Meg Wolitzer (8:13)

Jin Ha performed Umberto Eco's how to Travel with a Salmon. Translated by William Weaver I'm Meg Wolitzer. Who among us cannot sympathize with a story centering around the weird temptation that is the hotel minibar? All those tiny, ridiculously expensive bottles and so, so conveniently located. This is definitely another side of Umberto Eco. Here he isn't exploring the mystery of a 14th century monastery, but instead the perhaps greater mystery of hotel rooms and how they operate from hangers that can't be removed from their rod, to the presence of shoeshine cloths and little folded shower caps in the bathroom, to mints on the pillow as opposed to, say, the night table. Hotel rooms have their rules, but I agree with Eco that the protocol of the minibar is a true peculiarity. I too have been in a similar situation, though instead of a salmon, it was a bottle of baby formula. I mean, I guess the hotel thought, did my baby really need that bottle? As far as they were concerned my 9 month old could have managed just fine on a little Johnnie Walker and a jar of macadamia nuts. Our second work, the Weekend Travelers, moves us into very different territory, although it shares with the Echo story the idea of a simple premise escalating to the point of the bizarre. It's by Elizabeth Spencer, a significant writer of nuanced stories, including the Light in the Piazza, a New Yorker novella adapted for film and stage, and in collections such as the Southern Woman and Starting Over. Reader Campbell Scott's long career includes roles in House of Cards and the Amazing Spider man films, and three Broadway appearances with his mother, Colleen Dewhurst. And here he is with Elizabeth Spencer's the Weekend Travelers.

Campbell Scott (10:11)

The Weekend Travelers it was mid afternoon, hardly later than three, when Anna and Carl came to the house. They were following a sign they had seen by the roadside a mile or so back. Pottery. They were not collectors, but the leafy Vermont roads, cool on this midsummer day, had so far been a pleasure to go along. Winding, rising, gently falling, curving and rising again. They could only lead to pleasurable things, however. The side road, since the sign and the turn off, was little used. It was rutted with weeds grown up so high they concealed the potholes and and rattled beneath the fenders. Something crashed in the undergrowth to their right, running away. They never saw what it was. Some animal, carl summarized, but she thought it was somebody. She thought just now in terms of people being hopeful of pregnancy, though he didn't quite know that. A mile went by, then another, no further sign appeared. Down from Canada on a long weekend holiday, married only a scant year, lovers again that very morning. They both experienced New England as pastoral, with a cool, uncrowded loveliness they remarked on, and were happy just to breathe its air. Maybe the place will be the charm, she thought, babies on her mind. Are you sure this was the right road? I guess we'd better turn back. Which one of them said these things scarcely mattered. They seemed the only thoughts to be had, and so the only things to say. The woods, they noticed as they stopped and wondered how to turn, had got thicker. Stranger, wilder trees had grown to fantastic heights, with long bare trunks and fronded crests that took out large portions of the sky. Close by the road's tracks there was a thick encroachment of sumac and elderberry, tangled with some other bushes Ana couldn't name. Looking down from the car window, Anna judged the growth as masking a declivity of uncertain depth. Now they were stuck for a place to turn. Carl went into gear again and inched forward, hoping for a wider opening. Then at the road's next curve, there it was, the house. It was weather worn, unpainted, with broad steps running up to the porch. A couple of wooden tables displayed pottery. No one was about, not a soul. Carl and Anna Wallens had met at a Montreal business colloquium where the prevailing language was French. Stumbling through a conversation at the social hour that followed, they discovered an absurd truth. They both were fluent in English. He was Polish, born there, but had stayed with relatives in Toronto to attend college. Anna Mendoza, born and reared in Spain, had an English mother and had been sent off to school in the uk. So it started between them. Later it was easy to drop the key off Wolensky. With marriage and rechristening, they had the feeling of rebirth. In Canada, she observed, to Carl, one could be just anybody from anywhere. Iranian or Finnish or Czech. What does it matter? Carl would say. We'll just be from nowhere. Oh, but you must see Spain. Maybe sometime, he would say. Promise? Yes, promise. Anna often wore white, unsuitable for Montreal, but recalling to her the dry hills and flowering courtyards near Jerez. I'll go back someday. So she devoutly thought. At work, Carl was simply Wallens. His slight accent merged with others. For a little while they sat looking at what seemed an empty house. Finally they got out. Now the air was darker, shading toward twilight. From off in the woods behind the house, a little to the left by the sound of it, a dog was howling and barking urgently. Howl, then bark. Bark, then howl. It seemed ready to continue for minutes or hours. But here they were, and there on the porch was pottery. Together they mounted the steps. Knocking at the door, which stood open, brought no one. Within the depths of one large room. They could see more pottery displayed on a banquet sized table filling most of the space between windows and fireplace. Someone came. A girl with an aging plain face, long sand colored hair that looked never to have been either cut or combed. Stained jeans and a man's shirt. Want something? Oh, just to look. We saw your sign. She did not reply. She only waved a hand at the display, then stood there behind the table. Ana picked up a plate. The price, $15 was scrawled on the bottom. Either could have told that neither of them was comfortable here. There was something odd about it, though. What, except for the unkempt road and the raucous dog, it would have pressed them to say. The girl stood looking at a broken fingernail with curiosity, as though it had nothing to do with her. The plate was a grey crater the diameter of a large dinner plate, balanced smooth to the touch in its plain way. Perfect. If you want it, get it, carl said. He looked at the other objects with distaste. They were all marred by clumsy attempts to embellish them, some with animal motifs, Disney like, and some with lettering of the his and her sort, Mary's mug with a funny face beneath Bill's mug, et cetera. There were vases made of upended fish with open mouths, bookends of back to back squirrels, an endless succession of pitchers in every size resembling frogs. Anna decided to buy the plate and leave. Carl had no change for $20, nor did the girl. Carl and Anna made the sum up between them. Do you have many customers? Ana decided on conversation, a humanizing effort. The girl did not glance up, but pulled at the ragged nail. We take a lot of stuff into town so you don't do it all alone here. Oh, no. Out back. The dog abruptly fell silent. The room seemed still as midnight. Well, thanks. Carl and Anna began, as though by common consent to back away, moving toward the door. I'll wrap it, the girl said, coming out of her distraction. It's okay. Ana felt suddenly that any delay in getting out of there was not to be considered. As they reached the car, a noise from the road signaled the arrival of someone else, and before they could turn to leave, a pickup came jolting out of the woods and stopped just behind them. Two men got out. They were bearded, dressed like the girl, only their beards distinguished them from each other, one being black and thick, the other a coppery, thin scraggle needing a trim. They were going past toward the house, scarcely giving a glance. Carl and Anna might have been invisible, not there at all. Excuse me, but you've blocked our way, carl said. He spoke too loudly, in the tone of someone making an arrest. Still they did not look. One of them said, passing up the steps with something like urgency, just in a minute they went inside. The Wallens waited in the car. When insects drifted toward them out of the dusky air, they rolled up the windows. From out back of the house, the dog resumed barking. It was close. In the car, Anna held the plate on her lap. It was rather heavy. Carl finally got out and went up the steps. Ana leaned out the window and saw him banging on the door. You're blocking our way, he called. Hello. We can't get out. There was no answer. The place could have been deserted. It seemed now to be getting later than it actually was. Carl came back down the steps. The damnedest thing he said. Let's try to drive past the truck, Anna suggested. It can't be that impossible. He walked around the pickup and looked into the bushes. Ana got out and looked too. The growth seemed too thick to deal with except with an axe. Perhaps a two man saw a machine for land clearing. She even checked the back of the pickup to see if any of those items were available. She felt that if there had been they would have seized them at once and plunged into clearing the jungle. But nothing was visible except a pile of cloths huddled together like old bedding and several empty crates made of plywood.

Maria Tucci (19:38)

Shit.

Campbell Scott (19:39)

Carl said it with finality. He had started for the steps when the red bearded man emerged from around the corner of the house. He was grinning, reaching in his jeans pocket, evidently for the key. A dog was trailing at his heels. It was a police type dog, small for the breed. It went snuffling as though in an unfamiliar place. Sorry, I just forgot. Carl stepped back, smiling. Now everything was okay. We couldn't get out, he said with a cordial note of understanding. I know, I know. Ramming his hand in one pocket after another. The man began to frown. Hell, I guess he's got it. The key. Yeah, the key. He turned around and moved off. I'll be right back. Won't take a minute. He passed the corner of the house, the dog trailing again. They sat and waited. Damn all this. Carl got out and slammed the door. For some reason she said, don't. I've got to. He began but did not finish. He strode angrily up the steps and into the house. She noticed the wet patches in his black hair as he went away, sweat from irritation, nerves. From the car. Ana heard him calling, hey, we need the key. Hey. She pushed up the blonde gathering of hair from her neck. It was damp from the heat. There was never such a surrounding silence in it. She heard his footsteps stamp through the house to the back, then a slamming door, descending steps, then silence again. She sat in the car and wondered, why am I so frightened? She didn't know, and that was the frightening part. By the time she at last got from the car and walked toward the steps, she had the curious feeling of not knowing her own size. She could have been walking on stilts nine feet tall. She could have been the squashed down height of a midget, just as they had remarked about origins. She could have been not only anybody, but any size of anybody. She mounted the steps as he had done. She passed through the door, the large silent room with the animal pots. She pushed through the back door it gave onto a porch high from the ground, identical with the front, so that except for the display tables, the house could have been swung back to front on a swivel and no difference would have appeared. The backyard stretched out before her, sloping sharply down to an ill kept up fence with a sagging gate standing open. No one was in sight. The sun was moving below the treetops. Anna called Carl by name, but her voice was taken up by the expanse of yard and struck the line of trees and growth just beyond the fence, too faintly even to echo. She tried again, but the echo was meager. Why not go on through the sagging gate? Follow the path into the woods? She shook herself sternly. No. The thing to do was find a telephone inside. Call that number. 911. The police. She didn't know how. The operator. That should be easy. He had been gone too long. But how long? The day was lowering fast, yet her watch showed an early hour. It might have stopped, but did she know? Could she say positively on the phone? She would invent something, exaggerate. She rose. Just then, from the long fall of the woods to the right, she heard voices. The words were indistinguishable. Their rise and fall had the rhythm of a discussion. Their quality seemed male, with only the occasional higher note of what might have been a woman. She called again. Call. She would run down the steps. She would run toward the voices. They stopped suddenly. Ana was standing on the steps. From somewhere in the woods toward the left, the dog began to bark again, then howl. Howl, then bark. Was it the same dog they had seen? Why hadn't it gone where the people were? Will I scream? She wondered halfway up the steps, or halfway down them, as it might equally well be described? Anna sat down. To her surprise, she saw that she had brought along the plate. It rested heavily on her lap. She rubbed her fingers on the smooth grey surface. It felt cool. From nearby, in the woods, a number of birds gathered together, were twittering mildly in a rhythm much like conversation. The sound was soothing because it was so companionable, like questions and answers around a favored child who might be sleeping. The voices began again, and so did the dog, but both had receded to a farther distance than before. The birds seemed nearer. Anna sat quietly on the steps, listening. A small eternity caught and held as strong as life or death. The key fell among the leaves, said the birds. They are searching for it. The dog is barking at a squirrel. Soon he will go to them. They will all come back to you. Wait and see. Wait, See.

Meg Wolitzer (25:14)

Campbell Scott read Elizabeth Spencer's the Weekend Travelers. I'm Meg Wolitzer. This story is compelling and petrifying in the tradition of Shirley Jackson. It pulls us right in and won't let us go. And Campbell Scott is a gift that Martha Graham used to call the divine normal, able to make ordinary something vulnerable and compelling. Yes, I'm talking to you now in my role as a confident host. And you're listening to me while you chop tomatoes for your summer salad. But we're both still in that cabin, waiting. I found this story truly frightening. Then again, I am someone who finds signs for roadside pottery kind of frightening, too. I remember being a kid and waiting in the car with my father and sister while my mother went into a stranger's house to go to a tag sale. A term that I didn't understand, but which at least wasn't as troubling to me as flea market, another one of her frequent destinations at the time. Elizabeth Spencer's story captures the way the mundane can transform into something unknown and and possibly life changing. After the break, we travel to the top of the Eiffel Tower and fight off Roman Fever with Edith Wharton. You're listening to selected shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide.

Nature's Bounty (26:27)

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Maria Tucci (26:58)

The McDonald's snack wrap is back. You brought it back. Ranch Snack Wrap. Spicy snack wrap. You broke the Internet for a snack? Snack Wrap is back.

Meg Wolitzer (27:34)

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. As we said earlier, this show reflects some of the delights of summer. And of course, high on the list of summer pleasures is summer reading. Now, you may be one of those ambitious people who saves that big fat book, whether War and Peace finally or the latest bestseller for summer. But if you'd like something a bit shorter and would like to leave the reading to our exceptional company of actors. Just go to our website selectedshorts.org for our latest shows, past episodes, interviews and more. Because who wants to carry around War and peace when it's 100 degrees out? Our third story is by the quirky writer Ben Lurie. His stories can be counted on to start in the everyday and wind up somewhere a little fantastical, like, say, the Eiffel Tower. Reading the man, the Restaurant and the Eiffel Tower is Stana Kotick, best known for her work on the rom com crime show Castle Absentia and a trio of Justice League films. Now she takes us to France.

Ben Lurie (28:50)

The man, the Restaurant, and the Eiffel Tower There once was a man who loved the Eiffel Tower. He loved it more than anything in the world. He had pictures of it up all over his walls. He had books about it and little statues. He even had a recording he loved to listen to that consisted of various celebrities describing the first time they'd ever seen the Eiffel Tower. Yet the man himself had never been to Paris. Why? Because the man had this restaurant. It had been in his family for generations. The man's father had run it and his father before him. And now it was the man's turn. And he was worried. He was worried that if he went away, the restaurant would go out of business. So he stayed there all day, every day throughout the year. And the Eiffel Tower never got his visit. But then one day, it was on the morning of his 40th birthday. The man found something on the kitchen table. It was a round trip ticket in his name to Paris. Surprise, said his children. Happy birthday. But, said the man, I can't go to Paris. I can't go see the Eiffel Tower. You know, I can't possibly leave the restaurant. I can't accept this, though, really, I do appreciate it. But then the man's children explained their whole plan. The man would take the plane to Paris and they would stay home and run the restaurant. Wasn't it the best birthday present ever? But you don't know how to run a restaurant. The man said, of course we do, dad. His children said, we've been watching you for years. We know everything. We know it all. And finally, in the end, he was persuaded. So the man went to Paris and had the time of his life. He climbed to the top of the Eiffel Tower. He stood there looking out at that beautiful skyline. Wow, he kept saying in his mind. And all the way home, the man thought about his children. How nice they were, how grand, how they turned out so well, how they loved him so much. But when he arrived, he was in for a shock. It turned out the restaurant had gone completely under. We're really sorry, dad, his children said. We tried really hard. Really we did. I guess we didn't know as much as we thought we did. The man was crushed. He thought about his father and his father before him, and he cried. All those generations of working, enslaving, all that restaurateering down the drain. But how could it even be possible, the man thought. How could it have happened like this? The man stood and stared at the ground in confusion. And what will I do now? He said. So the man went home and sat in his chair. Can we get you anything, dad? His children said. No, said the man. I think I'll just sit here and sit. There was just what he did. But after a while the man started to get bored of just sitting there, staring into space. He looked around a bit. He saw the pictures on the walls. He saw the little statues on the shelves. And the man got up and put on his record of various celebrities talking about the Eiffel Tower. Then he walked to the window and stood there looking out. And he thought about the skyline of Paris. And now, today, everything is fine. The man has a brand new restaurant. It's not in the same town or even the same country. It's at the top of the Eiffel Tower. It's a beautiful little place, tasteful and clean, romantically lit and very cozy. People come up hungry and go down full, a little tipsy, and always very happy. One thing is the same. The celebrity recording. The man still plays it all day long. The only difference now is the man talks along, or sings, rather, as though it were a song. His children are there too. They work in the kitchen. On their breaks they stand admiring the view. Do you think we should tell dad? They say to one another. And finally, on Bastille Day, they do.

Meg Wolitzer (34:28)

Stana Kotick performed. The man, the Restaurant and the Eiffel Tower. By Ben Lurie this is a charming story, in part because it involves a whole family and because it reminds us to dream big. I can't say I ever did anything for my parents remotely like what the kids in this story did for their father. And I regret it. Which isn't to say it's too late for my kids to do something like this for me. And if they happen to be listening to the show, Paris is nice. And Rome is pretty great, too. I'm not sure if the Colosseum has its own restaurant but that could be a good idea. I'm picturing a casual place with al fresco dining, maybe a few gladiators. Our final work, reflecting on summer pleasures and unusual summer getaways, is by Edith Wharton. This elegant socialite wrote about people within the constrained boundaries of her own class, making all the more powerful the emotional upheavals beneath the veneers. Roman Fever, a tale of early 20th century frenemies, is a perfect example, and it's beautifully executed by Maria Tucci, who is known primarily for her stage work on and off Broadway in such plays as the Rose Tattoo, the Night of the Iguana, and Collected Stories. Here she is to take you to Rome.

Maria Tucci (35:47)

From the table at which they'd been lunching, two American ladies of ripe but well cared for middle age moved across the lofty terrace of the Roman restaurant and, leaning on its parapet, looked first at each other and then down on the outspread glories of the Palatine and the Forum. With the same expression of vague but benevolent approval. They both contemplated the view in silence, with a sort of diffused serenity which might have been borrowed from the spring effulgence of the Roman skies. The luncheon hour was long past, and the two had their end of the vast terrace to themselves at its opposite extremity. A few groups, detained by a lingering look at the outspread city, were gathering up guide books and fumbling for tips. The last of them scattered, and the two ladies were alone on the air washed height. Well, I don't see why we shouldn't just stay here, said Mrs. Slade, a lady of high color and energetic brows. Two derelict basket chairs stood near, and she pushed them into the angle of the parapet and settled herself in one, her gaze upon the Palatine. After all, it's still the most beautiful view in the world. It always will be to me, assented her friend Mrs. Ansley. It's a view we'd both been familiar with for a good many years. When we first met here. We were younger than our girls are now. You remember? Oh, yes, I remember, murmured Mrs. Ansley. There's the head waiter. Wondering, she interpolated. She was evidently far less sure than her companion of herself and of her rights in the world. I'll cure him of wandering, said Mrs. Slade, signing to the head waiter. She explained that she and her friend were old lovers of Rome and would like to spend the end of the afternoon looking down on the view. The head waiter, bowing over her gratuity, assured her that the ladies were most welcome and would be still more so if they would condescend to remain for dinner, a full moon night, they would remember. Mrs. Slade's black brows drew together as though references to the moon were out of place and even unwelcome. But she smiled away her frown as the head waiter retreated. Well, why not? We might do worse. There's no knowing, I suppose, when the girls will be back. Do you even know? Back from where? I don't. Mrs. Ansley colored slightly. I think those young Italian aviators we met at the embassy invited them to fly to Tarquinia for tea. I suppose they'll want to wait and fly back by moonlight. Moonlight? Moonlight. What a part it still plays. Do you suppose they're as sentimental as we were? I've come to the conclusion that I don't in the least know what they are, said Mrs. Ansley. And perhaps we didn't know much more about each other. No, perhaps we didn't. Her friend gave her a shy glance. I never should have supposed you were sentimental, Alida. Well, perhaps I wasn't. Mrs. Slade drew her lids together in retrospect, and for a few moments the two ladies who had been intimate since childhood reflected how little they knew each other. Each one, of course, had a label ready to attach to the other's name. Mrs. Delphin Slade, for instance, would have told herself or anyone who asked her that Mrs. Horace Ansley, 25 years ago had been exquisitely lovely. No, you wouldn't believe it, would you? Though of course. Still charming, distinguished. Well, as a girl she had been exquisite. Far more beautiful than her daughter Barbara, though certainly Babs, according to the new standards, at any rate, was more effective, had more edge, as they say. Funny where she got it with those two nullities as parents. Yes, Horace Ansley was, well, just the duplicate of his wife. Museum specimens of old New York. Good looking, irreproachable, exemplary. Mrs. Slade and Mrs. Ansley had lived opposite each other, actually as well as figuratively, for years when the drawing room curtains in no. 20 East 73rd street were renewed. Number 23 across the way was always aware of it and of all the movings, buyings, travels, anniversaries, illnesses, the tame chronicle of inestimable pair. Little of it escaped Mrs. Slade, but she had grown bored with it by the time her husband made his big coup in Wall street and when they bought in Upper Park Avenue had already begun to think. I'd rather live opposite a speakeasy for a change. At least one might see it raided. A few years later and not many months apart, both ladies lost their Husbands. There was an appropriate exchange of wreaths and condolences. And a brief renewal of intimacy in the half shadow of their mourning. And now, after another interval, they had run across each other in Rome at the same hotel. Each of them the modest appendage of a salient daughter. The similarity of their lot had again drawn them together. Lending itself to mild jokes and the mutual confession that if in the old days it must have been tiring to keep up with daughters. It was now at times a little dull. Not to, Mrs. Slade reflected. No doubt she felt her unemployment more than poor Grace ever would. It was a big drop from being the wife of Delphin Slade. To being his widow. As the wife of the famous corporation lawyer. Always with an international case or two on hand. Every day brought its exciting and unexpected obligations. The impromptu entertainings of eminent colleagues from abroad. The hurried dashes on legal business to London, Paris or Rome. The amusement of hearing in her wake. What that handsome woman with the good clothes and the eyes is. Mrs. Slade. The Slade's wife. Really? Generally the wives of celebrities are such frumps. Yes, being the Slade's widow was a dullish business after that. Now there was nothing left but to mother her daughter. And dear Jenny was so such a perfect daughter. That she needed no excessive mothering now with Babs Ansley. I don't know that I should be so quiet, Mrs. Slade sometimes half enviously reflected. But Jenny, who was younger than her brilliant friend. Was that rare accident. An extremely pretty girl who somehow made youth and prettiness seem as safe as their absence. It was all perplexing, and to Mrs. Slade, a little boring. She wished that Jenny would fall in love with the wrong man. Even that she might have to be watched, outmaneuvered, rescued. And instead it was Jenny who watched her mother. Kept her out of drafts, made sure that she'd taken her tonic. Mrs. Ansley was much less articulate than her friend. And her mental portrait of Mrs. Slade was slighter and drawn with fainter touches. Alida Slade's awfully brilliant, but not as brilliant as she thinks, would have summed it up. Though she would have added, for the enlightenment of strangers. That Mrs. Slade had been an extremely dashing girl. Much more so than her daughter, who was pretty, of course, and clever in a way. But had none of her mother's. Well, vividness, someone had once called it. Sometimes Mrs. Ansley thought Alida Slade was disappointed. On the whole, she'd had a sad life. Full of failures and mistakes. Mrs. Ansley had always been rather sorry for her so these two ladies visualized each other, each through the wrong end of their little telescope. For a long time they continued to sit side by side without speaking. Like many intimate friends, the two ladies had never before had occasion to be silent together, and Mrs. Ansley was slightly embarrassed by what seemed, after so many years, a new stage in their intimacy, and one with which she did not yet know how to deal. She settled herself in her chair and almost furtively drew forth her knitting. Mrs. Slade took sideways note of this activity, but her own beautifully cared for hands remained motionless on her knee. I was just thinking, she said slowly, what different things Rome stands for. To each generation of travelers, to our grandmothers, Roman fever. To our mothers, sentimental dangers. How we used to be guarded. To our daughters, no more dangers than the middle of Main Street. They don't know it, but how much they're missing. The long golden light was beginning to pale, and Mrs. Ansley lifted her knitting a little closer to her eyes. Yes, how we were guarded. I always used to think, Mrs. Slade continued, that our mothers had a much more difficult job than our grandmothers. When Roman fever stalked the street, it must have been comparatively easy to gather in the girls at the danger hour. But when. When you and I were young, with such beauty calling us and the spice of disobedience thrown in, and no worse risk than catching cold during the cool hour after sunset. The mothers used to be put to it to keep us in, didn't they? She turned again toward Mrs. Ansley, but the latter had reached a delicate point in her knitting. One, two, three, slip two. Yes, yes, they must have been, she assented without looking up. Mrs. Slade's eyes rested on her with a deepened attention. She can knit in the face of this. How like her. Mrs. Slade leaned back, brooding, her eyes ranging from the ruins which faced her to the outlying immensity of the Colosseum. Suddenly she thought, it's all very well to say that our girls have done away with sentiment and moonlight, but if Babs Ansley isn't out to catch that young aviator, the one who's a marchese, then I don't know anything. And Jenny, who has no chance beside her. I know that too. I wonder if that's why Grace Ansley likes the two girls to go everywhere together. My poor Jenny as a foil. Mrs. Slade gave a hardly audible laugh, and at the sound Mrs. Ansley dropped her knee. Yes? Oh, nothing. I was only thinking how your Babs carries everything before her. That Campoglieri boys, one of the best matches in Rome. Oh, don't look so innocent, my dear. You know he is. And I was wondering, ever so respectfully, you understand. Wondering how two such exemplary characters as you and Horace had managed to produce anything quite so dynamic. Mrs. Slade laughed again with a touch of asperity. Mrs. Ansley echoed her laugh in a faint murmur. Perhaps is an angel, too. Oh, of course, of course. But she's got rainbow wings. Well, they're wandering by the sea with their young men, and here we sit. And it all brings back the past just too acutely. Mrs. Slade turned and laid her hand on her friend's arm. Gesture was so abrupt that Mrs. Ansley looked up, startled. The sunset. You're not afraid, my dear? Afraid? Oh, of Roman fever. Pneumonia. I remember how ill you were that winter as a girl. You had a very delicate throat, hadn't you? Oh, we were all right up here. Down below in the Forum. It does get deathly cold all of a sudden. But not here. Ah, of course, you know, because you had to be so careful. Mrs. Slade turned back to the parapet. Whenever I look at the Forum from up here, I remember that story about a great aunt of yours. Wasn't she a dreadfully wicked great aunt? Oh, yes. Great Aunt Harriet. The one who was supposed to have sent her young sister out into the Forum after sunset to gather a night blooming flower for her album. All our great aunts and grandmothers used to have albums of dried flowers. Mrs. Slade nodded. But she really sent her because they were in love with the same man. Well, that was a family tradition, they said. Aunt Harriet confessed it years afterward. At any rate, the poor little sister caught the fever and died. Mother used to frighten us with the story when we were children. And you frightened me with it. That winter when you and I were here as girls, the winter I was engaged to Delphin. Mrs. Ansley gave a faint laugh. Did I really? I. I frightened you? I. I don't believe you're easily frightened. Oh, not often, but I was then. I was easily frightened because I was too happy. I wonder if you know what that means. I. Oh, yes. Mrs. Ansley faltered. Well, I suppose that was why the story of your wicked aunt made such an impression on me. And I thought, there's no more Roman fever. But the Forum is deathly cold after sunset, especially after a hot day. And the Colosseum's even colder and damper. The Coliseum. Yes. Wasn't easy to get in after the gates were locked for the night. Far from easy. Still, in those days it could be managed. It was managed. Often lovers met there who Couldn't meet elsewhere. You knew that. I dare say. I don't remember. You don't remember? You don't remember going to visit some ruin or other one evening just after dark and catching a bad chill? You were supposed to have gone to see the moon rise. People always said that expedition was what caused your illness. There was a moment's silence. Then Mrs. Ansley rejoined. Did they? Was all so long ago. Yes. And you got on. You got well again, so it didn't matter. But I suppose it struck your friends. The reason given for your illness, I mean. Because everybody knew you were so prudent on account of your throat. And your mother took such care. Care of you. You had been out late sightseeing, hadn't you, that night? Oh, perhaps I had. The most prudent girls aren't always prudent. What made you think of it now? Mrs. Slade seemed to have no answer ready. But after a moment she broke out. Because I simply can't bear it any longer. Mrs. Anthony lifted her head quickly. Her eyes were wide and very pale. Can't bear what? Why you're not knowing that I've always known why you went. Why I went? Yes. You think I'm bluffing, don't you? Well, you went to meet the man I was engaged to. And I can repeat every word of the letter that took you there. While Mrs. Slade spoke, Mrs. Ansley had risen unsteadily to her feet. Her bag, her knitting and gloves slid in a panic stricken head to the ground. She looked at Mrs. Slade as though she were looking at a ghost. No, no, no, don't. She faltered. Out. Why not? Listen, if you don't believe me, my one darling, things can't go on like this. I must see you alone. Come to the Coliseum immediately after dark tomorrow. There will be somebody to let you in. No one whom you need fear will suspect. But perhaps you've forgotten what the letter said. Mrs. Ansley met the challenge with an unexpected composure. Steadying herself against the chair, she looked at her friend and replied, no, I know it by heart, too. And the signature? Only your DS was that it? I'm right, am I? Mrs. Ansley was still looking at her. It seemed to Mrs. Slade that a slow struggle was going on behind the voluntary, controlled mask of her small, quiet face. I shouldn't have thought she had herself so well in hand, Mrs. Slade reflected almost resentfully. But at this moment, Mrs. Ansley spoke. I don't know how you knew I burnt that letter at once. Yes, you would. Naturally. You're so prudent the sneer was open now. And if you burnt the letter, you're wondering how on earth I know what was in it. That's it, isn't it? Mrs. Slade waited, but Mrs. Ansley did not speak. Well, my dear, I know what was in that letter because I wrote it. You wrote it? Yes. The two women stood for a minute, staring at each other in the last golden light. Then Mrs. Ansley dropped back into her chair. Oh, she murmured. Oh. And covered her face with her hands. Mrs. Slade waited nervously for another word or movement. None came, and at length she broke out. I horrify you. Mrs. Ansley's hands dropped to her knee. The face they uncovered was streaked with tears. I wasn't thinking of you. I was thinking it was the only letter I ever had from him. And I wrote it. Yeah, I wrote it. But I was the girl he was engaged to. Did you happen to remember that? Mrs. Ansley's head drooped again. I'm not trying to excuse myself. I remembered. And still you went. Mrs. Slade stood looking down on the small figure bowed at her side. The flame of her wrath had already sunk, and she wondered why she had ever thought there would be any satisfaction in inflicting so purposeless a wound on her friend. But she had to justify herself. You do understand. I'd found out I hated you. Hated you. I knew you were in love with Delphin and I was afraid. I was afraid of you, of your quiet ways, your sweetness, your. Well, I wanted you out of the way, that's all. Just for a few weeks. Just till I was sure of him. So, in a blind fury, I wrote that letter. I don't know why I'm telling you this now. I suppose, said Mrs. Ansley slowly. It's because you've always gone on hating me. Oh, perhaps. Or because I wanted to get the whole thing off my mind. She paused. I'm glad you destroyed the letter, of course. I never thought you'd die. Mrs. Ansley relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Slade was conscious of a strange sense of isolation, of being cut off from the warm current of human communion. You think me a monster? I don't know. I. It was the only letter I had. And you say he didn't write it. Oh, how you care for him still. I cared for that memory, said Mrs. Ansley. Mrs. Slade continued to look down on her. She seemed physically reduced by the blow. Mrs. Slade's jealousy suddenly leapt up again at the sight. All these years, the woman had been living on that letter. How must she have loved him to treasure the mere memory of its ashes. The letter of the man her friend was engaged to, wasn't it? She was the monster. You tried your best to get him away from me, didn't you? But you failed. I kept him. That's all. Yes, that's all. I wish now I hadn't told you. I had no idea you'd feel about it as you do. I thought you'd be amused. It all happened so long ago, as you say. And you must do me the justice to remember that. I had no reason to think you'd ever take it seriously. How could I, when you were married to Horace Ansley? Two months afterward, as soon as you could get out of bed, your mother rushed you off to Florence and married you. People were rather surprised. They wondered it was being done so quickly. But I thought I knew. I had an idea. You did it out of pique to be able to say you'd got ahead of Delphin and me. Girls have such silly reasons for doing the most serious things. And your marrying so soon convinced me that you'd never really cared. Yes, I suppose it would. Mrs. Ansley assented. The corner where Mrs. Slade and Mrs. Ansley sat was still shadowy and deserted. For a long time, neither of them spoke. At length, Mrs. Slade began again. I suppose I did it as a sort of joke. A joke? Well, girls are ferocious sometimes, you know. Girls in love especially. And I remember laughing to myself all that evening at the idea that you were waiting around there in the dark, dodging out of sight, listening for every sound, trying to get in. Of course I was upset when I heard you were so ill. Afterward, Mrs. Ansley had not moved for a long time, but now she turned slowly toward her companion. But I didn't wait. He'd arranged everything. He was there. We were let in at once, she said. Mrs. Slade sprang up from her leaning position. Delphin there. They let you in. Oh, now you're lying. She burst out with violence. Mrs. Ansley's voice grew clearer and full of surprise. But of course he was there. Naturally, he came. Came? How did he know he'd find you there? You must be raving. Mrs. Ansley hesitated, as though reflecting. But I answered the letter. I told him I'd be there, so he came. Mrs. Slade flung her hands up to her face. Oh, God, you answered. I never thought of your answering. It's odd you never thought of it if you wrote the letter. Yes, I was blind with rage. Mrs. Ansley rose and drew her fur scarf about her. It is cold here. We'd better go. I'm sorry for you, she said as she clasped the fur about her throat. The unexpected words sent a pang through Mrs. Slade. Yes, we'd better go. She gathered up her bag and cloak. I don't know why you should be sorry for me, she muttered. Mrs. Ansley stood looking away from her toward the dusky secret mass of the Colosseum. Well, because I didn't have to wait that night. Mrs. Slade gave an unquiet laugh. Yes, I was beaten there. But I oughtn't to begrudge it to you, I suppose at the end of all these years. After all, I had everything. I had him for 25 years, and you had nothing but that one letter that he didn't write. Mrs. Ansley was again silent. At length she turned toward the door of the terrace. She took a step and turned back, facing her companion. I had Barbara, she said.

Meg Wolitzer (59:09)

Maria Tucci performed Edith Wharton's Roman Fever. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Talk about a literary coup de grace. That last devastating line is so quietly powerful we can't quite be sure we've heard it, and immediately we are right there with them, reliving their whole lives where their whole lives started. I always thought O. Henry had the corner on the surprise ending market, but then in college a friend thrust Roman Fever at me and told me I had to read it. And from then on, whenever we wanted to allude to the kind of writing that just knocks you out, we did it in a three word code. I had Barbara, now reunited after such a long time with this story and its amazing ending. I am as thrilled as ever. We hope we've demonstrated that summer is not just about idleness and sunscreen. Depending on your path, it can lead to absurdity, mystery, dreams realized, and delusions dashed. I have to leave you now because I have a sudden urge to write a story that contains all these elements, and I need to put on more sunscreen. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Myles B. Smith. Our programs, presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles, are recorded by Phil Richards. Our mix engineer for this episode was Jennifer Nolsen. 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 the 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.

AllModern (61:13)

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