← Selected Shorts
Selected Shorts
Peas in a Pod
00:57:36
Host Meg Wolitzer presents three stories about perfect pairs, and what happens if and when they split up. A friendship unravels in “Mrs. Carrington and Mrs. Crane,” by Dorothy Parker, performed by Mia Dillon and Rita Wolf. Writer Toure feels that there ought to be a corresponding ritual to marriage and commitment celebrations, and has created “The Breakup Ceremony,” performed by Maulik Pancholy. And in “Twins,” by Philip Graham, siblings rediscover one another. It’s performed by Michael Tucker.
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- [00:08]
Meg Wolitzer
Peas in a pod. A meeting of the minds. Twinning. When you find that perfect match, it's exhilarating. I'm Meg Wolitzer, and on today's Selected Shorts, fiction from writers, including Dorothy Parker, about being cut from the same cloth and what happens when the seams rip. You're listening to selected shorts where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction one short story at a time. It's a big world, you'd think with 8 billion of us humans on it, each of us would get along fine with, oh, half a billion of them and really, truly connect with, conservatively say, 500,000. That's just math. I mean, the kind of math you'd expect from a novelist. Still, it seems like with all those people out there, meeting your kind of people shouldn't be that hard. But as we all know, finding friends, partners or colleagues you genuinely admire is no simple feat. It takes time and effort to find people with whom you can share inside jokes and secret hopes. And when we find them, well, we first have to recognize their value and later decide how hard we want to work in order to keep them in our lives. That's what this episode of Selected Shorts considers. People who find someone with whom they really connect. Some hold fast, some lose touch, and some try to find their way back to one another. One Dorothy Parker classic is about two old friends who never heard about the pot that called the kettle black. Another story presents a lesser known rite in modern relationships, the breakup ceremony. And a third story is about twins discovering one another as if for the first time. Let's begin with Dorothy Parker, the famed 20th century poet, journalist, screen and short story writer. Her wicked wit permeated everything she did, including collections such as Enough Rope. This piece, which features the kind of vapid socialites Parker often satirized in her work, is something of a dialogue. So we invited two great actors to read it together. One is Maya Dillon, a Tony nominee known for Broadway productions including Crimes of the Heart, and who has featured in movies including the recent adaptation of Are youe There, God? It's Me, Margaret. The other, Rita Wolf, is a versatile performer who has appeared in plays such as Edward Albee's A Delicate Balance, as well as a recent production of Carol Churchill's Escaped Alone. And now Dylan and Woolf perform Dorothy Parker's Mrs. Carrington and Mrs. Crane.
- [02:58]
Maya Dillon
Mrs. Carrington and Mrs. Crane, my dear.
- [03:04]
Rita Wolf
Mrs. Carrington said, and she flicked a bead or two of caviar from her little fringed napkin. I've got so I simply can't Stand another minute of them. Not one single minute.
- [03:16]
Maya Dillon
Oh, I know, Mrs. Crane said. She sighed and looked softly upon her friend. Oh, don't I know. That's the way I feel all the time.
- [03:28]
Rita Wolf
Honestly, Mrs. Carrington said. If I hadn't just simply dashed away from Angela's Bridge and literally torn over here this afternoon, I. Well, I don't know what I would have done.
- [03:40]
Maya Dillon
You don't have to tell me, Mrs. Crane said. I know so. Well, you don't need to tell me.
- [03:47]
Rita Wolf
The emptiness, Mrs. Carrington said. She needed to tell her. And the silliness and the eternal gossip, gossip, gossip. And all the talk about the clothes they have and the clothes they're going to get and what they do to keep thin while I'm fed up with it, that's all. Oh, no, dear, thanks. I don't dare take another sandwich. I'll have to roll all day tomorrow as it is.
- [04:15]
Maya Dillon
Rolling doesn't do a thing for me. What I do is put my feet over my head 35 times every morning. And then if I'm at home during the day, I don't have lunch.
- [04:26]
Rita Wolf
That would simply kill me. That would be literally death to me. If I go without lunch, I simply lose control of dinner. Potatoes and everything. Angela's got a new diet, you know. One of those things where it doesn't matter so much how much you eat. It's what you eat with what she's lost eight pounds.
- [04:47]
Maya Dillon
How does she look?
- [04:48]
Rita Wolf
Oh, all right, I suppose. Honestly. I've got to the state where they all look alike to me and talk alike. All those silly, empty women. Never a thought about anything except clothes and parties. Never a discussion of anything really worthwhile. It isn't so bad in the winter. You can get away from them a little bit. In New York you can get off by yourself and do something really worthwhile. Picture galleries and the philharmonic and, oh, exhibitions of paintings and concerts and things like that. But in the summer down here in the country, well, there's literally no getting away from them.
- [05:28]
Maya Dillon
That's all I know, Mrs. Crane said. You don't have to say it.
- [05:32]
Rita Wolf
Nothing but parties, parties, parties. Mrs. Carrington had to say yes. And drinking, drinking, drinking. No, dear. Please don't give me any more. After the way they all behaved at the Weldons party last night, I feel as if I never wanted to see anything to drink again.
- [05:49]
Maya Dillon
Oh, please. It's really nothing but fruit juice. Mrs. Crane refilled first her own glass, for she was a cosy hostess who shared rather than merely gave. And then her guests with a suave blending of gin, vermouth and the zest of lemon. Oh, you went to the Weldons last night. Was it any fun?
- [06:13]
Rita Wolf
Fun? Mrs. Carrington said the same old thing over again. Backgammon and gossip and diets and clothes. Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you. Betty had on that floral model. You know, the one with the coat with the little tails. Only she had it in blue. I sort of thought I'd order it in black. What do you think? Don't you think it would be useful in black?
- [06:38]
Maya Dillon
Oh, yes, lovely. Mrs. Crane said. Was Betty tight?
- [06:43]
Rita Wolf
Oh, of course. Blind.
- [06:45]
Maya Dillon
Oh, she's really getting tiresome. I don't see how Jack stands her. Well, he's always so drunk himself. I suppose he doesn't notice. Yeah, it's sickening, isn't it? Oh, my dear, just let me fill it up. It's really nothing but melted ice anyway.
- [07:03]
Rita Wolf
No, don't. Please don't. Mrs. Carrington said. Well, just that much, then. Oh, not all that, really. Well. Well, I literally need it after that bridge party and last night. What did you do last night?
- [07:22]
Maya Dillon
We went to the Lockwoods, Mrs. Crane said. Oh, I don't have to tell you what that was like. I was so bored, I thought I couldn't last through the evening. But, my dear, it really was awfully amusing. Cynthia had on that white Cygnet model with two little capes. And Maggie Chase had on the same model in green. And then Dorette came in later on with it in bright yellow.
- [07:50]
Rita Wolf
Oh, Lord, Mrs. Carrington said. Now, isn't that typical? Isn't that just the way their minds work? Never an original idea. Even have to have clothes like one another's. I really don't see how I'm gonna stand it until the end of summer. I said as much to Freddy coming home last night. Freddy, I said. As we were coming home. Freddy, I said. I literally cannot stand that silly, empty, drunken crowd any longer.
- [08:19]
Maya Dillon
I've said the same thing to Jim many a time. Many and many a time. What are you and Freddy doing tonight?
- [08:27]
Rita Wolf
We're going to the grays, Mrs. Carrington said. And it will be the same old thing. The same old silly talk. Never a new idea. Never a moment's thought of worthwhile things.
- [08:39]
Maya Dillon
Why, we're going too, Mrs. Crane said. Well, that will save my life that you're going. We might get a moment to talk.
- [08:49]
Rita Wolf
If we don't, I'll never be able to get through it. Honestly, dear, you don't know how much you do for me. No, no, really, no more, please. Well, if you're going to have another one, too. No, but that's plenty. Honestly. No, but what I was going to say is a person of any intelligence at all simply has to have a certain amount of stimulation. You can't exist entirely on emptiness and silliness and clothes day in day. Well, those people can, I suppose. But people like us, well, we die, that's all. We literally die.
- [09:33]
Maya Dillon
I know, Mrs. Crane said. Oh, I know so well, I wish.
- [09:39]
Rita Wolf
It were time to go back to New York. Mrs. Carrington said. I want to make something out of this winter, something worthwhile. I think I'll take some sort of course or other at Columbia. Hester Coles did last year. Well, of course, she's a silly little fool like the rest of them, but I thought I might do it, too.
- [10:01]
Maya Dillon
I want to do something this winter, if I can only find the time. What I'd really like to do is take up tap dancing. Mary Morton did last year and she lost 12 pounds.
- [10:15]
Rita Wolf
Is that how she did it? Mrs. Carrington said. Did she really? Didn't she have to diet besides?
- [10:23]
Malik Pancholi
No.
- [10:24]
Maya Dillon
Mrs. Crane said she just gave up sweets and starches, and she couldn't have any meat except chicken once or twice a week. £12 she lost.
- [10:35]
Rita Wolf
That's wonderful. Hmm. That's just about what I'd like to lose.
- [10:41]
Maya Dillon
And it stays lost when you do it that way.
- [10:45]
Rita Wolf
Well, I'm going to take up tap dancing the minute I go back. Mrs. Carrington said, My dear, let's do it together.
- [10:54]
Michael Tucker
You will?
- [10:55]
Rita Wolf
Really? You literally will. Oh, I think that will be wonderful. You see, what you do for me? I never talk to you without being stimulated. Well, now I can really get through the rest of summer. As long as I have something to look for. Forward to. As long as I know I'm going to get something real out of the winter. Lord, the way time drags down here, doesn't it? Oh, good heavens. Is it honestly as late as that? Oh, I've got to literally tear home and get dressed. I'm whole hours late. What are you going to wear?
- [11:32]
Maya Dillon
Oh, I haven't given it a thought, Mrs. Crane said. I did sort of think of the Black Knight, but I don't know. Probably the dusty pink Valerie model. You know, Betty has it in beige.
- [11:46]
Rita Wolf
Oh, yes, it's adorable. Mrs. Carrington said. I suppose Betty will be there tonight. She's probably tight already. She rose and moved toward the door. For a moment, it seemed as if the fruit juice and melted ice that she had consumed were were about to have their way with her. She stumbled slightly. Oops, she said, and she had her balance again. Gently, she smiled upon her hostess. Well, you don't know what this has done for me, she said. I feel all lifted up. If I hadn't talked to you this afternoon, I would not have faced all the silliness again tonight. I just. I simply couldn't.
- [12:32]
Maya Dillon
Mrs. Crane swayed delicately toward her friend. I know, she said. It's such a comfort to know that there's somebody even here in the country, who isn't like all the others. You don't have to tell me affectionately.
- [12:51]
Rita Wolf
They kissed, and for a time they parted.
- [13:04]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Mrs. Carrington and Mrs. Crane, read by Maya Dillon and Rita Wolf. I'm Meg Wolitzer. As I mentioned earlier, this story is an example of that old saw. There is a lid for every pot up to and including the pot, which is calling the kettle black. There's probably some third cliche involving kitchenware applicable here, but I'll quit while I'm ahead, or maybe only slightly behind. It's amazing to me how fresh and contemporary the story is. I guess depictions of shallowness transcend time. And yet this story isn't just an ironic indictment of gossip. While Dorothy Parker lightly mocks these women for their hypocrisy, she still has an ear for dialogue, and we want to be a fly on the wall as they talk and talk. I'm sure if I were to tape record one of my own conversations with a good friend, there would be something in it that Dorothy Parker might easily have turned into something ironic and droll. Though I for one will not be taking up tap dancing anytime soon, however, learning a new language on Duolingo. That sounds fun, and I'm going to ask a friend to join me. Maybe we can discuss other people, though never unkindly, in Italian. Next, a story from writer and cultural critic Toure. While his more recent titles have been journalistic, including I would die for you, why Prince Became an Icon, he also wrote two collections of fiction, including Soul City and the Portable Promised Land. In his fiction, Toure often evokes a kind of almost utopian space that is nevertheless subject to human folly, and this piece imagines how, in this mythic space, a close bond might come to its natural conclusion in public. It is performed by actor Malik Pancholi. He's known for series including Weeds, as well as animated shows such as Sanjay and Craig. Pancholi is now a treasured regular on our show, but this story is from the vaults and one of the first stories he ever read. And now here's Malik Panchioli with the Breakup Ceremony by Toure.
- [15:18]
Michael Tucker
The breakup ceremony dedicated to my ex girlfriend. If you don't have anything bad to say about a relationship, you shouldn't say anything at all. George Costanza, Coltrane Jones and Amber Sunshower are breaking up today. They've been dating for most of three years, living together for two, talking about marriage for one, and for the last six months they have been breaking up slowly. Chinese water torture slowly. A breakup of this sort, after so much time and so much dreaming and so much pain, is a shift of the tectonic plates of two lives. That's why today, this warm late June Saturday afternoon at a borrowed home in Seoul City's ritzy Honeypot Hill, the end of this long, momentous relationship is being marked by a breakup ceremony. This is a relatively new custom in Seoul City, but it's been gaining in popularity over the past few years among couples that have been together long enough to have gained that plateau where people are watching and wondering if or when they'll marry. When a breakup seems inevitable, the couple will pick a date, invite their friends, and hold a public ceremony commemorating their end. The ceremony usually starts just as the sun is beginning to make way for evening. The couple emerges together, though not touching and usually not looking at each other. They are always well dressed so as to give off the appearance of doing well in that trying moment, though on many occasions it's clear that one of the parties had been well dressed and then, consumed by the grief of finality or the grip of chemicals, or both, proceeded to paw away at their suit or dress all the way to disheveledness. They assemble in front of their friends, who are divided by affiliation, his friends on one side of the aisle, hers on the other. This is an important segment of the young ritual, giving members of the community a chance to choose a side, to silently declare their loyalty. During the ceremony, two preselected members of the audience come forward to say a few words about the couple. I always knew you guys would never make it, or I told her to leave you nine months ago. Then each member of the couple gets one one sentence to vow, that is to publicly state their main gripe with the other I vow that you are just too plain selfish, or I vow that you never really listened to me. But both must say their vow at the same time so that no one can say they didn't get the last word. Then a photograph of the two is burned and dropped to the ground so the ashes can mix with the dirt and be lost forever. Attendees are invited to stomp on the spot where the ashes fall, symbolically pushing them down further. Then the group breaks into two parties. The men rumble off to a stripper clogged re bachelorization party. Women retreat into a bridal shower without a bride, giving the newly single woman gifts she'll need in her now manless life. Maybe a vcr, a health club membership, a set of tools. The women's event sometimes includes a black leather masked male who is whipped on his bare buttocks with a thick leather strap. This whipping often lasts hours, often draws blood, and women say is quite therapeutic. Some from outside of Soul City are amazed at these ceremonies, amazed that a volatile separating couple can occupy the same space for the 10 minutes it takes to conduct a breakup ceremony. But many in Seoul city choose to have a breakup ceremony because of its cotillion aspect. The ceremony spreads the word that it's over, freeing the two from many awkward questions and sending a tacit message to anyone who's maybe been waiting for the relationship to dissolve. Body language speaks volumes, especially when standing beside that other person, and goes a long way towards improving one's stock within the community and shifting the perception of fault. Even though most who have attended more than one breakup ceremony know that the during ceremony stoicness of most breaking couples owes much to large quantities of Mr. Valium and Dr. Jack Daniels, Coltrane and Amber's ceremony proceeded almost exactly according to plan. Almost. Their friends knew it would be difficult for the tumultuous pair to stand beside each other for those last 10 minutes, and so they added a few touches to the ceremony in hopes of eliciting their best behavior. Reverend Hallelujah Jones was tapped to officiate, though really there was nothing for him to do besides stand there. Barely 5 foot 2 and as fragile as a man made of aluminum foil, with a little curly gray hair clinging to the sides of his head and so much curly gray hair bursting from his ears, he appeared to have frayed the ends of a Kleenex and put it behind his ears. He had baptized nearly everyone in Soul City under 35, including both Coltrane and Amber, and thus commanded a certain respect. But he was not enough to keep a Jerry Springer show from breaking out on this day day. Amber's friends also added her mother, Peaches, to the program, giving her the job of walking up the aisle toward the couple at the end of the ceremony, taking her daughter's hand and escorting her down the aisle and away from Coltrane. Symbolic of taking her back. Amber has never been married and thus has never been given away meaning the gesture did not really make any symbolic sense at all. The hollow symbol was merely window dressing for the concrete attempt to extract 10 minutes of peace from the fiery pair. At a few minutes to six, the couple emerged from the back door of the borrowed country home, each on one side of Reverend Jones. Coltrane was impressively cool in a navy tailored suit with a mint green silk tie, matching shirt, and pricey leather shoes. Amber looked luminous in a red Versace dress with a plunging neckline, her shoes frighteningly high brown Jimmy Choo open toe slingbacks, her ears twinkling with diamond studs, her hair swept up and laced with miniature pink roses. At breakup ceremonies, couples dress to arouse the jealousy of the other party, as if to say, look at all this you're gonna miss, and to possibly arouse someone in the crowd. Because a breakup ceremony is always the start of an unspoken race, people in Soul City believe whoever starts their next solid relationship first is proven to be the more desirable and less troublesome member of the couple, ergo the winner. At the appointed time, Coltrane, Amber, and Reverend Jones came out of the house, moved into view at the reverend's slow pace, and stopped at the top of the stairs. We are gathered here today, the Reverend said, to witness the conclusion of a wonderful relationship between two wonderful people. Amber leaned away from the reverend, afraid his lies might earn him a thunderbolt. He offered a few more fabrications intended only to put the best possible bow on the bad situation, but his fictions fooled no one. At every breakup ceremony during the cocktail reception that precedes the main event, people feel compelled to swap the most gory bits of gossip about the relationship and its failure, knowing this is the last chance to spread such information. It's a sort of going out of business sale on gossip. After his final falsehood, the Reverend invited Amber's best friend, Camilla Claudes Pony, to come and say a few words. She was supposed to be followed by Coltrane's friend Huggy Bear Jackson, and then Amber's mom Peaches. But Camilla already knew that she would be the day's final speaker. It has been said far too often that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but in so many cases that fury is a wet matchstick compared to the roaring blaze that is the fury of a woman scorned's best friend. Camilla took her place at the foot of the steps and faced the couple. If ever there were two people who should not be together, it was these two, she began with an acid voice. You're weak, spineless, pathetic. And you know what? Amber lied. It is not all about the motion of the ocean. The breakup ceremony is the place to expunge one's feelings about the breakup, and as the sole speaker from Amber's community, Camilla had every right to speak publicly of her anger. However, her toast, barely one sentence old, was already evidencing ire well beyond the appropriate. And you know what she said? Sex with you is like math class, very boring and filled with mistakes. She was far beyond control now, eyes soaked, teeth clenched, a mama bear fierce in the face of an attacker. The crowd was paralyzed, torn between stopping her and enjoying the show. And did you think. Camilla yelled, looking right at Coltrane, her voice breaking from tears. I would let you just walk away scot free, you little rat. Amber, you would not listen to me during this so called relationship. But now you will hear me when I show you what a lying little boy he is. Camilla whipped around and motioned for three women from the Amber side of the aisle to step forward. The three moved from the crowd and into the open, self righteously stuck their hands on their hips and made circles with their necks as if to say what you gotta say now. Coltrane's jaw dropped and his eyes sunk back into his head and his shock made it clear even to Amber that these were three women of whom Coltrane had carnal knowledge. The reverend called out, Ms. Claude's pony, please, this is a day for closure. To which she shot back, oh, we get enclosure right now. And with that Coltrane dashed off into the house, trailed by Amber, her eyes burning with homicide, followed by Camilla screaming get that rat. Followed by three neck swiveling women, followed by most of Amber's friends. Coltrane's people stood their ground, seeing no way to save him from the beating of his life. As Coltrane raced through the house zigging and zagging, breaking stuff and denting shins and tripping and falling and bolting up to sprint off. A single file line of fire eyed females chased him up the front stairs and down the back ones nipping at his heels like a murderous high speed conga line. Soon Coltrane found himself running through Vietnam ish hallways that were a jungle of bright broken glass and grabbing hands and flying chairs and kicking legs and spitting fires, unable to find a path out of the house, every moment less and less able to avoid the swarming bloodthirsty mob. Later at the hospital, Coltrane said he had no idea Camilla had planned to ruin the day, though, Amber felt Camilla had done the perfect sisterly thing. He winced as a nurse tended to the cuts on his face and chest from being kicked by high heels and secured the cast on his twice broken left arm. What happened to you? The nurse said. Oh, I had a breakup ceremony. What are you stupid? What did you think would happen? Well, I don't know. I guess I thought my breakup ceremony would be different. I've been to maybe five breakup ceremonies, she said, and I don't even know how the ceremony's supposed to end because every single time someone goes postal. Yeah, coltrane said. I'm not really sure if these breakup ceremonies are such a good idea. My dad always said it's cheaper to keep her, and I never really knew what he was talking about because he was always broke. But now I get it.
- [29:08]
Meg Wolitzer
That was the breakup ceremony read by Malik Pancholi. The central conceit is both very funny and strangely idealistic. Unfortunately, I have to imagine all breakup ceremonies would go the way of Toure's tale. I've been to a lot of weddings and they all have their own aesthetic, but on the whole, a wedding is a wedding unless someone stands up and shouts out an objection during the part where they ask if anyone knows a reason why this couple should not be married. Weddings have an appealing predictability. We tend to be moved by people starting out together in life. So while I have seen many a wedding, never have I seen a breakup memorialized for all time. I wonder if the couple in a breakup ceremony would have a breakup gift registry, and if so, what would it include? Maybe a place setting for one, or a single slice toaster, or a year's subscription to a high end online dating service. The possibilities are endless. When we return the twin you never knew. 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. This week we're considering fiction about those people who are your best matches. You, dear listener. You're absolutely part of our chosen family. And I'd bet you know someone else who just might be one of our extended crowd of story lovers. If you do, please send your favorite episode along to them. Word of mouth is incredibly helpful to us, and we'd love to bring them into the fold. The last piece we'll hear is by Philip Graham. His story collections include the Art of the knock and interior design, and he has a novel, how to Read An Unwritten Language. He's also appeared in the New Yorker and won NEA grants, too. This story about meeting with someone everyone just presumes will be your perfect match is read by Michael Tucker. He's a longtime theater, film, and TV actor, as well as a playwright. He's best known for the series L A Law, which is enjoying a second life thanks to the streaming platform Hulu. Now Michael Tucker delivers us twins. By Philip Graham.
- [31:57]
Malik Pancholi
Soon after I was born, my parents bitterly divorced, and they divided up their possessions with a relentless energy, hoping to impel themselves from each other with such force that they would never be drawn back again. I have always imagined that they made two great equal piles in each room as they sorted in a rage to everything in the house, from from curtains and large sets of furniture to the knick knacks in the kitchen drawers. When they were done, only their two small sons were left, and for reasons that even now they can't adequately express, they divided us up as well. Father took Paul, my twin brother. Mother kept me we were just a year old at the time, a single child conveniently doubled for that terrible wrenching split. As I grew up, all that I knew of Paul was his name that I could faintly remember once chasing, as if after myself, a toddler who wore the same clothes as I. If this wasn't a memory, I had surely made it up from longing for I was always wanting to bump into the empty space of my absent brother with my small, chubby body. When I sat on the couch watching TV and eating an entire bag of potato chips, I pretended Paul was sitting beside me, asking me for some chips or to change the channel. I refused, of course, and we would then argue in the nagging manner of older brothers whom I had observed. Or I went outside and threw a tennis ball against the garage wall and imagined that we were playing catch. I became my brother and aimed the ball at the edges of the shingles, making it bounce back at an odd angle, and as myself, I caught it skillfully. Yet when my mother called me in to dinner, there were only two place settings, not three. I sat lonely at the table and watched Mother shift the pots and pans on the stove, and when she turned around to fill the place with food, she squinted, for she never wore her glasses when we ate, claiming that the steam from the hot food clouded them up. But I often wondered if, with her glasses off, Mother saw double and I became both twins eating before her. Perhaps that was why she fed me so much and so often to sustain that vision. I had learned not to ask Mother about my father, for her silence on this matter was worse than any shouted, angry refusal, and I was forced to invent him as well. I saw him as tall, with a cruel, pointed hairline, and he wore the kind of suit with painfully sharp creases that mannequins modeled in shop windows. If I tripped on the basement steps or bumped my head against the freezer in the refrigerator, I would hear his disembodied laughter, his pleasure at my misfortune. And at night, with the grave, frightening forms of furniture around me, I tried to understand why my parents had left each other, though now I believe they simply began treating each other as poorly as they treated themselves. During these lonely nights I conjured up outlandish quarrels full of desperate acts and hurled objects between the mother I knew and the father I imagined left with my own insufficient memory and my mother's pervasive silence. Occasionally during the day I examined the furniture in each room and tried to decipher the house's secret scars, what had been taken away to Father's distant home and then replaced. While gnawing on some snack, I circled the dining room table and its surrounding chairs. I fingered the plates and the silverware that framed them. I spread my hand across the recliner and accompanied ottoman as if objects had a language that could be translated. But instead I found behind the shadowy corner of the couch a small spider that hovered over an intricate, nearly transparent web. Using a half chewed pencil, I discovered the addictive pleasure of destroying that web, and while I rubbed to nothing the thin, vaguely sticky thread that clung to my fingers, I watched the spider slowly, carefully rebuild. I remember when I was 8 years old, the phone calls late at night, the hushed visits of Mother's relatives, and her vacillating, tearful refusals during conversations behind closed doors. I soon learned that it had been decided, without consulting me, that at the beginning of the summer I would visit my father and Paul for two weeks, and at the summer's end Paul would visit us, though there were complications and delays. Letters were exchanged, and finally, during dinner one night Mother spoke directly to Father over the phone to make the final agreements. She began to talk with a twisted frown that then, defying gravity, slowly lifted into what might be called a smile. I realized that she was speaking to Paul. I didn't like the warm tones of her voice or how her hands seemed to caress the receiver, so I began to choke on a piece of my pot pie, and she had to cut short the conversation, her glasses on as soon as she slapped the back of her single son. Mother said goodbye to me at the airport with a studied casualness, and I clung to her longer than was necessary. Then I walked down the narrow hallway to the plane. I had never flown before, yet I was barely amazed at the swift climb of the plane that dwarfed the houses and towns below, or at the otherworldly landscapes of the clouds as we flew above them. All my attention was on my approaching destination, and I felt the plane was speeding forward by the pull of the mysterious other half of my family. When the plane landed, I walked down the ramp with the rest of the passengers, not quite sure where I was supposed to meet my father and brother. I entered the long, domed airport building, and there seemed to be people everywhere, and then I felt a touch on my shoulder, and I turned to see myself in different clothes. Mark, I'm Paul, my brother said. He was just as overweight as I, the shirt above his belt bulging with baby rolls of flesh. Though I'd always known I had a twin, I had never fully imagined someone who looked exactly like me. He stood there, stiff and quiet, and somehow I knew he was thinking the same thing. I wanted to extend a hand, but I thought that his hand, reaching to receive it, would be the same, and every detail stopped me. It would be like touching the cold surface of a mirror, and I was afraid. Dad's waiting, paul finally said with my voice. We walked together through the crowds and tried not to look at each other, embarrassed by the frightening attraction of our complete resemblance. A man in a shapeless gray jacket approached us cautiously, his rounded face somehow familiar. Dad, I ventured, and I stood there. Could this ordinarily looking man be the horrible creature who had left my mother? Son, he replied, but he looked back and forth nervously at Paul and me. I thought he might have forgotten what Paul had worn that morning and wasn't sure which of us was his new son. Thanks for inviting me, I said, and he smiled and strode forward. He crouched down, and I let him embrace me. Paul stared at us, and I stared back at him, my chin on my father's shoulder. And then Paul began to cough violently, and Father released me to pat my brother's back. Yes, I then realized this was a mirror that knew my own tricks. We walked together to the baggage wheel and waited stiffly for my two small suitcases to appear. I looked at my father. He could have been anyone at the airport, though I didn't quite trust his harmless exterior. Then I noticed with fear that his hands were twitching in his pockets, but how could I have understood then the subtle movements of guilt and remorse? When the suitcases arrived, we walked to the car and Father talked all about the plans he had for the coming weeks. I nodded my head, pretending interest, but I kept glancing at Paul. He was more than a mirror, I decided, unsettled, for mirrors have no voices, no independent movements. Mirrors, you can leave and your image disappears. But Paul walked along beside me, rubbing the edge of his nose with a fist, my own habitual gesture. Father could sense my distraction, and when he put my bags away in the car trunk, he almost closed the lid on his fingers. Damn. He shouted, and smacked the trunk with his other hand. Here my real father connected with my imagined one. He was the sort of man who beat objects if they didn't do what he wanted, and he might mistake me for a broken chair or a stuck window. As we drove along and I tried to answer Father's questions about my school and about my grades, subject about which I cared absolutely nothing, I thought that his ordinary hands around the steering wheel might just be waiting to strike me, or perhaps he would suddenly play chicken with an oncoming truck, not turning away until both of us begged him to stop. In our identical voices. I fashioned my seatbelt and looked out at the Midwestern landscape. I had never seen anything so flat, and the enormous sky seemed to press down upon us. Soon we drove into a town and stopped before a large, white shingled house. We're home, father said when we entered. I stared avidly, for I knew that half of everything inside had been transplanted from my own house, and I hoped to finally see the invisible connections between what had been removed and what had remained. Yet Father's own replacements were as cleanly matched as Mother's, and no discordant styles could serve as fault lines exposing the initial upheaval. Father saw my carefully directed curiosity, and his hands twisted anxiously again in his pockets. He finally led us to Paul's room, where the walls were lined with shelves of expensive toy soldiers, and there was a second bed, a fold up kind in a corner. You'll be staying here, Mark, father said. Best way for two boys to get to know each other is to share a room. Paul and I looked at each other warily, uncertain that we wanted to be left alone. Well, father continued, confused by our silence, it's a bit late. I'll go fix us some dinner. You two play or something. Father left and I sat on the edge of my temporary bed, fiddling with the handle of one of my suitcases Would you like to look at my soldiers? Paul asked. Yeah, I answered, and as he led me through the room, I discovered that he had toy figures for every imaginable conflict. Some I'd barely heard of the French and Indian wars, the Boxer Rebellion, even something called the Russo Japanese War. I stared at his soldiers greedily. Many had movable arms and heads, even detachable weapons, while others were metal, their details intricately painted. My own were generic plastic things, and I had only two kinds, the good guys and the bad guys. Paul talked me into playing with his knights for the War of the Roses, but I agreed only reluctantly, because I didn't know who had won, and I was afraid he was giving me the knights for the losing side. And so we played, but soon with little enjoyment, for we discovered that we were evenly matched. My flank attack of cavalry from behind the night table was warned off by his archers, and his frontal offensive across the rug was checked by a pincer movement of my best troops. We had even anticipated each other's anticipations. We plotted so much alike, and all our machinations proved as futile as trying to hide a secret from oneself. Move, Val. Attack, Roland. Paul whispered to his soldiers, foiling my sneak attack. And as I hadn't been formally introduced to my knights, I silently let a retreat that was actually a trap, but Paul didn't allow his troops to follow. It was with relief that we heard Father call us to dinner. Have a good time, you two fellas? He asked, serving us. Yeah, I replied without much energy. Paul remained silent, his mouth full, and when I looked at him, I could see myself eating. While I chewed my way through combined mouthfuls of pork, potatoes, and succotash. I watched Paul's own bloated cheeks as I licked the last traces of sauce off each forkful. I looked to see Paul's lips pucker around the tines. He caught my gaze and, as if a mirror could have opinions and make a face at what it saw, scowled at me, his lips moist with solid dressing. I was suddenly ashamed of my appetite and my small, overweight body. I wanted to lose pound after pound, collapse into another self, and then leave the strong pull of Paul's image behind. I began to eat slowly, and from each portion I pushed aside a bit that I wouldn't let myself touch. But to my despair, I saw that Paul also ate sparingly, and I understood his intentions were the same as my own. We continued to pick at our food until Father said, you're both not very hungry, are you? Not really, paul managed to answer and I nodded. Well then, how about dessert? Father asked nervously as he took our plates to the sink. He walked to the refrigerator and returned with desserts. Yummy creams, he announced. Paul's favorite. I hope you like it, Mark. The huge delicious eclair like thing was my favorite too, but as I looked at the spacious mirror of my brother, I knew I couldn't eat it. Instead, I tried to think of every disgusting, unsanitary process that might have gone into its making the dirty hands that probably rolled the pastry, the caked fingernails that must have slipped into the dough, leaving dark smudges that would later be covered by the chocolate frosting. But I was hungry and the yummy cream was warming on my plate. What if it was streaked with secret dirt? I thought. Yet as I lifted it to my lips, I made myself see huge crusted, fly ridden vats of chocolate that hadn't been cleaned for days. And that was when I let my dessert slip to the kitchen floor. You dropped it, paul said. It fell, I replied. I looked down at the pastry on the floor. It was still salvageable, so when I shifted my chair to reach down and pick it up, I let one of the legs land right on it, smearing the dessert across the clean linoleum tiles. Father grabbed some paper towels and we cleaned up the mess together. I'm sorry, I said, still not sure of him and afraid he might suddenly hit me. It's all right, it's all right, he kept repeating. When we returned to the table, I saw half of a yummy cream lying on my plate, the other half on Paul's. You can share mine, paul said, smiling. It's okay, I'm not hungry. I pushed away from the table. Funny. I'm not either, paul said, and he rose too. Father watched us, perplexed. After washing the dishes, we all walked to the living room and watched the television silently, as though we'd known each other for years and we hadn't a thing to say. When the closing credits rose on the screen for yet another situation comedy, Father said with an exaggerated enthusiasm, hey, tomorrow's going to be a big day. You boys should be getting to bed. Okay, Paul said, and he kissed Father on the cheek. I realized I should do the same. My father's hands rose to embrace me when I kissed him, but I pulled away slightly from the strange sensation of beard stubble against my lips and his arms, then returned to the sides of his chair. I looked away and said good night. While Paul made toothbrush noises in the bathroom, I stood in my pajamas before his small dresser mirror, comb in hand. I made threatening gestures at my image, pretending it was my brother, but it simply made threatening gestures back at me. Then I slowly, carefully parted my hair on the other side so I would look different from Paul. But when he returned from the bathroom, I saw that he had moved his part. Paul stared at me glumly. There was no escape. We were still identical, resigned, but also secretly impressed. We got into bed without a word, and Paul turned to the light. We lay in the dark, listening to each other's breathing for a long time. Finally Paul asked, what's she like? I didn't know how to answer. I could have said of Mother, she cooks, she washes things. But that was all wrong. I could have mentioned her job, but I'd never really listened when she discussed it. I was too young to be able to detail her nervous laughter or the cautious gestures of her hands through her hair, and so, frustrated, I simply said, she's great. Paul remained quiet, and I was sure he was measuring his imagined mother against my inadequate description. Had he invented someone as forbidding as the father that I'd visualized? What's dad really like? I asked, hoping to interrupt Paul's thoughts. Silence. He was having the same difficulties I'd had. And then he replied, you saw? He's great, Just great. Surprising myself, I said with terrible calmness, that's not what I heard. Oh, who says so? Mom, I lied. And then, frightened, I found myself voicing my most secret suspicions about Father. He used to put acid in her nail polish. Yeah, Paul responded after some hesitation, his words clipped with contained anger. While she put Drano in his shaving cup, I couldn't see my quiet, distracted mother plotting so destructively. Furiously, I replied, he put broken glass in her purse. I thought that soon we might be grappling blindly in the middle of the room. She threw a radio right at his head. Paul returned. My mother, however, was devoted to easy listening stations, and I could only imagine a sentimental melody hurtling towards Father's ear. He cut all her dresses in half with scissors. She set fire to Dad's newspaper while he was reading it. Paul almost spit back, but I was suddenly silent, for I knew Mother was afraid of any sort of flame when she cooked. She even had me light the gas burners, dangling a potholder before my face for protection. Paul was lying just as I was. And then I understood. In our separate isolations, we had shared the same private fears. I said half heartedly. He slammed the silverware drawer right on her fingers, and I waited for a Long time for Paul's reply, not sure if my twin had heard the doubt in my voice and was experiencing his own. Finally, he offered without passion. She glued his briefcase shut. At that moment, our vicious invented parents began to dissolve in the the darkness. He put flies in her mashed potatoes, I said cautiously. She put a frog on his pillow, paul replied, a silly accusation. He put her address book in the toaster, I said, and then added, poof. We both giggled, relieved. We continued to confess our childish images of what could make a marriage go wrong. He put her parakeet in the dryer, I said loudly, imagining a squawking, circling thing. She put her toilet water in his tang. Paul whooped. In my innocence, I offered with a shout. He peeked at her while she was undressing. She hid his underpants. Paul howled, thumping his bed. He barfed on her shoes. I hooted, gagging for dramatic emphasis, and we shared great snorts of laughter. We heard heavy footsteps. Hey, who's making all that noise in there? Father shouted, though with an edge of satisfaction in his voice. We lay as quietly as we could, suppressing our giggles as he growled with obvious pleasure. Some boys may not know that it's way past time for fooling around. We were silent, and somewhere down the block a door shut and a car started up. And then we heard Father's confident footsteps return down the hallway. He didn't know he was now outnumbered. We were exhilarated by our conspiracy of silence during Father's chastisement, but we remained quiet, and I thought of how the next day we could do or say everything in unison around Father, pretending to be as surprised by this as he was. I shifted under the COVID and Paul did too, as our stomachs began to slowly rumble and go gurgle. Already we were anxious for tomorrow's breakfast. Our movements echoed each other's when we turned our pillows over, when we rubbed itchy ankles against the mattresses. As I listened, I imagined that we were interchangeable. When it was time for me to leave, Paul could return, having been coached in whatever small quirks of mine weren't identical to his own, and I could stay. And at the end of the summer I would visit, pretending to be Paul, pretending I was seeing Mother for the first time. Somewhere outside, an unfamiliar dull metal noise repeated itself, and I had the unaccustomed pleasure of knowing that my twin was sharing the same frightening dark Paul yawned, I yawned, and we slowly adjusted our breathing to each other. Inhale, silence, exhale silence as we drifted together in sleep.
- [55:43]
Meg Wolitzer
That was twins by Philip Graham performed by Michael Tucker I love that the twins in that story come around to one another in the end. It would be such a disappointment, given the small amount I know about twins, if they didn't get along and didn't have one another's backs. It's true there are a lot of grand ideals about partnership, be they romantic, platonic or familial. And while these all encompassing connections can be fun to imagine, maybe it's best to take the pressure off to embrace what we've got when we've got it. And as the Torre story reminds us, sometimes we need to let a wonderful thing go. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Miles B. Smith. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Deardorf Petersen Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.