The O. Henry Prize Stories 2011

by Laura Furman

  “I understand,” Rob cut in. “It’s a stressful job. You’re stressed.”

  Cassie rolled forward over her belly. “Highly strung,” she suggested, and lapsed back.

  “That’s not what I’m saying, actually.”

  “And I promise you,” Rob went on, “we’re not taking the mick in any way. We’re here—aren’t we, Cass?—because we want things done right for our little girl.” Here he reached across and rested his hand lightly on his wife’s belly.

  “Well, good. That’s good.” Peter felt a stab of envy: that was what it was. Recognizing it, his anger gave way. He felt his body soften with contrition, humiliation. He could behave better toward them now he knew. “That’s good. That’s what we want to hear. So, I’ll take you through the ceremony, what we’ll be doing.”

  He made them a cup of tea and they talked on. A rain shower rang against the window. It made the room they were in a hushed small shelter. Peter felt close to them. He felt kind.

  He walked home under lit streetlights and a mildly exhilarating sky of cold silver and long colored clouds where the sun was setting. Water clucked in the drains. The small trees shone. When he got in and found that Steve wasn’t in he didn’t pause. He changed his shirt and jacket and went out after him, walking to the station against the flow of returning commuters, tired and grim but still moving at a tough city speed. He sat in an almost empty carriage through the long, rattling journey out of the suburbs and down under the ground.

  He emerged in the West End and realized that he hadn’t been into town for months. It was dark now. The place was full of entertainments. It had lost its daylight shape and now was structured by its fantasies, by the floating lit signs for different shows and shops, restaurants and bars. The people there all moved toward them or poured away around him down into the station. The traffic was loud. A bus shuddered in front of him. He walked to the street with all the gay bars, to one in particular he knew Steve visited. The street was already full, men everywhere, smoking outside the bars, talking into their phones, laughing, watching. Their hard bodies inside their T-shirts. He passed close to some to get inside once he’d found the place. He could smell them. He kept his gaze low. The music was horribly loud. Its bass thumped right through him like a new and panicking heartbeat, overruling his own. He walked around, couldn’t find Steve, and realized he was relieved. What would he have said? He sat at the bar. He could see it all happening from there, could see the desire creeping out between the men. He ordered gin and tonic, wanting to be adult there, wanting to be strict and colonial.

  He drank several with a few thoughts beating in his head, like: how different this place must look in the mornings, with the lights on when the cleaners arrive, or: look at that one. The lights in there were strips of blue. Skin looked violet. Cheekbones were sharply shadowed. All this alien beauty. He drank more, expecting Steve finally to walk in. The place filled with more men but Steve did not arrive. Someone materialized next to Peter, a man of about his own age. He wore a white shirt. He looked round at him, at the shape of his shaved head, then let him slide out of view again, but the man put his hand on Peter’s. He brought his face close and shouted through the music.

  “It’s not that terrible, is it? Tell Auntie what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “If you say so. All alone, though. Gloomy.”

  “Why do we have to do this?”

  “Don’t know what you mean.”

  “All this. Why do we have to do this?”

  “We don’t have to, duckie. We like it. I bet you do too.”

  “Is that enough? Is that right?”

  “Isn’t it enough?”

  “People don’t care. They’re not ashamed.”

  “Quite right. Absolutely shameless.”

  “Your hand’s on my thigh.”

  “What?”

  “Your hand’s on my leg.”

  “Is that where I left it? Shameless of me.”

  “It’s not … we don’t have to.”

  “But we like it. Why don’t you come with me a minute? I want to show you something.”

  Back at home in the bathroom, Peter took off his shirt, splashed cold water up into his armpits and over his face. He brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth with mouthwash. He took his clothes off and left them on the floor. He went to bed. Steve was waiting for him.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hello.”

  “Where’ve you been? Blimey, you actually smell of drink.”

  Peter pulled the quilt over his shoulder, lay on his side with Steve behind him. “I went looking for you.”

  “I see. Did you find me?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a bit sad. Did you have a good time, though?”

  “No. Did you?”

  “Not really. Awful, actually. Place is full, everywhere’s full of just children really.”

  Peter reached behind him and took hold of Steve’s wrist, lifted his arm over him, wanting to close that door again.

  “Think of you. Out and about.”

  “Can’t we just go to sleep?”

  They weren’t there. Natalie’s feet ticked back and forth beneath the pew. They were gone, as they had said they would be, to have their baby. Imagine that, the lavish TV drama of it: hospital and pain and beeping monitors, the birth of their baby girl, the tears, the child wrapped in a soft blanket and placed in their trembling hands.

  Rob and Cassie had filled the church for the christening. The pews creaked with that laden, seafaring sound that Peter liked. He looked out over the solid formation of their family and friends, the women tanned to varying shades, the men’s hair glinting with gel. Rob and Cassie were meek and well behaved, perhaps because they knew Peter’s moods and were nervous that all should go well. But for the rest of them, this was a day out, a souvenir experience, and he couldn’t reasonably ask more of them. He reminded himself of that and his anger flared during the service only when, with the godparents, they smirked at having to repeat that they rejected the Devil. Christianity: good for horror films, good for a laugh. He stared them down.

  The moment that he was waiting for, that he was dreading, arrived. Rob and Cassie’s baby, to be named, with surprising good taste, Harriet Sarah, kicking her feet up inside the crisp white cotton of her gown, was placed carefully into his hands. A heaviness swelled in his stomach. It rolled up his spine, flooded his brain. He laid the beautiful small weight of her along his left forearm. Her eyes widened, struggling to focus, as her forehead rolled against his stole. The plush red triangle of her mouth opened as she breathed. The skin of her cheeks was glossy, her eyebrows faint and delicate. A baby. A baby in his arms. The Edwardian font swaying in front of him now seemed dangerously hard and massive. He placed his right hand gently on the soft throb of her belly. To have one, to be a father. He yearned as he stared down at her, feeling sweat run through his thin hair. He glanced up, and the sight of the people standing and waiting shocked the liturgy back into his mind. He said what he had to say. Then, his fingers wet with holy water, he saw a way to disrupt the sweetness of the moment, to release himself. He dipped his fingers again and painted as much water as he could carry onto her head. She looked confused and squirmed against him. He reached for more to apply the horizontal bar of the cross and did so with as heavy a touch as he dared. She rolled her eyes, shrank down into herself then expanded, screaming. Cassie took a step forward.

  “Is she all right?”

  “What? She’s fine. This always happens.” Peter felt sweat trickling down his right side from his armpit, cold at his waist. “Water’s a bit cold.”

  “Here, I’ll take her.”

  “She’s fine. She’s fine. Please.”

  Peter, with difficulty, with clumsy hands, opened his front door, stepped over an ugly splash of pizza leaflets, and went and made himself a cup of tea. He put on Radio 3. He took his cup to a chair by the window that he never normally sat in and waited for his pulse to
slow. The music was orchestral, late Romantic, with a winding melody that rose to mild crises of percussion and brass. It did have a calming effect sitting there out of place, a little outside of himself, somewhere not soiled with familiarity. The day beyond the window was steady: parked cars, a width of road, the house fronts opposite.

  Lying in bed he heard Steve’s key in the door, the light metallic scraping. His stale anxiety woke again inside him; it felt as though Steve were fitting his key loosely into Peter’s chest, turning him over. He switched on the light and sat up. He heard Steve’s tread on the stairs. Then the strong reality of him entering the room—always sudden, always shocking, however long imagined and expected. But this time Steve looked miserable. His shoulders drooped. His gaze was low. He stood as if a bucket of something had been tipped over his head.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” Steve sighed. He wiped the side of his face as though clearing tears. “I’m old,” he said. “I’m too old.”

  “Oh, baby. I’m sorry.”

  “Course you are. Are you? You shouldn’t be.”

  “I am. I am. Come here.”

  Steve walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. Peter stroked his shoulders, gripped them, swayed him back and forth, and pulled him down so that his head lay in his lap.

  “Sad old boy. Come here.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Are you sorry? Are you sorry for what you’ve done?” Peter took hold of his earlobe and pulled gently, increasingly.

  “Look, if you’re going to …” Steve started to get up but Peter pressed down on the side of his head, keeping him there.

  “Ow. If you’re gonna …”

  “Shh. I’m sorry. I won’t.” He stroked the soft hair at his temple.

  Steve stared, saying nothing, then: “Course, I’m bloody sorry.”

  “Shh. It’s all right. Poor old boy. Don’t worry. Don’t worry. I’m here.”

  Peter stroked down Steve’s cheek, following the line a razor would take, then over to his mouth, feeling the warm breath from his nostrils. With his forefinger he strummed Steve’s lips. Steve didn’t resist.

  “We’re all right, though, aren’t we?”

  Leslie Parry

  The Vanishing American

  The buffalo arrived on the island at daybreak.

  From where he stood, on the deck of a seaside hotel built by a chewing-gum baron, Indian #9 watched as crates were lowered from the ship by toady, copper-necked men in wool. Back inside, the other actors were still in bed, comatose and saddle-sore, but Indian #9 had lain awake all night, listening to the waves sucking at the sand below. In a few hours he’d be in bronzer and a wig, mouthing his very first line of dialogue to the excited crank of the camera. He’d risen early and crept down to the washroom to practice his expressions in the shaving mirror, but the sight of his face had only made him more nervous, so he’d gone up to the deck to catch a glimpse of the animals instead. Pulleys lurched and squealed as the crates, each as big as an automobile, swung off the ship and rocked above the water. He saw blue snouts blossom between the planks and nuzzle the sunlight, twitching at the fetor of seaweed that lay scrapped on the beach in black, wormy festoons.

  Soon, back home at the DeLuxe Theatre, everyone would see him speak again—his mother, his sister, the neighbors—all crowded onto those stained velveteen seats, squinting through the roiling dust at his face, two stories high. And here was his costar, ferried like a treasure through the rough and stinging surf, borne ashore in a box stamped PROPERTY OF PARAMOUNT STUDIOS.

  Indian #9’s voice was gassed out of him in a trench in the Argonne Forest. After the war he’d left Chicago and come to California; with no voice, he decided to seek work in the movies. Because of his bulk—broad shoulders, bullish jaw, fists as big as pumpkins—he’d spent the past few months playing bad guys, all scowls and grimaces and bared teeth. A wrinkle had formed between his eyes from looking mean all the time, and the burglar makeup had started to leave permanent raccoon stains around his eyes. He rented a little bachelor suite on McCadden, with a view of the Chinese laundry and a tattoo parlor. His day jobs were always a quick ride away, down in the flatlands of Hollywood or up the Cahuenga Pass. But this role was different. He’d traveled out to Catalina Island and stayed overnight with a millionaire’s view of the sea. He’d nabbed his first line, and his very own intertitle. (His mother had seen everything he’d ever been in, but between the well-traveled prints and her runny, myopic eyes, she’d never managed to distinguish him among the gray swarm of bodies onscreen.) All night he’d flopped nervously on the hotel sheets, flexing his lips over his teeth, working his tongue over each syllable, imagining what the words would look like when they were projected—a giant, luminous stanza, so tall it would touch the toes of the griffins on the theater proscenium.

  If he were in Chicago now, he’d be in his old fleece jacket and too-small hat, prying slabs of ice from the steps of the boarding-house, haggling with Zielke over their account at the delicatessen. But here the air was damp and fragrant, rich with brine and eucalyptus and cactus flowers. Last night he’d begun a letter to Private Olivieu about his new role—how the buffalo had been shipped all the way from the Dakotas, how he’d even met a real Chumash Indian on set, a mummy-faced old man who smelled like sage and tinned beef. That’s the kind of stuff Olivieu would like—Olivieu, who used to keep him awake in the bivouac at night with stories about vigilante sharpshooters felling hot-air balloons from the sky, or an elephant that escaped from the Bronx Zoo and was found paddling merrily down the Hudson, all the way to the Statue of Liberty. It was hard to tell if anything Olivieu said was actually true or not, but when that lilting voice started up in the cot beside him, Indian #9 always listened in spite of himself, laughing softly into the grain of his rucksack. Private Olivieu could rattle off the name and caliber of every pistol fired at the O.K. Corral, and claimed to have had a short, spectacular career as a one-man band on the Cincinnati vaudeville circuit. It was Olivieu, more than anyone, who would love the idea of him masquerading in feathers in front of the camera. His sister had only written, Why didn’t they make you a cowboy instead?

  Inside, the other actors stirred; soon he’d walk back into a sweet-smelling fog of aftershave and cigarettes. But no matter how many pleasantries they shared during morning ablutions—a casual word while they mopped their chins and slicked their hair—this was not the army. They stood side by side, polite but distant. They gazed aloofly out the window and waited for telegrams from girls they would see the following week. They practiced calisthenics alone on the deck. They sipped coffee from monogrammed teacups and sniffed over the latest issue of Screen-land. Sometimes Indian #9 wondered if their averted eyes, their bored, inward sighs, the habitual checking of their pocket watches, didn’t somehow hinge on him—maybe the fact that he couldn’t speak had, in a way, silenced everyone else.

  On the esplanade below, the crew was starting to load the equipment into trucks. They took swigs from canteens and joked mildly in the early light. Indian #9 thought he heard the buffalo bleat in their cages—a stuttering, tuneless rumble, like a motor that wouldn’t start.

  Someone sidled up next to him and leaned over the balustrade. “I read somewhere that bison tongues were once used as hairbrushes.”

  He looked over to see a young man about his age, freshly awake, sipping a cup of coffee and staring out at the water. Indian #9 turned around to see whom he was talking to, but there was no one else there.

  The man breathed in the steam from his coffee and sighed. “Their skin was made into factory belts, too.”

  Indian #9 stared at him—bathrobed, blond hair sleepily askew, bare feet turning pink on the cold granite. Now began the long, uneasy pause when he was supposed to answer. This man would expect gruffness from him, a baritone. Back before the war, Indian #9 had delivered newspapers to the stoops of Ashland Avenue, and his voice had echoed richly among the chatter of sewing machines and wash-line arias. But now he
could only sigh and hiss and pop his lips, like a sputtering spigot someone forgot to turn off. (The last word he spoke, right before the gas, had been a retort to one of Olivieu’s stories: baloney. That’s it. Sometimes he woke up at night, stuttering and apoplectic. Baloney? He couldn’t think of anything more than that?)

  Delicately he cleared his throat, put on his “thoughtful” face, and offered the man an awestruck whistle, a rolling wheel of sound: No kidding!

  “Did you know a baby bison can stand up just minutes after it’s born?” The man turned and smiled at him. His eyes were gray and wet, like summer storm clouds. A stray curl stood up from his forehead. Indian #9 whistled again, this time ascending, a question: Is that so? But under the man’s hot, dewy gaze, it came out warbling and thin.

  “In a few hours they’re able to walk. Then, a few hours later, they can run.” He swirled his coffee and looked back to the sea. “From the day they’re born, they’re running.”

  Indian #9 drummed his fingers awkwardly on the balustrade. He wished he could say something wry or profound at this point, but all he heard was the air rattling in and out of his throat. He dropped his hands and twisted them deep into his pockets. The water disappeared from view as he turned, red-faced, away. Before he knew it, he was loping back toward the terrace doors, staring at the granite passing underfoot. Everything seemed very bright and far away, as if he were watching the scene from a great height. He wanted to look back, but he couldn’t; his body was stricken, his whole face alive with heat.

  So he went back inside and finished his letter, in a firm hand on thick hotel stationery, then put it in his suitcase next to the others, all bundled and unsent, and thought about how the movie stars, who were waking, would really have tickled Olivieu, who was dead.

  Indian #9 had only been on a horse once before, as a boy. Every year around Easter the gangsters would arrive on Ashland with gifts for the children: a morning of maple cakes, magic tricks, and pony rides. They even hired a real photographer to take portraits of the kids against a canvas backdrop, atop a horse named War Paint. As a boy, one gangster in particular had fascinated him—not the garlicky, potbellied giants who kissed the mothers’ cheeks and slipped dollar bills into their aprons—but the reedy one who hung back near the photography booth, smoking perfumed cigarettes and blotting his eyes with a handkerchief. This man, ashen but handsome, helped Indian #9 into the saddle—those gentle hands hooked under his armpits; that silk suit flashed like water in the sun. Indian #9, mortified by his own cardboard shoes (made from a cereal box and tied with butcher string), refused to put his feet in the stirrups. He waited while the picture was snapped, the gangster’s hand hovering behind him to keep him from falling, his mother smiling delightedly behind the camera. Then the gangster helped him down again, and their eyes met—a moment of frank, silent, unhurried recognition—until Indian #9, nauseous with a perplexing shame, broke away and ran into the crowd. When he looked back, the gangster was alone, standing apart from the revelry. He lit a cigarette, and his hands were so delicate and white they seemed to disappear in the sunlight, until only a disembodied bulb of tobacco glowed. The kids called him il fantasma.