The O. Henry Prize Stories 2011

by Laura Furman

  Daisy, he said.

  What? she said, impatient.

  Daisy.

  She wished he wouldn’t do that, say her name that way. She glanced up and made the mistake of looking into his face. Oh God, she thought, or didn’t think. His face was full of concern. She found herself believing it. Just for a second, she said to herself, and down her head came and collapsed on his chest.

  …

  The night before it had seemed as if she were sailing toward something warm and enveloping. Now she was being swept in a different direction. At least she was being moved, she reasoned, one way or another.

  OK, though, now was the moment to stand up.

  She didn’t move and the moment passed. Another moment passed. She was still not standing.

  Lulled by the heartbeat in her ear, she wondered, was this the moment she would look back on and think, I could have walked away, but didn’t?

  In the quiet they both heard something crack like two rocks hitting. It came from in front of the cottage.

  Now what? he said. His head tipped forward. They heard shouts. Christ, he said. He sprang up, though his face was not alarmed. He headed for the doorway, pulled aside the purple and yellow kikoi, and disappeared. The soles of his feet were the last thing she saw.

  She heard him rattle open the front door and yell out something in Swahili. The voice grew faint when he stepped outside and moved away from the house.

  She sat on the hassock. After a while she heard people’s voices coming back into the cottage. She heard the man. A voice answered in native accents. She got up and ducked past the kikoi into a small hallway. She peeked out from the door frame into the front room.

  The man’s back was to her, his hands shoved in his front pockets. A thin man stood in front of him, gesturing as he talked. He had a dark, shaved head and was wearing a cream-colored shirt with short sleeves and four pockets. That would be Edmond. He was about the same age as the man. Next to him were two boys, not quite teenagers, looking caught. The taller one wore a large red T-shirt, which came almost to his knees. He didn’t look at Edmond or at the man. The younger one had a dark T-shirt which said VOTE THE MIAMI WAY. He also faced the floor, but was watching Edmond out of the corner of his eye.

  As Edmond talked, the man was nodding. He shook his head, listening. He ran his hand over his hair. At one point he lifted his arms, as if to say, Now what? Wait, Daisy thought, What had she been thinking of just now? She’d lost the thread of something … oh, that’s right, a wife. There was a wife. She looked at the man’s back. He looked different to her now.

  Edmond cleared his throat. He looked away for a moment, as if not wanting to get to this part of the story, and he saw Daisy hiding by the door. Smoothly his gaze slid by her, betraying nothing of what he’d seen.

  The man’s hands were clasped on top of his head. Edmond looked once at the boys, then looked at no one and finished what he had to say.

  Everyone stood there, silent.

  The man dropped his arms. He turned a stony profile to the boys. The younger one was rolling his shirt around his fist. The man spoke to the older one in the red T-shirt, asking him a question. The boy raised his eyes, blinked slowly, and spoke. His tone of voice was defiant.

  The man snapped. His screaming startled Daisy in her little hall. The boy did not look startled. He listened, unimpressed. When the man finished yelling, the boy spat on the floor near the man’s feet.

  Daisy watched the man’s long arm swing back and come forward and smack the small face on one cheek, then with the back of his hand hit the other. The boy’s head jerked a little with each blow. His feet didn’t move. Edmond and the smaller boy didn’t move either. After a moment the boy in the red T-shirt raised his hand to cover his cheek. Daisy thought she saw a smile hidden by his fingers.

  The man turned abruptly. He made a gesture that said, This is nonsense and I’m not going to bother myself further. Then he wheeled back toward Edmond. He pointed out to the turnaround, giving him some last orders. Edmond nodded, though Daisy could see his attention was already being pulled toward the boys, though it was unclear whether he wished to check if they were okay, or to continue the punishment. Daisy ducked away from the door before the man saw her.

  Her heart was pounding. She went over to the window and the parted curtain. She looked out at the backyard. The brittle grass was covered with a film of dust and at the edge of the lawn were olive bushes and thorny dwarf trees and floppy banana leaves. Half hidden by the brush was a high chain-link fence with loops of new silver barbed wire on top. Beyond the fence was a brown forest floor with spindly tree trunks and discarded, huge maroon leaves.

  The man came back into the room, shaking his head with tiny shakes. Sorry about that, he said.

  Daisy was looking out the window. He stood close behind her and parted the curtains wider and they both looked out.

  What was that all about? she said. I heard you shouting.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled. She felt his breath in the hair on the top of her head. He put his arms loosely around her. Just the usual, he said. It’s not worth going into.

  She thought of the slap and shivered. Maybe he really thought so. Maybe that wasn’t a lie. His arms tightened around her.

  But you’re still here, he said. I’m glad.

  I should be going.… Her voice trailed off.

  She kept staring out at the garden. Nothing was moving in the bleached yard. She was mesmerized, trying not to think of what was behind her. She thought of the boy in the red T-shirt and his strange smile. She stared out to the garden, feeling as if she had been slapped. It felt eerie, as if she were right where she belonged.

  …

  I saw you hit that boy, she said.

  The man spoke in the same full-bodied voice. He had it coming to him, he said.

  That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?

  You have to be from here to understand.

  People say that a lot.

  Maybe because it’s true.

  She heard his attention straying and turned her head. He was looking toward the other end of the lawn where a woman was hanging laundry.

  Come, he said. He unclicked the lock on the tall windows. Meet Cecily.

  The air was thick and warm. Daisy followed him outside as if she were in a net, still in the physical lure of him.

  The woman at the clothesline wore a crimson short-sleeved dress and a green scarf knotted around her head. She was not tall and when she reached to drape the clothes over a thin rope clothesline, her orange heels lifted out of flip-flops that were thin as pancakes. Her figure was sturdy, her neck and arms thin. The man called to her.

  Hello, Mistah T, she said, not turning. She clipped on clothespins made of pink plastic.

  Cecily, I’d like you to meet my friend Daisy.

  Karibu, Cecily said, and paused for a moment to tip her wrapped head in Daisy’s direction. Then she bent down for more clothes.

  Asante sana, Daisy said. This about exhausted her Swahili. Welcome. Thank you much.

  Daisy’s from America, the man said.

  Cecily nodded. She snapped open a towel, not looking up.

  Since she’d been in Kenya, Daisy had noticed that she was either being stared at as a curiosity or else pointedly ignored. Only occasionally she’d receive a look of hatred from a stranger.

  The man walked over to the other side of the woven yellow plastic basket and spoke to Cecily in Swahili. Being in a place where she didn’t know the language, Daisy had learned to watch people instead. Often that told her more.

  Now Cecily was paying attention to the man. She stared at the towel in her hand, then flung it absently up on the line. She folded her smooth arms, took a big breath, and tucked in her chin. She looked at the man as if sizing him up. For a moment Daisy thought she was going to upbraid the man, and it filled her with an odd sort of hope.

  The man mimed how he had hit the boy. Cecily nodded slowly. Yes, yes she knew. The man shrugged and wince
d. Cecily shook her head in agreement. She pursed her lips. Before speaking she frowned and when she finally did say something it was decisive. Daisy was transfixed. Cecily was giving the man a piece of her mind.

  Then suddenly Cecily’s face burst into a smile. She let her arms drop and slapped at the man’s shoulder. They both laughed. Cecily kept shaking her head and the man was nodding and they laughed together at her joke. Daisy backed away from them, feeling suddenly transparent like a flame in sunlight.

  She stood waiting in the driveway next to the Jeep. Through the front window of the cottage she could see the man on the telephone with his back to her, facing the wall. Talking to the wife, she figured. It was bright outside and she was without sunglasses. She strolled off to be out of sight of the man, scuffing the ground. Lots of footprints had distressed the dirt. Suddenly she felt exhausted. For a moment she was back in bed with the man. He was holding her wrist. Sex was like that, not all of you came back right away. Part of you lingered a little longer with the person though eventually that part would return.

  She had come near Edmond’s house. The one door was open to a turquoise-painted wall. There were only sprigs of grass in the front yard and a small circle of charred wood. Against the ocher wash of the house sat two white molded plastic chairs. A small child stood in the doorway. She was wearing a pink sleeveless dress with ruffles at the shoulders and eating a papaya. She eyed Daisy. Daisy smiled and said, Habari. The little girl’s eyes widened and she turned back to the house for instruction, then she looked back at Daisy, saying nothing.

  Cecily appeared from behind the little girl, shooing her out the door. Her arms were straining under the weight of a large gray tub. The little girl sat on a log near the burned area biting the papaya, staring at Daisy. Cecily hauled the tub to the end of the yard near some scarlet hibiscus flowers and tossed the water out. It floated in the air like a mirror then came down flat and disappeared in the dirt.

  Cecily turned around and saw the white woman standing on the tan drive in her tan skirt. Daisy waved and smiled and started to step back. She rocked on her sandals. Cecily came forward a few steps and stopped. Her smooth solid face was not smiling. At first Daisy thought she was getting some version of the cold stare, the look of disapproval a girl might get stumbling out of the man’s cottage, another aimless white girl. But when Cecily lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, Daisy saw a different expression, and it took her breath away. She was looking at Daisy with pity.

  The man locked the front door. Everyone here was always jangling keys. When she got into the Jeep she noticed a spiderweb of cracked glass on the center of the windshield. She hadn’t seen it the night before, but then it had been dark and she wasn’t looking.

  The man got in the driver’s seat. He turned the key a few times before the engine started. Where to? he said, and pulled at the steering wheel with an effort.

  She didn’t answer. It wasn’t really a question. Back where I belong, she thought. The Jeep bounced forward. They drove out the gate, which was wide open now in the daytime. Now she saw the road they’d come on. It looked as if it had been heaped with fresh dirt and raked.

  Everything okay? he said.

  Fine. She didn’t look at him. She wanted to start right then not looking at him. The sooner the better. Immediately she felt expanded. She thought, And I don’t even need to tell him. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually felt that way, not needing to explain herself—to him, to anyone.

  The feeling was so rare she tried to think where it had come from and Cecily’s face appeared.

  There was a phrase Daisy had heard a number of times in Kenya: pole, pole, pronounced with an accent. It had a number of related meanings. It could mean, Careful now, one step at a time or, Gently does it. It could also mean Sorry and Too bad.

  It was the thing people said to comfort someone with a little hardship. You’d say it to a child who’d scraped his knee or to someone whose car had broken down. Pole. Poor you, it means. Shame. That had been Cecily’s expression: pole, pole. You poor thing. It was the understanding expression a mother might have, though Daisy couldn’t remember ever having seen it on her own mother’s face. Cecily had emphasized the look by nodding, as if to say, Don’t forget this conversation we’ve had. Poor you. Shame. Step by step. Gentle now. How that could all be in a look, Daisy didn’t know, but there it was.

  When things like that came your way, you should take them. Bouncing along in the Jeep, Daisy thought if she could keep that face in mind she’d be all right. It was nearly like praying to concentrate on it. The light coming through the trees threw barred shadows over the road. She was riding through stripes.

  Brad Watson

  Alamo Plaza

  The road to the coast was a long, steamy corridor of leaves. Narrow bridges over brush-choked creeks. Our father drove, the windows down, wind whipping his thick black hair. Our mother’s hair, abundant and dark and long and wavy, she’d tried to tame beneath a pretty blue scarf. He wore a pair of black Ray-Bans. She wore prescription shades with the swept and pointed ends of the day. He whistled crooner songs and smoked Winstons, and early as it was, no one really talked. My older brother, Hal, slept sitting up, his mouth open as if he were singing silently in a dream.

  This was before things changed, before Hurricane Camille, the casinos. Long before Hal’s death in a car wreck at the age of twenty-one, my father’s heart attacks and fatal stroke, the aneurism that took our mom, my younger brother Ray’s drug addiction and long-term illness.

  On this trip Ray, too young to bring along, too much trouble most of the time, had been left with our grandmother. He was just two, yet already his sharp, hawkish eyes constantly sought their prey, which was insufficient attention, which he would rip to shreds with tantrums, devour in small bloody satisfying chunks until he received either punishment or, better, mollification. I was so very glad that he was not along, not only because of his querulous nature, but also because his absence made it more possible—or so I imagined—for me to get more of Hal’s and my parents’ attention myself.

  By noon we smelled the brine-and-fish stink of the bays. The land flattened into hazy vista, so flat you could see the curve of the earth. Downtown Gulfport steamed an old Floridian vapor from cracked sidewalks and filigreed railings, shaded storefronts—not a soul out, everyone and everything stalled in the heat, distilling. The beach highway stretched out to the east, white and hot in the sun. Our tires made slapping sounds on the melting tar dividers and the wind in the car windows was warm and salty. We passed old beach mansions with green shutters, hundred-year-old oaks in the yards. A scattering of cheap redbrick motels, slat-board restaurants, bait shops. The beach, to our right, was flat and white and the lank brown surf lapped at the sand.

  East of Gulfport, the Alamo Plaza Motel Court, with its fort-like facade of white stucco, stood flanked by low regular motel rooms around a concrete courtyard. The swimming pool lay oddly naked and exposed in the middle of the motel’s broad front lawn, one low diving board jutting over the deep end like a pirates’ plank. No one was out.

  We stopped in the breezeway beside the office and went inside, where the floor was cool Mexican tile. Lush green plants sprouted from large clay pots in the corners, and there was a color television on which we could watch programs unavailable back home. I have a vivid memory of seeing a Tarzan movie there in which Tarzan, standing in the crook of a large tree, is shot right between the eyes by a safari hunter’s rifle, and doesn’t even flinch. Is it possible this is a true memory, not invented or stretched? Would Hollywood in the thirties—for this was an old movie even then—have allowed Tarzan to be shot directly in the forehead with a high-power rifle, the bloody spot at the point of entry jumping out on his skin, without so much as blinking his eyes? I was, I am, as incredulous as the safari men on the jungle trail below, holding their highpower rifles and gaping at this jungle god, who just stared coolly back at them with the bullet hole in the center of his forehead.<
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  It seemed very real and possible, however, in the moment.

  We rented a bungalow in the rear of the Alamo Plaza. In the mornings we went to the beach, joining hands to cross the white concrete path of U.S. 98, the beach highway, to the concrete steps that led down to the beach on the Sound. It was not exhilarating, as Gulf beaches go, its white sand having been dredged from beyond the barrier islands twenty miles out to cover the muddy shore of the Sound, where the natural flora included exposed roots of cypress and mangrove. Huge tarpon, an almost prehistoric-looking fish, cruised here between the river and the sea.

  Our father, my brother, and I waded far out, where the water was still just knee deep to a six-year-old. We turned and waved to our mother, who sat on the white sand on a towel, a pale blue scarf on her head, the cat-eyed sunglasses perched on her nose. She did not swim, and though one reason we came to Biloxi instead of the more beautiful beaches in Gulf Shores or Pensacola was the cheaper prices at motels, the other reason was her fear of the water. She felt safer sitting on the edge of the Sound, which was more like a lake, than she did near the crashing waves of the Gulf. The year before, standing near her beach towel in the sand at Gulf Shores, Alabama, as if it were her sole tentative anchor to the dry world, she had seen a young man drown in a rip current while trying to save his little boy, who somehow escaped the current on his own and survived. She’d watched as the rescue squad dragged the man’s body onto the beach. A year later, and for many years after that, the terror she felt still welled up in her with a regularity as steady as the ticking minute hand on the clock, and with that same regularity she forced it back down, into her gut, where it fought with her frequent doses of paregoric.