night I thought about Myrna's dad hiding in some jungle covered in green and brown paint to make him look like a plant. It didn't make sense. Why wasn't he able to send word home that he was all right? Had he really been on assignment for nine years? Even in the FBI shows I watched on tv, people pretending to be a part of a motorcycle gang or the mob were usually done in a year. I figured next time it came up, I would ask. A few months later we all moved to a building over on Cicero Avenue. Diaconcha and Myrna had their own place on the first floor, my parents and I on the second. My grandma, who wanted to be near her two daughters and grandkids, moved into the basement. Our new school was only two blocks away, next to the used car lot, the one with a rabbit driving a Corvette on on the sign, which made no sense to me because there weren't any Corvettes or rabbits in the lot. My grandma started walking us to and from school. She usually gave Myrna and me a couple of bucks from the slim stack she kept folded in her bra so we could buy cookies from the lunchroom that our parents didn't want us to have after school. I saw this tall tan guy with curly hair at the used car lot, wearing pants that were too short. He stood on the porch of the office, which was the size of a Porta Potty, holding a weathered sign that read MAKING YOUR DREAMS COME true for only $500 down. He smoked like he was trying to look cool, like one of those guys with black glossy hair and a mustache in the black and white movies my mom liked to watch. He gazed at Myrna as we walked past with our matching book bags and gym shoes. The dark skinned old ladies at the flea market gave our moms a discount if they bought two or more of the same item. One afternoon I noticed how the man in the used car lot glanced at Myrna as she held my grandma's hand. He stood between two rows of beat up rides, leaning against a station wagon with rusty wheel wells. He took a long drag of his cigarette and kept his eyes on Myrna. Grandma, why is that man looking at us? I asked. Grandma turned and saw the man, then grabbed me by the wrist and yanked me forward. Home now, but, I said, and she hushed me. Myrna was too busy singing some song to notice anything. When I was supposed to be asleep that night, I heard the adults talking in the kitchen. I tiptoed to my bedroom door and put my ear up to it. That's enough. I'm going to bed, my father said. I knew it was him right away. Grandma said. Out of all the neighborhoods, my mother said, this isn't good. You're sure it's in a safe place? My Tia Concha asked. It's in a safe place, my mother said. I wasn't sure what she was talking about, but I knew where her safe place probably was. The closet with the broom and the mop and all the cleaning stuff that smelled like lemons. In the last apartment, that's where she hid the Halloween candy and my Christmas presents, which I ended up opening and rewrapping while my parents slept. I needed to wait till everyone was asleep to find out what she was keeping safe. I told Myrna I was getting some tortillas. Give me some tortillas, tia Concha said. And then I heard footsteps scatter, the old wooden floors squeaking. Once our apartment quieted, I opened my bedroom door enough to slip through. I carried the flashlight I kept under the bed in my hand but didn't turn it on. I made my way to the kitchen in the dark, using the glowing green clock on the oven as my only light. I opened up the closet door, sneaked in, and turned on the flashlight. I moved the broom to the side, along with the red bucket that smelled of dirt and pine and a plastic bag filled with other plastic bags. Then I found it, a white tissue inside a sandwich bag behind a box of detergent. I sat on the cold tile with the flashlight between my folded legs and opened the bag. Wrapped in the tissue were two photographs. The one on top was of my Tia Concha. It was a close up photo of her kissing a man on the cheek. She looked younger. Her hair was much longer, and I could clearly see the mole on her face. The picture was gray, as if it had faded. The man wasn't smiling. I couldn't even see the slightest hint of his teeth. His hair was curly and his eyes were light and his nose almost stuck out of the frame. The other photograph was of the same man holding a baby in the crook of his arm like he was holding a sack of potatoes. He wasn't smiling in that one either. Yo amo Venezuela was written on his T shirt, the baby covering the law with its chubby hand. They were in front of a White Castle drive through. I held one photograph in each hand and sat quietly in the closet. Why would my Tia Concha want to hide these photos? I put the pictures back and scrawled back into bed. Myrna had a long nose, crazy curly hair, and light eyes with a pop of green in the middle like slices of sour apples. That salesman at the car lot had an even bigger nose and light eyes and curly hair on his crooked head. Myrna's head wasn't all that round either, now that I thought about it. I fell asleep not knowing what to think and woke up knowing exactly what to do. The next morning on the way to school, Myrna said she was going to do her geography report on Venezuela so that she could learn about the country where her father was. When we passed the car lot, it was closed, but I still felt Grandma was hurrying, more of a waddle at her old age. School went slowly that day as I thought about finding out if that salesman was really Myrna's dad. Grandma picked us up after school and we went to Chino's candy store. As we exited with our lollipops, Pop Rocks, and gum, I asked Grandma again, why does that guy from the lot look at Myrna every time we pass by? I thought she must have swallowed all her Pop Rocks at once because she started coughing really loud. She reached into her purse and handed a five to Myrna, who was too focused on getting to the center of a Tootsie Pop and hadn't heard what I said. Myrna, go get Grandma some chocolate and you get more candy. She tapped Myrna on the elbow. Myrna smiled at me as though she had won something and went inside. Ay, ay, ay. Grandma cried and put both her hands on my shoulders. You ask too many questions. He is no one, Grandma. I saw the pictures. Her mouth gaped open. Then she puffed her cheeks out and exhaled. Look, your ma and Tia Concha are going to be mad. I am telling you this because you're old enough now. What are you, 16? 13? Same thing. That car guy is Myrna's dad. Diaconcha said he was an agent in Venezuela. Ay, that's bullshit. I had only heard my grandma swear once before when her Avon order didn't arrive. That's her dad. He ain't no Venezuelan Agent. He's a Venezuelan asshole. Myrna came out of the store, her lips red from the ropes of licorice in her mouth. My grandma lowered her voice as Myrna strolled over to us. Don't tell Myrna her dad never wanted her. Your tia Concha was the other woman. Tia Concha, the other woman. I had seen the other woman in telenovelas and they all seemed so evil with their big hair drawn on eyebrows and massive boobs pushing out of shrunken fruit colored dresses. My dear Concha wasn't like that. Why would she be with someone like him? Someone married. Myrna handed me some blue cotton candy on a stick and gave a pack of Rolo to Grandma, who stuffed them in her purse. The day was very sunny and the cotton candy began to melt over the white stick and onto my fingers. We were coming up on the car lot. Grandma shot me a look and shook her head. Grandma, do you know what Stephanie did in school today? Myrna began telling a story that involved vomit and gym shoes. I stopped paying attention, watching the pigeons as they hopped in front of us from place to place, eating crumbs off the sidewalk. Then I saw him, the salesman, leaning against a yellow van with dark windows. He wore sunglasses and a cream colored suit with stains from his lunch, red and green down the front. He looked like a used Kleenex. Grandma saw him too and started hurrying again. She was so focused on getting past the lot that neither she nor Myrna, who kept on talking, noticed that I lagged behind. I stopped right in front of him and stared up. He was tall and I could see his nose was full of long hair. I noticed a dull yellow ring on his left hand. Hey, I said. I know. His unibrow twitched. What do you know, huh? That you're annoying me, brat. His voice was dry and rough. Only my daddy gets to call me a brat, I said and stood very still and straight, like I was supposed to do in church. I know you're Myrna's dad. You know nothing, he said. He dropped his cigarette and his hand shook as he put it in his pocket. Maybe because I saw one too many movies where people knew stuff they shouldn't. I stared up those nostrils at his quivering lip, at his enormous hazel eyes, and said, does your old lady know? I said. I said old lady like I'd heard it on tv. Grandma yelled. She pulled at my arm. What's wrong, Grandma? Myrna asked. Grandma snarled at Myrna's dad. He blinked and hurried away. Wait till I talk to your parents, grandma said to me, and pinched my arm. She was breathing heavily. Myrna kept asking what I had said to the man. I gazed at her. She looked so much like him. Nothing, I said. You can have the rest of my candy. That night, while Myrna slept, my parents sat me down in the kitchen. So you know what we know, my mother began. She blew into the mug she held and steam from the tea rose into the air. Now listen, you should get in trouble for what you did, but you won't, because you aren't going to tell Myrna, my father said. Understand? Yes, I get it. This whole thing with Concha and Pedro should have never happened in the first place, my father said, and then sent me to the room. The next day after school. Grandma held my wrist the whole way home. When we passed the car lot, the man was nowhere to be found. In his place was a short white man with hair as yellow as lemon drops. I never did see Myrna's dad again, and my mom never used the closet for her safe space again either. At 13, Myrna asked her mom again about her dad. I haven't heard from him, mija, and I probably never will. He's gone for good. The accontra would say nothing more about it. Myrna cried for weeks, sometimes alone in her room, but most times in mine, sprawled out on my bed as I rubbed her back, or sitting at my desk staring out the window as I swept away the hair that stuck to her wet face. I never said a word about what I knew, only repeated I'm sorry as she mourned for a father she never knew. One day when Myrna was 18, she and I were lounging in the backyard, the sun warming our skin. Sonia, do you know anything about my dad? I thought of offering her those earrings of mine I knew she really liked. I thought. I thought of all the times her mother didn't tell her the truth, and all the times my silence was like a lie. Her eyes didn't leave mine, her curly hair like how I remembered his. I decided to tell her everything.
- [31:35]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Cristina Alabada with Myrna's dad. By Sin Vargas this story is an interesting reversal on the more common lies that children sometimes tell about their own lineage. Who we are and where we come from, the real version, and sometimes the made up one, remain achingly essential to how we see not just our parents but ourselves. When we return, my mom, yes, my actual mother, brings us a tale of the ex who just wouldn't let go. Meg I'm Meg Wolitzer, your deeply nepotistic host. You're Listening to selected shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide.
- [32:13]
Hilma Wolitzer
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Cristina Alabado
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Hilma Wolitzer
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- [34:18]
Meg Wolitzer
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. Our stories in this program are all about shaking up the same old home life and seeing what comes loose. Maybe you're looking for other stories that'll keep your life interesting, and if so, we can help. Find us on your favorite podcasting platform or subscribe via our website selectedshorts.org you already know Selected Shorts is a radio show and podcast, but did you know it starts with a real live show? Join us at Symphony Space in New York City, on tour across the country or as part of our Livestream audience. As an audience member, you will be part of what makes Selected Shorts, broadcasts and Podcasts so special, and you can listen to your favorite stories again on your local public radio station or on our podcast. To find out more about where to be part of the action, visit selectedshorts.org Our final piece this hour is by the writer Hilma Wolitzer. She's a novelist whose works include An Available man and Summer Reading. And if the name rings a bell, There's a Reason She's My Mother. This story was published in Esquire in 1974, when she was in her 40s. I remember how proud I was of my mother, who'd become a writer on her own, having never been particularly encouraged in that direction by her parents but she found her way in. This story brings me back to being in the presence of that young mother. She was full of wit and ideas, and she showed me that while she was indeed the loving mom who packed my Partridge Family lunchbox every day, she had an inner life that sometimes had very little to do with me and our family. In fact, that inner life could take her far away to another domestic setting. One that was both intense and hilarious, as evidenced by the story we're about to hear, Overtime. This tale of ex wives, current wives and new husbands comes from Wolitzer's recent collection of short stories, which has a truly enviable title, today A Woman Went Mad in the Supermarket. The story is performed by the lovely and talented Becky Ann Baker. Her extensive resume runs the gamut from series like Girls to films including Spider Man 3. Now here's Becky Ann Baker reading Overtime by Hilma Wolitzer.
- [36:49]
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Howard's first wife wouldn't let him go. Her hold on him wasn't even sexual. I could have dealt with that. It would have been an all out war and of course I would have won. There is something final about me and steadying. I wondered why he was attracted to her in the first place. It could have only been her pathos. Rene is little and thin, with large light freckles everywhere. Her bones used to stab him during the night and he couldn't sleep. Howard says I'm the first woman he can really sleep with, in the literal sense of the word. When he loves me, he says he feels as if he's embracing the universe, that a big woman is essential to his survival. He feeds me tidbits from his plate at dinner to support my image and keep up my strength. Reni called up night and day. She left cryptic messages for Howard. She even left messages with Jason, who was only three or four at the time. Jason called her Weenie, insinuating her further into our lives with that nickname. Weenie needs 10, he would tell me. We gave Reni plenty of money, although she denied all legal rights to alimony. They were only married seven months and she decided she didn't deserve alimony after such a short relationship that you can't even collect unemployment insurance unless you've been on the job for a while. But we were always giving her money anyway. Ten here, five there. Ostensibly they were loans, but Reni was hard pressed to repay them. I suggested to Howard that we adopt her, that it would be cheaper, tax wise and all. But Howard seemed to really consider the idea. Getting that contemplative look in his Eye chewing his dinner in a slow, even rhythm. I imagined Renie living with another bed in the converted dinette where the children sleep. I knew intuitively when Reni was calling that the telephone had a certain insistence to its ring, as if she were willing me to answer it. She wanted to know if Howard remembered a book she used to have, something she was very sentimental about. Could he possibly have taken it by mistake when they split up? Would I just look on the shelf while she held on? It has a blue cover. She called to say that she had swollen glands, that she'd been very tired lately, and in fluorescent light she could see right through through to her bones. We sent her $10 for the doctor. We sent her five for the new book. At night, when the children were in bed, talcum sweet and overkissed, Howard and I staggered into the living room to talk. This was the best time of day. We couldn't afford real analysis, so we did each other instead. I was quite classical in my approach. I went back to my childhood, digging up traumas. But Howard liked to deal with the recent past. He took his old life out like a stamp collection, and we looked at it together. Howard talked about his first marriage as if he were just begun, then himself, and as if he expected me to feel some regret for the poverty of their relationship. I did. I saw them in their marriage bed, ill fitting, like two parts of different jigsaw puzzles. I listened to Reni talk him out of sleep, pry him from his dreams with the wrench of her voice. Is this mole getting darker? Listen, Howard. Is this a lump? She was always a hypochondriac, and Howard began to be one, too. By the time I met him, he was dying from a thousand diseases. I laughed at all of them. Are you kidding? I said. He was petulant but hopeful. How do you know? You don't know. You're not a doctor. But I wouldn't allow him a single internal mystery, and he was cured. The laying on of hands. I called it, covering him with my own healing flesh. Oh, you don't know. He cried. But I did, and he was cured of palpitations, bruises, nosebleeds, fears of castration. Yet Reni stayed on a dubious legacy. One morning, Jason answered the telephone. Weenie, he said, narrowing his eyes, waiting for my reaction. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Oh, I said it coolly, raising my eyebrows. What does she want? She wanted to stay with us for a few days. Some madman was after her. A guy she met at unemployment. A real psycho. I'll have to speak to Howard about it, I told her, but that wasn't true. So Jason and I watched a kids television program where they demonstrated how to make a Chinese lantern out of newspaper. We tried to make one, following the easy directions, but it fell apart. I decided to speak to Jason instead. Reni wants to stay here for a few days. He labored over the lantern, his fingers stiff with paste. In my bed? Of course not. On the sofa in the living room. What do you think? I hate this stupid lantern. He cried, ripping it apart. The baby was standing in her crib, toes splayed, rattling the bars. Guess what? Rene is coming, I told her, despising my own theatrics. That night I gave the news to Howard carefully, as if I believed it might be fatal. He sighed, but I knew he was secretly pleased. He wanted to know how long she would stay, what time she would need the bathroom in the morning, and if I could possibly make some tapioca pudding, her favor. Jesus. I slammed pots and pans around, and Howard shivered with fear and happiness. After dinner I called Reni, and I told her yes. Only for a couple of days, I said severely. Oh, you're a pal. She cried. Later she exclaimed over the pudding and threw Howard a knowing look. Was I a fool? But her bones pushed their knobs through her clothing. Her nostrils were red and crusty from a lingering cold. Under the table I found the sleek truth of my own thigh, and I grew calm. Of course the living room was closed to us for our nightly consultation. Reni was there with a stack of magazines, a dish of that damn pudding, and the radio tuned to some distant and static shot program. I drew Howard into the bedroom and shut the door. It was my turn, and I settled into the year I was nine with a minimum of effort. It was a memorable year because my parents were discussing a possible divorce on the other side of my bedroom wall. How was that for trauma? I was Gloria Vanderbilt, a subject of custody, an object of sympathy. I imagined myself little again, and I invented their conversation. What about the kid? My mother asked. Oh, you're the one who always wanted a kid, my father answered. Next to me, Howard moved restlessly. It's a good thing Reni and I never had children, he said. That's true, I conceded, and then I tried to continue my story, but Reni coughed in the other room, two throat clearing blasts that pinned us to the pillows. What's that? Howard asked. Oh, for heaven's sake, you broke my train of thought again. I only asked. Forget the whole thing. It's no use telling you anything anyway. No, go ahead, he said, rubbing my back in conciliation. Come on, start from oh, you're the one who always wanted a kid. Forget it. Jesus, he said. Just feel this. My pulse is so slow. My blood must be like clay. In the morning, Renee was watching the playground from the shelter of the curtains like a gangster holed up in a hideout. I'm a wreck, she said. I keep thinking that nut is going to come here. Why should he come here? How could he even know where you are? She didn't answer. She moved to the sink, where she squeezed fresh orange juice into a glass with her bare hands. I wish Howard could have seen that, the untapped strength of that girl. Jason was a traitor. He ran kisses up her freckled arms. My weenie, he cooed. They drank the unstrained juice in sips from the same glass. Later I went downstairs and called Howard at work from a payphone. She has to go. I know that. Don't you think I know that? I mean forever. Well, what do you want me to do? Nominate her for Ms. Subways? Get her deported? I don't know. Why don't you find her a husband? Ha ha. Should I look in the Yellow Pages? Well, you married her. Well, that's another story, he said, but I refused to listen. Ask around, I said, and I hung up. At home again I tried my own hand. All right, stand up straight. Give them both barrels. But the narrow points of her breasts thrust out like drill bits. Now, now, relax. I let her try on some of my clothes, but they enclosed her like tents. Instead, we worked on makeup and her psychological approach to men, but it all seemed useless. In 10 minutes there were smudges under her eyes from the mascara and lipstick on her teeth. Relax, I told her. That's the whole secret, and she collapsed in a slump, as if her spinal cord had been severed. That night Howard came home with a man from his office. I'd never seen him before. He wore dark glasses and he had a caustic smile. He was divorced, too, and spoke about getting burned once and never playing with fire again. Oh, terrific, I whispered to Howard, but he shrugged. He had done his share. Now it was up to me. I did the best I could, flaunting my marital joy at this stranger like a bullfighter's cape, but everything must have seemed bleak to him through those dark glasses. My dinner was loaded with killer cholesterol. The apartment was overheated and confined. Someone was deflating the tires on his parked car two blocks away of course, Rene didn't help at all. She pretended to be our eldest child and ate her French fries with her fingers. There was a huge pink stain on the front of her blouse. I'll call you, the man said to her when he left, a phrase torn from memory. We were all surprised that he bothered. You didn't have to, renie said to Howard later, as if he had brought her a frivolous but thoughtful gift. In bed, Howard and I listened for night sounds from the other room, and we were rewarded. In her sleep, Renee called out, and I could feel Howard next to me, poised for flight on the edge of the mattress. Dear Abby Ann Landers Dr. Rose Franz Blau what should I do? Signed Miserable. Dear Miss do you keep up with the national scene? Can you discuss things intelligently with your husband, that is, name all the cabinet members, the National Book Award nominees, the discoverer of DNA. Have you looked in the mirror lately? Do you make the most of your natural good looks? Go to an art gallery, make an exciting salad for dinner, Reline your kitchen shelves with wild floral paper. And good luck. The days went by somehow, and we began to settle in as if everything were fine, as if Reni belonged on our couch. Every night, leaving those shallow depressions in the cushions, my mother called to offer some advice. Get rid of her, she said. My father picked up the bedroom extension and listened. I could hear the hiss of his breath. Hello, Dad, I said. Are you on Herm? My mother asked. Is that you? My father cleared his throat, right into the mouthpiece. He was going to offer advice as well, and his style was based on Judge Hardy in the old Mickey Rooney movies. Kindly, dignified, judiciously stern. All his days he sat for imaginary back rack portraits in the subway, at the movies. What I would do, he said. Then he paused. My mother waited. I waited. I tapped my foot on the kitchen tile. What should she do? My mother insisted. Should she throw her out the window? Should she stuff her in the incinerator? I believe I was speaking, judge Hardy said. Oh, pardon me, my mother said. For living. What I would do, he began again, is seek professional advice. Thanks, dad. Yes, he said. Professional advice. He paced in his chambers. It's not normal, my mother said. It's not nice. Her opinion about other things as well. Homosexuality, artificial insemination, and the hybridization of plants. The next day I lent Rene $20 and looked through the classified ads for a new apartment for her. Change your luck, I advised, like a fortune teller. When the children were napping, the doorbell rang and I loomed back at Mine magnified through the peephole. Who? Renee. There my heart gave tentative leaps, like the first thrusts of life in a pregnancy. I opened the chains and bolts with shaky hands and ran inside. It's a man, I hissed, rebuttoning Reni's blouse, combing her hair with my fingers. But it was no use. She still looked neglected and ruined. The man burst into the room. Oh, for God's sake, it's you, rini said. I told you, he said. When I want something, I go after it. Well, just piss off, Raymond. It's you and me, baby, he said. All the way. I watched from the doorway. He was a big ox of a man, the kind who invites you to punch him in the belly and then laughs at your broken hand. There was a cartoon character tattooed on his forearm. Yogi Bear or Smokey. Call the police, renee said wearily. The police. Why fight nature, Rene? He asked. That's right, I said, winking at him. He's a lunatic, she explained. He's the one I told you about from unemployment. My hope began to ebb. Well, you could just give him a chance. Jason came in from the bedroom then, barefoot, squinting in the assault of new light. Stop hollering, he said. My intentions are honorable, the lunatic said, crossing his heart. Cute kid, he offered. About Jason, I reached for that slender thread of hope. Do you like children? I asked. He leaned on his wit. Say, I used to be one myself. He laughed and laughed, wiping tears from his eyes. Rene, I said. Introduce me. He has a prison record, she sang in a falsetto behind her hand. They might have been political protest arrests for all I knew. Something else that was fashionable. I snapped my fingers. Onni Soi said. Bad checks, rene said. She was relentless. I always try to find the good in people. And he had nice eyes, hazel with gorgeous yellow flecks. I offered him coffee and he accepted. Reni sat down. Finally they were married. Two weeks later. Howard gave the bride away, which may not be traditional, but it meant a lot to me for the symbolism. I gave them a silver plated bread tray and sincere wishes for the future. Raymond had a lead on a job in Chicago, and they left in a hailstorm of rice for the airport. That's that, I said, never believing it for a moment. Two months later, Raymond showed up at the door at 3 in the morning. Things didn't work out, he said by way of explanation. Reaney was staying in Chicago for a while to seek new horizons, but she had promised to keep in touch. Raymond's feet hung over the arm of the sofa. When I tucked him in, he snored and the sofa springs groaned. In rhythm with his dreams, he looks through the ONE ads every day. He takes the garbage to the incinerator, and he picks up the mail for us in the morning. My little talks with Howard are expanded into small but amiable group sessions. Now, Raymond's stories are interesting, as I might have suspected from the tattoo and all. He never even knew his real parents or his true history. We sent him to NYU for a battery of aptitude tests. And it seems that he might do well in social research or merchandising. As for me, I have good days and bad. At the supermarket, I am dazzled by the bounty. In in bed, I am a passenger still ready for cosmic flight. My daily horoscope predicts smooth sailing ahead. I worry about Reni, though today there was an airmail letter. She's lonely, and her body absorbs only the harmful additives in food. After all, Chicago is not her hometown.
- [54:53]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Overtime by Hilma Wolitzer performed by Becky Ann Baker. I spoke with my mother a bit about this story and about home lives in general. Your short story Overtime was published, I think, 49 years ago. And that is crazy. And yet the story feels as. As the day it was typed on your old Smith Corona. Do you remember writing it?
- [55:14]
Becky Ann Baker
Yes, I do remember writing it. Back when writing was noisy, when you clapped on a typewriter. I had written a few short stories about the same couple, Paulette and Howard. And like all my stories, I would begin with just a sentence, and I'd have no idea where the story was going. And that was kind of fun for me. My first literary mentor always said, radicalize your story. And when I began the story, the opening line was, howard's first wife wouldn't let him go. When I wrote that line, I hadn't even realized that Howard had a first wife. And when I was told to radicalize the story, I think it meant to be daring rather than safe, to surprise the reader. And in doing so, I also surprised myself.
- [56:05]
Meg Wolitzer
You've been described as a writer who illuminates the dark interiors of the American home. What makes them dark? Is it that they're in shadow? Because we never really know what goes on in other people's houses or lives.
- [56:17]
Becky Ann Baker
Yes, it's definitely not about low wattage light bulbs. It's really about the secrets that aren't revealed in most people's lives. I think every family has certain secrets, a certain facade that they present to the world. And inside their homes, where they're most intimate things happen that aren't revealed to anyone else. And I think I tried to look into that in my stories to find that intimacy, that secret self in my characters.
- [56:50]
Meg Wolitzer
One thing I think about this story is that it's in such close quarters. It's in a apartment. And, you know, everything feels like it's taking place in a kind of hot box. In a way, you compress things. Were you aware of doing that, or is it just the natural way it flowed?
- [57:07]
Becky Ann Baker
Oh, no. I imagined the apartment and the claustrophobia that Howard and Paulette must have felt when Rene moved in with them. Suddenly she was there. And if she cleared her throat during the night, everybody woke up. And I guess I grew up in a household with close quarters. We had one bathroom, and I shared a room with two sisters. And it really, I think, informs my work.
- [57:34]
Meg Wolitzer
Well, that speaks to the idea, really, of where ideas come from. Because people are always asking writers that, and writers say the jokey answer. Cleveland, or whatever they say. But you've just made a link between the close quarters of this story and the close quarters of your early life. For people, I guess, who are listening, who write or want to write, is it about a kind of freedom to think about things that don't even seem connected?
- [57:57]
Becky Ann Baker
Yeah, because I didn't even realize that until I said it just now, that there was that link between my childhood home and Paulie and Howard's apartment. But I do remember that feeling of claustrophobia and also of intimacy and closeness that was happy. So the story is both happy and a little dark.
- [58:17]
Meg Wolitzer
It's also funny. And I want to ask you finally about humor, how it comes to you. Are you generally a funny person, do you think? What do you have to say about humor and fiction?
- [58:29]
Becky Ann Baker
I think it's just the sense of the absurd. Everything seems funny to me in a way, or I can find the funny side of some dark experience. And I think I grew up in a household where there was a lot of laughter. And though this was during the Depression and World War II, I remember everyone enjoying themselves, sitting around the dinner table and laughing and talking.
- [58:54]
Meg Wolitzer
Well, it's a great situation for fiction. Better for fiction than for life, I suspect.
- [58:58]
Becky Ann Baker
Yes, absolutely.
- [59:00]
Meg Wolitzer
That was my mom, Hilma Wolitzer, talking about domesticity and her short story Overtime. As it is in the stories in this hour, a shift in domestic arrangements can also shift the way you see yourself and your significant others. I'm not suggesting that you add to your household only to eventually subtract from it. And look, if you're not ready for your ex to move in or to take off with the workmen outside your window, maybe consider putting the widescreen TV on a different wall. Just a thought. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Short 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 theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Dierdorf Peterson 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.
- [60:44]
Hilma Wolitzer
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