← Selected Shorts
Selected Shorts
Remakes and Replicas
00:57:00
Host Meg Wolitzer presents three works about scaling the outsized real world down to manageable proportions. A couple brings the Papal seat home in Ben Loory’s “The Vatican,” read by Santino Fontana; In “I Love Betty,” by Kaitlyn Greenidge, communication problems invite interesting solutions, in a story read by Nathan Hinton. And in Shirley Jackson’s “The Beautiful Stranger” a wife and mother wonders if she’s in the right life, but tries to fit into it. It’s read by Maggie Siff.
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- [00:00]
Announcer
We gather here tonight to bring women back to their rightful place.
- [00:05]
Narrator/Promoter
The Testaments a new Hulu Original Series from the executive producers of the Handmaid's Tale.
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Meg Wolitzer
It's easier to accept a story than
- [00:12]
Announcer
believe that the people around you are monsters.
- [00:14]
Narrator/Promoter
The battle isn't over.
- [00:16]
Announcer
There comes a time when you have to take action, when you have to choose your own destiny.
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Meg Wolitzer
Never quite as it seems.
- [00:23]
Narrator/Promoter
Watch the new Hulu Original series, the Testaments, streaming on Hulu and Hulu on Disney for bundle subscribers. Terms apply.
- [00:30]
Nathan Hinton
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- [00:59]
Meg Wolitzer
So how can you enjoy the Vatican from the comfort of your living room? How do you say I love you without actually using the words I love you? And how do you know your spouse is really your spouse? I'm Meg Wolitzer and coming up on Selected Shorts, answers to these head scratchers and more as we hear fiction about strange substitutions. Stay with us. You're listening to Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us to through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. Our planet is a big place. Overwhelming, really, as anyone who tries to keep up with news and world events will tell you. And just as we all have our own perspectives on the world, we've got our own methods of coping with it, too. Some of us introverts like to think and write about things we've experienced. The more outgoing among us might talk it all out with strangers at a bar. And some of us prefer getting creative by remaking or reshaping what we've seen into something a bit more digestible. That is, we put the big, amazing, sometimes scary world in perspective by creating a model of some larger real world phenomena. On today's Selected Shorts, fiction about these sorts of replicas and remakes. Life presents a character with something wild and overwhelming, something that requires a kind of creative recreation. Either that or life supplants something real with something we don't recognize. In one story, a visit to an architectural marvel sparks a revolution back home. In another, a patriarch's new patterns of speech lend themselves to different interpretations. And in a third, writer Shirley Jackson scrambles one woman's feelings about Spouses and Strangers. Our first story is by Ben Laurie. His writing has been published in collections including Tales of Falling and Flying and Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day. His titles alone give you a hint about his stories, which often have a light fable like quality to them, even while they deal with modern ideas. This piece is read by Santino Fontana. He's a Tony winning stage actor known for Broadway shows including Tootsie, as well as TV series such as the Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. And if you are a lover of all things Disney, you might recognize his voice from the animated hit Frozen. And now, Santino Fontana brings us Ben Laurie's story. The Vatican.
- [03:42]
Santino Fontana
The Vatican A man and his wife go on vacation to Italy. While in Rome, they go to see the Vatican. They take a grand tour and look all around. Wow. The man's wife says this place is fancy. Yeah, says the man. It certainly is something. They ask the tour guide all kinds of questions. These are statues, says the tour guide. And those are called frescoes. Ah, the man says. And his wife. How interesting. When they get home, they walk in and stand in their living room. Well, it's not the Vatican, says the man. No, says the man's wife. It certainly is not. But there's no reason it couldn't be, she adds. So the two of them decide to turn their house into the Vatican. Or if not the Vatican, a Vatican, whatever. It takes them a long time. Apparently they have to get some permits. Plus it turns out to be extremely expensive. It's so expensive, in fact, that they're forced to take second jobs. The man works the night shift at 7:11 and his wife makes little ornamental pigeons out of clay. She paints them and sells them on ebay. But eventually, after many years, their Vatican is complete. It is beautiful and very, very fancy. It looks almost exactly like the original one in Italy, only with a few additional conveniences. There's a race track, for example, and a holographic theater and a nice place where you can get your nails done. And also, truth be told, there are a couple fewer statues because the two don't like statues all that much. And the man and his wife are very happy with the place. They spend all their free time admiring it, which actually isn't much. They've had to keep their second jobs because the upkeep of the Vatican is expensive. There are so many plumbing problems and one giant electrical nightmare. But in general, the two of them are happy. But then one day, something happens. The doorbell starts to ring. It starts to ring because the neighbors are coming by. Your house Is amazing. All the neighbors say. Thank you very much, say the man and his wife. It looks just like the Vatican. All the neighbors say. Could we come in and look around? Is that okay? Of course, say the man and his wife. And they let the neighbors in, and then they take them and show them around. This here is St. Peter's Basilica, they say. And more neighbors come to visit every day until pretty soon the man and his wife find themselves completely swamped with neighbors to show around. It's hard to find time with their second jobs and all. Maybe, they say to each other, we should start charging. So the man and his wife begin to charge for the tour. They charge an even $50 at first. They're hoping that the price will keep the visitors at bay. But instead of keeping them away, it brings more. You know, the people say, it's really a fantastic deal. It's so much cheaper than going to see the real thing. You don't have to leave the country or deal with the exchange rates or find a hotel or buy a plane ticket or anything. So the man and his wife decide to raise the price, first to 70 and then to $100. But still, it doesn't work. We love this Vatican, people say. We told our friends, and next week we're planning a school trip. The man and his wife lie in bed at night. They are rich now, but completely exhausted. Well, at least we got to quit our second jobs, the man says. But I liked making clay pigeons. His wife sobs. Well, says the man, so what do we do? I don't know, says his wife. Maybe we could hire people to give the tours, says the man. What a brilliant idea. So they call in some tour management people, and the tour management people take over the operation, which is great, but it works a bit too well. They hire a lot of guides and offer a million tours, and people are streaming through at all hours. The man and his wife now lie in bed at night and listen to people stomping through their home. They hear them in the kitchen, opening up the fridge. They hear them poking around in the medicine cabinet. I can't take this, they finally say. This has got to stop. We have to lay down some boundaries or something. So they go to see the company who's managing the tours, but they're told they have to speak to the shop steward. Sorry, says the shop steward. That's against the rules. We can't block areas off or cut down the hours. But if you're really against it, you do have recourse. You just have to get an act through Congress, Congress, says the man. Congress, says his wife. They go back to bed and huddle together. What do we do? They say as the footsteps stomp around. How about, says the man, we take a vacation? So in the morning, the man and his wife pack their bags again. But this time they don't go to Italy. This time they go to a motel down the street. There's no ac, but they don't mind the heat. It's kind of like being at the beach, the man says as they sit on their lawn chairs in the parking lot. Yes, yes, says his wife. And the ice machine is close, which is good, because the asphalt gets hot, and so they stay on. They live in the motel. Eventually, the man takes a job. He works there at the front desk, checking people in and out. It's just for fun. He always liked the night shift. And meanwhile his wife has a kiln up on the roof. She's made about a million clay pigeons. She paints them very carefully and sets them aside. And on weekends they go out for a ride. They go out for a ride down the street toward the Vatican, and they park there and walk up and down the line. Clay pigeons, they say to all the tourists. $5. And with the money they buy a fine Italian wine. Thank.
- [11:11]
Meg Wolitzer
That was the Vatican by Ben Laurie, performed by Santino Fontana. While I admire the pluck of the couple in that story, I'm happy to say the building my home most closely resembles is the public library. But if you borrow a book from me, I'll give you, I don't know, five to 10 years to return it, and I won't even fine you if you're late. Next, a story by Caitlin Greenidge. She's the author of the novels Liberty and We love you, Charlie Freeman. Her opinion pieces have been featured in the New York Times, too. This story about the power of three little words is the first written by Greenidge we featured on selected shorts. It is performed by the versatile Nathan Hinton. Hinton was in the first touring company of Angels in America and won a Barrymore Award for Excellence in Theatre for his part in the Philadelphia Theatre Company's production of Take Me Out. His series credits include shows such as Madam Secretary and now here's Nathan Hinton reading I Love Betty by Caitlin Greenidge.
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Nathan Hinton
I love Betty. I love Betty. Henry Thompson said He said it every morning as soon as he woke up. He said it to his pillow and the yellow wall beside his bed. He said it to the nurse who gently pulled the false teeth from his mouth and to the orderly who brought his breakfast to the television screen that loomed over his bed on a metal arm, to the windows of the recreation room where he was wheeled, singing love along the way. At every meal. When the other patients murmured grace or stubbornly stayed silent and refused to give Thanksgiving, he said over meats and vegetables, I love Betty. When Henry started saying I love Betty, his children were confused. His wife had been dead for three years. A few days after Henry began his declarations, his children, Douglas and Claire met with Henry's doctor in her office at the nursing home. The woman took out a small plastic model of the brain and pulled it apart into four different sections. She pointed at each quadrant, stickered in red and blue veins. She explained that Henry didn't know what he was saying, that this was a further stage of his dementia, that his nursing home might not have the care he would need. You have some decisions to make, she said. While the doctor spoke, Claire looked at the plastic model. She knew she should be paying closer attention, but she couldn't. The doctor said it was a symptom, that the words her father repeated were arbitrary. But Claire didn't believe that her father had gotten so lost in the sweet thrills of nostalgia that he didn't ever want to return to mundane communication again. And why should he? She thought, and smiled. Douglas nudged her arm. Are you even listening? Of course, claire said. One in the morning. A few nights later, Douglass lay in bed watching television with his wife, Nia, asleep beside him. The phone on the night table beside Douglass vibrated. He answered on the first buzz. I've been thinking, claire said. He knew it was his sister without looking at the screen. She was the only person who called that late. I'm listening, douglass said. Claire took a deep breath. I was really sad about Pop, but maybe there's something to celebrate here. Life is not always a celebration, Claire, douglass said. No, no, no. Not like celebrating to deny anything. I mean celebrating to accept who he is now. Like, I think it's remarkable because I think it's really special what's happening here. What's happening here, Claire? You know that storytelling workshop I've been taking? She said conspiratorially. Douglass sighed. Storytelling was the newest of Claire's manias. After the pottery class and the Thai cooking class and the two Van Throat singing chorus and the time she believed she could blow glass. Don't sigh at me, Keith, the boy who runs my storytelling workshop, he's always saying everyone's got a story. He says telling stories taps into our deepest empathy. Really? Douglas said. Claire had a knack for making gurus out of her teachers, for taking their rudely obvious statements as words of wisdom. Claire clucked her tongue. Listen, Dougie, everyone's got a story, and this one is going to be ours. I'll edit it all together and I'll keep a copy and you'll get a copy and I'll send one out and maybe it'll get on the radio. I don't know, Claire. It's ghoulish. Beside him, Nia turned onto her stomach. It's remarkable. Losing your mind is remarkable. No, no. Love is the triumph of love is remarkable. Douglas's ears burned in embarrassment for the both of them. Claire for saying it himself, for having to listen to it, not bothering to turn over, face down into her pillow, loud enough for Clare to hear. On the other end of the line, Nia said, tell that old hippie to go back to bed. Claire laughed. Tell Nia I said hi. Tell her I love you too, Boo Boo. It's late, Claire. All right, I'll let you two sleep, but first you have to promise me you'll do it. I won't let you off the line until you say you do it. I'll do it, douglas said. Is that all? That's all. Claire hung up before Douglas could. Claire lived in the same apartment she'd had since graduating from college 20 years before. Douglas had lived there, too, when he was younger and still loved Claire. It's where Claire first took up melancholia, like the lavender oil she rubbed on her wrist as a teenager. She drank too much on weeknights and cavalierly slept in when she should have been at her job. Laughing, she proclaimed herself slothful at 25, a spinster at 28, a failed artist at 33. What once had seemed ludicrous predictions. Claire had always had men around. She had always been talented. Her singing had made Pop weak, had all come thuddingly true. Now, at 42, real sadness rolled off her in waves, but Claire was like those old women who douse themselves in ever heavier splashes of their favorite perfume because their noses get too used to the smell. She still told all the old jokes about her solitary, shiftless life, the successive cat she called her children, the Sundays spent face down on the sofa listening to Coltrane. But those details of her daily life weren't bohemian anymore. Claire stunk of sadness so sharply it made Douglas's eyes water, and it was painful to see that she didn't know it, that she still thought it was a light and delicate aroma, something spicy and mysterious and intriguing. She was blind to the actuality that her unhappiness was so palpable. Douglass was afraid the scent of it would rub off on him and that he too would be left reeking of loneliness. When Douglas came into her apartment, he only hugged Claire halfway, kept a space of air between the two of them. He was ashamed of this, but he still did it. Clare pretended not to notice. She pulled back and Douglas looked around. When he had moved out, she had continued her life of whimsy with a vengeance. She told everyone it was good Douglas left because now she could paint her walls pink. The whole apartment was an anemic peach. Bunched up on a corner of the couch were a blanket and pillow. Douglas knew in a flash that this was Claire's bed, her current resting place. During her nights of whirring insomnia. Back in the days of Douglas and Claire, the two of them slept till noon and lived on cans of tuna fish, bags of corner store candy, and 40s, judging from the dainty saucer on the side table, dusted with bright crumbs of children's cereal. Claire still followed that diet. They had lived like that for nearly a decade and a half, until Douglas found his wife five years ago. Nia was a sweet enough girl, but she'd taken one look at the Jamaica Plain apartment and told Douglas there'd be no truck with her as long as he lived like that. Nia says we live like animals, douglas had said, amazed at first. And not even wild ones. She says we live like house pets, waiting for our master to come home. Nia was smart. When Douglas complained about work or his friends, she didn't egg him on like Claire did, and when he let his fears slip out, she didn't turn them into a joke. Nia took him seriously. She didn't dress herself in winking knowingness. She didn't find irony particularly attractive or delicious. He'd been wary when they began, and she spoke enthusiastically about a West African dance class. He'd instinctively cringed, but Nia picked single things to love. When he finally saw her dance, she moved with a dedication and quiet resolve that struck Douglass to his core. He quickly realized that a girl that keen was worth keeping, especially at his age, 34 when he met her. Pops and Ma, when she was alive, had been happy, so happy about Nia. But not Claire. Douglas moved into Nia's, and whenever he ran into Claire, she said, tell Nia life's good at the Puppy Pound, claire said. Let Nia know I've managed to keep my Litter box. Clean. All on my own. In response, Douglas had tried to turn his heart against Claire. He constructed the case against her piece by piece. To anyone who would listen. He argued against Claire's capriciousness, her dreaminess, most damning of all, her lack of a husband and children. Eventually the argument stuck, and he convinced himself that he had always secretly held his sister and their shiftless life together in contempt. It's just not mature to be living like that, was how Douglass summed it up to Nia. It had to end sometime now, before Douglas. On the coffee table was a small gray box with thick black wire stuck to it. Claire gestured for him to sit down. She began to set up the recording equipment, and Douglas found himself impressed. Her face took on a concentration he had not seen since she was a child. He watched as she tested the sound levels, slid on a pair of headphones, squinted at the digital readout in front of her. When she caught him looking, she grinned and winked both eyes. Douglas looked down. A microphone rounded its way up to his mouth. Do you ever remember Pop saying stuff like, I loved Betty when we were kids? Of course not. You know that, Claire. Claire made eyes at the recorder. It's for the record. For the record, they weren't touchy feely. Claire leaned forward. I saw them once. Doing what? I saw them. I was maybe 9 or 10. I wanted pop to fix my bicycle chain. I stayed up waiting for him to come home from work, and I saw them. They were sitting at the kitchen table, side by side, and they were kissing each other on the cheeks real quick. I'd never seen them do anything like it. I shut the door and went back to bed. Douglas knew with a pang that she was lying. Oh, he wasn't sure why she was, but he knew that this story was untrue. He could feel her watching him, waiting. Douglass looked down at his hands. Between them, the red light on the recorder glowed. Finally, Douglass said, well, that's romantic, I guess. He looked up and he saw that she knew that he knew she was lying, but he wasn't going to call her out on it. He would humor her. Claire smiled, smaller, more of a wince. Well, want to know what I think? Before he could protest, she continued, I think they did it that way because it was sweeter. Claire. Douglass laughed, uncomfortable. Come on. No, no, no. Now that we know his true feelings, I think he kissed Ma that way. Because it was the sweetest. Douglas shifted in his chair. You have another question? Do you think it's harder to love other people now that we're grown up. And knowing how much he loved her, Claire said it quickly, breathlessly, as if she'd just discovered something. No. That's it? Just no? You're not gonna elaborate? Claire, I don't want to talk about this with you. I don't think that's true. Douglas started to get up and Claire put her hand on his arm. But I need to get each of our viewpoints about love to have this thing make any sense. Claire, Nia needs the car to get to the dance class. Is that really it? This is what you need? Claire nodded her head vigorously, tucking her chin and opening her eyes wide, a pantomime of an eager little girl. If I were a kinder person, Douglass thought, I would laugh. But he only felt angry with her. He sighed and sat back down and folded his hands one into the other. He was silent. Claire lifted her chin. Her eyes cooled. Now you can say anything, she said. Just make it up if you have to. Douglas stood up and leaned over the table. He put his mouth close to the wire hatching of the microphone. He knew his voice would hurt, amplified through her headphones. He said distinctly, looking at Claire, speaking so clearly that she had to bend her head under the force of his voice. Voice, love is great. It's the greatest thing in the world. I'm glad Ma and Pop had it, and I'm glad that Pop has it. Still, I wish all of Claire's listeners have it, but I especially want my big sister to know that she has it. And then he reached out and pushed the stop button. When she walked into his room, he was alone. He was in bed, a blue knit blanket around his shoulders. Claire set the tape recorder on his tray. Hi, Pop, she said, and he gave her a limp wave of his hand and uninterested, I love Betty. He was focused on a satchel page documentary on the television. She laid the wires for the microphone on the tray. When she pressed the button on the machine, her own voice sprang into the room. It was the part she'd recorded as narration. She had written it in a burst of inspiration, and she could hear the pride in her own voice as the recording played. When my father says I love Betty, it means anything and everything. It means he is hungry or tired or wants the station changed on the television or he is constipated. She liked that last part. It made it sound like she had a sense of humor. The ending line was one she'd recorded a dozen times, trying to get the inflection right. She had wanted it to sound thoughtful and winsome she wanted someone to hear her voice and fall in love with her. She wanted Douglas to hear her voice and love her again. She'd recorded this section in her apartment last night before bed. She'd been in her nightdress, a mug of peach schnapps beside her. For courage. She'd leaned over the tape recorder and said, staring at the red blinking light, willing her mind blank so that the words could be the truest versions of themselves, I love Betty means life. I love Betty means life is always love. Her voice cut off sharply. The red light blinked. The recording was finished. She could stop taping. Ready, Pop? Henry said nothing. He was looking steadily at the television, his eyes darting back and forth, following the plays of a very old game. Pop, what's your name? Silence. Pop, I need you to say your name. For the microphone. She took his chin in her hands and turned his face toward her. He looked her in the eye. I love Betty, he said, and Clare thought with all certainty, so sure, she thought, I love Betty means nothing. Henry moved his eyes from the screen. He was looking into her eyes now, and he said it again. I love Betty. Claire felt her father's weak skin in her hands. She smelt his old man's breath, staler than stale, smelling of flatness and closed spaces, no matter how often he opened his eyes, mouth, no matter how alive the sentences he made with that breath sounded. I love Betty, he said again. Claire couldn't look him in the eye. She put her hand to her father's mouth to stop the sound. She felt her father's tongue wet his lips, insistent, the soft knock of false teeth against her palm as he continued to say into skin, oh, buddy. Always in the present tense, never in the past. It was nonsense to listen to and nonsense to stop it, but she pressed harder against her father's mouth, cupped her other hand gently against the back of his head, pressed until she couldn't feel the words on her hands anymore, only the wet of her father's breath against her knuckles.
- [30:46]
Meg Wolitzer
That was I Love Betty By Caitlin Greenidge Performed by Nathan Hinton I'm Meg Wolitzer. We spoke to Hinton backstage at Symphony Space.
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Nathan Hinton
It seems that the challenge, more than anything physical, is a brother and sister kind of relationship. So trying to figure out a way to have a contentious difference in the siblings is the hardest part, but also the kind of most interesting thing to me as I kind of read the story and work and live through it. A good play, good writing, is not just a ho hum, mediocre moment. It's like a heightened moment that has happened in a day or in someone's life. And I think when you do a short story, you can come right in and it's as if you're entering the world.
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Meg Wolitzer
And are you yourself a sibling?
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Nathan Hinton
I am. I am the youngest of seven. Lots of sibling reverie.
- [31:40]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Nathan Hinton backstage at Symphony Space. Like any great writer, Greenidge doesn't provide us with answers. We decide for ourselves whether Henry's oft repeated three little words sum up his life or simply provide evidence of cognitive decline. But we can agree that of all the things grandparents might repeat over and over, I love Betty feels refreshingly genteel. In a family, everyone has a different experience. In fact, in a family, everyone almost has a different family. So when all is said and done, one family member's interpretation of a cryptic three word phrase may have as much to do with the person hearing it as it does with the person saying it. Without even being aware, we constantly remake what we hear and see and feel through our own subjectivity. When we return, Shirley Jackson turns a spouse into a stranger, and a stranger into a spouse. 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.
- [32:46]
Narrator/Promoter
Okay, I have to tell you, I was just looking on ebay where I
- [32:49]
Meg Wolitzer
go for all kinds of things I love.
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Narrator/Promoter
And there it was.
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Nathan Hinton
That hologram trading card. One of the rarest. The last one I needed for my set.
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Meg Wolitzer
Shiny like the designer handbag of my dreams.
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Santino Fontana
One of a kind.
- [33:00]
Meg Wolitzer
Ebay had it. And now everyone's asking, ooh, where'd you
- [33:04]
Nathan Hinton
get your windshield wipers? Ebay has all the parts that fit my car. No more annoying, just beautiful.
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Meg Wolitzer
Millions of finds, each with a story. EBay, things people love.
- [33:16]
Announcer
We gather here tonight to bring women back to their rightful place.
- [33:21]
Narrator/Promoter
The Testaments. A new Hulu Original Original series from the executive producers of the Handmaid's Tale.
- [33:26]
Meg Wolitzer
It's easier to accept a story than
- [33:28]
Announcer
believe that the people around you are monsters.
- [33:30]
Narrator/Promoter
The battle isn't over.
- [33:31]
Announcer
There comes a time when you have to take action, when you have to choose your own destiny.
- [33:39]
Narrator/Promoter
Watch the new Hulu original series, the Testaments, streaming on Hulu and Hulu on Disney for bundle subscribers terms apply.
- [33:47]
Meg Wolitzer
You know that thing where you get an amazing pair of shoes at a really great price and want to tell everyone about it?
- [33:53]
Nathan Hinton
Yeah.
- [33:53]
Meg Wolitzer
So do we. Here at Designer Shoe Warehouse. We'll give you something to brag about, like the latest styles from brands you love. Or the trends everyone's obsessing over, or shoes that make you feel like, well, you. So go ahead, show off a little. Buying shoes that get you at prices that get your budget. Head to your DSW store or dsw.com today. DSW let us surprise you.
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Announcer
Foreign.
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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. Megwalitzer Our stories today revolve around real world phenomena and their many remakes and replicas. And speaking of secondary properties, did you know Selected Shorts has its own spin off show? That's right. Too Hot for Radio is a podcast hosted by the very funny comic Aparna Nancherla and it features all of the salty, salacious stories we recorded for shorts but can't in good conscience present to a public radio audience. Take a listen. Search for Too Hot for Radio on your favorite streaming service. Or if you're lazy like me, you can also find it right in the Selected Shorts feed. Our final story this hour is by Shirley Jackson. She's well known for novels including the Haunting of Hill House and We have Always Lived in the Castle and for short stories including the Lottery. She's the master of finding the eerie in the everyday, and this story about magic, marriage and motherhood is no exception. The story the Beautiful Stranger is read by Maggie Siff, an actor known for series including Billions and Mad Men. She's also a well established New York stage actor, including a recent Off Broadway run of Orpheus Descending. Now Maggie Siff reads the Beautiful Stranger by Shirley Jackson.
- [36:10]
Announcer
The Beautiful Stranger what might be called the first intimation of strangeness occurred at the railroad station. She had come with her children, Small John and her baby girl to meet her husband when he returned from a business trip to Boston. Because she had been oddly afraid of being late and perhaps even seeming uneager to encounter her husband after a week's separation, she dressed the children and put them into the car at home a long half hour before the train was due. As a result, of course, they had to wait interminably at the station and what was to have been a charmingly staged reunion, family embracing husband and father, became at last an ill timed and awkward performance. Small John's hair was must and he was sticky. The baby was cross, pulling at her pink bonnet and her dainty lace edged dress whining. The final arrival of the train caught them in mid movement, as it were. Margaret was tying the ribbons on the baby's bonnet. Small John was half over the back seat of the car. They scrambled out of the car, cringing from the sound of the train, hopelessly out of sorts, John Sr. Waved from the high steps of the train. Unlike his wife and children, he looked utterly prepared for his return, as though he had taken some pains to secure a meeting, at least painless, and had in fact stood just so, waving cordially from the steps of the train for perhaps as long as half an hour, ensuring that he should not be caught half ready, his hand not lifted so far as to over emphasize the extent of his delight in seeing them again. His wife had an odd sense of lost time. Standing now on the platform with the baby in her arms and Small John beside her, she could not for a minute remember clearly whether he was coming home or whether they were yet standing here to say goodbye to him. They had been quarreling when he left, and she had spent the week of his absence determining to forget that in his presence she had been frightened and hurt. This will be a good time to get things straight, she had been telling herself. While John is gone, I can try and get a hold of myself again. Now, unsure at last whether this was an arrival or a departure, she felt afraid again, straining to meet an unendurable tension. This will not do, she thought, believing that she was being honest with herself. And as he came down the train steps and walked toward them, she smiled, holding the baby tightly against her so the touch of its small warmth might bring some genuine tenderness into her smile. This will not do, she thought, and smiled more cordially and told him hello. As he came to her wondering, she kissed him, and then, when he held his arm around her and the baby for a minute the baby pulled back and struggled, screaming. Everyone moved in anger, and the baby kicked and screamed. No, no, no. What a way to say hello to Daddy, margaret said, and she shook the baby. Half amused and yet grateful for the baby's sympathetic support, John turned to Small John and lifted him, Small John kicking and laughing helplessly. Daddy. Daddy. Small John shouted, and the baby screamed, no, no. Helplessly, because no one could talk with the baby screaming. So they turned and went to the car. When the baby was back in her pink basket in the car and Small John was settled with another lollipop beside her, there was an appalling quiet which would have to be filled as quickly as possible with meaningful words. John had taken the driver's seat in the car while Margaret was quieting the baby, and when Margaret got in beside him, she felt a little chill of animosity at the sight of his hands on the wheel. I Can't bear to relinquish even this much, she thought. For a week no one has driven this car except for me, because she could see so clearly that this was unreasonable. John owned half the car, after all, she said to him with bright interest. And how was your trip? The weather? Wonderful, he said, and again she was angered at the warmth in his tone. If she was unreasonable about the car, he was surely unreasonable to have enjoyed himself quite so much. Everything went pretty well. I'm pretty sure I got the contract. Everyone was very pleasant about it, and I go back in two weeks to settle everything. The stinger is in the tail, she thought. He wouldn't tell it all so hastily if he didn't want me to miss half of it. I'm supposed to be pleased that he got the contract and that everyone was so pleasant. And the part about going back is supposed to slip past me painlessly. Maybe I can go with you then, she said. Your mother will take the children. Fine, he said, but it was much too late. He had hesitated noticeably before he smoked. I want to go too, said Small John. Can I go with Daddy? They came into their house, Margaret carrying the baby and John carrying his suitcase and arguing delightedly with Small John over which of them was carrying the heavy weight of it. The house was ready for them. Margaret had made sure that it was cleaned and emptied of the qualities which attached so surely to her position of wife alone with small children. The toys which Small John had thrown around with unusual freedom were picked up. The baby's clothes. No one, after all, came to call when John was gone, were taken from the kitchen radiator where they had been drying. Aside from the fact that the house gave no impression of waiting for any particular people, but only for anyone well bred and clean enough to fit within its small trim walls. It could have passed for a home, Margaret thought, even for a home where a happy family lived in domestic peace. She set the baby down in the playpen and turned with the baby's bonnet and jacket in her hand and saw her husband, head bent gravely as he listened to Small John. Who, she wondered, is he taller? That is not my husband. She laughed, and they turned to her, Small John curious, and her husband with a quick, bright recognition. She thought, why, it is not my husband, and he knows that I have seen it. There was no astonishment in her. She would have thought perhaps 30 seconds before that such a thing was impossible, but since it was now clearly possible, surprise would have been meaningless. Some other emotion was necessary, but she found at first only peripheral manifestations of one. Her heart was beating violently, her hands were shaking and her fingers were cold. Her legs felt weak, and she took hold of the back of the chair to steady herself. She found that she was still laughing, and then her emotion caught up with her and she knew what it was. It was relief. I'm glad you came, she said. She went over and put her head against his shoulder. It was hard to say hello in the station, she said. Small John looked on for a minute and then wandered off to his toy box. Margaret was thinking, this is not the man who enjoyed seeing me cry. I need not be afraid. She caught her breath and was quiet. There was nothing that needed saying. For the rest of the day she was happy. There was a constant delight in the relief from her weight of fear and unhappiness. It was pure joy to know that there was no longer any residue of suspicion and hatred. When she called him John, she did so demurely, knowing that he participated in her secret amusement. When he answered her civilly, there was, she thought, an edge of laughter behind his words. They seemed to have agreed soberly that mention of the subject would be in bad taste, might even, in fact, endanger their pleasure. They were hilarious. At dinner John would not have made her a cocktail, but when she came downstairs from putting the children to bed, the stranger met her at the foot of the stairs, smiling up at her, and took her arm to lead her into the living room, where the cocktail shaker and glasses stood on the low table before the fire. How nice, she said, happy that she had taken a moment to brush her hair, put on fresh lipstick, happy that the coffee table which she had chosen with John, and the fireplace which had seen so many fires built by John, and the low sofa where John had slept sometimes, had all seemed fair fit to welcome the stranger with grace. She sat on the sofa and smiled at him when he handed her a glass. There was an odd illicit excitement in all of it. She was entertaining a man. The scene was a little marred by the fact that he had given her a martini with neither olive nor onion. It was the way she preferred her martini, and yet he should not have strictly known this, but she reassured herself with the thought that naturally he would have taken some pains to inform himself before coming. He lifted his glass to her with a smile. He is here only because I am here, she thought. It's nice to be here, he said. He had then made one attempt to sound like John in the car coming home after he knew that she had recognized him. For a stranger, he had never made any attempt to say words like coming home or getting back. And of course she could not, not without pointing her lie. She put her hand in his and lay back against the sofa, looking into the fire. Being lonely is worse than anything in the world, she said. You're not lonely now, are you? Going away? Not unless you come too. They laughed at his parody of John. They sat next to each other at dinner. She and John had always sat at formal opposite ends of the table, asking one another politely to pass the salt and the butter. I'm going to put a little set of shelves over there, he said, nodding toward the corner of the dining room. Looks empty here, and it needs things. Symbols like. She liked to look at him. His hair, she thought, was a little darker than John's, and his hands were stronger. This man would build whatever he decided he wanted to build. We need things together, things that we like, both of us. Small, delicate, pretty things. Ivory. With John she would have felt it necessary to remark at once that they could not afford such delicate, pretty things and put a cold finish to the idea. But with the stranger, she said, we'd have to look for them. Not everything would be right. I saw a little creature once, he said, like a tiny little man, only colored all purple and blue and gold. She remembered this conversation. It contained the truth, like a jewel set in the evening. Much later she was to tell herself that it was true. John could not have said these things. She was happy. She was radiant. She had no conscience. He went obediently to his office the next morning, saying goodbye at the door with a rueful smile that seemed to mock the present necessity for doing the things that John always did, and as she watched him go down the walk, she reflected that this was surely not going to be permanent. She could not endure having him gone for so long every day, although she had felt little about parting from John. Moreover, if he kept doing John's things, he might grow imperceptibly more like John. We will simply have to go away, she thought. She was pleased seeing him get into the car. She would gladly share with him, indeed, give him outright all that had been John's so long as he stayed her stranger. She laughed while she did her housework and dressed the baby. She took satisfaction in unpacking his suitcase, which he had abandoned and forgotten in a corner of the bedroom, as though prepared to take it up again and leave if she had not been as he thought her, had not wanted him to stay. She put away his clothes, so disarmingly like John's, and wondered for A minute at the closet. Would there be a kind of delicacy in him about John's things? Then she told herself, no, not so long as he began with John's wife and laughed again. The baby was cross all day, but when small John came home from nursery school, his first question was looking up eagerly, where's Daddy? Daddy has gone to the office. And again she laughed at the moment's quick, sly picture of the insult to John. Half a dozen times during the day she went upstairs the to look at his suitcase and touch the leather softly. She glanced constantly as she passed through the dining room into the corner where the small shelves would be someday, and told herself that they would find a tiny little man, all purple and blue and gold to stand on the shelves and guard them from intrusion. When the children awakened from their naps, she took them for a walk and then away from the house and returned violently to her former lonely pattern. Walk with the children, talk meaninglessly of Daddy, long for someone to talk to in the evening ahead, restrain herself from hurrying home. He might have telephoned. She began to feel frightened again. Suppose she had been wrong? It could not be possible that she was mistaken. It would be unutterably cruel for John to come home tonight. Then she heard the car stop, and when she opened the door and looked up, she thought, no, it is not my husband. With a return of gladness she was aware from his smile that he had perceived her doubts, and yet he was so clearly a stranger that seeing him she had no need of speaking. She asked him instead almost meaningless questions during that evening, and his answers were important only because she was storing them away to reassure herself while he was away, she asked him what was the name of their Shakespeare professor in college, and who is that girl he liked so before he met Margaret? When he smiled and said that he had no idea, but he would not recognize the name if she told him she was in delight. He had not bothered to master all of the past then he had learned enough, the names of the children, the location of the house, how she liked her cocktails to get to her, and after that it was not important because either she would want him to stay or she would, calling upon John, send him away again. What is your favorite food? She asked him. Are you fond of fishing? Did you ever have a dog? Somebody told me today, he said once, that he had heard that I was back from Boston, and I distinctly thought he said that he heard I was dead in Boston. He was lonely too, she thought with sadness, and that is why he came, bringing a Destiny with him Now I will see him come every evening through the door and think, this is not my husband, and wait for him, remembering that I am waiting for a stranger. At any rate, she said, you were not dead in Boston and nothing else matters. She saw him leave in the morning with a warm pride, and she did her housework and dressed the baby. When Small John came home from nursery school, he did not ask, but looked with quick, searching eyes and then sighed. While the children were taking their naps, she thought that she might take them to the park this afternoon. And then the thought of another such afternoon, another long afternoon with no one but the children, another afternoon of widowhood was more than she could submit to. I have done this too much, she thought. I must see something today beyond the faces of my children. No one should be so much alone. Moving quickly, she dressed and set the house to rights. She called a high school girl and asked if she would take the children to the park without guilt. She neglected the small thousand orders regarding the proper jacket for the baby, whether Small John might have popcorn, when to bring them home. She fled, thinking I must be with people. She took a taxi into town because it seemed to her that the only possible thing to do was to seek out a gift for him, her first gift to him. And she thought she would find him perhaps a little creature all blue and purple and gold. She wandered through the strange shops in the town, choosing small, lovely things to stand on the new shelves, looking long and critically at ivories, at small statues, at brightly colored, meaningless, expensive toys suitable for giving to a stranger. It was almost dark when she started home carrying her packages. She looked from the window of the taxi into the dark streets and. And thought with pleasure that the stranger would be home before her and look from the window to see her hurrying to him. He would think, this is a stranger. I am waiting for a stranger, as he saw her coming. Here, she said, tapping on the glass. Right here, driver. She got out of the taxi and paid the driver and smiled as he drove away. I must look well, she thought. The driver smiled back at me. She turned and started for the house and then hesitated. Surely she had come too far. This is not possible, she thought. This cannot be. Surely our house was white. The evening was very dark, and she could see only the houses going in rows, with more rows beyond them and more rose beyond that, and somewhere a house which was hers, with the beautiful stranger inside. And she lost out here.
- [56:18]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Maggie Siff performing Shirley Jackson's story the Beautiful Stranger. I'm Meg Wolitzer, when you break from someone close to you, there can be a sense that perhaps you never really knew them. Leave it to Shirley Jackson to take that idea and make it not wistful or melancholy, but instead exciting and then eventually terrifying. I was reminded of the 1979 horror film when A Stranger Calls, which gave us the catchphrase in reference to a threatening phone call. It's coming from inside the house. And in the case of Shirley Jackson's work, the really good dark stuff is often coming from inside the house too. The beautiful stranger of Jackson's story is the last in a series of substitutions and remakes we've heard about in this hour of stories. But really, all fiction is a kind of replica. People who make stories find something brilliant, wild, or unsettling in the real world, and then they heighten that real world phenomenon on the page, hoping to make it recognizable to the person reading it. Nothing will ever challenge the power of our own individual realities, but maybe crafty little models like the stories which we heard today can recreate just a bit of it. 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 Ruplesky. The readings are recorded by Myles B. Smith. Our programs, presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles, are recorded by Phil Richards. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Dierdorf 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. Hey, if you've ever wanted to do Selected Shorts in your own home, I have a suggestion. I have a novel coming out for kids and since kids do like to be read too, maybe you could read aloud to them from this book. I co wrote it with my son Charlie Panick, and it's one of those scavenger hunt books with a lot of really cool clues in it. Great for ages 7 to 11. That's found sound. Read it aloud. Let your kid read it. Let your grandkid read it, let adults read it. Whatever.
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