About the Author
Richard Yates was born in 1926 in Yonkers, New York. After serving in the US Army during the Second World War, he worked as a publicity writer for the Remington Rand Corporation, and for a brief period in the sixties as a speech-writer for Senator Robert Kennedy. His prize-winning stories first appeared in 1953 and his first novel, Revolutionary Road, was nominated for the National Book Award in 1962. He is the author of eight other works, including the novels A Good School, The Easter Parade and Disturbing the Peace, and two collections of short stories, Eleven Kinds of Loneliness and Liars in Love. Richard Yates was twice divorced and the father of three daughters. He died in 1992.
ALSO BY RICHARD YATES
Revolutionary Road
Eleven Kinds of Loneliness
A Special Providence
Disturbing the Peace
The Easter Parade
A Good School
Liars in Love
Young Hearts Crying
Cold Spring Harbor
THE COLLECTED STORIES
Richard Yates
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Epub ISBN: 9781446420812
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Published by Vintage 2008
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Copyright © The Estate of Richard Yates 1957, 1961, 1962, 1974, 1976, 1978, 1980, 1981, 2001, 2004
Richard Yates has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
First published in Great Britain in 2004 by Methuen Publishing Ltd
These stories first appeared in The Atlantic Monthly, Charm, Cosmopolitan, Esquire, Ploughshares, The New Yorker, Harper’s Magazine, and in the books Eleven Kinds of Loneliness and Liars in Love
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099518549
Contents
From ELEVEN KINDS OF LONELINESS
Doctor Jack-o’-Lantern
The Best of Everything
Jody Rolled the Bones
No Pain Whatsoever
A Glutton for Punishment
A Wrestler with Sharks
Fun with a Stranger
The B.A.R. Man
A Really Good Jazz Piano
Out with the Old
Builders
From LIARS IN LOVE
Oh, Joseph, I’m So Tired
A Natural Girl
Trying Out for the Race
Liars in Love
A Compassionate Leave
Regards at Home
Saying Goodbye to Sally
THE UNCOLLECTED STORIES
The Canal
A Clinical Romance
Bells in the Morning
Evening on the Côte d’Azur
Thieves
A Private Possession
The Comptroller and the Wild Wind
A Last Fling, Like
A Convalescent Ego
Editor’s Note
“Evening on the Côte d’Azur” and “Thieves” were previously published in the journal Ploughshares in 1974 and 1976, respectively. The rest of Richard Yates’s uncollected stories make their first appearance in this volume. Other than standard typographical corrections, the stories are published as Richard Yates wrote them.
The editor and Monica Shapiro, the author’s daughter, would like to acknowledge Ronald J. Nelson of James Madison University for discovering the uncollected stories in the Richard Yates Collection at Boston University in 1996.
FROM
Eleven Kinds of Loneliness
Doctor Jack-o’-Lantern
ALL MISS PRICE had been told about the new boy was that he’d spent most of his life in some kind of orphanage, and that the gray-haired “aunt and uncle” with whom he now lived were really foster parents, paid by the Welfare Department of the city of New York. A less dedicated or less imaginative teacher might have pressed for more details, but Miss Price was content with the rough outline. It was enough, in fact, to fill her with a sense of mission that shone from her eyes, as plain as love, from the first morning he joined the fourth grade.
He arrived early and sat in the back row—his spine very straight, his ankles crossed precisely under the desk and his hands folded on the very center of its top, as if symmetry might make him less conspicuous—and while the other children were filing in and settling down, he received a long, expressionless stare from each of them.
“We have a new classmate this morning,” Miss Price said, laboring the obvious in a way that made everybody want to giggle. “His name is Vincent Sabella and he comes from New York City. I know we’ll all do our best to make him feel at home.”
This time they all swung around to stare at once, which caused him to duck his head slightly and shift his weight from one buttock to the other. Ordinarily, the fact of someone’s coming from New York might have held a certain prestige, for to most of the children the city was an awesome, adult place that swallowed up their fathers every day, and which they themselves were permitted to visit only rarely, in their best clothes, as a treat. But anyone could see at a glance that Vincent Sabella had nothing whatever to do with skyscrapers. Even if you could ignore his tangled black hair and gray skin, his clothes would have given him away: absurdly new corduroys, absurdly old sneakers and a yellow sweatshirt, much too small, with the shredded remains of a Mickey Mouse design stamped on its chest. Clearly, he was from the part of New York that you had to pass through on the train to Grand Central—the part where people hung bedding over their windowsills and leaned out on it all day in a trance of boredom, and where you got vistas of straight, deep streets, one after another, all alike in the clutter of their sidewalks and all swarming with gray boys at play in some desperate kind of ball game.
The girls decided that he wasn’t very nice and turned away, but the boys lingered in their scrutiny, looking him up and down with faint smiles. This was the kind of kid they were accustomed to thinking of as “tough,” the kind whose stares had made all of them uncomfortable at one time or another in unfamiliar neighborhoods; here was a unique chance for retaliation.
“What would you like us to call you, Vincent?” Miss Price inquired. “I mean, do you prefer Vincent, or Vince, or—or what?” (It was purely an academic question; even Miss Price knew that the boys would call him “Sabella” and that the girls wouldn’t call him anything at all.)
“Vinny’s okay,” he said in a strange, croaking voice that had evidently yelled itself hoarse down the ugly streets of his home.
“I’m afraid I didn’t hear you,” she said, craning her pretty head forward and to one side so that a heavy lock of hair swung free of one shoulder. “Did you say ‘Vince’?”
“Vinny, I said,” he said again, squirming.
“Vincent, is it? All right, then, Vincent.” A few of the class giggled, but nobody bothered to correct her; it would be more fun to let the mistake continue.
“I won’t take time to introduce you to everyone by name, Vincent,” Miss Price went on, “because I think it would be simpler
just to let you learn the names as we go along, don’t you? Now, we won’t expect you to take any real part in the work for the first day or so; just take your time, and if there’s anything you don’t understand, why, don’t be afraid to ask.”
He made an unintelligible croak and smiled fleetingly, just enough to show that the roots of his teeth were green.
“Now then,” Miss Price said, getting down to business. “This is Monday morning, and so the first thing on the program is reports. Who’d like to start off?”
Vincent Sabella was momentarily forgotten as six or seven hands went up, and Miss Price drew back in mock confusion. “Goodness, we do have a lot of reports this morning,” she said. The idea of the reports—a fifteen-minute period every Monday in which the children were encouraged to relate their experiences over the weekend—was Miss Price’s own, and she took a pardonable pride in it. The principal had commended her on it at a recent staff meeting, pointing out that it made a splendid bridge between the worlds of school and home, and that it was a fine way for children to learn poise and assurance. It called for intelligent supervision—the shy children had to be drawn out and the show-offs curbed—but in general, as Miss Price had assured the principal, it was fun for everyone. She particularly hoped it would be fun today, to help put Vincent Sabella at ease, and that was why she chose Nancy Parker to start off; there was nobody like Nancy for holding an audience.
The others fell silent as Nancy moved gracefully to the head of the room; even the two or three girls who secretly despised her had to feign enthrallment when she spoke (she was that popular), and every boy in the class, who at recess liked nothing better than to push her shrieking into the mud, was unable to watch her without an idiotically tremulous smile.
“Well—” she began, and then she clapped a hand over her mouth while everyone laughed.
“Oh, Nancy,” Miss Price said. “You know the rule about starting a report with ‘well.’”
Nancy knew the rule; she had only broken it to get the laugh. Now she let her fit of giggles subside, ran her fragile forefingers down the side seams of her skirt, and began again in the proper way. “On Friday my whole family went for a ride in my brother’s new car. My brother bought this new Pontiac last week, and he wanted to take us all for a ride—you know, to try it out and everything? So we went into White Plains and had dinner in a restaurant there, and then we all wanted to go see this movie, Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, but my brother said it was too horrible and everything, and I wasn’t old enough to enjoy it—oh, he made me so mad! And then, let’s see. On Saturday I stayed home all day and helped my mother make my sister’s wedding dress. My sister’s engaged to be married, you see, and my mother’s making this wedding dress for her? So we did that, and then on Sunday this friend of my brother’s came over for dinner, and then they both had to get back to college that night, and I was allowed to stay up late and say goodbye to them and everything, and I guess that’s all.” She always had a sure instinct for keeping her performance brief—or rather, for making it seem briefer than it really was.
“Very good, Nancy,” Miss Price said. “Now, who’s next?”
Warren Berg was next, elaborately hitching up his pants as he made his way down the aisle. “On Saturday I went over to Bill Stringer’s house for lunch,” he began in his direct, man-to-man style, and Bill Stringer wriggled bashfully in the front row. Warren Berg and Bill Stringer were great friends, and their reports often overlapped. “And then after lunch we went into White Plains, on our bikes. Only we saw Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.” Here he nodded his head in Nancy’s direction, and Nancy got another laugh by making a little whimper of envy. “It was real good too,” he went on, with mounting excitement. “It’s all about this guy who—”
“About a man who,” Miss Price corrected.
“About a man who mixes up this chemical, like, that he drinks? And whenever he drinks this chemical, he changes into this real monster, like? You see him drink this chemical, and then you see his hands start to get all scales all over them, like a reptile and everything, and then you see his face start to change into this real horrible-looking face—with fangs and all? Sticking out of his mouth?”
All the girls shuddered in pleasure. “Well,” Miss Price said, “I think Nancy’s brother was probably wise in not wanting her to see it. What did you do after the movie, Warren?”
There was a general “Aw-w-w!” of disappointment—everyone wanted to hear more about the scales and fangs—but Miss Price never liked to let the reports degenerate into accounts of movies. Warren continued without much enthusiasm: all they had done after the movie was fool around Bill Stringer’s yard until suppertime. “And then on Sunday,” he said, brightening again, “Bill Stringer came over to my house, and my dad helped us rig up this old tire on this long rope? From a tree? There’s this steep hill down behind my house, you see—this ravine, like?—and we hung this tire so that what you do is, you take the tire and run a little ways and then lift your feet, and you go swinging way, way out over the ravine and back again.”
“That sounds like fun,” Miss Price said, glancing at her watch.
“Oh, it’s fun, all right,” Warren conceded. But then he hitched up his pants again and added, with a puckering of his forehead, “’Course, it’s pretty dangerous. You let go of that tire or anything, you’d get a bad fall. Hit a rock or anything, you’d probably break your leg, or your spine. But my dad said he trusted us both to look out for our own safety.”
“Well, I’m afraid that’s all we’ll have time for, Warren,” Miss Price said. “Now, there’s just time for one more report. Who’s ready? Arthur Cross?”
There was a soft groan, because Arthur Cross was the biggest dope in class and his reports were always a bore. This time it turned out to be something tedious about going to visit his uncle on Long Island. At one point he made a slip—he said “botormoat” instead of “motorboat”—and everyone laughed with the particular edge of scorn they reserved for Arthur Cross. But the laughter died abruptly when it was joined by a harsh, dry croaking from the back of the room. Vincent Sabella was laughing too, green teeth and all, and they all had to glare at him until he stopped.
When the reports were over, everyone settled down for school. It was recess time before any of the children thought much about Vincent Sabella again, and then they thought of him only to make sure he was left out of everything. He wasn’t in the group of boys that clustered around the horizontal bar to take turns at skinning-the-cat, or the group that whispered in a far corner of the playground, hatching a plot to push Nancy Parker in the mud. Nor was he in the larger group, of which even Arthur Cross was a member, that chased itself in circles in a frantic variation of the game of tag. He couldn’t join the girls, of course, or the boys from other classes, and so he joined nobody. He stayed on the apron of the playground, close to school, and for the first part of the recess he pretended to be very busy with the laces of his sneakers. He would squat to undo and retie them, straighten up and take a few experimental steps in a springy, athletic way, and then get down and go to work on them again. After five minutes of this he gave it up, picked up a handful of pebbles and began shying them at an invisible target several yards away. That was good for another five minutes, but then there were still five minutes left, and he could think of nothing to do but stand there, first with his hands in his pockets, then with his hands on his hips, and then with his arms folded in a manly way across his chest.
Miss Price stood watching all this from the doorway, and she spent the full recess wondering if she ought to go out and do something about it. She guessed it would be better not to.
She managed to control the same impulse at recess the next day, and every other day that week, though every day it grew more difficult. But one thing she could not control was a tendency to let her anxiety show in class. All Vincent Sabella’s errors in schoolwork were publicly excused, even those having nothing to do with his newness, and all his accomplishments were singled o
ut for special mention. Her campaign to build him up was painfully obvious, and never more so than when she tried to make it subtle; once, for instance, in explaining an arithmetic problem, she said, “Now, suppose Warren Berg and Vincent Sabella went to the store with fifteen cents each, and candy bars cost ten cents. How many candy bars would each boy have?” By the end of the week he was well on the way to becoming the worst possible kind of teacher’s pet, a victim of the teacher’s pity.
On Friday she decided the best thing to do would be to speak to him privately, and try to draw him out. She could say something about the pictures he had painted in art class—that would do for an opening—and she decided to do it at lunchtime.
The only trouble was that lunchtime, next to recess, was the most trying part of Vincent Sabella’s day. Instead of going home for an hour as the other children did, he brought his lunch to school in a wrinkled paper bag and ate it in the classroom, which always made for a certain amount of awkwardness. The last children to leave would see him still seated apologetically at his desk, holding his paper bag, and anyone who happened to straggle back later for a forgotten hat or sweater would surprise him in the middle of his meal—perhaps shielding a hard-boiled egg from view or wiping mayonnaise from his mouth with a furtive hand. It was a situation that Miss Price did not improve by walking up to him while the room was still half full of children and sitting prettily on the edge of the desk beside his, making it clear that she was cutting her own lunch hour short in order to be with him.
“Vincent,” she began, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I enjoyed those pictures of yours. They’re really very good.”
He mumbled something and shifted his eyes to the cluster of departing children at the door. She went right on talking and smiling, elaborating on her praise of the pictures; and finally, after the door had closed behind the last child, he was able to give her his attention. He did so tentatively at first; but the more she talked, the more he seemed to relax, until she realized she was putting him at ease. It was as simple and as gratifying as stroking a cat. She had finished with the pictures now and moved on, triumphantly, to broader fields of praise. “It’s never easy,” she was saying, “to come to a new school and adjust yourself to the—well, the new work, and new working methods, and I think you’ve done a splendid job so far. I really do. But tell me, do you think you’re going to like it here?”
The Collected Stories Page 1
