PRAISE FOR FARTHEST SOUTH
“Farthest South makes me want to renew my vows to the short story form. Ethan Rutherford pulls off what other writers can’t. His stories are dreamy and crisp. They lull and then startle. Best of all, they don’t go anywhere I expect them to. I am obsessed.”
—DIANE COOK, author of The New Wilderness
“Ethan Rutherford is one of our great artists of catastrophe. Drawing on landscapes both mythic—the fairy tale, the ghost story—and domestic, this collection illuminates terrors that feel at once prescient and eternal. Farthest South is a masterpiece.”
—LAURA VAN DEN BERG, author of I Hold a Wolf by the Ears
“In these disquieting stories, the surface of seemingly placid, ordinary American life gives way to startling eruptions of the strange, the marvelous, and the dreadful. Each story is an uncanny revelation, as if Nathaniel Hawthorne had decided to take up residence among us. ‘What did I miss?’ numerous characters ask in the collection, and while the characters often do not know, Ethan Rutherford does. A brilliant and literally wonderful collection.”
—RATTAWUT LAPCHAROENSAP, author of Sightseeing
“Again and again you can feel the stories in Farthest South striking out after fascination and surprising themselves with wisdom. Ethan Rutherford pairs a classic style with a haunted vision. Narratives that are all grace and ease at the beginning gradually become soaked in dread and hallucination. Reading them is by equal measures comforting and jolting, like sinking into a warm bath and feeling the brush of something living against your body.”
—KEVIN BROCKMEIER, author of The Ghost Variations
“Ethan Rutherford’s stories combine nail-biting tension with crystalline description, humor, and endings that are as marvelously strange as they are rewarding. Toggling between the eerie and the radiantly familiar, Farthest South is unsettling in all the best ways. This is a beautifully spellbinding book.”
—JULIE SCHUMACHER, author of Dear Committee Members
“The nine gorgeous and disorienting tales in Farthest South explore the terrors of love and attachment. The characters stumble through a contemporary reality they cannot decipher, guided by the unsound logic of dreams. Rutherford’s imagination is vast, as is his compassion for our lostness. These are sublime, disquieting, and consequential stories for our moment.”
—AMITY GAIGE, author of Sea Wife
“Stories that test the boundaries of the fictional imagination.”
—KIRKUS, starred review
FARTHEST SOUTH
AND OTHER STORIES
FARTHEST SOUTH
AND OTHER STORIES
ETHAN RUTHERFORD
The stories in this collection have appeared in slightly different forms in the following publications:
“Ghost Story” in Tin House, “The Baby” in Post Road, “Farthest South” in BOMB, “The Diver” (as “The Soul Collector”) in Conjunctions.
Published by
A Strange Object, an imprint of Deep Vellum
© 2021 Ethan Rutherford. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the publisher, except in context of reviews.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Rutherford, Ethan, author.
Title: Farthest south and other stories / Ethan Rutherford.
Description: Dallas, Texas : Deep Vellum Publishing ; Austin, Texas : A Strange Object, [2021]
Identifiers: LCCN 2020044988 (print) | LCCN 2020044989 (ebook) ISBN 9781646050475 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781646050482 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Short stories.
Classification: LCC PS3618.U7785 F37 2021 (print) | LCC PS3618.U7785 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020044988
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020044989
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are coincidental.
Cover design by Nayon Cho
Book design by Amber Morena
Illustrations by Anders Nilsen
For Rusty and Paul
CONTENTS
Ghost Story
The Baby
Pools, I Am A Hawk
Holiday
Fable
Angus and Annabel
Farthest South
Family, Happiness
The Diver
Oh golden dreams
Golden dreams all lose their glow
I don’t need perfection, I love the whole
Oh give me a life that needs correction
Nobody loves, loves perfection
Loneliness, loneliness will run you through
All the kids are laughing, I’m laughing too.
—HAMILTON LEITHAUSER
Dorothy changed direction on the way to the main road.
She drove back to town and then went on to the museum
gardens, parked the car and walked around, looking at
the trees and flowers. There were two old women being
pushed in wheelchairs by uniformed nurses. Me, one
day, she thought. And between now and then, nothing
that can be done to avoid it, except an early death. But
the gardens were pleasant.
—RACHEL INGALLS, Mrs. Caliban
FARTHEST SOUTH
AND OTHER STORIES
GHOST STORY
SOREN LIVED WITH HIS WIFE on the fourteenth floor of an apartment complex in the middle of the city. When they were younger, this apartment had suited them well—it was full of single people, and everyone liked to stay up late around the rooftop pool to watch the lights of the neighboring buildings—but now they had two children, and the apartment had begun to feel small. Hana, his wife, was eager to move, but what could they do? They could barely afford the place they had. Some nights, after they made love or finished reading, Hana would quiz him on his top requirement for their new apartment, as if talking about it would make it real. Usually Soren would say wraparound deck, or large fireplace, but what he really wanted was a house by the sea with a view of a lighthouse, where he could hear its low warning wash over the waves. Hana’s top requirement was always a pool of her own. She went swimming every day as soon as Soren got home from work, but the pool at their apartment was often crowded and not ideal for swimmers. It’s for jumping, Hana would say a little sadly.
Soren’s job was, as he put it to anyone who asked, too boring to explain. He worked in advertising and was part of a large team that tried to convince celebrities to use their clients’ products. It had been exciting at first, but the hours were long, and he spent the majority of his time in front of the computer; and since he was the new guy, most days he had to be in early and stay late. This meant that the only time he saw his children during the week was for breakfast or after dinner, right before they were about to go to sleep. It was not ideal, but it was better than his father had done. They had the weekends, but those had a way of evaporating as well: the older boy spent time with his friends now that he was in a new school and had just entered first grade; the younger one had a schedule full of playdates. Hana liked the other parents and was good at small talk, but these playdates were awkward for Soren, so he usually skipped them to do the grocery shopping for the week. He walked the aisles with headphones on, whistling. It was the only time he got to be alone.
Tonight, he had been kept at work by a client who was wondering about the best way to get the moisturizer his company produced “onto the hands” of a famous soap-opera villain. Soren listened until he could listen no more, and then he said he would
have to think on it and call the client back first thing in the morning.
Hana was waiting for him in the kitchen. “They’re ready for you,” she said in an irritated voice. She was already dressed in her bathing suit and cap. Soren knew from experience that this meant that she’d had a hard night with the boys.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Oh,” she said, “the usual.”
Soren liked seeing her in her bathing suit, and the incongruity of her standing in the middle of their apartment half-naked and fretting about her goggles and nose plug gave him the beginning of an erection. They were still very much in love. Hana claimed she didn’t mind his soft belly, liked it even, but it made him self-conscious, so he rarely swam anymore.
“They want a ghost story,” Hana told him. “They said to make it scary.”
“What should I tell them?” Soren said.
Hana shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “How about the one about the seal lady?”
Soren hadn’t thought about that story in a long time. He wasn’t so sure he was looking forward to remembering it.
“That’s a really scary story,” he said.
Hana picked up her towel. “Then tell them something else,” she said. “What do I care? I’m going to go swim with a bunch of young adults who don’t know what work is.”
Soren had the feeling that perhaps the night had gone even worse than he’d suspected. Hana worked full-time too, but she’d made a deal with her boss that she could pick up the children from school at 4:30 pm every day. So she would do that, feed the kids, get them ready for bed, and then Soren would come home and tell them a story. It wasn’t a fair arrangement.
“Did you guys give Mom trouble tonight?” he asked his children when he opened the door to their room. They had bunk beds, but they couldn’t agree on who got top and who got bottom, so the beds were just two singles next to each other with almost no space in between.
“No,” they said.
Soren knew they weren’t telling the truth, but he didn’t mind. He was about to tell them a scary story, but he had to remember the details first. He sat on the older one’s bed and made himself comfortable. He noticed they’d dressed in matching pajamas, and the younger one had a decorative Band-Aid on his nose. This was generally the best part of his day.
“When I was little,” he began. It was going to be a Young Soro story. The children were excited.
THE YOUNG SORO STORIES he told were often stories from his childhood. When he could, he added a moral or a lesson or at least a piece of wisdom to the story. For example, he had quit music lessons when he was younger because his piano teacher had tried too early to teach him jazz. That was a deep regret. So to make up for it he tried to invent a story about a boy who stuck to music and lived a more enriched life. Most of the stories were about friendship and the importance of having a brother. If he was being honest with himself, some of the details in the Young Soro stories were ripped off from the children’s book series Frog and Toad—but there was no real harm in that. He remembered what he could, and tried to stick to the happy stuff. More than once he’d inadvertently included product placement—Young Soro wanting nothing more than, say, a Pepsi—and he was appalled at this slipup. He was good at his job, but if he was honest, his job also repulsed him, and made him think badly of the people who bought his clients’ products.
All the Young Soro stories began in Vancouver, British Columbia, and Soren was pleased, now that he no longer lived in that beautiful city, to return to those secret corners of his memory. There he could visit his mother and father, who was long dead. There he could make mischief in the corridors that linked his old classrooms. He found, as he told these stories, that occasionally he would go into a sort of trance, not unpleasant, but the boys would gently rock him if he went on too long or if he stopped talking altogether. Then he would say, “Ah, where were we?” and they would remind him. There were different layers to each Young Soro story, and Soren was usually aware that the stories were more like a series of locked doors than anything else. His children heard one thing, and he heard, as he talked, another. The stories often got away from him, and if that happened, he would nervously search for a way to wrap them up in a satisfying manner. But if you didn’t know the ending, it was always possible to say: “To be continued.”
“This is a very scary story,” Soren said now. He’d interrupted his own story before it had really even begun. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”
“Of course,” the boys said. They huddled closer together. It was just beginning to get dark outside.
“Okay,” Soren said. “Just stop me if you get scared, all right?” The children nodded, and he began again.
I WAS LITTLE when my parents divorced. It was not a happy parting, but I was too young to remember the particulars except that my mother cried a lot for a while and then one day she just stopped. My father moved to Anchorage when I was seven years old because he was a ship captain, and he fished for salmon in the summer. He never wrote and rarely called, but for my twelfth birthday he invited me to spend the summer with him in Alaska, and part of that would mean that I’d get to be with him on his boat. She was a small fishing boat, named Josephine, after his favorite singer. He had a crew of three men who would go out on the water with him during salmon season, and they would make enough money to work part-time for the rest of the year.
My mother was nervous about this arrangement, but eventually relented. My older sister had been in trouble at school, and my mother needed the summer to sort her out. In some ways, having me away from the house would be the best thing for everyone.
I’d been to Anchorage before, but never for such a long time. And I was excited to fish. I was very firmly in a worship-my-father stage of my life. I realize now that much of that probably had to do with the fact that he was gone and I got to imagine the father he might be. When he picked me up at the small airport, he looked shorter than I remembered, and also heavier around the middle. There was a young woman beside him who was shy about introducing herself, but I knew right away that she was his girlfriend. Don’t tell your mom, he said. Yes, please don’t, said the woman.
My father’s house was not too far from the docks where the fishing boats tied up. I’d arrived early for the season and thought maybe I could assist him with the nets, but after the first day it was clear I wasn’t going to be much help. My father was kind about it—he had other guys working with him on the sewing and the laying out.
THE SMALLER BOY SHIFTED under his covers. The older one sighed. They didn’t want to hear about salmon fishing. Taking inventory of the different nets had actually been Soren’s favorite part of that summer, but he knew he should skip ahead. I’m taking too long to get to the Seal Lady, Soren thought. And he was right about that.
ANYWAY, I HAD A LOT OF TIME on my hands. My father’s new girlfriend was always at the house, and she made me uncomfortable when my father wasn’t there—sometimes she would talk loudly on the phone to someone about me, other times she’d walk around in her underwear and ignore me completely—so I spent most of my time outside, exploring the town. Where my father lived was pretty far out there. There was a main street, where you could get all your fishing supplies, and then a 7-Eleven with a Street Fighter II arcade game that was always fritzing out, and about six different bars that I never went into even though they let kids in. But as soon as you left this main street, the roads branched off into deep, dark woods. Huge old trees. Black shadows. Smelly dirt. I would go for long walks in these woods—sometimes following trails, and sometimes making my own. I never ran into anyone else, though there were a number of abandoned houses scattered throughout the thick trunks and growth of the forest. They looked like old, weather-beaten faces that had collapsed in on themselves. All the windows cracked or gone, taken over by blackberry bushes. I walked into a few of these grimy houses, but always left quickly. I was worried that someone would catch me there, and tell my father, and I’d get sent home.
I was trying extra hard to be a good son, someone he would be proud of.
Each day, I would walk for hours. My dad just let me wander while he got the boat ready. He never had any idea where I was. When it was time for dinner he would stand at the back door and whistle loudly with his fingers, and I would hear it and come back. Simple.
On the night before we were heading out on the boat, my father and his girlfriend got into a huge fight. He’d spent all day at the docks, and missed dinner, which was now cold. It didn’t seem like such a big deal, but she stomped around the kitchen, and at some point began throwing dishes on the ground. My father looked ashamed and asked me if I wouldn’t mind walking around for a little while so they could sort this out. It made me angry, but of course I said okay.
I left the house with no direction in mind. I kept my head down while I was walking, and once I was in the woods, I found a stick the size of a baseball bat and began hitting bushes as I tromped around. When I got tired of doing that and looked up, I realized I was in a part of the woods that was unfamiliar to me. The trees, I noticed, were larger here, and sort of a black and ash color. They were huge and beautiful. It wasn’t too dark, but my throat tightened a bit. I knew that the water was south, and if I could find the water, I could find my way back to my dad’s house, so I set off in the direction that seemed the most south.
After about ten minutes, the path opened and I came upon a house I’d never seen before. This house belonged to the Seal Lady, but I didn’t know it at the time—it stood like all the other houses I’d seen in the woods, though in slightly better condition, and it was clear that someone lived there. Thinking I could perhaps get directions back to the docks, I knocked on the door. No one answered; when I knocked again, the door swung halfway open. I don’t know why, but when I called and got no response, I pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside.
Farthest South & Other Stories Page 1
