The Collected Stories of Lorrie Moore

by Lorrie Moore

  "I always thought someday I would have a little girl and name her after my grandmother." Sidra sighed, peered wistfully into her sherry.

  "What was your grandmother's name?"

  Sidra looked at his paisley mouth. "Grandma. Her name was Grandma." Walter laughed in a honking sort of way. "Oh, thank you," murmured Sidra. "Thank you for laughing."

  Walter had a subscription to AutoWeek. He flipped through it in bed. He also liked to read repair manuals for new cars, particularly the Toyotas. He knew a lot about control panels, light-up panels, side panels.

  "You're so obviously wrong for each other," said Charlotte over tapas at a tapas bar.

  "Hey, please," said Sidra. "I think my taste's a little subtler than that." The thing with tapas bars was that you just kept stuffing things into your mouth. "Obviously wrong is just the beginning. That's where I always begin. At obviously wrong." In theory, she liked the idea of mismatched couples, the wrangling and retangling, like a comedy by Shakespeare.

  "I can't imagine you with someone like him. He's just not special." Charlotte had met him only once. But she had heard of him from a girlfriend of hers. He had slept around, she'd said. "Into the pudding" is how she phrased it, and there were some boring stories. "Just don't let him humiliate you. Don't mistake a lack of sophistication for sweetness," she added.

  "I'm supposed to wait around for someone special, while every other girl in this town gets to have a life?"

  "I don't know, Sidra."

  It was true. Men could be with whomever they pleased. But women had to date better, kinder, richer, and bright, bright, bright, or else people got embarrassed. It suggested sexual things. "I'm a very average person," she said desperately, somehow detecting that Charlotte already knew that, knew the deep, dark, wildly obvious secret of that, and how it made Sidra slightly pathetic, unseemly—inferior, when you got right down to it. Charlotte studied Sidra's face, headlights caught in the stare of a deer. Guns don't kill people, thought Sidra fizzily. Deer kill people.

  "Maybe it's that we all used to envy you so much," Charlotte said a little bitterly. "You were so talented. You got all the lead parts in the plays. You were everyone's dream of what they wanted."

  Sidra poked around at the appetizer in front of her, gardening it like a patch of land. She was unequal to anyone's wistfulness. She had made too little of her life. Its loneliness shamed her like a crime. "Envy," said Sidra. "That's a lot like hate, isn't it." But Charlotte didn't say anything. Probably she wanted Sidra to change the subject. Sidra stuffed her mouth full of feta cheese and onions, and looked up. "Well, all I can say is, I'm glad to be back." A piece of feta dropped from her lips.

  Charlotte looked down at it and smiled. "I know what you mean," she said. She opened her mouth wide and let all the food inside fall out onto the table.

  Charlotte could be funny like that. Sidra had forgotten that about her.

  walter had found some of her old movies in the video-rental place. She had a key. She went over one night and discovered him asleep in front of Recluse with Rommate. It was about a woman named Rose who rarely went out, because when she did, she was afraid of people. They seemed like alien lifeforms—soulless, joyless, speaking asyntactically. Rose quickly became loosened from reality. Walter had it freeze-framed at the funny part, where Rose phones the psych ward to have them come take her away, but they refuse. She lay down next to him and tried to sleep, too, but began to cry a little. He stirred. "What's wrong?" he asked.

  "Nothing. You fell asleep. Watching me."

  "I was tired," he said.

  "I guess so."

  "Let me kiss you. Let me find your panels." His eyes were closed. She could be anybody.

  "Did you like the beginning part of the movie?" This need in her was new. Frightening. It made her hair curl. When had she ever needed so much?

  "It was okay," he said.

  "so what is this guy, a race-car driver?" asked Tommy.

  "No, he's a mechanic."

  "Ugh! Quit him like a music lesson!"

  "Like a music lesson? What is this, Similes from the Middle Class?. One Mans Opinion?" She was irritated.

  "Sidra. This is not right! You need to go out with someone really smart for a change."

  "I've been out with smart. I've been out with someone who had two Ph.D.'s. We spent all of our time in bed with the light on, proofreading his vita." She sighed. "Every little thing he'd ever done, every little, little, little. I mean, have you ever seen a vita?"

  Tommy sighed, too. He had heard this story of Sidra's before. "Yes," he said. "I thought Patti LuPone was great."

  "Besides," she said. "Who says he's not smart?"

  the japanese cars were the most interesting. Though the Americans were getting sexier, trying to keep up with them. Those Japs!

  "Let's talk about my world," she said.

  "What world?"

  "Well, something I'm interested in. Something where there's something in it for me."

  "Okay." He turned and dimmed the lights, romantically. "Got a stock tip for you," he said.

  She was horrified, dispirited, interested.

  He told her the name of a company somebody at work invested in. AutVis.

  "What is it?"

  "I don't know. But some guy at work said buy this week. They're going to make some announcement. If I had money, I'd buy."

  She bought, the very next morning. A thousand shares. By the afternoon, the stock had plummeted 10 percent; by the following morning, 50. She watched the ticker tape go by on the bottom of the TV news channel. She had become the major stockholder. The major stockholder of a dying company! Soon they were going to be calling her, wearily, to ask what she wanted done with the forklift.

  "you're a neater eater than I am," Walter said to her over dinner at the Palmer House.

  She looked at him darkly. "What the hell were you thinking of, recommending that stock?" she asked. "How could you be such an irresponsible idiot?" She saw it now, how their life would be together. She would yell; then he would yell. He would have an affair; then she would have an affair. And then they would be gone and gone, and they would live in that gone.

  "I got the name wrong," he said. "Sorry."

  "You what?"

  "It wasn't AutVis. It was AutDrive. I kept thinking it was vis for vision."

  "Vis for vision," she repeated.

  "I'm not that good with names," confessed Walter. "I do better with concepts."

  "'Concepts,'" she repeated as well.

  The concept of anger. The concept of bills. The concept of flightless, dodo love.

  Outside, there was a watery gust from the direction of the lake. "Chicago," said Walter. "The Windy City. Is this the Windy City or what?" He looked at her hopefully, which made her despise him more.

  She shook her head. "I don't even know why we're together," she said. "I mean, why are we even together?"

  He looked at her hard. "I can't answer that for you," he yelled. He took two steps back, away from her. "You've got to answer that for yourself!" And he hailed his own cab, got in, and rode away.

  She walked back to the Days Inn alone. She played scales soundlessly, on the tops of the piano keys, her thin-jointed fingers lifting and falling quietly like the tines of a music box or the legs of a spider. When she tired, she turned on the television, moved through the channels, and discovered an old movie she'd been in, a love story-murder mystery called Finishing Touches. It was the kind of performance she had become, briefly, known for: a patched-together intimacy with the audience, half cartoon, half revelation; a cross between shyness and derision. She had not given a damn back then, sort of like now, only then it had been a style, a way of being, not a diagnosis or demise.

  Perhaps she should have a baby.

  In the morning, she went to visit her parents in Elmhurst. For winter, they had plastic-wrapped their home—the windows, the doors—so that it looked like a piece of avant-garde art. "Saves on heating bills," they said.

  They
had taken to discussing her in front of her. "It was a movie, Don. It was a movie about adventure. Nudity can be art."

  "That's not how I saw it! That's not how I saw it at all!" said her father, red-faced, leaving the room. Naptime.

  "How are you doing?" asked her mother, with what seemed like concern but was really an opening for something else. She had made tea.

  "I'm okay, really," said Sidra. Everything she said about herself now sounded like a lie. If she was bad, it sounded like a lie; if she was fine—also a lie.

  Her mother fiddled with a spoon. "I was envious of you." Her mother sighed. "I was always so envious of you! My own daughter!" She was shrieking it, saying it softly at first and then shrieking. It was exactly like Sidra's childhood: just when she thought life had become simple again, her mother gave her a new portion of the world to organize.

  "I have to go," said Sidra. She had only just gotten there, but she wanted to go. She didn't want to visit her parents anymore. She didn't want to look at their lives.

  She went back to the Days Inn and phoned Tommy. She and Tommy understood each other. "I get you," he used to say. His childhood had been full of sisters. He'd spent large portions of it drawing pictures of women in bathing suits—Miss Kenya from Nairobi!—and then asking one of the sisters to pick the most beautiful. If he disagreed, he asked another sister.

  The connection was bad, and suddenly she felt too tired. "Darling, are you okay?" he said faintly.

  "I'm okay."

  "I think I'm hard of hearing," he said.

  "I think I'm hard of talking," she said. "I'll phone you tomorrow."

  She phoned Walter instead. "I need to see you," she said.

  "Oh, really?" he said skeptically, and then added, with a sweetness he seemed to have plucked expertly from the air like a fly, "Is this a great country or what?"

  she felt grateful to be with him again. "Let's never be apart," she whispered, rubbing his stomach. He had the physical inclinations of a dog: he liked stomach, ears, excited greetings.

  "Fine by me," he said.

  "Tomorrow, let's go out to dinner somewhere really expensive. My treat."

  "Uh," said Walter, "tomorrow's no good."

  "Oh."

  "How about Sunday?"

  "What's wrong with tomorrow?"

  "I've got. Well, I've gotta work and I'll be tired, first of all."

  "What's second of all?"

  "I'm getting together with this woman I know."

  "Oh?"

  "It's no big deal. It's nothing. It's not a date or anything."

  "Who is she?"

  "Someone whose car I fixed. Loose mountings in the exhaust system. She wants to get together and talk about it some more. She wants to know about catalytic converters. You know, women are afraid of getting taken advantage of."

  "Really!"

  "Yeah, well, so Sunday would be better."

  "Is she attractive?"

  Walter scrinched up his face and made a sound of unenthusiasm. "Enh," he said, and placed his hand laterally in the air, rotating it up and down a little.

  Before he left in the morning, she said, "Just don't sleep with her."

  "Sidra" he said, scolding her for lack of trust or for attempted supervision—she wasn't sure which.

  That night, he didn't come home. She phoned and phoned and then drank a six-pack and fell asleep. In the morning, she phoned again. Finally, at eleven o'clock, he answered.

  She hung up.

  At 11:30, her phone rang. "Hi," he said cheerfully. He was in a good mood.

  "So where were you all night?" asked Sidra. This was what she had become. She felt shorter and squatter and badly coiffed.

  There was some silence. "What do you mean?" he said cautiously.

  "You know what I mean."

  More silence. "Look, I didn't call to get into a heavy conversation."

  "Well, then," said Sidra, "you certainly called the wrong number." She slammed down the phone.

  She spent the day trembling and sad. She felt like a cross between Anna Karenina and Amy Liverhaus, who used to shout from the fourth-grade cloakroom, "I just don't feel appreciated!" She walked over to Marshall Field's to buy new makeup. "You're much more of a cream beige than an ivory," said the young woman working the cosmetics counter.

  But Sidra clutched at the ivory. "People are always telling me that," she said, "and it makes me very cross."

  She phoned him later that night and he was there. "We need to talk," she said.

  "I want my key back," he said.

  "Look. Can you just come over here so that we can talk?"

  He arrived bearing flowers—white roses and irises. They seemed wilted and ironic; she leaned them against the wall in a dry glass, no water.

  "All right, I admit it," he said. "I went out on a date. But I'm not saying I slept with her."

  She could feel, suddenly, the promiscuity in him. It was a heat, a creature, a tenant twin. "I already know you slept with her."

  "How can you know that?"

  "Get a life! What am I, an idiot?" She glared at him and tried not to cry. She hadn't loved him enough and he had sensed it. She hadn't really loved him at all, not really.

  But she had liked him a lot!

  So it still seemed unfair. A bone in her opened up, gleaming and pale, and she held it to the light and spoke from it. "I want to know one thing." She paused, not really for effect, but it had one. "Did you have oral sex?"

  He looked stunned. "What kind of question is that? I don't have to answer a question like that."

  "You don't have to answer a question like that. You don't have any rights here!" she began to yell. She was dehydrated. "You're the one who did this. Now I want the truth. I just want to know. Yes or no!"

  He threw his gloves across the room.

  "Yes or no," she said.

  He flung himself onto the couch, pounded the cushion with his fist, placed an arm up over his eyes.

  "Yes or no," she repeated.

  He breathed deeply into his shirtsleeve.

  "Yes or no."

  "Yes," he said.

  She sat down on the piano bench. Something dark and coagulated moved through her, up from the feet. Something light and breathing fled through her head, the house of her plastic-wrapped and burned down to tar. She heard him give a moan, and some fleeing hope in her, surrounded but alive on the roof, said perhaps he would beg her forgiveness. Promise to be a new man. She might find him attractive as a new, begging man. Though at some point, he would have to stop begging. He would just have to be normal. And then she would dislike him again.

  He stayed on the sofa, did not move to comfort or be comforted, and the darkness in her cleaned her out, hollowed her like acid or a wind.

  "I don't know what to do," she said, something palsied in her voice. She felt cheated of all the simple things—the radical calm of obscurity, of routine, of blah domestic bliss. "I don't want to go back to L.A.," she said. She began to stroke the tops of the piano keys, pushing against one and finding it broken—thudding and pitchless, shiny and mocking like an opened bone. She hated, hated her life. Perhaps she had always hated it.

  He sat up on the sofa, looked distraught and false—his face badly arranged. He should practice in a mirror, she thought. He did not know how to break up with a movie actress. It was boys' rules: don't break up with a movie actress. Not in Chicago. If she left him, he would be better able to explain it, to himself, in the future, to anyone who asked. His voice shifted into something meant to sound imploring. "I know" was what he said, in a tone approximating hope, faith, some charity or other. "I know you might not want to."

  "For your own good," he was saying. "Might be willing…" he was saying. But she was already turning into something else, a bird—a flamingo, a hawk, a flamingo-hawk—and was flying up and away, toward the filmy pane of the window, then back again, circling, meanly, with a squint.

  He began, suddenly, to cry—loudly at first, with lots of ohs, then tiredly, as if fr
om a deep sleep, his face buried in the poncho he'd thrown over the couch arm, his body sinking into the plush of the cushions—a man held hostage by the anxious cast of his dream.

  "What can I do?" he asked.

  But his dream had now changed, and she was gone, gone out the window, gone, gone.

  * * *

  Which Is More Than I Can Say About Some People

  it was a fear greater than death, according to the magazines. Death was number four. After mutilation, three, and divorce, two. Number one, the real fear, the one death could not even approach, was public speaking. Abby Mallon knew this too well. Which is why she had liked her job at American Scholastic Tests: she got to work with words in a private way. The speech she made was done in the back, alone, like little shoes cobbled by an elf: spider is to web as weaver is to blank. That one was hers. She was proud of that. Also, blank is to heartache as forest is to bench.

  but then one day, the supervisor and the AST district coordinator called her upstairs. She was good, they said, but perhaps she had become too good, too creative, they suggested, and gave her a promotion out of the composing room and into the high school auditoriums of America. She would have to travel and give speeches, tell high school faculty how to prepare students for the entrance exams, meet separately with the juniors and seniors and answer their questions unswervingly, with authority and grace. "You may have a vacation first," they said, and handed her a check.

  "Thank you," she said doubtfully. In her life, she had been given the gift of solitude, a knack for it, but now it would be of no professional use. She would have to become a people person.

  "A peeper person?" queried her mother on the phone from Pittsburgh.

  "People?" said Abby.

  "Oh, those," said her mother, and she sighed the sigh of death, though she was strong as a brick.

  of all abby's fanciful ideas for self-improvement (the inspirational video, the breathing exercises, the hypnosis class), the Blarney Stone, with its whoring barter of eloquence for love— o gift of gab, read the T-shirts—was perhaps the most extreme. Perhaps. There had been, after all, her marriage to Bob, her boyfriend of many years, after her dog, Randolph, had died of kidney failure and marriage to Bob seemed the only way to overcome her grief. Of course, she had always admired the idea of marriage, the citizenship and public speech of it, the innocence rebestowed, and Bob was big and comforting. But he didn't have a lot to say. He was not a verbal man. Rage gave him syntax—but it just wasn't enough! Soon Abby had begun to keep him as a kind of pet, while she quietly looked for distractions of depth and consequence. She looked for words. She looked for ways with words. She worked hard to befriend a lyricist from New York—a tepid, fair-haired, violet-eyed bachelor—she and most of the doctors' wives and arts administrators in town. He was newly arrived, owned no car, and wore the same tan blazer every day. "Water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink," said the bachelor lyricist once, listening wanly to the female chirp of his phone messages. In his apartment, there were no novels or bookcases. There was one chair, as well as a large television set, the phone machine, a rhyming dictionary continuously renewed from the library, and a coffee table. Women brought him meals, professional introductions, jingle commissions, and cash grants. In return, he brought them small piebald stones from the beach, or a pretty weed from the park. He would stand behind the coffee table and recite his own songs, then step back and wait fearfully to be seduced. To be lunged at and devoured by the female form was, he believed, something akin to applause. Sometimes he would produce a rented lute and say, "Here, I've just composed a melody to go with my Creation verse. Sing along with me."