← Selected Shorts
Selected Shorts
Pushed from the Nest
00:59:23
On this week’s SELECTED SHORTS, Meg Wolitzer presents three stories that offer unpredictable life lessons, from characters who are adolescent, and those who love them—a little eccentrically. In “The Facts of Life,” by Anthony Marra, a preteen learns about the birds and the bees from an icon of ’90s masculinity. The reader is Santino Fontana. In “Leave Me in St. Louis,” by Tania James, sisters tap their way into a new life. The reader is Rita Wolf. And in Elizabeth McKenzie’s “Hope Ranch,” a granddaughter discovers that her grandmother is a road warrior. The reader is Mia Dillon.
Loading summary
Transcript14 lines
- [00:00]
Shopify Advertiser
Nobody does selling better than Shopify, home of the number one checkout on the planet. The Shop Pay feature even boosts conversions up to 50%. So if you're into growing your business, your commerce platform better be ready to sell wherever your customers are scrolling or strolling. Upgrade your business and get the same checkout top brands like Allbirds use. Sign up for your $1 per month trial period at shopify.com podcastfree all lowercase go to shopify.com podcastfree to upgrade your selling Today.
- [00:32]
DSW Advertiser
Holiday magic is in the air, and DSW's got all the shoes to make your season extra merry. Believe you've got parties to attend and lists to check twice, so DSW is taking care of the details like gifts to make their eyes all aglow styles that bring joy to your world. Brands everyone wants, like Ugg, Nike, Birkenstock and more, and deals to make your budget bright. Find the perfect shoes for you and yours at a DSW store near you or dsw.com.
- [01:10]
Meg Wolitzer
Driving, swimming, laundry Some lessons you learn as a kid can be easily mastered, but what about everything else? Love, responsibility, the birds and the bees. Life lessons learned the hard way on today's Selected Shorts I'm Meg Wolitzer. 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. Adolescence is a constant state of learning, and not just basic stuff like how to ride a bike. When we're young, we're trying to figure out how the world works and where we fit into it. But big life lessons aren't earned like certificates that collect in a neat little pile. They come in different shapes at different times and are delivered to us by very different messengers. And on this Selected Shorts, we're going to hear stories about unpredictable life lessons, ones that just might be foisted upon us by the people who love us most. In one story, a preteen learns about the birds and the bees from an icon of 90s masculinity. In another, an awkward girl taps her way into a new life, and in a third, a granddaughter fits into her life just fine until her grandmother decides otherwise. Our first piece is by writer Anthony Mara. He's written novels including the Tsar of Love and Techno, A Constellation of Vital Phenomena, and his latest, Mercury Pictures Presents. The producers of Selected Shorts are fans of Mara's lively characters, so we commissioned a piece from Mara directly. The story the Facts of Life is an autobiographical piece about the big talk and Fabio. It's also funny, charming, and, rest assured Parents. Rated pg, it is performed by actor and musical theater mainstay Santino Fontana. Fontana won a Tony for his work in Tootsie and is known for roles in the series Crazy Ex Girlfriend and the animated film Frozen. And now Fontana shares some of Anthony Mara's hard won life lessons in the Facts of Life.
- [03:26]
Santino Fontana
I was in fifth grade when the time had come for my dad to teach me the facts of life. The Birds and the Bees this is a terribly awkward talk for every father and son, particularly in a Catholic family like mine, where every conception is immaculate and every birth is virgin. So thank goodness for libraries where befuddled fathers can find resources to elucidate the mysteries of human anatomy. My dad had always loved libraries. His first job was working for the Brooklyn Public Library in high school, going door to door to track down overdue books. This was in the 1950s, long before Brooklyn became the borough of the organic stroller and my dad was a pint sized bounty hunter tracking down delinquent borrowers along the waterfront. It won't surprise you to learn that my dad came from a time and place where sex ed was self taught. When my mom tasked him to explain the facts of life to me, he was completely unprepared. He had no template to work from. He thought he had a handle on the sperm and the egg stuff, but he'd heard on TV that America was facing an epidemic of genital warts. And he didn't know genital warts were much less how to avoid them. What's more, he believed that anything a father needed to say to his son could be expressed with a firm handshake. He thought there had to be a better way. Which is how he ended up at our local library. Had he asked for help, a librarian would have no doubt found something age appropriate and biologically accurate. But my dad is is a proud man. He mows his own lawn, shines his own shoes, and by God, he'll find his own sex ed reference materials, thank you very much. That's how he ended up in the romance section. And guess who was on the COVID of the book he selected to illuminate the mysteries of reproductive science? Fabio. Fabio wore a kilt and a muslin shirt, seemingly torn from the sheer force of his flexed pectorals. He embraced a maiden who spilled from her corset like a souffle from a small pan. It was set in the medieval Scottish Highlands. It was called the Brazen Scot Seduced Me. It gets worse. You see, the Brazen Scott Seduced Me was a Book on tape. My dad played it? Yes. My dad played it while driving me to summer camp. It was a 12 hour drive. It was a 13 hour book on tape. In my dad's defense, a more traditional facts of life talk would have been of limited practical use to me. That's because I. I was an aspiring goth. I wore black jeans, black T shirts, black jackets, all purchased from the department store's husky section. Which my dad insisted on calling the porky department. My older sister had pierced my ears and I wore safety pins and paper clips as earrings. I looked like Bela Lugosi going as tetanus for Halloween. My dad could understand why a boy who shopped in the husky section would be drawn to the silhouette slimming effect of an all black wardrobe. He could even see the practicality of always having a paperclip or safety pin on you. What he couldn't understand was the music. It's very depressing, this music you listen to. He once said while driving me to school. It's the cure. The cure for what? Happiness. Real funny, dad. Why is this Robert Smith character so depressed anyway? I mean, just look at that head of hair. If I still had hair like that, I'd be mambo around like Tito Puente. Wait till he gets to be my age. Then it's colonoscopies all the livelong day. The cure. What a joke. There's no cure for colon cancer. Just ask her uncle. Even if Robert smith lives to 100, he'll never be as old as you. That's what I used to tell my father about Tito Puente. Shortly after this conversation, I was diagnosed with asthma and my dad started referring to me as Vlad the Inhaler. This is all to say that even if by some small miracle my dad had given me a biologically informative talk on sexual health, it would have been purely of academic value. I was at zero risk of contracting genital warts. So there we were in the family station wagon, about to leave for camp. In the driver's seat, my dad was wearing a T shirt and Bermuda shorts. In the passenger seat, I was a black clad asthmatic with office supplies in my ears. Nothing to see here, officer. Just your average father and son on the road listening to some Scottish Highlander erotica. Now, within five minutes, before we'd even reached the highway, we both realized he had made a serious error of judgment. It got very quiet. We didn't speak for a long time. For years, really. So long as neither of us acknowledged what we were listening to. There was a chance, however slim, that we might emerge with our dignity intact. We did not. About six hours in, we pulled over at a Cracker Barrel and ate Southwestern scrambles without making eye contact. I have to say this was educational for an 11 year old. For one, I gained a working understanding of eternity. It all became fodder for a rather colorful what I Did over my Summer Vacation essay that would earn me a swift referral to the school guidance counselor. When we finally arrived at Camp Wachusett, both of us deeply traumatized, my dad turned and looked at me through a thousand yard stare. He had the haunted, haggard look I associate with Spirit Airlines passengers. There was only one thing left to do. He gave me a firm handshake and spoke for the first time in 12 hours. Good talk, son. Thank you very.
- [10:14]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Santino Fontana Reading the Facts of Life by Anthony Mara I don't remember my parents expressly giving me the basics about love and sex, but having a writer mother who put a sex scene in her first novel was in its own way, significant. When the book came out, a couple of tough boys in my class taunted me about it. Ha ha, Meg, your mother wrote about sex and my face went bright red. Looking back on that memory now, though, I realize that though it was embarrassing at the time, these days I very much want to live in a world in which tough boys might actually go to a bookstore and purchase a literary novel and then read it all the way through, even if it's just to tease the writer's daughter. Next, a story by Taunya James. She is the author of novels including Atlas of Unknowns and Loot, which was longlisted for the national book Award in 2023. She also has an excellent short story collection, Aerograms. This piece, like our previous story, is both autobiographical and a selected shorts commission, and as it's a story about the stage, it's a perfect match for performer Rita Wolf. Woolf is an actor who deftly leaps from play to play, appearing in everything from Tony Kushner's homebody Cabul to Edward Albee's A Delicate Balance. She was recently featured in a production of Carol Churchill's Escaped Alone. And now Rita Wolf reads Leave Me in St. Louis by Taunia James.
- [11:47]
Rita Wolf
Leave Me in St. Louis one summer when I was seven, my mother informed me that my oldest sister and I would be enrolling in dance classes. I was thrilled. I loved throwing myself into interpretive routines whenever my father put on the Top Gun soundtrack album, which he listened to from his recliner many years later. When I asked him what he thought of our dancing, he replied. You were dancing. My sister and I got off to a rocky start with ballet and jazz. Being short and pudgy, I could barely get my leg up on the lowest bar without my hip cocking upwards. I hated doing drills across the floor. It was agonizing watching the other girls perform light, cat like leaps. My sister was okay. Graceful, at least. I left like a wounded animal. But then my sister and I discovered tap dance and something else. We were actually good at it. Our taps were clean even when the rest of the class was falling into a muddled clatter. We were always on beat, always aligned with one another. And so it was that our teacher decided to repackage us into a tap duet with our own routines. Other duos and trios had flashy names like Spice or Flair or Dancing Divas. Using absolutely no imagination at all, our teacher dubbed us the James Sisters. It never occurred to us to ask for a different name or to come up with our own. Was this because we were Indian girls growing up in Kentucky, prone to thinking we should never rock the boat? Or was it because we were soft spoken kids, cautious in the company of anyone who wasn't our own? Whatever the case, we didn't even think to voice an opinion about our costumes. Costume Day was the day I dreaded most during that class. Our teacher called us up one by one to wrap a measuring tape around our busts, bellies and butts and muttered the measurements just loud enough to be heard by all before recording them in her notebook. Meanwhile, everyone else paged through the costume catalog, marveling at all the sequins and spangles. I prayed in vain for a skirt set or a culotte that would cover my ass, knowing I'd probably end up in a sequined leotard and the sort of shrunken vest that an organ monkey might wear. After one particularly grim costume day, wherein my teacher discreetly suggested I start eating salads, I sulked in the waiting room. Our mother was late to pick us up. My sister was devouring a wrinkly People magazine, probably learning all the ways in which celebrities were just like us. I didn't even have the heart to fight her for it. A girl from my class, Megan, scooted to the chair next to mine and quietly asked if I wanted to see something. I was surprised at being addressed. None of the other dance girls ever spoke to my sister or me, a silence that induced the same in us. Megan opened a school folder and removed a sheet of wide ruled paper filled with her own handwriting. It was a story she had written herself, titled the highway, and was told from the perspective of a highway. Sometimes I get rough and bumpy, it read, but every seven to 10 years I get a facial that makes me fresh and smooth. It's called Being Paved. The folder had several more of these monologues, each from a perspective of a different inanimate object, a depressed tennis racket with a broken string, a pencil sharpener constipated with shavings. I, who had read my share of Babysitter's Club books, had never encountered something of such inventive genius. I was impressed and envious. They were so creative, and they were hers. I didn't see much of Megan after that because my sister and I were moved to increasingly more advanced classes. Eventually we began to enter competitions and the plastic trophies began to accumulate. They featured winged gold women, slender arms raised in triumph, practically bragging about their tiny waists and their stupid boobs. One year when we were 11 and 13, we qualified for the National Regency competition in Tap Duet, which would take place in what seemed to us a gleaming metropolis, St. Louis, Missouri. In preparation, we practiced every afternoon in our basement on a linoleum floor already tattooed with scuffs of our shoes. After each run through, my sister and I would give each other tips for improvement, tips that turned passive aggressive and then just aggressive aggressive until we were stomping off to stew in separate club chairs. At this point we heard our mother creaking down the stairs for her turn at critique. Her compliments were terse and unconvincing. Then came a laundry list of corrections. She pointed out that my expression was strange. I was smiling so hard that halfway through a routine, my lower jaw just couldn't take it anymore and went slack. She called it painful looking, but we continued to practice. I had nightmares about not practicing enough, about showing up to the competition without the cassette tape that contained our dance song Army Medley. Inscrutably, our teacher had assigned us a highly patriotic Pro Military number in which we saluted the audience at least 20 times. Our costume consisted of a shiny khaki collared shirt tucked into shiny khaki shorts completed with sequined army cap and sequined necktie. As tap costumes went, this one was full coverage and fairly butch. I was relieved about the costumes but still jealous of the groups that got to dance to cooler, sexier songs like Tina Turner's Nutbush City Limits or Tracy Chapman's Gimme. One reason the closest we would come to cool years later was a number called when the Saints Go Marching in which began with us passionately playing what you might call air trombone, convincing no one that we'd ever seen an actual trombone. At last, the weekend of nationals arrived. Our entire family, including my younger sister and father, loaded up into our Nissan Maxima to make the three hour trip to St. Louis. My father brought a fancy handheld video camera to chronicle every minute in the hotel room. We snapped on our elastic waisted shorts and allowed our mother to slather us in pale foundation, baby blue eyeshadow and engine red lipstick. This was the standard makeup that all students were supposed to wear, which turned the vastly white majority of them into pretty little dolls and us into gray little clowns. Finally, we laced up our tap shoes. I liked their chemical smell, my mother having spray painted them gold the night before. In the home video my father recorded of the day, the James sisters are gold and gleaming, grinning at the camera. Are you gonna win? He asks. Yeah, we say in unison. Win what? First place. Cut to a wide angle shot of the James sisters in plain clothes, small and slouching in front of The Arch of St. Louis, still wearing the engine red lipstick, but nary a smile. The home video completely excised our performance, but the memory of it stayed with me for years. How we saluted with gusto. How we tapped with such clarity and unity. We sounded like a single pair of feet. But then came the turn combination where my sister and I parted ways, each of us making a broad loop of 10 rotating shuffled leap toes with the intention of meeting back up in the middle. After racing through my 10 shuffle leap toes, I struck my pose only to find that I'd arrived early. My sister was only halfway through her loop. I held my pose for what seemed like an eternity. And then it was over. We bowed to a swell of sympathetic applause. We took our seats by the dance floor to watch the rest of the teams. I couldn't look at my sister or my mother between routines. I just looked at my feet. I could see a narrow patch of black where my mother's gold spray can had failed to reach. I could see my big toe knuckle pressing up against the leather, announcing the need for better shoes. My right shoe wagged at the left. The left shoe wagged back. What a shitshow, the right shoe said. Would you be quiet? Said the left shoe. She already feels bad. Well, how do you think I feel? I got a whole dye job for this. We got dye jobs. What even is this color? Brass. She'll spray us back to black. Eventually, though, it would have been nice to get a say, about the color. The left shoe turned contemplative. Do you ever think about the future? Like, do you ever think that maybe one day you'd like to detach these tap plates? They're detachable and just be normal shoes going to, like the grocery store or a Cheesecake Factory. Going anywhere you want, free as a goddamn flip flop. The left shoe felt that it had said something profound and true for once, until the right shoe said, oh my God, that's so dumb. Dude, we're tap shoes. The left shoe went silent. The right shoe mumbled an apology. Maybe someday, said the right. Someday what? We'll get to say. Yeah, maybe, said the left. Don't hold your breath.
- [22:53]
Meg Wolitzer
That was leave me in St. Louis by Taunia James Read by Rita Wolf in my experience, once your body parts start talking to one another without an intermediary, you're in trouble. This story sent the memory of a performance I participated in a million years ago rushing back at me like a fever dream. It was an arty summer camp version of a T.S. eliot play, no, not Cats, in which I played Hollow Man Number two. Or was it three? And I came on stage attached to two other girls by giant rubber bands. We all had to say in unison. Our dried voices, when we whisper together, are quiet and meaningless as wind in dry grass or rats feet over broken glass in our dry cellar. As in Tawnya James Story, I just did what I was told. I had no idea what those words meant. Unlike in Tawnya James Story, though, this performance involved no competition. But if it had, I suspect we Hollow Men might have lost out to the girl who recited from Elliot's poem the Wasteland. When she got up there and in a dramatic voice declared, april is the cruelest month, she actually seemed to know what she was saying, which tends to help. When we return, a grandma who will stop at nothing to keep her granddaughter from normalcy. 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.
- [24:29]
Shopify Advertiser
Nobody does selling better than Shopify, home of the number one checkout on the planet. The Shop Pay feature even boosts conversions up to 50%. So if you're into growing your business, your commerce platform better be ready to sell wherever your customers are scrolling or strolling. Upgrade your business and get the same checkout top brands like all birds use. Sign up for your $1 per month trial period at shopify.com podcast free. All lowercase go to shopify.com podcast free to upgrade your selling today.
- [25:21]
Meg Wolitzer
Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. This show is about the strange ways we learn some of life's big lessons. Maybe this show or another episode of Shorts has provided you with an unlikely life lesson, and if so, we'd love to hear about it. Search for selected shorts on your favorite social media or podcasting app, send us a message, or write us a review. We'd love to hear from you. Our last story is by writer Elizabeth MacKenzie. She is the author of funny books including the Portable Veblen and the Dog of the north, which was a finalist for the LA Times Book Prize in Fiction Reading. It is Maya Dillon. Dylan is a Tony nominee known for Broadway productions including Crimes of the Heart, as well as movies including the recent adaptation of Judy Blume's Are youe There, God? It's Me, Margaret. And now, Maya Dillon brings us Hope Ranch by Elizabeth Mackenzie.
- [26:31]
DSW Advertiser
Hope Ranch the world was opening up for me. I was friends with every kid on the block. I made my rounds. I burned garbage in an incinerator with Cindy and Greg, played tetherball with Joan, sang folk songs on an auto harp with Melanie, hid out in a bomb shelter with Janet. I threw rocks at Kevin, David, and Tom and climbed trees with Malcolm. I knew every square in the sidewalk. Some had X's in them. Those were monkey squares. Leslie and I walked home from school together and we hopped over those. My sister was two all of a sudden, a pudgy, cheerful two, a messy dishwater blonde with a cowlick. And I was rushing home with a new creepy people head for her, a really ugly one, made especially for her by a kid in my class with his own creepy people factory. When my grandmother, Dr. Frost, pulled up alongside me in her black Corvette convertible, the top was off. Hop on in, she called. It was a two seater. There wasn't room for Leslie. I didn't know you were coming, I said. Well, here I am. Get in. See you tomorrow. I waved to Leslie. Bye. Leslie waved. Don't think you will, Dr. Frost said as we zipped away. Why not? To my surprise, she passed my street and continued on in the direction of the freeway. Wait, Aren't we going home? I've already packed your things. You're all ready to go, she said. Now pipe down. We have a lot to talk about. But I'm giving this to Kathy. Dr. Frost wrinkled her nose without even looking at the rubbery head. She has more toys than any human child needs. And I'm supposed to be working on my Theodore Roosevelt report, which is due Monday, and I'm invited to Jody Gunn's house today for the first time. My heart bleeds, she said. It should bleed. Poor old Mumsy, she said in that fake accent I detested. Why's everyone picking on me? And why do I have to call you Mumsy? I said. Because I called my grandmother Mumsy and so did my mother and so on. What's wrong with it? Why can't I call you Granny or Grandma or Gran? Oh, I never wanted to be called those things. They're what you call an old washer woman. I hated having to call anyone Mumsy, so I thought of her as Dr. Frost or just the doctor. Last time mom told me, the doctor is coming to get you tomorrow. It's not particularly convenient, but I don't know how to say no. She emotionally pulverizes me, and I'd said, what if I emotionally pulverize you? And she said, you'll have learned from the best. Now Dr. Frost was driving too fast for my comfort. I asked her to slow down. What's wrong? Can't stand a little excitement? I feel car sick, I said. Hold onto your hat and watch the road. My grandmother was passing everyone else on the highway, even driving on the shoulder when necessary. My hair was whipping around my head and my lips were chapping faster than I could lick them. We're going to beat the light, Dr. Frost shouted into the din. I'm not stopping until we get there. I'm hungry, I said. Oh, dig around in the back. I brought a little picnic. I was afraid to unloosen the seatbelt and look as if I'd fly out of the car. I groped behind me and found a paper bag and pulled it up to the front. In it was a shriveled head of celery, a blackened pear, three pieces of Roman Meal bread with mold on the edges, and a rind of cheese that was as hard as a hood ornament. I felt around to see if there was anything else. There wasn't. Can't we stop to eat? I said. Anne. Life is tough. She shouted. Get used to it. We followed the coast road north and ended up in Santa Barbara just under two hours later, still no time for a square meal. We pulled off the highway and zoomed under an arch welcoming us to Hope Ranch, past an artificial lake full of birds, a golf course, and a number of large houses with iron gates or circular drives, and then disappeared into an oak forest in a ravine, climbing a hill. I've picked every house your grandfather and I ever lived in, she said. I have an eye. You start with the best area, then you find a place a little off market, a little tattered around the edges. In other words, not a showcase. If you buy a place like that in the best part of town, you'll never go wrong. I filed away her real estate tip for later. So you and granddaughter moving up here? Your grandfather and I are finished. Finished. Good. One of my grandfather's hobbies was refinishing wood. He often talked about the finish on various objects. I thought she was saying that she and Granddad were all shiny and fixed up. We drove on, pulling out of the grove of oaks into a country like area with no sidewalks, just horse paths by the road. We turned onto a short dead end street and pulled up beside a dark hedge and a heavy iron gate. Open it, Ann. It's unlocked. I did as told, still couldn't see any hows. The air smelled of pine SAP and rotting leaves. I trotted back to the car and climbed in and the doctor and I roared up the driveway and parked outside a garage with a rumpled door, paint peeling in curly little strips. You and Granddad will have to refinish it, I said. Dr. Frost glared at me. Weren't you listening? I just told you we're finished. What do you mean? I'm never spending another night under the same roof as that man as long as I live, is what I mean. Dr. Frost said. You're sick of Granddad. I certainly am. Now let's grab our bags and get inside. I could hardly take this in. My grandfather was my favorite. He used to fly his own plane and hunt for uranium in the desert with a Geiger counter. He laughed when I told him things. I'd describe kids at school and he'd draw cartoons of them and I'd end up laughing so hard I would wheeze and snort like a donkey. I followed her up a mossy brick walkway and through the foliage. In the dimming light I could at last see the house. It was a long Spanish style place with flower pot tiles on the roof and thick plaster walls. The heavy wooden door was fringed with old brass hinges and had a tarnished knocker the shape of a lion's head. She fumbled with her keys and the slab creaked open, the dark house emitting a cool, musty draft like from a cave. Electricity is not on yet, she said. Here. She poked a flashlight at me, an old crusty one with a failing beam. Unless I held it at precisely the right angle. Thus equipped, we started our tour moving through the house room by room. There was a large formal dining room with oak plank floors, lamps shaped like candles on the wall, and a large picture window. Through a swinging door was the butler's pantry in my ray. It looked like a kitchen with its sink and dishwasher and counters and cupboards. But through another swinging door was the real kitchen. Then to a laundry room with multiple sinks and bins and two built in ironing boards and a backpack. Bedroom and bath, which the doctor called the maid's quarters. It had a bell on the wall and she said we could ring it from any room in the house. Are you going to have a maid? Are you joking? I spent every penny I have on this place. Do you have any idea what that man has done to me? No. I think you're old enough to hear these things. It's realistic, life as it really happens. No girl should grow up in a fairy tale. You know where he was when I was nearly dead? In the Chicago. Lying in hospital that winter after having a cesarean with no anesthesia. Your mother being ten pounds nearly killed me. You know where he was? How would I? He was out in Denver, Colorado, living with some homosexual. Oh, he never admitted it, but there he was, taking a new job just before the baby was due, and next thing I find out he's shacking up with a man. And I know what kind of man this man was. What man? Then he lied to me and said he was living alone and then he completely lost interest in you know what? Couldn't admit what he was. That's part of the problem. Was ashamed of himself. I'm hungry, I said, and I lived with it 30 more years like nothing was wrong. Mending his socks, doing his laundry, even while I was in medical school with all that work of my own. I'm really hungry. Oh, come on then, she said, and I followed her back through the dark house, past the front entryway, past a living room that looked in my sweeping beam the size of a gymnasium, then down a long pitch black hall past several empty bedrooms until we came to the last and largest bedroom, which now had two cots in it and a number of boxes and suitcases. This will be our headquarters until the furniture comes, she told me. When? Next Tuesday. I'm not staying until then. We have many things to do. Time will fly. But we're having a quiz Friday about protons and electrons. You won't miss anything. I can teach you more in an hour than you'll Learn all week. Now help me open this box. I held the light while she pried open a large shipping box. In it were hundreds of cellophane wrapped free samples of Zwieback baby biscuits, and she ran her fingers through them with pleasure, like a crazed pirate fondling her doubloons. Baby biscuits, I said. They're an excellent food. I tore one open. It dissolved in my mouth like sand. How old are these? Don't be fussy, she replied. I stood in the corner coughing out zwieback particles while Dr. Frost bungled around her cot in the morning. The Hoopengarners are coming over. They have a daughter your age and Dr. Hoopengarner is going to be. A colleague helped me find my new office on State Street. I was pointing my flashlight at her head. This is a very important new beginning for me. They ain't through with me yet. When dad died a few years ago, he didn't have much, but the little he left me went into this house. It's the first thing of my own I've had since I was a girl. Bully for you. What bully? It's what Theodore Roosevelt used to say. Would you get that thing off me? Dr. Frost said. I brought some candles. Why don't you pull them out of that bag? Is there a phone here? Nope. We're roughing it until we settle in. She lit the candles and placed them on the windowsill, and since I was feeling cold I climbed into the sleeping bag she'd unrolled on my cot. It smelled old and mildewy and there was a towel folded up for my head. I want to go home as soon as possible, I said. Probably tomorrow and we'll work out the best deal we can. You'll never fit in with your mother's new family. It's treachery. The school here is excellent. I've already met with a sixth grade teacher. Katerina Hoopengarner will be in your class. An uncomfortable feeling rippled through me. I fit in fine. Why are you saying that? With Weeks, that two bit weasel. Roy's not a two bit weasel. He. He helps me with homework and he makes good pancakes. And he's sick of exploiting the land. He's getting a new job. Is that so? Where? In the library, I told her in a doctorly way, which she must have practiced while visiting leper colonies in China the year before. She came over and sat on the edge of my cot and you know I was the first person you saw when you were born. I was standing right there. You bonded to Me, the way baby ducks bond on site. Even to a puppet, the shape of a duck doesn't matter. You saw me. I had your mother when I was only 20. So I'm young enough to be your mother. I'm not saying I was perfect first time around. I was too young and I had no idea what your grandfather would do to me. My God, bring a girl from a big warm family like mine into that cold, industrial Ohio winter surrounded by a bunch of grim Germans with their strange traditions and horrible food. It was like a bad dream. Didn't see anything wrong with plopping me down there and taking off for his career. The ego on that man could sink a ship. And your mother and I didn't get along that well, as I'm sure you know. It was tough. I'd take the train home anytime I could. Dad would make sure I had the fare. I'm gonna let you in on a terrible secret. Your grandfather is an alcoholic. One whiff of gin and I tense up, remembering all the nights he put away half a pint and then he'd become abusive and say all kinds of terrible things to me. Didn't want me to go to medical school. Thought it would interfere with the running of his household. Sometimes he'd get home after a hard week and have his martini and then force himself on me. This was supposed to be married life. I can't say I recommend it, Anne. She patted me twice on the arm and returned to rustling her boxes and bags. Are you Mumsy? I said. It suddenly occurred to me that she was an impostor. Of course I'm Mumsy. Are you sure you're Mumsy? Pipe down now, she hissed. What is a mumsy? The more I said it, the more horrible it sounded. And go to sleep. I don't want you and Granddad to be finished, even after what I've told you. And why don't you like Kathy? You never bring her along to play with or even say her name. Oh, I like her fine, Dr. Frost said. But she doesn't need me like you do. I've been investing for you secretly, my dear. I've put away some Standard Oil and some Johnson and Johnson and some AT&T. Not much, but it'll grow. Should help you out later. Now good night. On the bare plaster wall, starting at the bottom right, like hieroglyphics, a face, probably mine, with short messy hair and two freaked out eyes and then a little head. My sisters and then mom and Roy and then Grandad and then favorite animals, including giraffes and armadillos. Then all the internal organs I could think of, including the appendix and spleen, and then some of the words I'd learned in my teach yourself Russian course. Armchair clothes rack. Very good. Thank you. And then rough outlines of the states I'd been to, including Utah and Washington and New Mexico, and then cactuses I liked, including saguaro, beavertail, and organ pipe, and fruits I liked, including pomegranates, guavas, and figs, and spices we had in the cupboard at home, like cumin, coriander and cayenne. And a picture of the boots I wanted and a few of the outfits I wanted and a few tongue twisters. Then a ghost story. Once there were three nurses, and two didn't like the other because she was mean, and one day someone's arm got amputated and the mean nurse had to get rid of it. And later the other nurses opened the supply closet and there was the mean nurse holding the arm and she was grinning. And then a herd of cows with huge udders, massive udders bulging under tiny little cows, all in number two pencil rendered by flashlight during that long night on my grandmother's bedroom wall. She woke me in the morning and wake up and oh my goodness gracious, how in the world. You sly dog. What a creation. They'll be studying it for years. I shall treasure it always. My, my. I smiled with surprise. How she'd react to my masterpiece. I'd been uncertain. Up and at em and grab your notebook. I want to show you the garden, she said, charging back down the hall. I dressed and followed her into an early morning yard filled with shadows and dew. Out the front door was an orchard of citrus trees rising in rows up the slow hill, and she showed me at least a dozen orange trees full of fruit, several lemons, a few grapefruit trees, and even a lime. I grabbed an orange, peeled it in two seconds flat, and gobbled it up. Then there was an avocado tree as wide as an airplane, its branches draped to the ground. We'll have guacamole coming out our ears, she said. Look at this, too. There are one, two, three peach trees, three plums, and a loquat. We'll make jam. I'll show you how to put it up. I followed her down the brick walkway that skirted the house, and at the other end we stood before an enormous planted garden. Would you look at these mantelia poppies. She cried. Six feet high and rising. They called them fried egg flowers. Can you see why? I nodded, looking at the huge white flowers with the big yellow centers. How do you spell that? I asked. M A, T, I, L I J A, she repeated for me, and I wrote it down in my book. I still have that list in surprisingly childish cursive considering how mature I thought I was at the time. It names jade plants, lantana, hens and chickens, holly, Norfolk island pine, date palms, cypress, birds of paradise, and many more. I remember clearly following her around the property, which she told me was three acres to every corner of it. Look at the nasturtiums, will you? She said gleefully. Over in one far corner there was nearly a meadow of the round leafed orange and yellow flowers. You can eat these, she told me, and tore a leaf off and put it right in her mouth. Try it, she goaded me. Go on. It was peppery like a radish. I ate a few more. Try a flower, she said. I was hungry and tried some of those too. We can spread these everywhere. Look how big the seeds are. She showed me the nut sized seeds and I began to collect them in my pockets. Paths wound through the grounds and there were new specimens to be found at every turn. Camellia, rhododendron, and azalea all in the shade, she said, doing beautifully. Everything grows here. It's a superb Mediterranean climate, despite the occasional coastal fog. Oh my Lord. To top it off, there's a macadamia nut tree. Can you imagine? I didn't see it before I wrote it down. This is Eden. This is heaven on Earth. Now inside to change your clothes. The Hoop and Garners are coming soon. Something nice then. Can I go home? I asked. Well, let's give a call tonight. All right. It was a place to start. The morning sun spilled in the window like paint to warm my feet. I stood in a patch of it until the sound of two angry voices reached me in a snarling rush. A peep through the bedroom window showed me my mother on the front porch. Mom had come to get me, but my mother was shouting at Dr. Frost, and Dr. Frost was shouting just as much. Slam went the front door. Bang. Clattered a fist. Yells and cries made it sound like they were resting each other. Something smashed. Glass tinkled on the floor. Footsteps thundered down the hallway, and then mom stood panting in the doorway, beholding me cowering on the cot at the base of my beautiful wall. Oh my God. Did you do that? I think it's spectacular, Dr. Frost said right behind. Do you know anything about children? Do you? Get up, mom said, grabbing up my clothes. We're Leaving? Aren't you happy to see me? I said. I'll be happy to see you later, she said. Anne, tell your mother, Dr. Frost said. Tell her about our plan. You have a say in this. That's ridiculous, mom said. Of course she doesn't have a say. She's a child. Put your shoes on. Ann is like my daughter more than you are. Why should she have to grow up with that goony bird you brought home? Give her a decent chance, for God's sake. Stop fighting. I yelled. Mom had my bag and was leading me by the arm past Dr. Frost. Ann, Dr. Frost said. Anne. Speak up. With my mother's arm around me, I couldn't look back. Mom let go. Stop. We stepped out the front door into the sun. She's telling you to stop. Dr. Frost shouted. She attempted to grab my mother. My mother shrugged her off and kept moving ahead, holding onto my shoulders. Mom, talk to her. She bent face to face with me, mouth tight as a bottle top. You will listen to me now and you will get in the car and we will talk about this later. Do you hear? She turned to Dr. Frost. You are not welcome to come to my house anymore without calling. And you may never ever take Ann like that again. Do you understand? Mom, it's okay. I cried. It's okay. Don't worry. Dr. Frost called me. We'll work this thing out. Don't you worry. Stop brainwashing her. My mother screamed. You're going to be sorry. Dr. Frost yelled. Get in the car. Mom said. Wait, I said.
- [52:27]
Rita Wolf
Get in the car.
- [52:28]
DSW Advertiser
You haven't seen the last of me. Dr. Frost cried. Ann and I are going to Japan together next year. Don't you forget it. Mom shoved me into her VW Bug and we took off down the driveway as if making a getaway in a movie. The tires screeched. I held onto the little handle on the dashboard and tried to wave goodbye, but my mother actually slapped down my hand. She drove like that all the way out of the oaks and the narrow canyon, past the big houses and driveways, until we reached the lake and the golf course near the entrance to Hope Ranch. Then she started gasping and breathing as if she'd been underwater. Her face was red and welty. She glanced back and forth in the rearview mirror as if Dr. Frost might be chasing us down. Finally she coughed. Do you understand what happened? Did you know she didn't ask me if you could come up here yesterday? I shook my head. I found a note on the front door. Picked up Ann at school. We'll call Later I tried calling my father. He was out of town. No one had any idea where she'd gone. I had to go break into their house last night, and I just happened to find the number of a moving company near the phone, but of course they were closed. I had to wait until this morning to find out where the house was. I was awake all night. I have been crying my eyes out. Oh, I said. That's right. Oh. Are you sure you understand? She kidnapped you. She's out of her mind. This is the first time I've stood up to her in my whole life. Do you see what I've had to live with? Mom was chewing so hard on her lower lip it was bleeding. She was bending her thumb and pushing the thumb knuckle into her lower lip. She chewed big round circles into her lip that would form soft scabs. So long as you understand what happened. I do. I guess. I'll never forget the time she chased our neighbor out of the house with a hammer just because he asked permission to trim a tree on the property line. She's inside. Insane. She and Granddad are finished, I said. Yes. I was going to tell you about that, mom said. Well, you don't need to, I said. Mom looked at me. The little engine roared. What did she say anyway? Where's Granddad right now? Fishing trip, mom said. In Denver, Colorado. What difference does it make? She said. Do I have to go to Japan with her? Oh, absolutely not, mom said. As if I don't even exist. As if we don't have a family and a life. What if I want to go to Japan with her? Mom froze. Haven't you heard anything I've told you? I guess. Then why would you ask that? Shaking the wheel like she was strangling it. About to bite her lips off. What were you thinking when you drew on her wall? I couldn't sleep, I said. So you defaced the wall. No. You drew on a wall. Are you saying that wasn't wrong? Did you even look at it? I want you to tell me right now, mom choked. That you understood it was wrong. Dr. Frost liked it, I said. She said people would be studying it for years. Oh my God. What am I dealing with? Mom cried. Tears began to flow down her face as we motored down the highway. Mom, I said after a while. Are you okay? I've been better. Can we stop and get something to eat? I said. I'm really hungry. No, I just want to get home. All I've had since yesterday is an orange, I said. You can Wait, she said. Can't we go back and you two apologize? What for? My mom said I didn't do anything. I know, but we can't go back. Are you sure? Be quiet and watch the road. I wish I'd said something like, if you don't make up now, you won't speak to each other again until I drag you together on a quiet Tuesday morning near the end of the century, which is a very long time from now. But I didn't know that then, of course. Instead, I said something like, look at this neat thing I got for Kathy and pulled a small screaming head from the pocket of my clothes.
- [57:57]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Hope ranch by Elizabeth MacKenzie, performed by Maya Dillon So are all guardians selfish or willfully ignorant or just raging against the mistakes their parents made in raising them? Listening to the MacKenzie story and all the stories in this hour, you'd be forgiven for thinking so. When you're a kid looking for something good to read, one requirement is often that parents should be out of the picture. Classic children's stories tend to oblige. You might get an orphan, as in the Secret Garden. Or else you might get a mother and father who go out for the evening and leave their kids to be babysat by a dog, as in Peter Pan. But when you're older and looking for something good to read, parents may indeed be in the story, though probably only to provide conflict. And then when you get a lot older, you might look for a story that includes an even older generation. Because by now it may have dawned on you that imperfect parents were perhaps raised by their own less than perfect parents. Which of course, creates a whole new, sometimes highly irritating sensation. Let's call it empathy. As Ann learns in Hope Ranch, it isn't always about you. The kid in question. Life lessons, no matter how strange or hard, might teach us more about the people we love. And in time, we may find ourselves wanting to repay those people who pushed us from the nest. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team include Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimpkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Wrobleski. 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 Plourd. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Deardorf Petersen Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.
- [60:57]
Shopify Advertiser
Nobody does Selling better than Shopify, Home of the number one checkout on the planet. The Shop Pay feature even boosts conversions up to 50%. So if you're into growing your business, your commerce platform better be ready to sell wherever your customers are scrolling or strolling. Upgrade your business and get the same checkout top brands like all birds use. Sign up for your $1 per month trial period at shopify.com podcast free. All lowercase go to shopify.com podcast free to upgrade your selling today.