← Selected Shorts
Selected Shorts
Love Object
00:58:52
Host Meg Wolitzer presents two stories about objects of love, and feelings that can't be returned, for very different reasons. In “A Love Letter” by Greg Ames, a boy falls head over heels in a crosswalk. Actor and Young Adult author Maulik Pancholy really captures teen ardor and angst in his reading. And in Kali Fajardo-Anstine’s “Sugar Babies,” another teenager learns about adult responsibility from an everyday pantry staple. The reader is Sonia Manzano.
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- [00:00]
Meg Wolitzer
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- [00:02]
Malik Pancholi
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- [00:16]
Sonia Manzano
Got it.
- [00:17]
Meg Wolitzer
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- [00:28]
Malik Pancholi
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- [00:38]
Meg Wolitzer
If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with. Even if the one you're with is a five pound bag of sugar. I'm Meg Wolitzer and on this selected shorts the place where love overlaps with inanimate objects don't go anywhere. I'm talking to you. We already know that that inanimate object isn't going anywhere. You're listening to selected shorts where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction one short story at a time. People don't talk all that much about requited love. You know, the kind where you love someone or something and they love you back. The kind where you have all your needs met with no major complaints. No, nobody writes poems or songs about requited love. Poets and songwriters only want to talk about the unrequited love that keeps you up very, very late at night and makes you cry until you need your electrolytes replenished. And then maybe you squeeze your pillow really hard and cry even harder because the pillow's from all that crying. Requited love, on the other hand, might just make you incredibly boring to your friends. It can be a real challenge for a writer to create characters who are happily in love, even if they never fall out of love. Over the course of a short story or novel, the reader might be expecting them to, maybe even hoping they do. Because after all, fiction is often about movement of a kind. It can be about that sudden turn that changes everything. When you write about love and you really lay it on about how happy a certain couple is, the reader naturally gets kind of apprehensive and starts waiting for something bad to happen. But unrequited love? Well, if you're a writer, the world is your oyster, the oyster sitting untouched on a character's plate in a restaurant, because the object of that character's love never showed up for that romantic dinner. And the person who's doing all the loving sits awkwardly alone, all dressed up in front of a plate of oysters and lemon slices and two champagne flutes, while the people at other tables shake their heads and murmur about him. I guess he got stood up. Poor bastard looks like he was in love. I guess the other person wasn't tragic, really. The possibilities from a fiction writer's standpoint are endless. In this program, Objects of Love, two stories about feelings that can't be returned for very different reasons. In one story, a boy falls head over heels in a crosswalk, thankfully a place where it's safe for him to do so. And in another, a teenager learns about adult responsibility from an everyday pantry stable. Our first story about obscure love objects is by Greg Ames. Ames is the author of the novel Buffalo Lockjaw and the story collection Funeral Platter, and there's something about his twisted, or at least twisty imagination that conjures vivid images in the minds of readers and listeners. This piece about a particular childhood infatuation and its relationship to traffic safety will be read by Malik Pancholi. He's an actor who steals scenes in TV shows including 30 Rock, and he's a writer whose second middle grade novel, Nikhil Out Loud, was published in 2022. And now Maulik Pancholi performs Greg Ames story A Love Letter.
- [04:19]
Roberto Martinez
Here'S what I Life is short and life is long. Allow me to explain. In the sense that life is short, I should tell you right now, before it's too late. I love you, crazy, because in many ways you're not my ideal. Not even close, and I couldn't care less. What you have is much greater than my mind could ever conceive. You've got what my grandma calls pizazz. But life is long too, and no sudden changes need to be made yet. We must remain strong. Angel, this might seem shocking coming from a 13 year old, but I assure you I have given this ample thought. I understand all the obstacles. You're married, for one thing, and if I remember correctly, you have two daughters, Kelly and Kim, and a son named Jake in the military. And I have not yet embarked on my high school career. In the coming four years I will have quite a bit of homework to do, not to mention chores. And my mother has imposed upon me a strict 10 o'clock curfew. Believe me, I have tried to sway her with all my considerable powers of charm and rhetoric. She is a rock. Unmovable. Give it a rest, buster, she says. You better be in by 10 or no TV. It is an effective hard line position. The good news is you work afternoons, a choice 2 to 5 shift. And have I failed to mention how fetching you look in that reflective vest? I rarely, if ever, think of you as a crossing guard. You move like a dancer. You blow your whistle like one of the jazz greats we listened to and appreciated in music appreciation class. True, I am impulsive, and some say it is this quality that makes me charming. But I am also patient and caring. I need you to know that I care about you. Your husband is an aloof man with a tragic sense of fashion and a hurried air, but in him I recognize a worthy foe. He will not let you go without a struggle. He climbs in and out of his minivan with the nimble prowess of a linebacker, one who can both rush the passer and cover a halfback in the flat. And yet I cannot arrest my true feelings, lock them up in that dank prison called repression and dump them overboard while nobody's looking on the Staten island ferry like so much illegal medical waste. Maybe I'm not being clear, lover. I understand the logistics of compromise. If for now we must share only 11 seconds together each day as you shepherd me across the street, then so be it. We have had that time, and for that I should be grateful. If I were never to see you again, I would cherish the memory of our encounter yesterday, the way you spread your arms protectively, shielding me from oncoming traffic as I bent once again over my untied lace. I have a confession. I loosened my laces beforehand on Carroll street to have a few more seconds with you. Yesterday, when I looked up at you, the sun hovered over your shoulder, illuminating your dark hair and exposed the sun silhouette of your neck. I fumbled with my shoelace. At that moment my hands were like lobster claws, not in shape, of course, or even color, for that matter, but in their usefulness they were useless. And when you said, hurry up, for Christ's sake, what's your problem, kid? I nearly wept with joy. I knew then and forevermore that I adored you. Ever heard of Velcro? You said with a laugh, and to me it was a line of poetry more arresting than anything. We read this term in Pre AP English. Ever heard of Velcro? At night, alone in my bed, I wonder, are you chaperoning me across the street, or am I taking you to the other side? What would your life be like without me? I don't want to say that it would be empty and meaningless and full of drudgery, because I know that you are bright and energetic. You probably have no shortage of interests Maybe you're a talented street photographer who exhibits her work under a pseudonym to protect impressionable loved ones from controversy. Maybe you are an activist who stands outside City hall on Saturday afternoons with your comrades, shouting about vivisection and waving gruesome placards. Maybe you're an idler, a civilized loafer, a connoisseur of repose, sprawled on the sofa in your sweats. It's even possible that you like to smoke a little hashish. Am I getting warmer? And after a hot bubble bath, you walk around the house burning things. Sage, incense and various aromatic candles. Your personal life, I admit, is none of my business. But remember these words. I am here now, and I can only cross the street with you so many times. One day I will have to keep walking and won't see you again. But when that time comes, I promise to stop at the next corner. I will turn and wave. Thank you. I will say, I am safe. Are you? You will not hear me say these words, of course, because I'll be like 300ft away at least, And I'll probably only mouth the words anyway because it would be lame to say them aloud. And my cool high school friends would totally mock me, but know that I have said and meant them. Remember me, angel, to you. I was probably one of hundreds, maybe thousands, Just another face passing by your corner. But you are my only one. Thank you.
- [12:21]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Maulik Pancholi reading a love letter by Greg Ames. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Backstage at Symphony Space, we asked him if he had any useful tips for the lovelorn character.
- [12:32]
Roberto Martinez
I gotta say that I actually might seek out some advice from this lovesick protagonist because I think they have a lot figured out. There's a very sort of existential quality to understanding the fact that this love that this character has for the other character exists in this moment only. And I'm like, wow, what a great perspective to have at 13 to realize life's gonna change. So appreciate the moment you're in. So I. I've learned a lot reading, reading this four page story.
- [13:03]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Malik Pancholi after his live reading at Symphony Space. Can you remember a time in your own life when your love was so pure? This love will never exist in any practical sense beyond the 11 daily seconds the boy shares with his crossing guard. But that yearning is definitely real when we return saying, I'm gonna eat you up to your baby, and just maybe meaning it. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to selected shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony space in New York City and at other venues nationwide.
- [13:37]
Malik Pancholi
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- [14:08]
Meg Wolitzer
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- [15:04]
Sonia Manzano
Foreign.
- [15:12]
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. On this show, we're listening to love stories in which the objects of our affection may never love us back. There are countless kinds of love, though, and selected shorts feature stories about many of them. There are familial love stories and meet cutes and divorce stories and tales of infatuation with cockroaches and so many more. So why not subscribe to the podcast@pledshorts.org there you'll find all current episodes of the show, as well as bonus episodes with author interviews, actor commentary, and a lot more. Go on, start your own love story. Our next piece about love objects is by Kali Fajardo Anstein. Her debut story collection, Sabrina and Corinna, was a finalist for the National Book Award, and her latest novel, Woman of Light, was published to great acclaim in 2022. This story features many different kinds of love all at once shy teenage tenderness, parental affection, and love for one everyday household product. Performing the story is Sonia Manzano, a veteran shorts reader and TV legend known for Sesame street and her latest project, the animated series Alma's World. And now, here's Sonia Manzano and Kali Fajardo Anstein's story Sugar Babies.
- [16:43]
Sonia Manzano
Though the southern Colorado soil was normally hard and cakey, it had snowed and then rained an unusual amount that summer. Spring, some of the boys in my eighth grade class decided it was the perfect ground for playing army. They borrowed shovels and picks from their father's sheds, placing the tools on their bicycle handlebars, and riding out to the western edge of our town, Saguarita, a place where the land with its silken fibers of swaying grass resembled a sleeping woman with her face pressed firmly to the pillow, a golden blonde by day, a raven haired beauty by night. The first boy to hit bone was Robbie Martinez. He did so with the blunt edge of a rusted shovel. Out of the recently drenched earth, he lifted a piece of brittle, faded whiteness and tossed it downwind like nothing more than a scrap of paper. Look, he said, kneeling as if he were praying. Everybody come look. The other boys gathered around. There in the ground lay broken pieces of bowls with black zigzagging designs. Next to those broken bowls were human teeth scattered like dry kernels of yellow corn. Above them the sun had begun to fade. Behind the tallest peak of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. The sky was pale and bleak like the bloated belly of a lizard passing above. Don't touch it, robbie said. None of it. We need to tell somebody. Until they did, the entire town, everyone, it seemed, was a witness. Days after their discovery, our final 8th grade project was announced. We gathered in the gym for an assembly. Mrs. Sharply, a bug eyed woman with a neck like a giraffe but a torso like a rhino's, stood before us on a wooden box. For the remaining two weeks of your junior high career, she said, you will care for another life. She then reached behind her into a paper grocery bag, revealing a sack of C and H pure cane sugar. Sugar babies. We will be raising our very own sugar babies. Older kids had gossiped about notorious school projects. We had heard stories of piglet dissections, the infamous growing and changing unit, rocket launches with carbon dioxide canisters and a cow's lung blackened and doused in cigarette smoke. But no one had warned us about this. Sugar babies are a lot of responsibility, Mrs. Sharply said as she stepped down from her box and paced with the sugar sack. She explained we were to be graded on skills like feeding, bonding, budgeting, and more. And then she passed around diaper directions. We do it all alone. It was Solana Segura. She was behind me, her perpetual whimper causing every sentence to end like a little howl, like single moms and stuff. Somewhere down the rows a boy croaked, but the DNA shows I am not the father. We chirped with laughter until Mrs. Sharply held up two fingers signaling silence. Of course not. You'll be in committed partnerships. We're drawing names. A teacher's aide in Payless flats scurried like a magician's assistant toward Mrs. Sharply. She carried two Folger cans decorated in pink and blue glitter from the pink hand. The first name she pulled was Mimi Yazzie, who stood and slinked forward, burying her face into her arms as Mrs. Sharply called out her partner, Mike Ramos. This cycle of humiliation lasted for several more rounds before I was partnered with Roberto Martinez, the Bone Boy. After school, Robbie and I sat outside on the swings. He was a scrawny kid with frequently chapped lips and a light dusting of freckles across his low nose. He played soccer and always wore a beat up blue Windbreaker and knockoff Adidas sneakers with four stripes instead of three. The sugar baby was planted snug in his lap, balanced ever so gently between his two sticks. His dark eyes were so big and wide they resembled two brown pigeon eggs, and he spoke with a quavering, squeaky voice. They said we have to name it. Do you want to pick it out, Sierra? No, you name it. I swung up. And you take it home tonight. I swung down. I'll watch it tomorrow, but only if I have to. That's cool, he said. What about Miranda? That's my grandma's name. Whatever, I sighed, leaning back on the swing. Ain't that something? My father said as he and I ate breakfast the next morning on our small black and white TV above the microwave aerial, shots of the dig site were being shown on the news. The land appeared as an enormous shadow box with scraps of ancient people instead of thimbles and porcelain knickknacks. Can we go see it? I asked, spooning my last bit of cornflakes into my mouth. I suspect they don't want us to do that, he said, keeping his eyes to the tv. Why not? We should be allowed to. It's where we're from. It's our people. My father scratched his chin. There was a thin turquoise ring on his finger where there had once been been a gold wedding band. Things like this have always happened around here. It's nothing special, I told him. It was new to me. The morning was clear, and in the distance the mountains were crystal blue, like an enormous wave, as if sailing across those waters. A small white pickup truck with a front end pulled down our street and rumbled over the gravel in our driveway. Long dark hair clouded the truck's windshield, and very red and very long red fingernails were coiled around the steering wheel. A silver rosary dangled above the dash. Papa. I called over my shoulder, drying my hands on my jeans. My father rose and stood tall behind me, smelling of leather and dirt. Looks like she's back again. He grunted some, swishing spit around inside his mouth before shooting a stream of yoke bile into the sink. Go outside, Sierra. Say hello to your mother. My mother first left three years earlier. It happened one morning after she cooked breakfast. I watched as she gathered her keys and coat and walked into our wintry yard without any shoes. She left footprints as slight as bird tracks in the snow. When I asked my father later why she had left, he simply said, sometimes a person's unhappiness can make them forget they are part of something bigger, like a family, a people, even a tribe. My mother would occasionally come home for a day or two to gather forgotten necklaces or purses. Her visits were infrequent enough that I learned to live without her. It wasn't easy at first. Sometimes I'd hear a funny story at school or church, and my first thought would be, you have to tell Mama. But over time, that urge to be with her, to tell her things, to be a part of her, it went away, just like she always did. On my mother's first night back, she couldn't find an apron, so she made dinner in one of my father's old T shirts, with the kitchen TV up loud on Entertainment Tonight, she cooked pork chops sizzled in their own fat and smothered in green chili. Whenever I'd glance up from my math homework on the coffee table, I'd catch glimpses of her in the kitchen, rummaging through junk drawers and cabinets. I wondered what she was searching for and thought to offer my help. But I realized I didn't care if my mother found anything in our home again. When she finally called my father and me to the big table, I pulled my sugar sack, Miranda Martinez Cordova, from my backpack. Dinnertime, I whispered, admiring the face I had given her with a Sharpie. Her eyes were big and wide, with short lines for lashes. Her mouth was a blissfully flat smirk. Your favorite, my mother said, handing a plate to my father. The two of them were acting as if nothing had happened, as if my mother had always been there, cooking in the kitchen. I felt like my father was a liar, someone who could pretend everything was fine when really, how could he be anything but sad? Do you want something to drink? Asked my mother. No, I said, covering Miranda's mouth. I don't want anything. Nonsense, said my mother. You're becoming a woman. Women need vitamins and nutrients. You'll have some milk. After pouring my milk, she placed the glass in front of me and quickly glanced at Miranda. Robbie had dressed her in one of his little sister's old striped pink onesie. Does your doll want a plate? She's not a doll, and she's way too young for solids. My mother laughed and took her seat, closing her eyes while my father led us in prayer. Miranda and I kept our eyes open. My mother had taken off the old T shirt and wore a blue dress with white embroidered flowers that had many loose threads. Her lips were thinner and her black hair was shorter than I remembered. She used to only wear silver, but she had on a gold necklace, the thin braided chain glowing against her bronze skin. After we said amen, my parents made the sign of the cross and my mother opened her reddish brown eyes. Her eye makeup appeared as a buildup of silt. You know, she said, turning to me, I thought we were out of salt. I was going to have you run next door to ask Mrs. Kelly if we could borrow some. She's dead. I hunched on and rested my chin on Miranda's head. What? She's not alive anymore, my father gently said. Old Mrs. Kelly passed away last winter, Josie. My mother mouthed an O and looked at her plate. She briskly apologized, and we continued dinner instead. Silence. So, Josie, I said, what brings you down from Denver? Or do you normally drive around cooking pork chops for people? Sierra, My father barked. Don't you call your mother by her first name. He shook his head and I avoided his strict gaze. My mother smiled sweetly. Tell me all about those Indian graves the boys from your school found out west. My stomach suddenly lurched with the sounds of digestive failure. I don't know anything about it, I said, stroking Miranda. Sure you do, my father interjected. That Roberto Martinez, the boy who found the bones, he's your partner for the sugar thing, your school project. To think, my mother said, this whole time those bones were right here in Saguarita, beneath our feet. That's not true, I said. They weren't beneath your feet. She giggled a bit. I was here for a long while, Sierra. I think I know a thing or two about Saguarita, though I wanted to tell her she didn't know about anything. I turned my face to my lap and went quiet. After dinner I sat in my room where I pressed my ear against a cool white door, muffled and low. I could hear my father in the living room ask my mother about her drive. He didn't ask her why she was back or if she missed us, questions that hurt me to think about. I moved away from the door and tossed Miranda into the corner. She cried all night. I didn't get any sleep, I told Robbie the next morning as I shoved Miranda into his arms. We met outside 30 minutes before school, in our usual spot by the swings. It was chilly and the air smelled like pancake breakfast and frost. How could she cry? He asked. She's only sugar. The sun was coming up. The light leaked over the land in velvety streaks of pinks and golds. My mother once told me this meant the angels were baking cookies. Isn't that what babies do? Cry and crap themselves and cry some more? Hey, robbie said, his chapped mouth bunched to the side. Where's her outfit? Lost it. Robbie sighed and bent down to his backpack. He pulled a diaper from the front mesh pocket. Give her here. We'll lose points if she's wearing the same diaper from last night. He lay Miranda on the loose gravel and frowned at the new, sad, sleepy face I had given her that morning. Her eyelashes were tarantula like and her mouth was downturned. Robbie fumbled with the diaper, applying and reapplying the adhesive sides. So, I said, standing above him, what was it like? What was a what like, Sierra finding those dead people. Was it scary? Not scary, he said. But it was weird. You know, we've lived here our whole lives and no one knew about all this old stuff in the ground. I guess, I said, thinking of the pinon trees where my father had hung a bluish hammock in our yard. Their roots, he said, had undoubtedly grazed the dead bodies of our ancestors, both Spanish and Indian. I used to play in the shade of those pinons, cracking their nuts with two rocks held firmly in my hands. After pulling away the hard shells, I tossed the spongy insides into my mouth. I didn't swallow them, though. I was afraid of letting any amount of death from the soil or elsewhere work its way into me. Everything is old here. I mean everything. Robbie nodded. He was rocking Miranda back and forth in such a way I'd only seen small girls do that with dolls. I heard your mom's back. My grandma saw her buying pork chops at Rainbow Market. I kicked at the gravel, scuffing my Mary Janes. Dust flew between us. The bitch is back. Robby pretended to cover Miranda's ears. Dude, he said, don't call your mom a bitch. What if Miranda called you a bitch? Guess it's a good thing. Babies can't talk, I said. Especially ones made of sugar. Robbie was smiling and had lifted Miranda into the air. He briefly held her against the sky before bringing her back down. Remember when your mom was our group leader for Day on the Prairie? Yeah, I said, lowering my voice. And we got all lost looking for that old barn she said was haunted. And then she let us eat three packs of Oreos. And you had to go to the bathroom in the bushes. Robbie laughed, but I frowned and he quickly turned serious. Why is she back this time? Who knows with that woman? Maybe she wants to see the dick site. Or maybe she likes taking vacations to her old life. Within a week my mother blended into our home as well as Miranda's did, which is to say, not very well at all. When it was just my father, he worked late and usually only had time to heat up a frozen pizza or fix a bowl of macaroni. With my mother back, the home took on a new order, a different rhythm. She cooked unhealthy but comforting foods, the house constantly emitting a pungent odor of bacon grease and red chili powder powder. Other times she cleaned, she'd twirl around with a broom, swaying her hips to the music on the radio, an oldie station or some honky tonk crap. Most evenings after my father came home from work, he'd untie his boots in the foyer and then move his arm along my mother's slight waist. Together they'd rock back and forth to the music. It was nauseating. Each day after school I'd come home to discover that my mother had made my bed and placed my stuffed animals in a dog pile above my pillows. I'd immediately throw them to the floor. One afternoon as I sat on the couch, my mother walked by. What are you doing inside? It's a beautiful day. Her arms were planted firmly at her sides. She wore a brightly colored tunic and black leggings, making her appear like a 1960s 60s glamour model. She was young, still only in her mid-30s. It's hotter than a pig's armpit out there. I craned my neck, looking past her at the television. An Herbal Essence shampoo commercial was on, and long haired women were moaning under waterfalls. You have such a foul mouth, my mother said. And pigs don't have armpits. Genius. She began lifting sofa pillows as though searching for something. Hey, where's that sugar bag you carry around your little baby for school? She's with her father. He has her until this weekend. Oh, my mother said. Well, get up off this sofa. We're going for a drive. I couldn't remember the last time I had been alone with my mother in a car. Where? Where to? She smiled, the seams of her mouth running with red lipstick. You'll see. We parked on a steep hill overlooking the dig site. Below us, archaeologists in white hats and khaki shorts swarmed the gutted earth like invasive ants. The plot was as long and wide as a shallow public school swimming pool and was divvied up into human sized squares. The sky was cloudless and blue except for the sun's golden orb at the horizon. There was a crashing display of earth and air. My mother stood before me and held her arms out, flapping them as if they were useless wings. Wind blew her hair, twirling the strands around her face, hiding her eyes behind sections of black. For the first time since she'd come home, I remembered how beautiful I once found her to be. As a little girl, I'd play dress up in her satin night dresses and lacy bras, admiring their slight weight and wondering if I'd ever owned clothes like that. What do you think? She asked. Isn't it pretty? I shrugged and stood beside her. The wind carried her jasmine scent. Ever feel like the land is swallowing you whole, Sierra? That all of this beauty is wrapped around you so tight it's like being in a rattlesnake's mouth? I see this all the time, I said. And I don't feel like I'm being eaten alive by anything. My mother gave me a sideways glance. You will someday. Maybe it'll come later for you than it did for me. Children tend to do that. Marriage, life. All these things. Moving behind me, she hunched down and slipped her cold hands over my eyes. Try it. Close your eyes and hold up your arms against the wind. You'll feel it. I allowed my arms to float up and coast. A kaleidoscope of images spun against my closed lids. I saw the day when I was 10 years old, right before my mother left for the first time. She took me to the pueblo where her grandmother was born, in New Mexico. Holding my hand, my mother walked us through a small adobe church. She touched the pews with the tips of her red nails. As we moved closer to the altar, we stepped into a side room where we lit white candles with long, slim sticks. My mother sent a prayer for all those she loved into the sky with smoke, but I sent only one. Please, I pleaded to the Virgin, don't let my mother cry anymore. I was sick of finding her silently weeping, the sobs bobbing in her throat, at the stove, in the bathtub, kneeling in the dead garden beside our house. When I opened my eyes, my mother was beside me, a strange, blank expression on her face. Did you feel it? She asked. No, I said. I didn't feel anything. Goose pimples rose on my neck and arms. It's just windy and cold. All right, Sierra, then let's go home. I'll start dinner. As she headed for her pickup, I looked over the hill's edge and down into the dig site once more. The archaeologists were huddled in small groups. The rich odor of disrupted earth blew into me. Everything was terrifyingly silent. I thought about how quiet the world could sound, and how when I stood there beside my mother for a moment I was afraid she had left me on the hillside, stranded forever. Xerophthalmia, Mrs. Sharply said, is one of the many childhood diseases your babies could get. It was the following Monday, the final week of Sugar Babies. Another assembly was being held in the gym. Two kids in front of me had swaddled their baby in a blanket, while others around us had glued on googly eyes and red yarn mouths. Robbie sat beside me with Miranda. She looked exceptionally fashionable that morning. I had wrapped a quilted pillowcase around her like a muumu dress. Xerophthalmia is a vitamin A deficiency which makes it so a person can't produce tears. I leaned over to Robbie. I wish you had that disease. Then you stop whining about me. Drawing on Miranda, I had recently drawn crucifixes and anchors across her back. Tattoos, I called them, but Robbie said she looked like a bathroom wall. She's a baby, he whispered with closed eyes. Babies don't need tattoos. Sugar, I said. She's a bag of sugar. Now think for a moment, Mrs. Sharply said, waving both arms into the air. Think of all the times you cry. Sometimes they are happy and sometimes they are sad. But crying is natural. Take a moment to remember the last time you cried. The gymnasium was silent. Only the hiss of the fluorescent lights above us could be heard. Students hung their heads as if possessed by their darkest, most sorrowful memories. I waited for the other students to finish reminiscing about their dear old dead grandparents and broken bones. Now, parents, said Mrs. Sharply. You can see that not being able to cry would be an awful condition for homework. We will each need to research a childhood disease. Tomorrow we will draw diseases from a hat. Some babies will get a disease, but just like in life, some will not. It's the luck of the draw. Later that day, Robbie hurried after me as I walked home. You have to take Miranda, he said. I have soccer tonight. From the giant backpack he scooped Miranda out slowly, handing her over. She was somehow heavier than usual. What the heck have you been feeding her? I asked. Robbie petted her belly. That was weird, Mrs. Sharply, asking about crying. She's a real wacko, I said, hoisting Miranda on my hip. The sky was endlessly blue with paper wisps of clouds. I caught myself tilting Miranda up to sea. So when was it, Robbie? The last time you cried? That's sort of personal, Sierra Roberto Martinez, I'm your child's mother. I deserve to know these things. All right. Robbie took a deep breath. After I found the bones that night, I woke up and thought I saw a skeleton woman at the foot of my bed. I didn't know who she was, but later my grandma told me that it was Dona Sebastian, the lady version of the Grim Reaper. Death. You cried from a bad dream? No, Sierra. It was more than that. Robbie scratched his head and his scalp sounded sandy. What about you? When's the last time you cried? My mother's pickup wasn't in the driveway, and I figured she had gone to Rainbow Market for more pork chops, but for a moment something in my chest ached, annoying worry that she was gone again, this time for good. I broke into a sprint and ran toward home. I don't cry, I called over my shoulder. Only little girls and babies do that. I have some new tattoo ideas, I said to Miranda, who sat at the kitchen table stiffly leaning to the left in a column of sunlight. I was sifting through the junk drawer, looking for markers. I had opened every window, and for the first time in days the house didn't smell like pork. It reeked with the richness of the mountains and desert rain and sage and cedar pulled together as one. When I realized Woodraw only had rubber bands and dead batteries, I said, don't worry, you little sack of cavities. I have some markers in my room. I crawled beneath my bed over the uncrushed carpet, surrounded by gobs of lint and bald hair. I was looking for a shoebox filled with art supplies but ended up fishing out my private property box instead, the place where I kept movie ticket stubs, old diaries, and birthday cards from my mother. She made the cards herself, and I imagined her in some sunny apartment in downtown Denver, sitting on my floor, my legs spread and the birthday cards dumped around me like confetti. I ran my fingers over their sharp edges and smooth ribbons. I came upon one from my 11th birthday, the first card my mother sent after she left. I held the purple and gold paper in my palm, then opened the card as if it were the warm beating heart of an animal. My mother had placed three marigolds inside, and they nearly crumbled in my hands. To baby Sierra. Today is your birthday, and when you were born I knew everything would change, that every day would be your day, that nothing would be the same. I climbed into my bed, where I nestled into Miranda. See this? I said. This is from my mom. I looked at her sad face, and for a split second I imagined Miranda as a real infant, a baby who breathed and cried. I rolled her to my lips and dryly kissed her forehead. I don't know if I'm very nice to you, I whispered. Then I caught a glimpse of my mother standing in the doorway. She was leaning into the wall, limp and fragile. Her reddish brown eyes were without makeup and her hair was stacked in a sloppy pile on top of her head. You're good with her. She isn't real, I said. My mother sat on the foot of my bed with very straight posture and stiff arms. She seemed nervous, the way cats stiffen their backs before danger strikes. It's sort of strange they make you kids do this. You're only 13, but I can understand how they think. It prepares you. I suppose not that having a sack of sugar for two weeks would prepare anyone for a new life. I pulled Miranda closer and wiggled my thumb over her quilted midsection. I'm not sure if anyone is prepared for raising a child. Child doesn't seem to be something we can practice before it actually happens. I shrugged and rolled Miranda onto my belly. Where did you go today? My mother stared straight ahead, her eyes glassy, for a drive through the canyon. Would you believe it? I saw two hawks. They were playing in the wind. Hawks were common in saguari that we had an entire unit in sixth grade about them. They danced before mating, could dive one hundred and fifty miles an hour, stayed with one partner all their lives. I was surprised that my mother paid them any attention. What kinds of birds do you see in the city? I asked. Crows, said my mother. Just a bunch of crows. She paused, tracing Miranda's eyelashes with her long red nails. How long do you have her? A few more days, I said, rubbing Miranda's back slowly. I can't wait to get rid of this thing. She's so annoying. Imagine someday when it's a real baby. It would be much harder. That's the point, I said. Miranda isn't real. If she was I'd be a lot nicer to her like Robbie is. He's better at taking care of her. Can you believe that when you were born I was only three years older than you are now? My mother forced a laugh, dropped her gaze to the carpet. I had to stop going to school. Did you miss it? I asked. My mother sighed and considered my question for a long time. I didn't know I could miss school. I thought I was just sad. But I take classes now at a community college. You could go there someday. My mother went quiet. She pulled the rubber band from her head, allowing her hair to unravel around her shoulders and neck. She looked gloriously dark and light at the same time. There was a shining glint in her brown eyes. She looked younger. She looked happy. I bet you'll be an artist someday, Sierra. My mother pointed to the tattoos across Miranda's back. That's what I want it to be. She smiled and we both laughed. Here, she said. Let me braid your hair. I can do a tight one that will last for a few days. I pulled away at first but soon moved back toward my mother. I was ashamed of myself that I still wanted her close to me, even after everything she had done. I eventually rested my head in her chilly hands and tried to forget how bad my mother had hurt me. Her fingers wove through my hair like she was sewing a quilt. I nearly fell asleep in her arms as I held Miranda in my own. Lying there with my mother in the afternoon light of my bedroom, I imagined her far into the future, in the place where I'll live when I'm finally a grown up and my mother's black hair is silver and her face is well lined. In the distance I see her arriving joyously, waving at me. Her last stop. When I woke up the next morning, my father was alone at the kitchen table, eating oatmeal and reading the newspaper. Part of me wanted to ask where my mother was, but I knew she was already heading north over the pass back to that sunny apartment of hers in Denver. Even her chair was gone from the table. My father scooted a bowl of cereal toward me. He then smacked the paper with his hand. I'll be damned, he said. Those Indians on the ridge. They got some formal petition going. They're closing up the dig site. His eyes met mine over the top of the paper. Sorry I didn't take you to see it, Sierra. There will be another one someday. I did see it, I said. Mama took me. My father swallowed hard and shook out the paper. It sounded like rain. Want some Orange juice with your breakfast? I got the kind without pulp that you like. No, Papa, I said. I'm not feeling too good. Would it be okay if I stayed home from school today? He raised his white eyebrows. If you feel that bad, then of course you can. I spent most of the day in bed with Miranda cupped in my arms. We listened to the radio perched on my windowsill. The country songs my mother liked filled the small bedroom, and every now and then I'd lean over with Miranda close to my chest and feel like crying. Then at 3 o'clock there was a quick knock on the door. Robbie stood on my stoop covered in a mist of sweat around his temples and beneath his mouth. What are you doing here? I asked. And why are you out of breath? Did you skip or something? He wagged his head back and forth. It's awful, Sierra. Just awful. I'm sure you're a wonderful skipper. Don't be so hard on yourself. No, not that. It's Miranda. He hunched over and took a huge breath. She's dead. Miranda can't die, moron. Robbie peered at me, a deep sadness in his gaze. We pulled diseases out of the hat today. Most kids didn't get anything bad. Some got chickenpox. But Miranda, she got sids. If you don't know what that is because you didn't do your homework, it means Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. I know what SIDS is, I said. What are we supposed to do now? Throw her away? But we can't, robbie whined. It's Miranda. I stared at him for a long time, counting how many times he blinked without tears rolling out of his eyes. Then I said, I have an idea. Robbie and I parked our bikes near the edge of the hill overlooking the dig site. I had wrapped Miranda in a black pillowcase. She resembled a baby nun. I pulled her from my handlebar basket and one last time arched her face to the heavens. There was a mass of gray clouds. They spread evenly over the land like a patchwork of fog. Look, I whispered. Even the sky is sad for you. Robbie stood beside me at the border between the hill and the dig site. He reached out with a thin chicken wig of an arm and patted Miranda softly on the head. We stood at the edge of the hill for some time, listening to the grumbling moans of the clouds and the far off cracking of thunder. I picked out a spot, easy to aim for in the middle of the pit. Then, tipping back, I readied myself to launch Miranda above my head with with both arms. But Robbie stopped me. You're gonna throw Miranda in there. What else can we do? Those big sad eyes. He looked into the dig site. Then he looked at me. I can kick her farther. You're going to kick our baby into her grave. The wind carried my voice away as if it weren't my own to begin with. I play soccer, Sierra. Taking her from my arms, he delicately set Miranda on the edge of the hill, her limp body leaning mostly to the left. He backed up a few steps and then pushed himself forward with huge strides, his arms flying. When his tennis shoe made contact with Miranda, her body lifted from the earth as though she was nothing more than a helium balloon. She twirled in the air as her sugar insides spiraled out of her body from a hole Robbie's foot had torn in the bag. The sugar blew in the wind, sprinkling the dirt with bits of white. How pretty, I thought. And she landed with a thud. Thank you so much.
- [56:30]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Sugar Babies by Kali Fajardo Anstein, performed by Sonia Manzano. And here's Manzano on stage talking about the power of storytelling.
- [56:40]
Sonia Manzano
I think that storytelling is the source of all artistic endeavors, whether it's a piece of music or a dance or a children's book or a television show. In all of those cases, it always starts off with somebody telling a story to someone else. And selected shorts is telling stories in its purest form. And I think the difference between acting a part in a play and telling a story is that when I act, I expect you, the audience, to read me. But when I tell you a story, we're in it together.
- [57:26]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Sonia Manzano on Sharing Stories with a live audience. The poet W.H. auden wrote these if equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me. And that's a good reminder when thinking about this wonderful story of desperately unequal affections, by which I mean complicated affection on one side and unresponsiveness on the other. The main character standing in for Auden's me learns the power and pain of unrequited love and how it can finally offer a path forward. Intensity and true dramatic emotion are spilled everywhere here like. Well, I guess like a leaky bag of sugar. The mess it makes is gritty and extensive and hard to clean up, but even so, there's a sweetness about it. Of course, the bag of sugar in Sugar Babies isn't capable of love because it's an inanimate object, but in many ways Robbie and Sierra endow little Miranda with enough life to make her seem alive. Even with the goofy tattoos we pity Miranda almost as much as we feel for Ciara, who maintains that stiff upper lip despite the lack of a steady maternal presence in her life. And that's what's interesting about stories like this. A character's love for someone or something that can't really love them back helps put their own life into sharper relief. We're able to see more clearly what they're missing in their existing relationships and wonder if there's a way to find the love that's absent. And that's one of my hopes for you, the listener, that you experience a good requited love at least once in your life. Maybe you'll become a bit more boring to your friends as you tell them adorable stories of how you and another person met. Cute waiting online at the DMV at closing time, or how you knitted each other's dogs matching sweaters. But I guarantee your pillow will remain significantly drier. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Myles B. Smith. Our programs, presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles are recorded by Phil Richards. Our mix engineer for this episode was Jennifer Nulls. 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.
- [60:25]
Malik Pancholi
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