The O. Henry Prize Stories 2018

by The O Henry Prize Stories 2018 (retail) (epub)

  We spent an amazing day exploring Pompeii, but got lost coming back: Mom drove us straight through Naples, into the craziest rush-hour traffic I’d ever seen—in and out of tunnels, along the waterfront, and then onto a huge highway…heading away from the coast. Dad gave up and handed me the map. I got us as far as Cuma, but the villa was gone. We glided again and again past old walls, shivery bamboo groves, dark restaurants, palm trees, signposts, tiny trucks, sudden forks in the road—but any choice we made took us back through the arch. No one spoke. Once, I was sure we’d found the way—but there we were, on the Roman road again, the archway rising up ahead. Alicia said it used to carry a new highway laid out by the emperor while Pompeii still smoked under pumice and ash. “We’re on the even older road it replaced.” I didn’t think so; couldn’t be sure. I rested my forehead on the glass and closed my eyes. We would all dream of gliding through that arch: recurring dreams.

  * * *

  —

  I woke and lay listening to Marcia breathe in the other bed. Almost dawn: you could hear the quiet; nothing moving at all, just still things waiting. Then Alicia’s voice, somewhere nearby—on the balcony of an empty room, or stretched out on a couch in the hall. Of course, her phone worked. But when did she sleep?

  Down in the cool, dim kitchen, I sat with a glass of blood-orange juice and watched the sun touch each tomato on the sill, until all five seemed to be lit from inside. I stared at the bulletin board until it blurred, thinking of things that might happen in my life, turning them over like curious stones, bits of surf-smoothed glass, slivers of shell. So many choices I might make; so few I really would. I went back upstairs and slept for three more hours.

  There was a note from Mom in the kitchen: she’d taken Marcia out for breakfast. I poured a glass of cold peach tea, went to the library, and grabbed a book about satyrs. They had tails and pointy ears and were incredibly horny. As the book put it, “They bring the wine, provide the music, and misbehave.” Ha! I loved the vase paintings: in one, a tame and pleasant satyr pushed a lady in a swing, but they had horse-size erections everywhere else. Hilarious.

  Alicia came in, stretched out on the couch, and swung her feet across my lap. “Is this old place really safe, do you think? I mean, if there were a fire, where would we go?” With a silent finger, I showed her: there were signs on all the walls, everywhere in the building.

  “And if there’s not a fire?”

  I didn’t bother to roll my eyes. I wanted to say: “You can take a break, Alicia. There’s nobody here but us.” Instead I sucked cold, sweet tea through my sparkly straw.

  Her eyes moved all around the room. “Can I tell you something?”

  “I guess.” I turned the page. “Wait. Are you wearing my mom’s perfume?”

  She tilted her head. Of course she was too smooth to say anything, but I knew that smell.

  “So, I had this thought,” Alicia said. “About pornography. That the people who make it aren’t trying to imagine or portray actual people, but only a situation. Then I realized: philosophy is pretty much the same. Right? Back in a sec. Then I’m going out again.”

  “Wait, wait, wait. Isn’t being a person a situation, too?” (Also: exactly how much porn did she think I watched?)

  Alicia swooped back in and set something down with a click, as if she’d put me in check: a lipstick. I said, “Oh…thanks!” but she was already gone.

  In the bathroom upstairs I screwed the color out, almost touched it to my lips, and stood like that, thinking. Somewhere a wild wind was peeling signs off walls. Somewhere a girl my age was practicing her sport with a serious trainer. Somewhere millions of strangers were doing billions of things I’d never know about. And, in the mirror, a girl who was me and no one else stood waiting for something to happen.

  Nothing did. I screwed the color in, capped it, and dropped it in my pocket. (Not today.)

  “We had breakfast at Baia Castle!” Marcia called up from the entranceway. She wore a floppy straw hat and a sky-blue shirt, and looked completely happy. “We went window-shopping, too! Ugh, dude, those Shroud of Turin beach towels are in poor taste.”

  Mom looked worn out. She said our dad was waiting to take us to the Sibyl’s Cave.

  “—and of course the arch,” Marcia joked. “Mary, the castle was amazing. You have to go. Wish I’d brought Rollerblades.”

  Mom said she would stay behind and have a nap. Her smile was small and tight; you could tell she’d stop smiling as soon as we left.

  Dad took a detour to the Birdless Lake to show us the Entrance to Hell, so we got to the Sibyl’s Cave right before closing. The men at the gate weren’t going to let us in, especially after Dad told them in his flimsy Italian that it was their job and they had to, but Alicia stepped forward, pushed her soft lips out, and asked them, Please, per carità?

  The gate swung open. They didn’t even let us pay.

  We spread out over the site. It was late, so we were more or less alone. Alicia jogged ahead, sprinted to the end of the cave, and stood there, arms outstretched: her mouth made an O. The Sibyl’s scream went on and on and on: echoed down the rock walls and left everything quiet.

  Alicia dropped her arms and laughed.

  On the path to the acropolis I ran into Dad; we walked up together. “Having a good time?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  We climbed all the way up to where the temples had been and looked out over the gulf. Far below, three people on horseback galloped along a beach. Sun was about to set: in a few minutes we’d all have one less day (obviously). Dad seemed to want to say something, but didn’t. We just watched the horses, and a speeding, bucking motorboat way out on the water that made no sound at all. Maybe he wanted to tell me why he and Mom were so preoccupied, as if they had to remind themselves that they were here with us at all? Or why Mom was so upset?

  I didn’t ask; he didn’t say. It seemed like those were the rules.

  We sat down on a slab. “About Marcia,” he said. “Hey. I know she must seem a little annoying these days…but please don’t take it personally.”

  “Oh—I know.” I looked over, but couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “I love these long bricks. And the color of the water. I guess the marketplace would have been up here, too?”

  “Exactly: the agora. You know, the last king of Rome died here. Julius Caesar spent time in Cumae, too. And, after Hercules finally caught him in the snow and hurled him into the sea—”

  “Dad? Sorry. What were you going to say about Marcia?”

  “Oh…I just don’t want you to feel outnumbered. But your sister’s at an age where, sometimes, you feel so ready. Whether you really are or not.”

  We looked off at the water: the boat was gone. The horses and riders were specks. Ready or not, here I come.

  “You’ll get your turn, Mary. Soon enough—too soon for me!—but for now, please don’t take it to heart. Shall we head back down? I don’t think the others are going to make the climb.”

  And in not so many years, first Marcia’s room, then mine, would be as empty as these archaeological sites, and things would be different for all of us. Maybe we would love our parents just as much, or even more, but we wouldn’t need them at all. We went down the hill.

  * * *

  —

  My sister grabbed a sheet, tripped on it, ran out of the room naked. I stepped back, mouth open. Marcia’s bare feet pounded down the hall. A door slammed.

  Alicia was naked, too, but she didn’t move. “It’s okay,” she said slowly. “It’s all right.”

  I closed my mouth. (Why was I the one blushing?)

  Alicia kept giving me the same steady look, but I could hear her breathe. “Okay? It’s no big deal. We were playing around.”

  I was shaking. I tried not to shake. “I couldn’t find Mom or Dad. I was just going to ask if you wanted something to eat.”
>
  The Italian boy went on getting dressed, taking his time, as if he were in his own house. His skin was smooth and very, very tan. His lips curved like a statue’s. He didn’t look at me.

  Wait—no—he wasn’t a boy at all! He was one of the landscapers from down the road, the one who’d given them oranges, the one whose wife had just given birth to a little girl!

  Alicia held her bra like a cat’s cradle, looped it over her arms, shrugged into it, fastened the strap, adjusted herself. Shaved bare below, she did nothing to cover up. She seemed amused.

  He was way older—twenty-seven, twenty-eight. He had a family. The door clicked shut and he was gone.

  “You okay?” Alicia asked. “Are you okay?” She came closer, her eyes on mine.

  My face kept trying to smile on its own, which made me hate myself a little. “Am I okay?”

  “Oh, Mary, I know you won’t say anything, of course, you aren’t like that at all, but I want to thank you anyway. So here’s your reward.” She leaned in like an actor in a film and gave me a long, soft kiss on the lips. The kiss went on and on, as if we weren’t both girls, as if—

  Oh.

  * * *

  —

  “It’s the Tyrrhenian Sea,” Alicia whispered, so only I could hear. “I found a map.”

  We were squished into the car. Mom was driving, Dad was up in front, and they were talking about some “symposium” they had to go to all of a sudden. They were going to dump us with Alicia, leave us stuck in Siena without a car. Oh, there’d be “plenty to do.” I watched the traffic. Alicia’s arm was warm against mine, our bare skin touching now and then, as if it were a test to see if I’d pull away. I didn’t: I wasn’t playing her game, whatever it was. Why should I? The road was actually interesting—what I could see of it. On curves, Alicia leaned into me.

  Her lips had tasted like grape jelly. Then there she’d been, back across the room, getting dressed, putting her earbuds in, hunting down a playlist as if nothing real had happened and nothing meant anything and that was that. All night I’d tasted traces of that kiss, felt it all over, and now (I could feel my cheeks go warm) I needed a few minutes or days of the kind of privacy that probably only shipwrecked people get. Not because I was embarrassed—because the whole thing had sprung open at me without warning and folded away before I’d had a chance to know what it was. I could still feel that kiss.

  Sun flashed on Alicia’s piercing. She liked showing it off—catching the little barbell between her teeth, arching her tongue so the steel bead gleamed—but, honestly? It was a little gross. I closed my eyes. Sometimes there isn’t much to do but wait. Maybe things will improve: maybe not. You wait.

  Alicia was nudging my sister. “That sign again. You’re famous.”

  Marcia laughed. “Yeah: famous upside down.”

  Okay, and that man’s wife? Their newborn baby? Are they part of your stupid private joke?

  Long day in Naples; night rushed by. It still felt so different here. Even when there was nothing special—a highway, some industrial landscape, cars—I loved it. And that dark blue shadow against the darker sky was Vesuvius, the volcano that destroyed Pompeii.

  Wheels on gravel woke me. Dogs barked. I avoided everyone and went straight to bed—so of course I couldn’t sleep: I lay in the dark thinking of every single time I’d ever been shallow or mean or afraid, or hadn’t paid the attention someone or something or someplace had deserved. Would I even like college when the time came? From the little Alicia said, I imagined people socializing chaotically while ideas slid by like roadside scenery. Though maybe a real idea would just insist, like that gap between the bricks at Solfatara, where you can’t keep your hand in the serious heat for even a second before it shoves you back.

  Marcia was in Alicia’s room again. I wondered what the octopus from Dad’s photo was doing right now, this second, tonight. Undulating out there in the dark, moving exactly like the water at first, then suddenly not as it reaches for prey, all of its suckers flared.

  I read Lucretius until late—his philosophy was all about sex!—and finally got sleepy. When I went to the bathroom, Dad was down the hall, his back to me, talking on the old phone you had to put a token in. “I don’t know what else I could have done.” He listened. “Soon.”

  God. I’d overheard a thousand conversations on this trip and actually had maybe two.

  I woke up late. Suitcases stood by the door and the whole place felt different. I ate breakfast alone; sat watching a spider with pale, transparent legs investigate the hinge of Mom’s suitcase. Dad came in. With care, he took the spider up on the brim of his hat and flicked it lightly onto the nearest sill. “Siamo pronti? Time to pack, Mary, we’re going north.”

  I gave him a hug and he patted me on the head, just like he always had—even when I was a baby, probably. Only this time I was feeling nauseous and hollowed out, so it didn’t really stick.

  We said good-bye to the dogs and got in the car. Dad tried to drive through the archway one last time, for fun, but we couldn’t find it. We passed a CUMA sign with a red slash through it, meaning No more Cuma—ciao!—and were on the road.

  Alicia’s bracelets jingled. I let my forehead rest against trembling glass. I loved the umbrella pines: I’d seen them in paintings and always assumed they were cartoony, made-up things—but they were real. Italy was real. A cloud passed out of sight and into my mind, where it floated slowly on, dimming a little as I closed my eyes and we rushed up A1, the Highway of the Sun.

  When I looked over, Alicia and my sister were holding hands. I couldn’t see my mom but I knew she was staring out of the window, seeing the same trouble everywhere we went. I wanted to reach over the seat and pat her, but she would only tell me to put my seat belt on.

  * * *

  —

  “I can’t believe they gave this place two stars,” Marcia said. I had to agree: the room was disgusting. You couldn’t bathe without brushing against the toilet, which was inside the shower, and the bathroom ceiling was black with what Mom called “terrifyingly mature” growths of mold. Still, when you stepped outside, there was Siena. Dad and I climbed to the top of the old tower and saw the city spread out like living geometry; Piazza del Campo opened like a fan.

  We all met up at a pizzeria on a steep narrow street. Marcia wore a thin white sweater over a wine-red dress that was practically see-through—Alicia’s, of course. Mom didn’t even notice. “I need a nap before we do the Duomo,” she said. In the hotel’s tiny lobby, the TV was on. An American actor whirled to face the camera and shouted: Che cosa fai?

  “Non lo so, idiota,” Alicia told the TV, and gave me a quick smile. She wore a perfume that smelled like lemon peel and grass and some spice you couldn’t be sure was there or not, but I was honestly getting a little tired of her. Something about her was maybe a little cruel? What I’d thought when she’d kissed me (or a bit after, once I could think again) was mostly, why? It was like sitting in someone’s car and revving the engine, then not bothering to take them anywhere.

  Back in the tiny room I shared with Mom, I lay on my bed reading. Dad came in and said something that made Mom jump up. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not letting you out of my sight!”

  I got up and left. I didn’t hear what he said back, but it sounded like he was trying to be quiet and patient in a way that wouldn’t calm you down at all.

  Marcia and I went for a walk. We wandered all over Siena, stopping to look at the yellow pottery or figure out which contrada we were in—we loved all the different coats of arms. We didn’t really talk, which was nice. After an hour she headed back; I stopped at a newsstand. Some of the magazines had little presents shrink-wrapped onto them—change purse, lotion sample, diary. I flipped through a flimsy gossip magazine: An ad for lingerie. Rings. A baby carrier. A wristwatch encrusted with every color of jewel. Gardening soil. Goofy furniture. Puffed-up, perforated
weight-loss pants. Little muffins sealed in bags. Ugly suede wedges. Biscuity cookies that looked like little gears, that you somehow had to buy at the pharmacy? Amazing furniture. A special fitness shoe that would definitely injure you. A crystal ball (though the ad was for something else). Oh, and the articles all seemed to be about old men in bathing suits and topless women with lots of makeup on. The pictures were amazing: an ominous old man gripping a young woman’s duffel bag. A woman in plush purple sweatpants talking on a jeweled phone. And I recognized none of the celebrities, which made me feel FREE.

  Mom and I both went to bed early. I slept pretty well—until a man screaming for quiet woke everyone up. Down the hall somewhere, an Englishwoman went on shouting at her daughter. “I should not be doing this! I should not be cleaning your vomit from my car keys!”

  ¡Cállate! ¡Quiet! screamed the Spaniard in the next room, ten times as loud.

  Mom put a pillow over her head. I put my earbuds in, set an instrumental track on endless repeat, and went back to sleep with wild jazz in my head.

  Alicia and I lived in a big old house in Rye, near the amusement park, playing a game with complicated rules. We had to act like we were married; but, since the whole point of marriage was to get the upper hand, you could never relax or be nice. When the wind blew, the house creaked like a ship. She sang while she loaded the dishwasher: O, O, they call me Jack-A-Roe.

  I was glad to wake up and leave the moldy hotel forever.

  We moved into a neat little appartamentino in the newer part of town. Our parents took off right away, saying they’d be back in time for dinner, which no one believed. I put Mom’s sunglasses on. Pushed my bottom lip out as far as it would go, just to see how far: pretty far.

  “Teach not thy lip such scorn,” Alicia said. Silent, unsmiling, like a cop who was half machine and half man, I swiveled and turned my dark lenses on her. She laughed.