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Selected Shorts
Unwrapping the Holidays
00:58:06
Meg Wolitzer presents three unexpected stories that let us see the holidays’ associations—family, friends, food, gifts, and goodwill—in different ways. Amy Krouse Rosenthal presents a playful encounter with the Almighty in “Interview with God,” performed by Jayne Atkinson and James Naughton. In Sherrie Flick’s “Heidi is Dead,” read by Adina Verson, a second wife tries to tune in with her in-laws. And John Cheever’s “Christmas is a Sad Season for the Poor” is a richly comic and warmhearted look at giving and receiving. Teagle F. Bougere reads.
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Hi, I'm Meg Wolitzer. Before we begin, a quick reminder that Selected Shorts relies on the support of listeners like you. If this show has ever kept you company on a long walk, made sitting in traffic feel like a treat, or given you that sudden, wonderful urge, read more. Please consider making a donation. Your support helps us bring great stories to life every week. You can give@practifiedshorts.org support. Thank you. There's an art to both giving and receiving, and every holiday season offers us a new opportunity to understand generosity and gratitude. I'm Meg Wolitzer, and on this episode of Selected Shorts, fiction that delivers new lessons about doormen, in laws, even a higher power. Stay tuned. You're listening to Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction one short story at a time. It's easy to get swept up in the holidays. The season brings with it so many appealing associations, family food, a selfless concern for fellow humans, and plenty of traditions involving candles, trees, songs, stories, and of course, gifts. Speaking of gifts, my sister and I were never given Barbie dolls by our parents. I think it had something to do with the merits of not having something everyone else had instead of Barbie. We were once given Barbie's younger sister Skipper, and as a result I went into therapy over it years later, but not with the therapist everyone else went to. Instead, I saw her younger sister. She was cheaper and nicer, and her office was in an actual office building and not in a dream house. The holiday season offers a true break from the norm. We remove ourselves from the day to day grind and try to see people in a new light. The morals of holiday stories are usually simple ones, but like New Year's resolutions, they're difficult to keep acting on once January rolls around. At which point you're already busy starting to break those New Year's resolutions. You just made. So on this selected shorts, we're going to hear stories that reveal new aspects of the holidays, ones that may not be apparent when just reading A Christmas Carol for the millionth time. The stories on this show run the gamut in terms of subject matter, though they all connect with the holiday spirit in some way. Our first tale offers nothing less than the higher power saying ama or Ask me anything. Our second story is about the challenge of fitting in with someone else's family. And our final piece, a classic by John Cheever, brings us a doorman in a fancy apartment building who discovers the grand possibilities of charity. The first story that will help us see the holidays in a new light is by the late Amy Krauss Rosenthal. Rosenthal was the author of children's books, including I Wish youh More and a memoir, Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life. She also wrote an unforgettable essay for the New York Times Modern Love column. It's easy enough for you to Google. I just don't want to get you crying before our show even starts. But she was wonderful. This short piece, Interview with God, is exactly what it sounds an imagined meeting between an interviewer and the Almighty. That is, if the Almighty gave off Martha Stewart mixed with Mel Brooks vibes. The interviewer is played by Tony Award winner James Naughton, known for musicals including Chicago and recent series including and Just like that. And God is played by Jane Atkinson, who is a thoughtful presence on shows from House of Cards to Criminal Minds. It's worth mentioning if the references to Macy Gray and Dimpled Ballots don't tip you off that the story was written in the early aughts. Now here are Jane Atkinson and James Naughton performing Interview with God by Amy Kraus Rosenth.
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D
Wow, this is really so kind of you. I can't get over it. Let me just start out by saying that I've been a fan of your work for a very long time.
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E
Well, thank you, Jimmy.
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D
I guess. Now, the first question I have, and I think I speak for the masses here, are you. I mean, there's always been a question of gender. Are you a male or female? And no offense because you always look great either way.
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Female.
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I knew it. I knew it.
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I knew there was something I really liked about God. This is fantastic. And do you have a husband or a beau?
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There is someone, a nice Jewish boy. But I don't want to say any more. You know, when you talk about it, it's sort of demeans the specialness of the relationship, I think.
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D
Well, I guess. Yeah. Oh, okay. Listen let's talk for a minute about the great miracle that happened here. That was really something, you know, you must be really proud of that work.
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E
Oh, thank you.
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Yes.
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I guess having oil burned for eight days was pretty impressive.
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D
Oh, yeah.
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But I felt the Maccabees deserved a break with that dreadful king and all. You know, one of the things the poor Maccabees hated the most about the Syrians was that they kept calling them Jujubes.
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Ah.
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E
You know, after those little. You know, those little chewy candies.
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D
Yeah, I used to like those.
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E
Yeah, the Maccabees hated that. Personally, I thought it was, you know, a pretty clever nickname. Jujubees.
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Yeah. So what does your menorah look like?
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Well, first of all, for the record, I originally named it Womanora.
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Ah.
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But somewhere along the line, the male powers changed it to men aura. Anyway, years ago, I made my first woman aura out of a small piece of wood and glued little metal nuts on it for candles.
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Oh, that's fascinating. Now, here's another question. Where do you live exactly, in heaven?
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Well, you know, it's rent control. I got lucky.
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Yeah. And what's it like there in heaven?
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Oh, it's soft and fluffy and white. And you people were right about the harp thing. 24 hours a day. Harp, harp, harp. Can you imagine? I mean, I thought I was gonna lose my mind. So I'm so glad you came up with the Internet because now I download from my Napster right now. Moby and Macy Gray are my favorites. Ah, speaking of the Internet, you. If you like that one click shopping option, just wait. You'll get one click child rearing and one click brisket coming real soon.
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A more serious question.
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Yes?
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This is a big one.
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Okay.
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Why do we have to die? Why can't we live forever like you?
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Why?
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Why? Why would you want to live forever? That was never the plan. A good 80 years and boom, out. Always better to leave the Hanukkah party while you're still having fun before the Shamma's candle burns out.
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Whoa, now here's another big one.
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War.
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I mean, why?
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Well, I hate to say this, this is gonna sound simply awful, but ratings. It's good for ratings. But please understand one thing. Peace was something you all created. It's not actually possible as far as I'm concerned. I mean, you fight over who supposedly I like better. You fight over dimpled ballots. You fight over lounge chairs at the beach resorts. It's ugly, but it's natural. Peace is a beautiful, beautiful, unrealistic theory, but it sure. Makes for great concerts. Remember that big one in the 60s? What did you call that?
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Woodstock?
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Yes, that's it.
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Yeah.
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That was lovely.
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All right. Now, the one question, the one question that has baffled us since, well, really since forever. Hanukkah. 1k or 2ch or just h?
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You know, Jim, that's the one thing I just can't keep straight. Either I end up spelling it differently from one Hanukkah card to the next.
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Oh, well, all right. Well, at least tell us this. Why are we here? Oh, I mean, what's the meaning of it all?
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Ah, well, relationships. Feeling your child's tiny palm against your cheek, walking in the rain and feeling pleasantly sad. Hot latkes with cold applesauce.
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Well, thank you, God. It has been a profound pleasure. Thank you very much.
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Well, thank you for having me. And happy Hanukkah, everybody.
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That was Jane Atkinson and James Naughton bringing you an interview with God by Amy Kraus Rosenthal. They tell you never to meet your heroes, but in that case, seems like it worked out okay. If God did one of those junkets that movie stars do when they're promoting a new film and I was granted five minutes, what would I ask? I think I might try to find out about all the unsolved murders and missing person cases I've devoted a lot of time to. I would say, God, please tell me what really happened. Or at the very least, please extend my life by the amount of time I I have given over to true crime books and podcasts and documentary series that turn out to have frustratingly ambiguous endings. It seems only fair. No? Next we're going to hear a piece by Sheri Flick. Flick is the author of the novel Reconsidering Happiness and story collections, including thank youk Lucky Stars. She's also a lover of the condensed narrative style known as flash fiction, and she co edited the anthology Flash Fiction America. The title of this piece, heidi is Dead, may not sound like your typical heartwarming holiday tale, and, well, like the rest of our stories this hour, it is atypical. It's about families, the ones you choose and the ones you don't, and how to make the best of a season in which you might be stuck with one or the other. The story is read by Adina Verson, an actor who's appeared in series including Only Murders in the Building and the Broadway production of Indecent. Here she is finding light and levity in the uncomfortable circumstances of Heidi Is Dead by Sheri Flick.
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Heidi is dead. The car that ran over Heidi didn't even put on its brakes, let alone pull to the curb. Instead, it signaled right onto Lexington Street. Heidi was a puppy and a worried bloody smear on the slushy road that evening, Christmas Eve, and even though I had suspected the night with the in laws might be strange, I hadn't imagined anything like this the year before. The worst thing had been the blow up when Ted accused Sue of cheating at Pictionary and Sue breaking into tears as she threw the plastic hourglass at Ted. By some miracle of physics, the tiny hourglass hit Mary's beveled glass mirror and cracked it. That's the kind of luck this family has. Mary cried too as she hit Ted over the head with a blue throw pillow from her couch. The pillow had delicate tassels hanging from each corner. They bobbed and weaved a crazy belly dance as Mary banged and pushed against my husband's head. These people are in their 30s and 40s. I married late into the family. Everyone seems to know how to handle these outbursts except me. I sit back and watch, start smiling, forget to swallow when the puppy Heidi got run over. The full and extended family blubbered and snorted and I stood mid dining room holding a case of beer with an inappropriate grin on my face. Bottled beer. Kind of heavy. It seemed insensitive of me, but I knew if I set the box down, one niece or another would come sniffling into my arms. I remained the only dry eyed person in the room. Even Frank, the patriarch, wedged into Sue's recliner in front of the tv, dabbed one eye and then the other, honking his nose with a big red hanky. Frank, the big burly father, used to beat the shit out of all the kids. Now no one except Ted seems to remember this these days. Frank is very old. It's hard for me to imagine the growling, larger than life monster Ted describes lumbering through their childhood home. Mostly Frank stays in the recliner. Frank bellowed, I'll get you a new dog from my own pocket. Full price. You'll see. I'll pay. You need a dog for those girls. Here is what confused me. This family already had a dog, Bucky. A big fluffy dog. A nice dog that everyone ignored. She came up and licked one of my hands. I clutched the beer box and said in my high pitched dog voice, good doggie. Yes, I see you. Yes I do. And she seemed to smile as she wagged her feather duster of a tail. Frank bellowed, put it in the fridge, Jessica, or set it on the floor. You're making me nervous with that box there. Ted's father liked me a lot. I was the only female he addressed by name. Bucky left the room and I set the case of beer on the kitchen counter. Pulled out two bottles, one for me, one for Frank. By now the husbands had settled in the living room with their heads hanging low. To me, they all looked alike. Kind of a farmer turned hunter turned salesman. This night they all wore turtlenecks and poly cotton blend V neck sweaters in patterns of brown, black, and yellow. One evening when Ted and I were first dating, I asked them if they called one another before get togethers to plan the wardrobe. Later that night, Ted suggested I tone down my sarcasm in front of his family. He explained that the guys had no idea what I was talking about, and that was why my question was met with the same kind of long, steady stare my cat gives me when I yell at her for eating plants. It might help here if I mention that Ted's family lives in Nebraska. I'm from Boston. Ted's first wife, Katie, grew up in Nebraska, too. In fact, her family lives down the street from his mom and dad. Ted and Katie rode their Big Wheels together and then their bikes. To this day, she uses hairspray and thinks eating wings at the local sports bar is the hottest thing going. Ted admits he made a big mistake on that life decision. I know that Katie still gives his family presents, goes fast walking with sue and Mary every Thursday, even babysits Sue's girls every third Saturday of the month. I do tai chi and eat organic vegetables, volunteer with inner city kids. Many people think I'm a kind person, a good friend. In general, Ted looks frazzled and confused compared to the rest of his family, sort of a farmer turned activist turned high school teacher. He has a goatee, wears Converse All Stars in blue jeans. We met at a cocktail party in Cambridge. When he told me he was from Nebraska, I didn't believe him. These days I love him a lot and he loves me. The husbands had mopped and scraped up Heidi, put her into a garbage bag and heaved her into the back of Tom's pickup. The Christmas lights twinkled. The cookies lined the table, along with sliced ham, baked beans, and a plate of shrimp. The shrimp's naked bodies looked obscene compared to everything else, heaped together in a rubbery cold mess with their cocktail sauce shimmering in the center of the display. Later, I heard Ted's mom say she'd gotten them on sale at the Hinky Dink just for me. I could not eat the shrimp and I couldn't help wondering aloud where had they come from? Seeing as how bodies of water containing shellfish did not ebb plentifully in the Great Plains. I know Ted's family thinks I'm a thoughtless person. Ted tells me I'm aloof, but good for him. The way his family deals with crisis is so far from my own that I rifle through blank index cards in my brain, trying to find a response to the situations placed before me. But really, I don't even know which letter of the Alphabet. My family is straightforward. The Weak Fall Adults don't cry. Children throwing tantrums are escorted from the room. Seafood is bought fresh from the docks, if bought at all. We're polite, even though we all dislike one another. There would never arise a circumstance under which a pillow would be thrown at another family member in jest or anger for any reason whatsoever. At any rate, after Heidi had been bagged and dumped, sue took each young child, all female, down to the pickup, lifted her up, showed her the garbage bag with blood leaking out of it. Sue said to each one, heidi is dead. Then she set each child back on the ground and each ran screaming to her mom or dad, who cried along with her and said, yes, Heidi is dead. I never saw Heidi in person. What I imagined was a small brown dog in a gingham dress with braids. That's wrong, of course. I know this because I got to see Heidi in many pictures that night. That's the next thing sue did. Mary helped. They distributed snapshots of the puppy Christmas Eve. Everyone had brought presents to be exchanged. I knew that showing all the girls the dead dog had something to do with being a hunting family. I must admit the picture distribution looked festive. Some of the men tucked the photos into their billfolds or handed them to a wife to be put into a purse. Heidi would be on every fridge by Christmas Day. I held my picture of Heidi at the corner so I wouldn't get fingerprints on the glossy print in it. Heidi had her head cocked at the camera, her tongue a long, slippery blur of a thing hanging from her jaw. A constellation of spots speckled her reddish body. She sported short, perky ears. Ted took the picture from me, replaced it with a beer, and gently squeezed my shoulder. Then he walked, his beautiful lanky walk back into the kitchen with a niece Velcroed to each arm. I swallowed, sat down by Frank. Frank started talking NRA at me. You know, Jessica, I've been thinking lately about how it's every citizen's responsibility to support the NRA not just gun owners. I nodded. My attention pleased Frank. I stayed sane during these discussions. Using a game Ted had taught me, I translated every NRA statement into the nea. Thus, I heard, it's every citizen's responsibility to support the nea, not just art lovers. That seemed logical to me, so I said, yes, Frank, but how can that be done? Heidi's little ears peeked out of the photo in Frank's front shirt pocket. For the next 30 minutes he discussed why and how he'd like to move his gun case into the living room, and also why his wife, Stella, couldn't appreciate this idea like I could. Everyone had calmed down by then. Two of the girls walked around clutching stuffed dogs that bore a remarkable resemblance to Heidi. Besides that, things looked up, someone had put on holiday music, and someone else had thought to break out the Wild Turkey. Soon all the nieces gathered in the den to watch 101 Dalmatians and the adults assembled in the living room to tell dead dog stories. Tom got the fire going while Jimmy told the story about his old hunting dog, Lucky. One day Lucky raced out after a duck. The punchline came when Jimmy found him stone cold in the high weeds and he still had the duck hanging limp in his mouth. Frank talked about the cocker spaniel Boomer, who had drowned in the neighbor's lake. Stella even contributed a short anecdote about her dog Pepper, who had miraculously survived being run over by a thresher on her girlhood farm but hadn't fared so well. The next under a tractor tire. They continue to tell dead and nearly dead dog stories late into the night. I knew that Ted and Katie's married life had begun to end when their beagle, Boom Boom, ran out the door and down the street, never to return. Ted liked to say he was just giving Boom Boom a head start. But Ted stuck around for another year, let Katie rack up some more credit card debt while he drank himself silly with his oil paints in the basement. His divorce settlements read like an episode of Dallas. What I've been told is Katie's attorney did a very good job of flirting with the judge. Ted had opened the door to air out the place because Katie hated the smell of his artwork. Boom Boom had been trained to never run out the door, but that day something went haywire in his head. Ted didn't notice him missing until hours later. Katie never forgave Ted. She loved Boom Boom. To this day, she still weeps at the mere mention of that dog's name. Mary and sue have told me this on more than one occasion. To Mary and Sue, Katie is a perpetual homecoming queen. They're in awe of her suburban beauty, eternally bitchy nature, and endless skills in country crafting. I must admit, Katie has a great body. She looks like an aerobics instructor, which she isn't. Ted's whole family believes he is irresponsible. For a while they sided with Katie in the divorce, even though she was the one with the lover, the high paying job, and the bad credit. I knew that when Ted and I weren't in town, his family invited Katie to family dinners, to holiday celebrations like this one. I knew if Katie was there, she'd tell the story of Boom Boom and everyone would weep and nod and understand her anger and grief. And tonight no one mentions Boom Boom in the dog discussion, but he lurks behind every word. I felt uncomfortably warm. The Wild Turkey dwindled in my tumbler and I'd had very little to eat. I loved Ted. I knew that for sure. My family thought he was the best thing since lemon butter. He sat beside me on the couch. We were newly married. I loved the arm he had around my shoulder, the shirt he'd worn, his thigh. One of the husbands said, so, Jessica, you guys got a dog? I smiled. I said, no, a cat. I'm not really a dog person. We have a white cat named Ishmael. Ted squeezed my arm in this way that meant faux pa. Stop there. Quickly. The whole family stared. Christmas lights blinked. A husband cleared his throat. I thought about the naked shrimp piled in the dining room. Ted squeezed my arm again, which meant, say something. Anything, right now. Save yourself, please. So I said, my cat, Ishmael. He can fetch. Most people don't know you can teach cats tricks. I wad up a piece of paper, throw it across the room, and he runs over, picks it up in his little mouth, and trots it right back. He drops it at my feet so I can throw it again. I look around the room at all the blank faces, cheeks made bright pink from the crackling fire. Finally I said, I didn't know Heidi personally, but I'm sure she was a very special dog. Frank clears his throat, fiddling with the dog in his pocket, a sign, and like magic, conversation began again without me.
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That was Idina Verson reading Heidi Is Dead by Sheri Flick. This story is highly relatable and very funny in its own tragic way, not unlike most families. It's never easy becoming part of another family and plunging headlong into its traditions. I'm going to show my age here, but there's always a kind of Marilyn Munster possibility lurking, by which I mean, if you're different from them, they may think of you as the weird one, even if they're the weird ones and you're not. So maybe just sit back, eat Aunt Phyllis's sweet and sour venison balls even, and especially if you are vegan, because hey, it's just once and everyone is watching. Close your eyes and think of England or textured soy protein and trick them all into believing you are like them. And the upshot of this is that eventually, if you spend enough holidays together, you will be like them. Or at the very least, you will be part of them. When we return, John Cheever delivers an all you can eat buffet of everyone else's food. 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.
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The who's down in who Newville were making their list, but some didn't know Walmart has the best brands for their gifts. What about toys? Do they have brands kids have been wanting all year?
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Yep.
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Barbie, Tonys, and Lego.
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Gifts that will make them all cheer.
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Do you mean they have all the brands I adore? They have Nintendo, Nespresso, Apple, and more. What a so the who answered questions from friends till they were blue? Each one listened and shouted from Walmart? Who knew? Shop gifts from top brands for everyone on your list in the Walmart app.
- [27:55]
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Having the right people in your corner for life's biggest milestones makes all the difference. Like a friend who's there when you're house hunting or checking out a new ride. State Farm is there too, helping you choose the coverage you need. With a State Farm agent, you know someone is there to help you along the way. And with so many coverage options, it's nice knowing you have help choosing a plan that fits your needs so you can continue celebrating all of life's milestones. Like a good neighbor, State Farm Is There.
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Foreign. 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. We're listening to stories about the holidays and what we might discover about this time of year. If you'd like more presents, visit selectedshorts.org while there, you can hear past episodes and find out about the Selected Shorts writing contest. And if you subscribe to our podcast, you'll receive the gift that comes unwrapped. You'll find new and past episodes and bonus interviews with some of my fellow authors tis the season, so please share our show with a friend. Our final story about unwrapping the holidays is by John Cheever. A mid century master of contemporary fiction, Cheever wrote novels such as Falconer but is best known for his brilliant short stories, many of which were collected in his Pulitzer Prize winning volume, the Stories of John Cheever. This piece, Christmas is a Sad Season for the Poor, is a bit of a time capsule. It was first published in the New Yorker in 1949. It exhibits all that generosity and goodwill we want in our holiday stories, but the story also delivers a wry take on the benefits of giving and receiving. The story is read by actor Tegel F. Bouget. He's a Broadway regular who appeared in the Ivo Van Hove remount of the Crucible and played a recurring role in the series Queen America. Now Tegel F. Bouget performs John Cheever's Christmas is a Sad Season for the Poor.
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Christmas is a sad season for the.
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Poor.
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Christmas is a sad season. The phrase came to Charlie an instant after the alarm clock had waked him and named for him an amorphous depression that had troubled him all the previous evening. The sky outside his window was black. He sat up in bed and pulled the light chain that hung in front of his nose. Christmas is a very sad day of the year, he thought. Of all the millions of people in New York, I am practically the only one who has to get up in the cold black of 6am on Christmas Day. I am practically the only one. But he dressed and when he went downstairs from the top floor of the rooming house in which he lived, the only sounds he heard were the coarse sounds of sleep. The only lights burning were lights that had been forgotten. Charlie ate some breakfast in an all night lunch wagon and took the elevated train uptown from Third Avenue. He walked over to Sutton Place. The neighborhood was dark, house after house dark. Millions and millions were still sleeping, and this general loss of consciousness generated an impression of abandonment, as if this were the fall of the city, the end of time. He opened the iron and glass doors of the apartment building where he had been working for six months as an elevator operator and went through the elegant lobby to a locker room at the back. He put on a striped vest with brass buttons, a false ascot, a pair of pants with a light blue stripe on the seam, and a coat. The night elevator man was dozing on the little bench in the car. Charlie woke him. The night elevator man told him thickly that the day doorman had been taken sick and wouldn't be in that day. With the doorman sick, Charlie wouldn't have any relief for lunch and a lot of people would expect him to whistle for cabs. Charlie had been on duty a few minutes when 14 Rangers. A Mrs. Hewing, who he happened to know was kind of immoral. Mrs. Hewing hadn't been to bed yet and she got into the elevator wearing a long dress under her fur coat. She was followed by her two funny looking dogs. He took her down and watched her go out into the dark and take her dogs to the curb. She was outside for only a few minutes. Then she came in and he took her up to 14 again. When she got off the elevator she said, merry Christmas, Charlie. Well, it isn't much of a holiday for me, Mrs. Hewing. See, I think Christmas is a very sad season of the year. It isn't that people around here ain't generous. I mean, I got plenty of tips. But you see, I live alone in a furnished room and I don't have any family or anything and Christmas isn't much of a holiday for me. Oh, I'm sorry, Charlie, Mrs. Hewing said. I don't have family myself. It is kind of sad when you're alone, isn't it? She called her dogs and followed them into her apartment. He went down. It was quiet then, and Charlie lighted a cigarette. The heating plant in the basement encompassed the building at that hour in a regular and profound vibration and the sullen noises of arriving. Still steam heat began to resound, first in the lobby and then to reverberate up through all the 16 stories. But this was a mechanical awakening and it didn't lighten his loneliness or his petulance. The black air outside the glass doors had begun to turn blue, but the blue light seemed to have no source. It appeared in the middle of the air. It was a tearful light and as it picked out the empty street he wanted to cry. Then a cab drove up and the Walzers got out drunk and dressed in evening clothes and he took them up to their penthouse. The Walzers got him to brooding about the difference between his life in a furnished room and the lives of the people overhead. It was terrible. Then the early churchgoers began to rain, but there were only three of these that morning. A few more went off to church at 8 o', clock, but the majority of the building remained unconscious, although the smell of bacon and coffee had begun to drift into the elevator shaft. At a little after nine, a nursemaid came down with the child. Both the nursemaid and the child had a deep tan and had just returned, he knew, from Bermuda. He had never been to Bermuda. He, Charlie, was a prisoner, confined eight hours a day to a 6 by 8 elevator cage, which was confined in turn to a 16 story shaft in one building or another. He had made his living as an elevator operator for 10 years. He estimated the average trip at about an eighth of a mile. And when he thought of the thousands of miles he had traveled, when he thought that he might have driven the car through the mists above the Caribbean and set it down on some coral beach in Bermuda, he held the narrowness of his travels against his passengers as if it were not the nature of the elevator, but the pressures of their lives that confined him as if they had clipped his wings. He was thinking about this when the DePauls on nine rang. They wished him a Merry Christmas. Well, it's nice of you to think of me, he said, as they decided, but it isn't much of a holiday for me. Christmas is a sad season when you're poor. I live alone in a furnished room. I don't have any family. Who do you have dinner with, Charlie? Mrs. DePaul asked. I don't have any Christmas dinner, Charlie said. I just get a sandwich. Oh, Charlie. Mrs. DePaul was a stout woman with an impulsive heart, and Charlie's plaint struck at her holiday mood as if she. She had been caught in a cloudburst. I do wish we could share our Christmas dinner with you, you know. I come from Vermont, you know, and when I was a child, you know, we always used to have a great many people at our table, you know, the mailman, you know, and the schoolteacher and just anybody who didn't have any family of their own, you know, and I wish we could share our dinner with you the way we used to, you know, and I don't see any reason why we can't now. We can't have you at the table, you know, because you couldn't leave the elevator, could you? But just as soon as Mr. DePaul has carved the goose, I'll give you a ring, and I'll arrange a tray for you, you know, and I want you to come up and at least share our Christmas dinner. Charlie thanked them, and their generosity surprised him.
- [37:48]
B
But.
- [37:48]
C
But he wondered if with the arrival of friends and relatives, they wouldn't forget their offer. Then old Mrs. Gadshill rang, and when she wished him a Merry Christmas, he hung his head. It isn't much of a holiday for me, Mrs. Gadshill. He said Christmas is a sad season if you're poor. You see, I don't have any. I live alone in a furnished room. I don't have any family either, Charlie, Mrs. Gadshill said. She spoke with a pointed lack of petulance, but her grace was forced. That is, I don't have any children with me today. I have three children and seven grandchildren. But none of them can see their way to coming east for Christmas with me. Of course I understand their problems. I know that it's difficult to travel with children during the holidays, although I always seemed to manage it when I was their age. But people feel differently, and we mustn't condemn them for the things we can't understand. But I know how you feel, Charlie. I haven't any family either. I'm just as lonely as you. Mrs. Gadshill's speech didn't move him. Maybe she was lonely, but she had a 10 room apartment and three servants. And Bucks and bucks and diamonds and diamonds. And there were plenty of poor kids in the slums who would be happy at a chance at the food her cook threw away. Then he thought about poor kids. He sat down on a chair in the lobby and thought about them. They got the worst of it. Beginning in the fall, there was all this excitement about Christmas and how it was a day for them after Thanksgiving. They couldn't miss it. It was fixed so they couldn't miss it. The wreaths and decorations everywhere and bells ringing and trees in the park and Santa Clauses on every corner and pictures in the magazines and newspapers and on every wall and window in the city told them that if they were good, they would get what they wanted. Even if they couldn't read, they couldn't miss it. They couldn't miss it even if they were blind. It got into the air. The poor kids inhaled every time they took a walk. They'd see all the expensive toys in the store windows. And they'd write letters to Santa Claus. And their mothers and fathers would promise to mail them. And after the kids had gone to sleep, they'd burn the letters in the stove. And when it came Christmas morning, how could you explain it? How could you tell them that Santa Claus only visited the rich, that he didn't know about the good? How could you face them when all you had to give them was a balloon or a lollipop on the way home from work? A few nights earlier, Charlie had seen a woman and a little girl going down 59th Street. The little girl was crying. He guessed she was crying. No, he knew she was crying because she'd seen all the things in the toy store windows and couldn't understand why none of them were for her. Her mother did housework, he guessed, or maybe was a waitress. And he saw them going back to a room like his, with green walls and no heat on Christmas Eve to eat a can of soup. And he saw the little girl hang up her ragged stocking and fall asleep. And he saw the mother looking through her purse for something to put into the stocking. This reverie was interrupted by a bell on 11. He went up and Mr. And Mrs. Fuller were waiting. When they wished him a merry Christmas, he said, well, it isn't much of a holiday for me, Mrs. Fuller. Christmas is a sad season when you're poor. Do you have any children, Charlie? Mrs. Fuller asked. Four living, he said. Two in the grave. The majesty of his lie overwhelmed him. Misses Leary's a cripple, he added. How sad, Charlie, Mrs. Fuller said. She started out the elevator when it reached the lobby, and then she turned. I want to give your children some presents, Charlie, she said. Mr. Fuller and I are going to pay a call now, but when we come back, I want to give you some things for your children. He thanked her. Then the bell rang on four, and he went up to get the Westons. No, no, it isn't much of a holiday for me, he told them when they wished him a merry Christmas. You see, Christmas is a sad season when you're poor. You see, I live alone in a furnished room. Oh, poor Charlie, Mrs. Weston said. You know, I know just how you feel. During the war, when Mr. Weston was away, I was all alone at Christmas. I didn't have any Christmas dinner or a tree or anything. I just scrambled myself some eggs and sat there and cried. Mr. Weston, who had gone into the lobby, called impatiently to his wife. I know just how you feel, Charlie, Mrs. Weston said. By noon, the climate in the elevator shaft had changed from bacon and coffee and to poultry and game, and the house, like an enormous and complex homestead, was absorbed in the preparations for a domestic feast. The children and their nursemaids had all returned from the park. Grandmothers and aunts were arriving in limousines. Most of the people who came through the lobby were carrying packages wrapped in colored paper and were wearing their best furs and new clothes. Charlie continued to complain to most of the tenants when they wished him a merry Christmas, changing his story from the lonely bachelor to the poor father and back again as his mood changed. But this outpouring of melancholy and the sympathy it aroused didn't make him feel any better. At half past one, nine rang, and when he went up, Mr. DePaul was standing in the door of their apartment holding a cocktail shaker and a glass. Here's a little Christmas Christmas cheer, Charlie, he said, and he poured Charlie a drink. Then a maid appeared with a tray of covered dishes, and Mrs. DePaul came out of the living room. Merry Christmas, Charlie, she said. I had Mr. DePaul carve the goose early so that you could have some, you know. I didn't want to put the dessert on the tray because I was afraid it would melt, you know. So when we have our dessert, will call you. And what is Christmas without presents? Mr. DePaul said, and he brought a large flat box from the hall and laid it on top of the covered dishes. You people make it seem like a real Christmas to me, charlie said, and tears started into his eyes. Thank you. Thank you. Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas. They called, and they watched him carry his dinner and his present into the elevator. He took the tray and the box into the locker room. When he got down on the tray, there was a soup, some kind of creamed fish, and a serving of goose. The bell rang again, but before he answered it, he tore open the DePaul's box and saw that it held a dressing gown. Their generosity and their cocktail had begun to work on his brain, and he went jubilantly up to 12. Mrs. Gadshill's maid was standing in the door with a tray, and Mrs. Gadshill stood behind her. Merry Christmas, Charlie, she said. He thanked her, and tears came into his eyes again. On the way down, he drank off the glass of sherry on Mrs. Gadshill's tray. Mrs. Mrs. Gadshill's contribution was a mixed grill. He ate the lamb chop with his fingers. The bell was ringing again, and he wiped his face with a paper towel and went up to 11. Merry Christmas, Charlie, Mrs. Fuller said, and she was standing in the door with her arms full of packages wrapped in silver paper, just like a picture in an advertisement, and Mr. Fuller was beside her with an arm around her, and they both looked as if they were going to cry. Here are some things I want you to take home to your children, Mrs. Fuller said. And here's something for Mrs. Leary, and here's something for you. And if you want to take these things out to the elevator, we'll have your dinner ready for you in a minute. He carried the things into the elevator and came back for the tray. Merry Christmas, Charlie, both of the Fullers called after him. After he closed the door. He took their dinner and their presents into the locker room and tore open the box that was marked for him. There was an alligator wallet in it with Mr. Fuller's initials in the corner. Their dinner was also goose, and he ate a piece of the meat with his fingers and was washing it down with a cocktail when the bell rang. He went up again. This time it was the Westons. Merry Christmas, Charlie, they said, and they gave him a cup of eggnog, a turkey dinner and a present. Their gift was also a dressing gown. Then seven rang, and when he went up there was another dinner and some more toys. Then 14 rang, and when he went up Mrs. Hewing was standing in the hall in a kind of negligee, holding a pair of riding boots in one hand and some neckties in the other. She had been crying and drinking. Merry Christmas, Charlie, she said tenderly. I wanted to give you something and I've been thinking about you all morning and I've been all over the apartment and these are the only things I could find that a man might want. These are the only things that Mr. Brewer left. I don't suppose you'd have any use for the riding boots, but wouldn't you like the neckties? Charlie took the neckties and thanked her and hurried back to the car, for the elevator had rung three times. By three o' clock. Charlie had 14 dinners spread on the table and the floor of the locker room, and the bell kept ringing just as he started to eat one he would have to go up and get another, and he was in the middle of the Parsons roast beef when he had to go up and get the depauls dessert. He kept the door of the locker room closed, for he sensed that the quality of charity is exclusive and that his friends would have been disappointed to find that they were not the only ones trying to lessen his his loneliness. There were goose, turkey, chicken, pheasants, grouse and pigeon. There were trout and salmon cream, scallops and oysters, lobster, crab meat, white bait and clams. There were plum puddings, mince pies, mousses, puddles of melted ice cream, layer cakes, torte and eclairs, and two slices of Bavarian cream. He had dressing gowns, neckties, cufflinks, socks and handkerchiefs, and one of the tenants had asked for his neck size and then given him three green shirts. There were a glass teapot filled, the label said, with jasmine honey, four bottles of aftershave lotion, some alabaster bookends, and a dozen steak knives. The avalanche of Charity he had pursued precipitated, filled the locker room and made him hesitant now and then, as if he had touched some wellspring in the female heart that would bury him alive in food and dressing gowns. He had made almost no headway on the food, for all the servings were preternaturally large, as if loneliness had been counted on to generate in him a brutish appetite. Nor had he opened any of the presents that had been given to him for his imagination. Children. But he had drunk everything they sent. Down and around him were the dregs of martinis, Manhattan's Old Fashioned champagne and raspberry shrub cocktails, eggnogs, Bronxes and sidecars. His face was blazing. He loved the world, and the world loved him. When he thought back over his life, it appeared to him in a rich and wonderful light, full of astonishing experiences and unusual friends. He thought that his job as an elevator operator, cruising up and down through hundreds of feet of perilous space, demanded the nerve and the intellect of a birdman. All the constraints of his life, the green walls of his room, and the months of unemployment dissolved. No one was ringing. But he got into the elevator and shot it up full speed to the penthouse and down again, up and down, to test his wonderful mastery of space. A bell rang on 12 while he was cruising, and he stopped in his flight long enough to pick up Mrs. Gadshill. As the car started to fall. He took his hands off the controls in a paroxysm of joy and shouted, strap on your safety belt, Mrs. Gadshill. We're going to make the loose. Whoop the loop. Mrs. Gadshill shrieked. Then, for some reason, she sat down on the floor of the elevator. Why was her face so pale? He wondered. Why was she sitting on the floor? She shrieked again. He grounded the car gently and cleverly, and he opened the door. I'm sorry if I scared you, Mrs. Gadshill, he said meekly. I was only fooling. She shrieked again. Then she ran out into the lobby for the superintendent. The superintendent fired Charlie and took over the elevator himself. The news that he was out of work stunned Charlie for a minute. It was his first contact with human meanness. That day he sat down in the locker room and gnawed on a drumstick. His drinks were beginning to let him down, and while it had not reached him yet, he felt a miserable soberness in the offing. The excess of food and presents around him began to make him feel guilty and unworthy. He regretted bitterly the lie he had told about his children. He was a single man with simple needs. He had abused the goodness of the people upstairs. He was unworthy. Then up through this drunken train of thought surged the sharp figure of his landlady and her three skinny children. He thought of them sitting in their basement room. The cheer of Christmas had passed them by. This image got him to his feet. The realization that he was in a position to give, that he could bring happiness easily to someone else, sobered him. He took a big burlap SAP which was used for collecting waste, and he began to stuff it, first with his presents and then with the presents for his imaginary children. He worked with the haste of a man whose train is approaching the station, for he could hardly wait to see those long faces light up when he came in the door. He changed his clothes and, fired by a wonderful and unfamiliar sense of power, he slung his bag over his shoulder like a regular Santa Claus, went out the back way, and took a taxi to the Lower east side. The landlady and her children had just finished off a turkey which had been sent to them by the local democratic club, and they were stuffed and uncomfortable when Charlie began pounding on the door, shouting, merry Christmas. He dragged the bag in after him and dumped the presents for the children onto the floor. Floor there were dolls and musical toys, blocks, sewing kits, an Indian suit and a loom, and it appeared to him as he had hoped. His arrival in the basement dispelled its gloom. When half the presents had been opened, he gave the landlady a bathrobe and went upstairs to look over the things he had been given for himself. Now, the landlady's children had already received so many presents by the time Charlie arrived that they were confused with receiving. And it was only the landlady's intuitive grasp of the nature of charity that made her allow the children to open some of the presents while Charlie was still in the room. But as soon as he'd gone, she stood between the children and the presents that were still unopened. Now, you kids have had enough already, she said. You kids have got your share. Just look at the things you got there. Why, you ain't even played with half of them. Maryanne, you ain't even looked at that doll the fire department give you. Now, a nice thing to do would be to take all this stuff that's left over to those poor people on Hudson Street. Them Deckers, they ain't got nothing. A beautific light came into her face when she realized that she could give, that she could bring cheer that she could put a healing finger on a case needier than hers. And like Mrs. DePaul and Mrs. Weston, like Charlie himself and like Mrs. Decker, when Mrs. Decker was to think subsequently of those poor Shannons, first love, then charity, and then a sense of power drove her. Now, you kids, help me get all this stuff together. Hurry, hurry, hurry, she said, for it was dark then and she knew that we are bound one to another in licentious benevolence for only a single day. And that day was nearly over. She was tired, but she couldn't rest. She couldn't rest.
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That was Tegel F. Bouget reading Christmas Is a Sad Season for the Poor by John Cheever. Great twist, right? Just as our hero walks off righteous as a metropolitan Robin Hood, we get another view of the nature of giving. That line about the landlady's new selflessness is telling. First love, then charity, then a sense of power drove her. Because feelings and motivations aren't necessarily predictable or monochromatic, are they, even around the holidays? In addition to all that the story has to say about the complexities of giving and receiving, it's also a reminder of how liberating it might be to reinvent yourself once in a while, to try on a new identity the way you might try on an argyle sweater vest you've been given as a present. And the best part is, just like that sweater vest, you get to return that identity as soon as you like. So let's remember what we've unwrapped in this show. Sometimes giving is about the giver. Sometimes your husband's family won't love you like they love his ex, Katie. And sometimes the Almighty is a Moby fan. We hope that you glean something new from your holidays this year and that when you tear off that shiny paper, the gift is just as good as the anticipation. I'm Meg Wolitzer. It's a wrap. 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 Wrobleski. 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 Dennis Jacobson. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Deardorf Petersen Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.
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