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Selected Shorts
Out of Bounds
00:58:15
Host Meg Wolitzer presents two stories about women whose social boundaries are changed. In “Somebody’s Daughter,” by Amy Silverberg, a young woman flirts with transgression as one way of defining herself. The reader is Hettienne Park. In Julie Otsuka’s “Evacuation Order No. 19,” a wife and mother makes hard decisions during World War II. The reader is Jennifer Ikeda.
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- [00:00]
Liz
Are your ulcerative colitis symptoms proving difficult to manage?
- [00:04]
Roy
Tremphya Guselcomab can help you manage the cycle of UC symptoms.
- [00:09]
Meg Wolitzer
At one year, many patients taking Tremphya achieved clinical remission and some patients also achieved endoscopic remission.
- [00:16]
Liz
Individual results may vary. Tremphya is a prescription medicine used to treat adults with moderately to severely active ulcerative colitis. Serious allergic reactions and increased risk of infections may occur.
- [00:27]
Meg Wolitzer
Before treatment, your doctor should check you.
- [00:29]
Liz
For infections and tb. Tell your doctor if you have an.
- [00:32]
Roy
Infection, flu like symptoms or if you need a vaccine.
- [00:34]
Liz
Ask your doctor if Tremphya can help.
- [00:36]
Meg Wolitzer
You manage the cycle of UC symptoms.
- [00:39]
Liz
Call 1-800-526-7736 to learn more or visit tremphyaradio.com.
- [00:54]
Meg Wolitzer
Out of bounds sometimes refers to errant tennis balls or other sports related trend transgressions. But to be out of bounds socially or politically changes the game completely. This week on Selected Shorts, characters find themselves right at the line. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Please stay with me. You're listening to Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. Boundaries can be useful. They can define countries or neighborhoods or landscapes or homes, and personal boundaries keep our private selves private while we navigate social interactions. They are lines drawn on maps, on the ground and around and in front of us. But what happens when those boundaries are breached or assailed, or even redrawn? And specifically, what happens to individuals who are suddenly out of bounds? The two very different stories on this program involve women whose lives are remapped. In one story, a young woman navigates perilous social and sexual waters and might cross some lines in the process. In the second, a mother makes pivotal choices in the midst of war when her own boundaries are reset by outside forces. Our first story is Amy Silverberg's Somebody's Daughter. She's an LA based writer and comedian and her fiction has turned up in Best American Short Stories and the Paris Review, among other places. You can find her doing stand up on Comedy Central, Hulu and Amazon Prime. And when she's not busy, ha, she's at work on a novel. The story was a Selected Shorts commission and is also featured in Silverberg's collection Somebody's Stories. Somebody's Daughter is performed by Haecheon Park. We look to her for nuanced readings of stories about romantic entanglements, and you will also find her on shows such as Hannibal and the Girls on the Bus. Here she is performing Somebody's Daughter by Amy Silverberg.
- [03:07]
Roy
Somebody's daughter My roommate is walking through the house we share, flinging dirty socks in my direction. I'm sitting on the sofa, working hard on doing nothing. She's been away on business. I don't know what she does other than that business. I live with an animal, she says, and I growl just to prove her right. She works for her dad and he pays the rent. We've known each other for a long time, since we were young and my quirks entertained her. Now they seem like symptoms of something deeper and more disturbing. But it's too late now. I'm fully adult and incapable of changing. My roommate is rich. She comes from a long line of rich people. On her bedside table there is a vase of origami flowers made from $20 bills. There once was a 50 and 100 stuffed in there too, but not anymore, if you get what I'm saying. Get dressed, she says, now. Daddy's coming for dinner. She's sucking down espresso through a straw, all wrapped up in a tight skirt and low cut blouse like some after hours librarian. I'm wearing the same sweatpants I always wear, with the word varsity printed down the leg. A long time ago I ran fast over hurdles. He's bringing some friends, she says, as though this should excite me. Friends of your father? I ask. Too old for me. She looks at me above her trendy new glasses, the ones with thick black frames like Clark Kent wore. Beggars can't be choosers. Who's begging? I shout before she slams the door to her own room. I can still be choosy. I hear her shower turn on. I still have time, I say to no one. Her father is a big red faced man with a funny high pitched laugh. When he agrees, he slaps you hard on the back. I mean really, he's nicer than he looks. He lost his wife years ago but never elaborates. I misplaced her, he says, and my roommate smiles sadly, indulging him. The first time I met him he took us to a Dodgers game. This was several years ago. I was naive and too thin, and when I bent forward you could count the knobs down my spine. I had big plans for myself. We sat four rows away from the fields, close enough to read the numbers on the backs of jerseys, near enough to smell the freshly cut lawn warmed by the sun. I lost my mother too, I told him during the last inning. The wind was blowing and I wiped half heartedly at my eyes as though the weather was to blame. Let's hope you Find her, he said, patting my knee. He's brought two men to dinner with him, business colleagues. One of them is legally blind and stares somewhere above my shoulder when I speak. His irises are blue, the color of baby clothes with a milky sheen. He has thick silver hair and two tan skin. My roommate has made miniature quiches because of his vision problems, the man tells me the rest of his senses are heightened. I speak softly and he doesn't hear me. I touch him lightly on the shoulder and he doesn't budge. Reflexes like a cat, I say, and my roommate glares. The other man is younger, built like a washed up football player, the once compact muscles beginning to sag. When he walks in, he's talking loudly on his cell phone, gesturing with a crooked pointed finger. Tell them no fucking way, he says. Tell them to bite my ass and bring the ointment. His mouth is shaped like a piece of spoiled fruit. Later he explains how his pointer finger was broken during an all state championship football game, and I think to myself, some people are just as they seem. There is a special circle in hell reserved for those who speak loudly on cell phones in public. I wrote this down on a napkin and passed it to my roommate, thinking she will laugh. I used to work in advertising and I have a knack for getting to the point. She's transferring the quiches to a platter shaped like a fish. It's made from crystal and most likely very expensive. She tosses the napkin into the trash and doesn't laugh, doesn't even smile. I mean, if you ask me, I think she wants to but merely refuses. Pride is a big thing with her. Pride is for poor people, I think to myself and take a large gulp of red wine warmed down my throat. I have a monopoly on pride. The food is very good. Melt in your mouth, moist. And when her dad tries the chicken Lorraine, he says, guess who's getting a promotion, and I have to cover my mouth to keep from scoffing out loud. After the chicken, my roommate serves jumbo shrimp and all the men suck the meat out of the tail in the same way as though it's company policy. And you? Her father says to me, still clutching the shrimp tail. How's the job hunt going? I'm working freelance, I lie, because nobody pays me. Liz is in a slump, my roommate says, and I shrug. I'm taking my time, I tell them. Well, it shouldn't be too hard, says the blind man from across the table. You're a good looking girl. His eyes are closed. I can tell you both are beautiful girls, my roommate's dad says, and his eyes travel down the front of me, resting in the valley of my breasts. I feel a trickle of sweat where his eyes and the overhead light are pointing. My roommate winces. I know nothing of her father's love life. I do know that she travels with him on business trips and after a particularly long layover in Las Vegas, he sent her the vase of money flowers with the tag that reads Sorry, darling. Next time knock over dessert. I tell the blind man. I once had a blind dog. I loved that dog, I say. I loved him so much I wished I could have gotten him a seeing eye person. Oh, I don't need any of those extras, he says. I can see shapes. He smiles, good naturedly trusting, as though he's ready to be led around the room by anyone who offers. I see dark outlines, shadows of things. Now I think he's wise. He's a prophet. A blind silver haired prophet. Me too, I say. I see shadows. I see the ghosts of my past life. Ghosts? He asks, laughing. Okay, he says. Okay. Sure. Ghosts. Sure. The next day when I'm around the house in my sweatpants, the doorbell trills and I find a bouquet of flowers on the front stoop beginning to wilt in the sun. I'm sorry to say they are not made of money. The blooms are large and bright red, velvety against my fingertips. I drag the flowers across my arms and pull my shirt up and drag them across my stomach. The address on the tag is my roommate's office building. I call her. Who are these from? I ask, my nose in the blooms. Not you. Please, not you. No, she says. They're from Richard. He likes you. Richard the silver haired tan man. Richard the almost fully blind man. Did you check the card? She asks. I hear her suck liquid through a straw. I finger the flaps of construction paper. The card looks handmade, cut using the same kind of specialty scissors used you'd find at craft stores, which turned the edges of paper into different shapes like intricate lace. These scissors were heart patterned. I wonder if he cut the card himself. Some of the edges are pretty torn up, so I figured he must have. I'm touched, the card says, Smitten, with a number written beneath in curly ink. This seems right. This seems fitting for an older man, somebody who once drank 5 cent bottled Cokes and attended countless sock hops. When I call the number, my roommate's father answers. I'm sitting on the sofa, flipping through muted channels. Oh, he says. Liz. So you got the flowers. Is Richard there? I ask. I get straight to the point. Well, they're not from him, he says. They're from me. No blind prophet? No Richard the silver haired. These things are sensitive, he continues. Between fathers and daughters, some discretion is needed, you know. I hear a phlegmy old man cough lodged in the back of his throat. You could have sent them from home, I say. I've paused on an infomercial. A smiling blonde woman chops cucumbers with a very sharp knife. Well, my daughter works for me, he says. You know she makes those little cards. I realize now I've seen those craft scissors in my very own home. My roommate, the scrapbooker, has several pairs. What do you say about tonight? He asks. I picture money bouquets. I picture my roommate's vacation home, glass walled, perched on the clean white beach where all the money lays out sunning itself. I'm free tonight. This is the new me. The old me had too much pride. A company car, long and black, comes promptly at six, purring softly by the curb. I'm pleased with the overt display of wealth, the formality of it all. As it turns out, formality pleases me. My roommate is excited. She stands behind me during my last once over in the bathroom mirror, lifting the hair from the back of my neck, offering me her perfume that smells like damp flowers and stuffy Connecticut aunts. She sprays three long spritzes. He's a fascinating guy, she says, meaning Richard. And handsome. Very distinguished looking. I nod at my reflection in the mirror. I silently vow to clean the house. Maybe tomorrow. Even though she pays someone to do that, I know I'm breaking some female honor code, though it was never spelled out and only traces of it linger from our younger years when we climb trees and cut ourselves and press the pads of our bloody fingers together in the contract of girlhood. We once French kiss too, if it matters. Have fun, she says as I shut the front door, and be nice. Then she says something else, but I can't hear her. Guess where we're going? Roy asks. That's his name, Roy. Where? We're both sitting in the back seat and there's a plastic divider separating us from the driver. I count three smudges which look like fingertips or a woman's palm. I picture the back of this car, steamy, filled with moans. Through the divider I hear the faint curl of a syrup voiced radio dj easing everyone into the weekend. To Dodger Stadium, he says, rapping once on the glass. His face is open and pink. We're going to a night game, he tells me. After a beat, he says, I remember we went to a game a long time ago, and you loved it. Did I? I liked being taken somewhere, all expenses paid. I liked talking about my mother, however briefly, even though it welled me up like a human tear so that I had to hold my breath to keep from spilling over. Tonight I thought we'd go somewhere formal and civilized, like the opera. But this is the new me, the easy, breezy me. So, I say, who doesn't like baseball? At the stadium I'm dressed inappropriately, the wind easing up my red dress so that it flaps against the backs of my legs. He guides me to the very top of the tiered seats to to a special box reserved for important people. Smiling men in blue coats serve as paella with tiny silver forks, and I eat like I'm famished, as though I'm being timed. I barely take a breath. I think about how some men propose to their girlfriends during baseball games and how stupid that is. He keeps looking over at me, smiling, like he's about to pat me on the head for cleaning my plate. After a while he says, you're one tough customer. I know. This is something men say when they're wondering how difficult it will be to see you naked. How do you mean? I ask. I mean I've known you for a long time as my daughter's friend, and I know you apart from that as an excellent conversationalist. And I know what she tells me about you.
- [16:23]
Liz
You're.
- [16:24]
Roy
He searches around the VIP box, eyes flickering over the women next to us, their tan cleavage exposed. You're complex, layered. What does Tammy say about me? She says, you're like the tide. You have moods. They ebb and flow. I look down at the brightly lit field, the flawless cross hatch of mown lawn. The little players look like GI Joes I could flick with my fingernail. There is no way in hell my roommate would have described me like that. In Poetics, she says, you don't live up to your potential, he continues. I'm moody. I nod, and he almost slaps my back in agreement. You can take herbs for that, he says. St. John's Wort. I thought that was for prostates. It works, he says. Either way, it works. I wonder if he takes Viagra or antidepressants. I hear old men are often depressed. Death and disappointment, like hounds are trailing behind them, sniffing at their heels. Maybe he takes both. I'm not sure if they're mutually exclusive. You're beautiful, he says, suddenly, leaning close to my face and I can smell the toothpaste on his breath, and I wish we were outside next to the field, the cheering and the damp grass, the darkness lowering itself around us. I'm just young, I say, thinking that's what he wants to hear. He's wearing peppery cologne, smelling like a teenager. No, he says before closing the gap between us. You're not really. You used to be. After nine innings slide by, I'm three beers gone and feeling like the VIP box has changed into a different room in which old men are charming. Through the course of the game, Roy told me about his childhood on Long Island. His family was involved in printing, his parents died young, and about his wedding, in which his best man got sick in the middle and vomited in a potted plant, and when he asked me about myself, I shrugged. He let it go and kept talking. The home team wins and fireworks punch the sky, red and blue like bursting blood vessels. Roy leads me down the steps with his hand on the small of my back, protective like somebody's father. The black car sits purring by the exit sign, and I lean my face against the coolness of the window as we drive, watching the white curbs glide by, thinking of my roommate at home working on business while I'm with her father, until his hand is sliding up my thigh and I think of nothing but that he has rented a hotel room, and I wonder if this should make me feel bad about myself, but it doesn't. Instead it leaves me feeling wanted and warm and luscious in my red dress. In the elevator I look at the two of us in the silvery reflective wall, his arms around me like we're posing for prom. We make a good couple in the warm sheen of the elevator light. I look older and he looks younger. Maybe it averages out and we both look middle aged. Maybe that's what we are. And anyway, I'm used to seeing myself in the gray varsity sweatpants, so this is a change. When he opens the door to the suite. Your usual, sir, says the bellhop, it occurs to me that the peppery cologne reminds me of a boy I used to date, and I feel my body well up again and I'm thinking it's a bad sign when the smell of dinner seasoning might be enough to unhinge me. The boy himself wasn't much to write home about. I remember he had a soft voice and crooked front teeth. I remember other odd things. He used to bring a cup of ice water into the hot shower with him, and once while in the throes of passion he said I fucked like I was lost at sea, which I've never forgotten. How do you mean? I asked when clothed and he said, I'm not sure. You just hold on really tight, I guess. Roy comes in from the other room. This suite has multiple doors and multiple rooms holding a silver tub and in it there's a bottle of champagne and chocolate covered strawberries like he's stepped out of some bad romantic comedy. What are you thinking about? He asks, and his face takes on a look of fatherly concern that makes me feel both sick and grateful. I'm thinking of my mother, I say, which is the truth. I wish she could have met him. Is that weird to want to set your mother up with someone you're about to sleep with? It's too late now. You cannot unthink those thoughts once you've thought them. He sits down on the expensive looking sofa and pats the space beside him. I sit there and put my legs up on the glass table and look at him expectantly, like I'm waiting for my usual bedtime story. He says, I bet she's in Europe having a great time somewhere, drinking sangria or a cappuccino. Yeah, I bet she's lounging at a cafe without a care in the world. Is that supposed to make me feel better? I ask. I don't know, he says, looking serious. Used to help my daughter. The thing is, it does make me feel better, even though my mother's dead. I think about saying this and then I think, what does it matter? It's a nice image. Your mom would like to see you happy, he says, which is also a nice thought. He's handsome in the lamplight, distinguished through the window. The city looks huge and unknowable, and I'm glad to be inside this room on the sofa, feeling known. I'm about to ask him more about his wife, my roommate's mother, but then he gestures for me to stand and begins to undress me in the way you'd hope an older man would undress you, easily and with skillful hands, and I forget about anybody else but the two of us. Then he kneels in front of me and I grow 100ft tall. Afterwards I'm worn out, neither young nor old, just out of my body. Stay, he says, but I float out the door. He arranges for the car to take me home and I leave him in the marble lobby by the concierge with the rich vacationers and business people gliding in and out. Before I go, I say, I know just what to tell your daughter. Standing on the curb near my house, I watch the black car smooth away, and I feel sweaty and rich. The door opens as I approach, as though by itself, because my roommate has been waiting up for me. When I see her expectant face on the other side, I open my mouth and prepare to say the words I've already planned. Your mom misses you and she loves you and everything's okay. But before I can speak, she says my name with this odd, serious undertone, and she's almost smiling, sort of sadly, which makes me wonder if she knows where I've been. Liz, she says. You're back late, she says, and I know I can't speak for her mother. If it matters, I tell her, I missed her anyway.
- [24:25]
Meg Wolitzer
Haecheon Park Performed Somebody's Daughter By Amy Silverberg I'm Meg Wallitzer. Silverberg's character navigates some problematic territory. Can a man be both a father figure and a lover? But the narrative voice is so strong, wryly funny, and unique that we know this woman isn't defined by her wardrobe or her choices, but by her willingness to cross boundaries into new territories. She engages in behavior that many people, including her, might think of as out of bounds. But that theme is also explored in a different way. We tend to think of young and old as binary concepts, but when the main character tells the supposedly old father of the roommate that she's just young and he says, you're not really, you used to be she and suddenly we face the spectrum of youth and worth. According to this man, her roommate's father, she is now out of the bounds of being young, and she hadn't even realized it until that moment. Boundaries of all kinds can shift and change, sometimes invisibly, as this piece so nimbly demonstrates. When we return, boundaries Redefined by War. 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. 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. The two stories in this hour are about moving past boundaries into new emotional and physical territories, but we hope that there are no boundaries between you and our broadcasts, podcasts, live shows, and special features. You'll find information about them all at our website, selectedshorts.org we are lucky to count the novelist and short fiction writer Julie Otsuka as part of our Selected Shorts family. She's the author of the recent novel Swimmers and the Buddha in the Attic when her first volume, when the Emperor Was Divine, was published, we knew we wanted to get her lyrical and devastating voice onto stage and into the ears of our radio audience. We chose her story, evacuation order number 19, and all these years later we are excited to offer it again. Our reader, Jennifer Ikeda, is known for her work in crime dramas such as elementary and Blind Spot, but you might hear her in any number of roles as a much sought after audiobook narrator. Now we hear her in Julie Otsuka's evacuation order no. 19.
- [27:28]
Liz
Overnight the sign had appeared on billboards and trees and all of the bus stop benches. It hung in the window of Woolworths. It hung by the entrance to the ymca. It was nailed to the door of the municipal court and stapled at eye level to every other telephone pole along University Avenue. The woman was returning a book to the library when she saw the sign in a post office window. It was a sunny day in Berkeley in the spring of 1942, and she was wearing new glasses and could see everything clearly for the first time in weeks. She no longer had to squint, but she squinted out of habit anyway. She read the sign from top to bottom, and then, still squinting, she took out a pen and read the sign from top to bottom again. The print was small and dark. Some of it was tiny. She wrote down a few words on the back of a bank receipt, then turned around and went home and began to pack. When the overdue notice from the library arrived in the mail nine days later, she still had not finished packing. The children had just left for school, and boxes and suitcases were scattered across the floor of the house. She tossed the envelope into the nearest suitcase and walked out the door. Outside, the sun was warm and the palm fronds were clacking idly against the side of the house. She pulled on her white silk gloves and began to walk east. On Ashby she crossed California street and bought several bars of Luxe soap and a large jar of face cream. At the Rumford Pharmacy she passed the thrift shop and the boarded up grocery but saw no one she knew on the sidewalk. At the newsstand on the corner of Grove, she bought a copy of the Berkeley Gazette. She scanned the headlines quickly. The Burma Road had been severed and one of the Dion quintuplets. Yvonne was still recovering from an ear operation. Sugar rationing would begin on Tuesday. She folded the paper in half but was careful not to let the ink darken her gloves. At Lundy's Hardware she stopped and looked at the display of Victory Garden shovels in the window. They were well made shovels with sturdy metal handles, and she thought for a moment of buying one. The price was right and she did not like to pass up a bargain. Then she remembered that she already had a shovel at home. In fact, she had two. She did not need a third. She smoothed down her dress and went into the store. Nice glasses, Jo Lundy said the moment she walked through the door. You think I'm still not used to them yet? She picked up a hammer and gripped the handle firmly. Do you have anything bigger? She asked. Joe Lundy said that what she had in her hand was the biggest hammer he had. She put the hammer back on the rack. How's your roof holding out? He asked. I think the shingles are rotting. It just sprung another leak. It's been a wet year. The woman nodded. But we've had some nice days. She walked past the venetian blinds in the blackout shades to the back of the store. She picked out two rolls of tape and a ball of twine and brought them to the register. Every time it rains I have to set out the bucket, she said. She put down two quarters on the counter. Nothing wrong with a bucket, said Joe Lundy. He pushed the quarters back towards her, across the counter, but he did not look at her. You can pay me later, he said. Then he began to wipe the side of the register with a rag. There was a dark stain there that would not go away. I can pay you now, said the woman. Don't worry about it, said Joe Lundy. He reached into his shirt pocket and gave her two caramel candies wrapped in gold foil. For the children, he said. She slipped the caramels into her purse but left the money. She thanked him for the candy and walked out of the store. That's a nice dress, he called out after her. She turned around and squinted at him over the top of her glasses. Thank you, she said. Thank you, Joe. Then the door slammed behind her and she was alone on the sidewalk, and she realized that in all the years she had been going to Joe Lundy's store, she had never once called him by his name until now. Joe. It sounded strange to her. Wrong almost. But she had said it. She had said it out loud. She wished she had said it earlier. She wiped her forehead with her handkerchief. The sun was bright and she did not like to sweat in public. She took off her glasses and crossed to the shady side of the street. At the corner of Shattuck she took the streetcar downtown. She got off at Kittredge and went into J.F. hinks Department Store and asked the salesman if they had any duffel bags, but they did not. They were all sold out. He had sold the last one a half hour ago. He suggested she try JC Penney's, but they were sold out of duffel bags, too. They were sold out of duffel bags all over town. When she got home she took off her red dress and put on her faded blue one, her house dress. She twisted her hair up into a bun and put on an old pair of comfortable shoes. She had to finish packing. She rolled up the Oriental rug in the living room. She took down the mirrors. She took down the curtains and the shades. She carried the tiny bonsai tree out into the yard and set it down on the grass beneath the eaves where it would not get too much shade or too much sun, but just the right amount of each. She brought the wind up Victrola and the Westminster Chime Clock downstairs to the basement. Upstairs in the boy's room, she unpinned the One World One War map of the world from the wall and folded it neatly along the crease lines. She wrapped up his stamp collection and the painted wooden Indian with a long headdress he had won at the Sacramento Stage State Fair. She pulled out his Joe Palooka comic books from under the bed. She emptied the drawers. Some of his clothes. The clothes he would need she left out for him to put in his suitcase later. She placed his baseball glove on his pillow. The rest of his things she put into boxes and carried into the sun room. The door to the girl's room was closed. Above the doorknob was a note that had not been there the day before. It said, do not disturb. The woman did not open this door. She went downstairs and removed the pictures from the walls. There were only three the painting of Princess Elizabeth that hung in the dining room, the picture of Jesus in the foyer, and in the kitchen, framed reproductions of Millais, the Gleaners. She placed Jesus and the little Princess together, face down in a box. She made sure to put Jesus on top. She took the gleaners out of its frame and looked at the picture one last time. She wondered why she had let it hang in the kitchen for so long. It bothered her the way those peasants were forever bent over above that endless field of wheat. Look up, she wanted to say to them. Look up, look up. The gleaners, she decided, would have to go. She set the picture outside with the garbage in the living room. She emptied all the books from the shelves except Autobahn's Birds of America in the kitchen she emptied the cupboards. She set aside a few things for later that evening. Everything else. The china, the crystal, the set of ivory chopsticks her mother had sent her 15 years ago from Kagoshima. On her wedding day she put into boxes. She taped the boxes shut with tape she had bought from Lundy's Hardware and carried them one by one up the stairs into the sunroom. When she was done, she clocked the door with two padlocks and sat down on the landing with her dress pushed up above her knees and lit a cigarette. Tomorrow she and the children would be leaving. She did not know where they were going or how long they would be gone or who would be living in their house while they were away. She knew only that tomorrow they had to go. There were things they could take with them. Bedding and linens, forks, spoons, plates, bowls, cups, clothes. These were the words she had written down on the back of the bank receipt. Pets were not allowed. That's what the sign had said. It was late April. It was the fourth week of the fifth month of the war, and the woman who did not always follow the rules followed the rules. She gave the cat to the Greers next door. She caught the chicken that had been running wild in the yard since the fall and snapped its neck behind the handle of a broomstick. She plucked out the feathers and set the carcass into a pan of cold water on the sink. By early afternoon her handkerchief was soaked, she was breathing hard, and her nose was itching from the dust. Her back ached. She slipped off her shoes and massaged the bunions on her feet, then went into the kitchen and turned on the radio. Enrico Caruso was singing La Dona e Mobile again. His voice was full and sweet. She opened the icebox and took out a plate of rice balls stuffed with pickled plums. She ate them slowly and listened to the tenor sing. The plums were dark and sour. They were just the way she liked them. When the aria was over, she turned off the radio and put two rice balls into a blue bowl. She cracked an egg over the bowl and added some salmon she had cooked the night before. She brought the bowl outside to the back porch and set it down on the steps. Her back was throbbing, but she stood up straight and clapped her hands three times. A small white dog came limping out of the trees. Eat up, White Dog, she said. White Dog was old and ailing, but he knew how to eat. His head bobbed up and down above the bowl. She sat down beside him and watched. When the bowl was empty. He looked up at her. One of his eyes was clouded over. She rubbed his stomach and his tail thumped against the wooden steps. Good Dog, she said. She stood up and walked across the yard, and White Dog followed her. The narcissus in the garden were white with mildew, and the irises were beginning to wilt. Weeds were everywhere. She had not mowed the grass for months. Her husband usually did that. She had not seen her husband since his arrest last December 1st he had been sent to Fort Missoula, Montana, on a train. Three and a half months later he had been transferred to Fort Sam Houston, Texas. Every few days he was allowed to write her a letter. Usually he told her about the weather. The weather at Fort Sam Houston was fine. On the back of every envelope was stamped CENSORED War Department or Detained Alien Enemy mail. The woman sat down on a rock beneath the persimmon tree. White Dog lay at her feet and closed his eyes. White Dog, she said. Look at me. White Dog raised his head. The woman was his mistress and he did whatever she asked. She put on her white silk gloves and took out a roll of twine. Now just keep looking at me, she said. She tied White Dog to a tree. You've been a good dog, she said. You've been a good White Dog. Somewhere in the distance a telephone rang. White Dog barked. Hush, she said. White Dog grew quiet. Now roll over, she said. White Dog rolled over and looked up at her with his good eye. Play dead, she said. White Dog turned to the side and closed his eyes. His paws went limp. The woman picked up the large shovel that was leaning against the trunk of the tree. She lifted it high into the air with both hands and brought the blade down swiftly on his head. White Dog's body shuddered twice and his hind legs kicked out into the air as though he were trying to run. Then he grew still. A trickle of blood seeped out from the corner of his mouth. She untied him from the tree and let out a deep breath. The shovel had been the right choice, she thought. Better than a hammer. Beneath the tree she began to dig a hole. The soil was hard on top, but soft and loamy beneath the surface. It gave way easily. She plunged the shovel into the earth again and again until the hole was deep. She picked up White Dog and dropped him into the hole. His body was not heavy. It hit the earth with a quiet thud. She pulled off her gloves and looked at them. They were no longer white. She dropped them into the hole and picked up the shovel. Again she filled up The Hole the sun was hot and the only place there was any shade was beneath the trees. The woman was standing beneath the trees. She was 41 and tired. The back of her dress was drenched with sweat. She brushed her hair out of her eyes and leaned against the tree. Everything looked the same as before, except the earth was a little darker where the hole had been, darker and wetter. She plucked a leaf from a low hanging branch and went back inside the house. When the children came home from school, she reminded them that early the next morning they would be leaving tomorrow. They were going on a trip. They could only bring with them what they could carry. I already know that, said the girl. She tossed her books onto the sofa and told the woman that her teacher, Mr. Rutherford, had talked for an entire hour about prime numbers and coniferous trees. Do you know what a coniferous tree is? The girl asked. The woman had to admit that she did not tell me, she said, but the girl just shook her head. No, I'll tell you later, said the girl. She was 10 years old and she knew what she liked. Boys and black licorice and Dorothy Lamour. Her favorite song on the radio was Don't Fence Me In. She adored her pet macaw. She went to the bookshelf and took down Birds of America. She balanced the book on her head and walked slowly, her spine held erect, up the stairs to her room. A few seconds later there was a loud thump and the book came tumbling back down the stairs. The boy looked up at his mother. He was 7, and a small black fedora was tilted to one side of his head. She has to stand up straighter, he said softly. He went to the foot of the stairs and stared at the book. It had landed face open to a picture of a small brown bird, a marsh wren. You have to stand up straighter, he shouted. It's not that, came the girl's reply. It's my head. What's wrong with your head? Said the boy. Too round, too round on top. He closed the book and turned to his mother. Where's White Dog? He asked. He went out onto the porch and clapped his hand three times. White Dog. He yelled. He clapped his hands again. White Dog. He called out several more times, then went back into the kitchen and stood beside the woman. She was slicing apples. Her fingers, long and white, knew how to hold a knife. That dog just gets deafer every day, he said. He sat down and turned the radio on and off and on and off while she arranged the apples on a plate. The Radio City Symphony was performing the last movement of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. Cymbals were crashing. Cannons boomed. She set the plate down in front of the boy. Eat, she said. He reached for a slice of apple just as the audience burst into applause.
- [44:07]
Roy
Bravo.
- [44:08]
Liz
They shouted. Bravo. Bravo. The boy turned the dial to see if he could find speaking of sports. But all he could find was the news in a Sammy K. Serenade. He turned off the radio and took another slice of apple from the plate. It's so hot in here, he said. Take off your hat then, said the woman, but the boy refused. The hat was a present from his father. It was big on him, but the boy wore it every day. She poured him a glass of cold barley water, and he drank it all in one gulp. The girl came into the kitchen and went to the macaw's cage by the stove. She leaned over and put her face close to the bars. Tell me something, she said. The bird fluffed his wings and danced from side to side on the perch. He said, that's not what I wanted to hear, said the girl. Take off your hat, said the bird. The girl sat down and the woman gave her a glass of cold barley water and a long silver spoon. The girl licked the spoon and stared at her reflection. Her head was upside down. She dipped the spoon into the sugar bowl. Is there anything wrong with my face? She asked. Why? Said the woman. People were staring. Come over here, said the woman. The girl stood up and walked over to her mother. Let me look at you. You took down the mirrors, the girl said. I had to. I had to put them away. Tell me how I look. The woman ran her hand across the girl's face. You look fine, she said. You have a fine nose. What else? Asked the girl. You have a fine set of teeth. Teeth don't count. Teeth are essential. The woman began to rub the girl's shoulders. She told the girl to lean back and close her eyes. And then she pressed her fingers deep into the girl's neck until she felt her begin to relax. If there was something wrong with my face, the girl asked, would you tell me? Turn around, said the woman. The girl turned around. Now look at me. The girl looked at her. You have the most beautiful face I have ever seen. You're just saying that. No, I mean it. The boy turned on the radio. The weatherman was giving the forecast for the next day. He was predicting rain and cooler temperatures. Sit down and drink your water, the boy said to his sister. Don't forget to take your umbrella. Tomorrow, said the weatherman. The girl sat down. She drank her barley water and began to tell the woman all about coniferous trees. Most of them were evergreens, but some were just shrubs. Not all of them had cones. Some of them, like the ewe, only had seed pods. That's good to know, said the woman. Then she stood up and told the girl it was time to practice piano for Tuesday's lesson. Do I have to? The woman thought for a moment. No, she said. Only if you want to tell me. I have to. I can't. The girl went out to the living room and sat down on the piano bench. The metronome's gone, she called out. Just count to yourself then, said the woman. 3, 5, 7. The girl put down her knife and paused. They were eating supper at the table. Outside it was dusk. The sky was purple and a breeze was blowing in off the bay. Hundreds of jays were twittering madly in the greer's magnolia tree. Next door a drop of rain fell on the ledge above the kitchen sink, and the woman stood up and closed the window. 11. 13, said the girl. She was practicing her prime numbers for Monday's test. Sixteen, said the boy. No, said the girl. Sixteen's got a square root. I forgot, said the boy. He picked up a drumstick and began to eat. You never knew, said the girl. 41, said the boy. 86. He wiped his mouth with a napkin. 12, he added. The girl looked at him. Then she turned to her mother. There's something wrong with this chicken, she said. It's too tough. She put down her fork. I can't swallow another bite. Don't then, said the woman. I'll eat it, said the boy. He plucked a wing from his sister's plate and put it into his mouth. He ate the whole thing. Then he spit out the bones and asked his mother where they were going the next day. I don't know, the woman said. The girl stood up and left the table. She sat down at the piano and began to play a piece by Debussy from memory, Golliwog's Cakewalk. The melody was slow and simple. She had played it at a recital the summer before. Her father had sat in the front row of the audience, and when she was finished he had clapped and clapped. She played the piece through all the way without missing a note. When she began to play it a second time, the boy got up and went to his room and began to pack. The first thing he put inside his suitcase was his baseball glove. He slipped it into the large pocket with the red satin lining. The pocket bulged. He threw in his clothes and tried to close the lid. But the suitcase was very full. He sat on top of it and the lid sank down slowly as the air hissed out. Suddenly he stood up again. The lid sprang open. There was something he had forgotten. He went to the closet in the hall and brought back his polka dotted umbrella. He held it out at arm's length and shook his head sadly. The umbrella was too long. There was no way it would fit inside the suitcase. The woman stood alone in the kitchen, washing her hands. The children had gone to bed and and the house was quiet. The pipes were still hot from the day and the water in the faucet was still warm. She could hear thunder in the distance. Thunder, and from somewhere far off in the night, the faint wail of a siren. She looked out the window above the sink. The sky was clear and she could see a full moon through the branches of the maple tree. The maple was a sapling with delicate leaves that turned bright red in the fall. Her husband had planted it for her four summers ago. She turned off the tap and looked around for the dish towel, but it was not there. She had already packed the towels. They were in the suitcase by the door. In the hall. She dried her hands on the front of her dress and went to the bird's cage. She lifted off the green cloth and undid the wire clasp on the door. Come on out, she said. The bird stepped cautiously onto her finger and looked at her. It's only me, she said. The bird blinked. His eyes were black and bulbous. They had no center. Get over here, he said. Get over here now. He sounded just like her husband. If she closed her eyes, she could easily imagine that her husband was right there in the room with her. The woman did not close her eyes. She knew exactly where her husband was. He was sleeping on a cot. A cot or maybe a bunk bed somewhere in a tent at Fort Sam Houston, where the weather was always fine. She pictured him lying there with one arm flung across his eyes, and then she kissed the top of the bird's head. I am right here, she said. I am right here, right now. She gave the bird a sunflower seed and he cracked the shell open with his bead. Get over here, he said again. She opened the window and set the bird out on the ledge. You're all right, the bird said. She stroked the underside of his chin and he closed his eyes. Silly bird, she whispered. She closed the window and locked it. Now the bird was outside on the other side of the glass. He tapped the panel three times with his claw and said something, but she did not know what it was. She could not hear him anymore. She rapped back. Go, she said. The bird flapped his wings and flew up into the maple tree. She grabbed the broom from behind the stove and went outside and shook the branches of the tree. A spray of water fell from the leaves. Go. She shouted. Get on out of here. The bird spread his wings and flew off into the night. She went back inside the kitchen and took out a bottle of plum wine from beneath the sink. Without the bird in the cage, the house felt empty. She sat down on the floor and put the bottle to her lips. She swallowed once and looked at the place on the wall where the gleaners had hung. The white rectangle was glowing in the moonlight. She stood up and traced around its edges with her finger and began to laugh, quietly at first, but soon her shoulders were heaving and she was doubled over and gasping for breath. She put down the bottle and waited for the laughter to stop, but it would not. It kept on coming until finally the tears were running down her cheeks. She picked up the bottle again and drank. The wine was dark and sweet. She had made it herself last fall. She took out her handkerchief and wiped her mouth. Her lips left a dark stain on the cloth. She put the cork back into the bottle and pushed it in as far as it would go. She sang to herself as she went down the stairs to the basement. She hid the bottle behind the old rusted furnace where no one would ever find it. In the middle of the night the boy crawled into her bed and asked her over and over again, what is that funny noise? What is that funny noise? The woman sewed down his black hair. Rain, she whispered. The boy understood. He fell asleep at once. The thunder had come and gone, and except for the sound of the rain, the house was now quiet. The woman lay awake worrying about the leaky roof. Her husband had meant to fix it, but he never had. She got up and placed a tin bucket on the floor to catch the water. She felt better after she did that. She climbed back into bed beside the boy and pulled the blanket up around his shoulders. He was chewing in his sleep, and she wondered if he was hungry. Then she remembered the candy in her purse. The caramels. She had forgotten about the caramels. What would Joe Lundy say? He would say that she was wearing a nice red dress. He would tell her not to worry about it. She knew that. She closed her eyes. She would give the caramels to the children in the morning. That was what she would do. She whispered a silent prayer to herself and drifted off into sleep. As the water dripped steadily into the bucket, the boy shrugged off the blanket and rolled up against the wall where it was cool. In a few hours, he and the girl and their mother would wake up and and go to the civil control station at the First Congregational Church on Channing Way. Then they would pin their identification numbers to their collars and grab their suitcases and climb up onto the bus and go to wherever it was they had to go.
- [56:30]
Meg Wolitzer
Jennifer Ikeda Performed in Evacuation Order no. 19 by Julie Otsuka I'm Meg Wolitzer. Atsuka's fiction is vivid and immediate. The small, specific details in this piece help take a terrible period in American history and bring it rushing to life. One detail in particular, the woman's silk gloves, sets the dignity of her life against the shocking evacuation order and what she feels she must now do for her family. The story charts the human cost of war at home, a different kind of battlefield. One minute you are a homeowner, a member of a community, a family. The next you are an outcast, your boundaries arbitrarily redrawn by a hostile government. Atsuka is a writer whose historical fiction doesn't only illuminate what once was, but also reminds us of the bleed and blur between past and present. These two stories, from very different eras, featuring very different women, make us realize how complex the idea of a boundary is in our own lives and in society. We might accept or reject a line drawn in the sand. To be out of bounds can feel like a heady risk, but also like a reordering of our place in the world. The stories have such different tones and such different stakes, but both of them focus on how a change in boundaries leads one clandestine and private, the other painfully public. But both of them undeniable, can call for an adaptive response. 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, Vivianne Woodward, and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Miles B. Smith. Our programs, presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles, are recorded by Phil Richards. Our mix engineer for this episode was Joe Plord. 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 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.