by Lori Ostlund
THE BIGNESS OF THE WORLD
the bigness of the world
STORIES BY LORI OSTLUND
Paperback edition published in 2010 by
The University of Georgia Press
Athens, Georgia 30602
www.ugapress.org
© 2009 by Lori Ostlund
All rights reserved
Designed by Mindy Basinger Hill
Set in 10.5 / 14.5 Minion Pro
Printed digitally in the United States of America
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover
edition of this book as follows:
The bigness of the world : stories / by Lori Ostlund.
x, 214 p. ; 23 cm.
“Winner of the Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction.”
ISBN-13: 978-0-8203-3409-7 (cloth : alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 0-8203-3409-x (cloth : alk. paper)
I. Title.
PS3615.S64B54 2009
813′.6—dc22 2009017224
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-0-8203-3688-6
ISBN-10: 0-8203-3688-2
British Library Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
“Idyllic Little Bali” reprinted from Prairie Schooner (Summer 2009)
by permission of the University of Nebraska Press.
Copyright © 2009 by the University of Nebraska Press.
ISBN for this digital edition: 978-0-8203-3745-6
FOR ANNE, OF COURSE
Contents
Acknowledgments
The Bigness of the World
Bed Death
Talking Fowl with My Father
The Day You Were Born
Nobody Walks to the Mennonites
Upon Completion of Baldness
And Down We Went
Idyllic Little Bali
Dr. Deneau’s Punishment
The Children Beneath the Seat
All Boy
Acknowledgments
I AM GRATEFUL FOR THIS AWARD AND THE PUBLICATION of this collection. I would like to thank Nancy Zafris, the Flannery O’Connor Award series editor and a wonderful writer, who was generous with both her knowledge and her enthusiasm as she guided me through the process of publishing my first book. I am also deeply indebted to the staff at The University of Georgia Press.
Many of these stories have appeared, sometimes in slightly different form, in other publications. I would like to acknowledge and thank them: “The Bigness of the World” in Bellingham Review (2009); “Bed Death” in the Kenyon Review (2009); “Talking Fowl with My Father” in New England Review (2009); “Nobody Walks to the Mennonites” in Blue Mesa Review (2007); “Upon Completion of Baldness” in Hobart (2009); “And Down We Went” in Five Chapters (2009); “Idyllic Little Bali” in Prairie Schooner (2009); “Dr. Deneau’s Punishment” in the Georgia Review (2009); “The Children Beneath the Seat” in New England Review (2006); and “All Boy” in New England Review (2009); the latter was reprinted in Best American Short Stories 2010; “Bed Death” was selected for The PEN/O. Henry Prize Stories 2011. I have appreciated the careful attention that the editors at these publications have brought to my work; I would especially like to thank Carolyn Kuebler and Stephen Donadio at New England Review, who were the first to publish a story from this collection back in 2006 and have lent support in many ways.
I am also indebted to friends and family in various places, including though by no means limited to the following: New Mexico, where I wrote half of these stories, San Francisco, where I wrote the other half, and Minnesota, where I grew up in a town of four hundred people, an experience that shaped me as a writer. Specifically, I thank friends who provided feedback, enthusiasm, and fodder. They know who they are.
Also, many of the stories are set in countries where I have either lived or traveled. I appreciate the tremendous hospitality that was shown me in these countries.
Finally, I am grateful most of all to my partner of many years, the novelist Anne Raeff. Kurt Vonnegut said, “Every successful creative person creates with an audience of one in mind.” Anne has always been my one.
THE BIGNESS OF THE WORLD
The Bigness of the World
THE YEAR THAT ILSA MARIA LUMPKIN TOOK CARE OF US, Martin was ten going on eleven and I, eleven going on twelve. We considered ourselves almost adults, on the cusp of no longer requiring supervision, but because our days were far more interesting with Ilsa in them, we did not force the issue. Her job was to be there waiting when we arrived home from school, to prepare snacks and help with homework and ask about our days, for our parents were deeply involved at that time with what they referred to as their “careers,” both of them spending long hours engaged in activities that seemed to Martin and me nebulous at best. We understood, of course, that our mother did something at our grandfather’s bank, but when our father overheard us describing her job in this way to Ilsa, he admonished us later, saying, “Your mother is vice president of the bank. That is not just something.”
Then, perhaps suspecting that his job seemed to us equally vague, he took out his wallet and handed Martin and me one of his business cards, on which was inscribed his name, Matthew Koeppe, and the words PR Czar. For several long seconds, Martin and I stared down at the card, and our father stared at us. I believe that he wanted to understand us, wanted to know, for example, how we viewed the world, what interested or frightened or perplexed us, but this required patience, something that our father lacked, for he simply did not have enough time at his disposal to be patient, to stand there and puzzle out what it was about his business card that we did not understand. Instead, he went quietly off to his study to make telephone calls, and the next day, I asked Ilsa what a czar was, spelling the word out because I could not imagine how to pronounce a c and z together, but she said that they were people who lived in Russia, royalty, which made no sense.
Ilsa often spent evenings with us as well, for our parents kept an intense social calendar, attending dinners that were, my mother explained, an extension of what she did all day long, but in more elegant clothing. Ilsa wore perfume when she came at night, and while neither Martin nor I liked the smell, we appreciated the gesture, the implication that she thought of being with us as an evening out. She also brought popsicles, which she hid in her purse because our parents did not approve of popsicles, though often she forgot about them until long after they had melted, and when she finally did remember and pulled them out, the seams of the packages oozing blue or red, our two favorite flavors, she would look dismayed for just a moment before announcing, “Not to worry, my young charges. We shall pop them in the freezer, and they will be as good as new.” Of course, they never were as good as new but were instead like popsicles that had melted and been refrozen—shapeless with a thick, gummy coating. We ate them anyway because we did not want to hurt Ilsa’s feelings, which we thought of as more real, more fragile, than other people’s feelings.
Most afternoons, the three of us visited the park near our house. Though it was only four blocks away, Ilsa inevitably began to cry at some point during the walk, her emotions stirred by any number of things, which she loosely identified as death, beauty, and inhumanity: the bugs caught in the grilles of the cars that we passed (death); two loose dogs humping on the sidewalk across our path (beauty); and the owners who finally caught up with them and forced them apart before they were finished (inhumanity). We were not used to adults who cried freely or openly, for this was Minnesota, where people guarded their emotions, a tradition in which Martin and I had been well schooled. Ilsa, while she was from here, was not, as my mother was fond of saying, of here, which meant that she did not become impatient or embarrassed when we occasionally cried as well. In fact, she encouraged it. Still, I
was never comfortable when it happened and did not want attention paid me over it—unlike Ilsa, who sank to the ground and sobbed while Martin and I sat on either side of her, holding her hands or resting ours on her back.
We also liked Ilsa because she was afraid of things, though not the normal things that we expected adults to be afraid of and certainly not the kinds of things that Martin and I had been taught to fear—strangers, candy found on the ground, accidentally poking out an eye. We kept careful track of her fears and divided them into two categories, the first comprising things of which she claimed to be “absolutely petrified,” her euphemism for those things that she deeply disliked, among them abbreviated language of any sort. Ilsa frequently professed her disdain for what she called “the American compulsion toward brevity.” She did not use contractions and scolded us when we did, claiming that they brought down the level of the conversation. Furthermore, when referring to people, she employed their full names: the first, what she called the “Christian” name although she was not, to my knowledge, actively religious; the middle, which she once described as a person’s essence; and the surname, the name that, for better or worse, bound them to their families.
Ilsa eschewed all acronyms and initialisms, even those so entrenched in our vocabularies that we could not recall what the initials stood for. She once left the following message on my parents’ answering machine: “I am very sorry that I will be unavailable to stay with the children Saturday evening, October 24, as I have been invited by a dear friend to spend the weekend in Washington, District of Columbia.” My parents listened to this message repeatedly, always maintaining a breathless silence until the very end, at which point they exploded into laughter. I did not understand what was funny about the message, but when I asked my mother to explain, she gave one of her typically vague responses. “That Ilsa,” she said. “She’s just such a pistol.” Something else must have occurred to her then, for a moment later she turned back to add, “We shouldn’t mention this to Ilsa, Veronica. Sometimes families have their little jokes.” Of course, I had no intention of telling Ilsa, a decision based not on family allegiance but on my growing sense that laughter was rarely a straightforward matter.
My mother and Ilsa first met at Weight Brigade, to which my mother had belonged for years, certainly as long as I could remember, though she had never been fat, not even plump. She was fond of saying that she had no “love relationship” with food, lingo that she had picked up at her meetings, sitting amidst women who had not just love relationships with food but desperate, passionate affairs on the side. My mother, who kept track of numbers for a living, liked that Weight Brigade promoted a strict policy of calorie counting and exercise, which she thought of in terms of debits and credits, though I suspect that what she liked most of all was the easy sense of achievement that she felt there among women who struggled terribly, and often unsuccessfully, with their weight.
She rarely missed the weekly meetings, but because she preferred to compartmentalize the various areas of her life, she disapproved greatly of Weight Brigade’s phone-buddy system, under which she was paired with another member who might call her at any time, day or night, to discuss temptation. I once heard her tell my father that these conversations, mostly breathy descriptions of ice cream that only served to work her phone partner into a frenzy of desire, were akin to phone sex. After several minutes of listening to her phone buddy’s chatter, she would hear the freezer door open and the rattle of a cutlery drawer, and then her phone buddy would bid her an unintelligible goodbye, speaking through, as my mother liked to put it, “a mouthful of shame.”
Over the years, my mother was paired with numerous women (as well as one man), all of whom she alienated quickly, unable to sympathize with their constant cravings or the ease with which they capitulated. Furthermore, when they sobbed hysterically during weigh-ins, she dealt with them sternly, even harshly, explaining that they knew the consequences of gorging themselves on potato chips and cookies, which made their responses to the weight gain disingenuous as far as she was concerned. My mother was always very clear in her opinions; she said that in banking one had to be, that she needed to be able to size people up quickly and then carry through on her assessment without hesitation or regret, a policy that she applied at home as well, which meant that if I failed to unload the dishwasher within two hours after it finished running or lied about completing a school assignment, she moved swiftly into punishment mode and became indignant when I feigned surprise. Among the members of Weight Brigade, her approach won her no few enemies. Eventually, she was no longer assigned phone buddies, and by the time she met Ilsa, the other members were refusing even to sit near my mother at meetings, though she claimed to be unbothered by this, citing envy as their sole motivation.
Ilsa was plump when we knew her but had not always been. This we learned from photographs of her holding animals from the pound where she volunteered, a variety of cats and dogs and birds for which she had provided temporary care. She went to Weight Brigade only that one time, the time that she met my mother, and never went back because she said that she could not bear to listen to the vilification of butter and sugar, but Martin and I had seen the lists that our mother kept of her own daily caloric intake, and we suspected that Ilsa had simply been overwhelmed by the math that belonging to Weight Brigade involved, for math was another thing that “absolutely petrified” Ilsa. When my parents asked how much they owed her, she always replied, “I am sure that you must know far better than I, for I have not the remotest idea.” And when Martin or I required help with our math homework, she answered in the high, quivery voice that she used when she sang opera: “Mathematics is an entirely useless subject, and we shall not waste our precious time on it.” Perhaps we appeared skeptical, for she often added, “Really, my dear children, I cannot remember the last time that I used mathematics.”
Ilsa’s fear of math stemmed, I suspect, from the fact that she seemed unable to grasp even the basic tenets upon which math rested. Once, for example, after we had made a pizza together and taken it from the oven, she suggested that we cut it into very small pieces because she was ravenous and that way, she said, there would be more of it to go around.
“More pieces you mean?” we clarified tentatively.
“No, my silly billies. More pizza,” she replied confidently, and though we tried to convince her of the impossibility of such a thing, explaining that the pizza was the size it was, she had laughed in a way that suggested that she was charmed by our ignorance.
Ilsa wore colorful, flowing dresses and large hats that she did not take off, even when she opened the oven door to slide a pizza inside or sat eating refrozen popsicles with us on the back deck. Her evening hats were more complicated than the daytime hats, involving not just bows but flowers and actual feathers and even, on the hat that Martin and I privately referred to as “Noah’s Ark,” a simple diorama of three-dimensional animals made of pressed felt. Martin and I considered Ilsa’s hats extremely tasteful, a word that we had heard our parents use often enough to have developed a feel for. That is, she did not wear holiday-themed hats decked with Christmas tree balls or blinking Halloween pumpkins, although she did favor pastels at Easter. Still, Ilsa’s hats really only seemed appropriate on the nights that she sang opera, belting out arias while we sat on the sofa and listened. Once, she performed Chinese opera for us, which was like nothing that we had ever heard before and which we both found startling and a little frightening.
Later, when we told our parents that Ilsa had sung Chinese opera for us, our mother looked perplexed and said, “I didn’t know that Ilsa knew Chinese.”
“She doesn’t,” we replied. “She just makes it up.” And then Martin and I proceeded to demonstrate, imitating the sounds that Ilsa had made, high-pitched, nasally sounds that resembled the word sure. Our parents looked troubled by this and said that they did not want us making fun of Chinese opera, which they called an ancient and respected art form.
“But we ar
en’t making fun of it,” I replied. “We like it.” This was true, but they explained that if we really liked it, we wouldn’t feel compelled to imitate it, which Martin and I later agreed made no sense. We did not say so to my parents because about some things there was simply no arguing. We knew that they had spoken to Ilsa as well, for she did not sing Chinese opera again, sticking instead with Puccini and Wagner though she did not know Italian or German either.
My mother, in sartorial contrast to Ilsa, favored tailored trousers, blazers, and crisply ironed shirts, and when my father occasionally teased her about her wardrobe, pointing out that it was possible to look vice presidential without completely hiding her figure, my mother sternly reminded him that the only figures she wanted her clients thinking about were the ones that she calculated for their loans. My mother liked clothes well enough but shopped mainly by catalog in order to save time, which meant that the UPS driver visited our house frequently. His name was Bruce, and Martin and I had always known him as a sullen man who did not respond to questions about his well-being, the weather, or his day, which were the sorts of questions that our parents and the babysitters prior to Ilsa tended to ask. Ilsa, however, was not interested in such things. Rather, she offered him milk on overcast days and pomegranate juice, which my parents stocked for her, on sunny, and then, as Bruce stood on the front step drinking his milk or pomegranate juice, she asked him whether he had ever stolen a package (no) and whether he had ever opened a package out of curiosity (yes, one time, but the contents had disappointed him greatly).
Martin and I generally stood behind Ilsa during these conversations, peering around her and staring at Bruce, in awe of his transformation into a pleasant human being, but when we heard her soliciting tips on how to pack her hats so that they would not be damaged during shipping, we both stepped forward, alarmed. “Are you moving?” we asked, for we lived in fear of losing Ilsa, believing, I suppose, that we did not really deserve her.
