The Oxford Book of American Short Stories

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Binele's body became limp in my arms. She raised her eyes and whispered: "Why did she do it? She just waited for your coming. ..."

  BERNARD MALAMUD (1914-1986)

  Bernard Malamud, like a number of the writers in this anthology, was gifted with an unusually sharp, sympathetic, mimetic ear for the cadences of speech; in Malamud's case, for the cadences of Jewish-American speech. (And this surprisingly—at least, for admirers who met with him in person. For, as it happened, Malamud spoke a rather formal, precise, uninfected American English.) Though his fiction is of a near-uniform quality, he was ambitious in its variety: now a chronicler of comic absurdities, now a poet of tragic, thwarted lives, now an Olympian gazing down, with a bemused eye, upon the follies of humankind. "My Son the Murderer" is a tour de force of pathos and betrayal; one of the most memorable, as it is surely one of the most succinct, testimonies to the generational dissonances of the 1960s in an America at war with Vietnam.

  Born in Brooklyn, Bernard Malamud taught high school during the 1940's, until, with the publication of his early stories in such influential journals as Partisan Review and Commentary, he began a long and distinguished career as a university teacher. Among his major titles are the novels The Natural (1952), The Assistant (1957), The Fixer (1966), and Dubin's Lives (1979), and the short story collections The Magic Barrel (1958), which received a National Book Award, Idiots First (1963), Pictures of Fidelman (1969), and Rembrandt's Hat (1973). The Stories of Bernard Malamud was published in 1983.

  My Son the Murderer

  HE wakes feeling his father is in the hallway, listening. He listens to him sleep and dream. Listening to him get up and fumble for his pants. He won't put on his shoes. To him not going to the kitchen to eat. Staring with shut eyes in the mirror. Sitting an hour on the toilet. Flipping the pages of a book he can't read. To his anguish, loneliness. The father stands in the hall. The son hears him listen.

  My son the stranger, he won't tell me anything.

  I open the door and see my father in the hall. Why are you standing there, why don't you go to work?

  On account of I took my vacation in the winter instead of the summer like I usually do.

  What the hell for if you spend it in this dark smelly hallway, watching my every move? Guessing what you can't see. Why are you always spying on me?

  My father goes to the bedroom and after a while sneaks out in the hallway again, listening.

  I hear him sometimes in his room but he don't talk to me and I don't know what's what. It's a terrible feeling for a father. Maybe someday he will write me a letter, My dear father . . .

  My dear son Harry, open up your door. My son the prisoner.

  My wife leaves in the morning to stay with my married daughter, who is expecting her fourth child. The mother cooks and cleans for her and takes care of the three children. My daughter is having a bad pregnancy, with high blood pressure, and lays in bed most of the time. This is what the doctor advised her. My wife is gone all day. She worries something is wrong with Harry. Since he graduated college last summer he is alone, nervous, in his own thoughts. If you talk to him, half the time he yells if he answers you. He reads the papers, smokes, he stays in his room. Or once in a while he goes for a walk in the street.

  How was the walk, Harry?

  A walk.

  My wife advised him to go look for work, and a couple of times he went, but when he got some kind of an offer he didn't take the job.

  It's not that I don't want to work. It's that I feel bad.

  So why do you feel bad?

  I feel what I feel. I feel what is.

  Is it your health, sonny? Maybe you ought to go to a doctor?

  I asked you not to call me by that name any more. It's not my health. Whatever it is I don't want to talk about it. The work wasn't the kind I want.

  So take something temporary in the meantime, my wife said to him.

  He starts to yell. Everything's temporary. Why should I add more to what's temporary? My gut feels temporary. The goddamn world is temporary. On top of that I don't want temporary work. I want the opposite of temporary, but where is it? Where do you find it?

  My father listens in the kitchen.

  My temporary son.

  She says I'll feel better if I work. I say I won't. I'm twenty-two since December, a college graduate, and you know where you can stick that. At night I watch the news programs. I watch the war from day to day. It's a big burning war on a small screen. It rains bombs and the flames go higher. Sometimes I lean over and touch the war with the flat of my hand. I wait for my hand to die.

  My son with the dead hand.

  I expect to be drafted any day but it doesn't bother me the way it used to. I won't go. I'll go to Canada or somewhere I can go.

  The way he is frightens my wife and she is glad to go to my daughter's house early in the morning to take care of the three children. I stay with him in the house but he don't talk to me.

  You ought to call up Harry and talk to him, my wife says to my daughter.

  I will sometime but don't forget there's nine years' difference between our ages. I think he thinks of me as another mother around and one is enough. I used to like him when he was a little boy but now it's hard to deal with a person who won't reciprocate to you.

  She's got high blood pressure. I think she's afraid to call.

  I took two weeks off from my work. I'm a clerk at the stamps window in the post office. I told the superintendent I wasn't feeling so good, which is no lie, and he said I should take sick leave. I said I wasn't that sick, I only needed a little vacation. But I told my friend Moe Berkman I was staying out because Harry has me worried.

  I understand what you mean, Leo. I got my own worries and anxieties about my kids. If you got two girls growing up you got hostages to fortune. Still in all we got to live. Why don't you come to poker on this Friday night? We got a nice game going. Don't deprive yourself of a good form of relaxation.

  I'll see how I feel by Friday, how everything is coming along. I can't promise you.

  Try to come. These things, if you give them time, all pass away. If it looks better to you, come on over. Even if it don't look so good, come on over anyway because it might relieve your tension and worry that you're under. It's not so good for your heart at your age if you carry that much worry around.

  It's the worst kind of worry. If I worry about myself I know what the worry is. What I mean, there's no mystery. I can say to myself, Leo you're a big fool, stop worrying about nothing—over what, a few bucks? Over my health that has always stood up pretty good although I have my ups and downs? Over that I'm now close to sixty and not getting any younger? Everybody that don't die by age fifty-nine gets to be sixty. You can't beat time when it runs along with you. But if the worry is about somebody else, that's the worst kind. That's the real worry because if he won't tell you, you can't get inside of the other person and find out why. You don't know where's the switch to turn off. All you do is worry more.

  So I wait out in the hall.

  Harry, don't worry so much about the war.

  Please don't tell me what to worry about or what not to worry about.

  Harry, your father loves you. When you were a little boy, every night when I came home you used to run to me. I picked you up and lifted you up to the ceiling. You liked to touch it with your small hand.

  I don't want to hear about that any more. It's the very thing I don't want to hear. I don't want to hear about when I was a child.

  Harry, we live like strangers. All I'm saying is I remember better days. I remember when we weren't afraid to show we loved each other.

  He says nothing.

  Let me cook you an egg.

  An egg is the last thing in the world I want.

  So what do you want?

  He put his coat on. He pulled his hat off the clothes tree and went down into the street.

  Harry walked along Ocean Parkway in his long overcoat and creased brown hat. His father was following him and
it filled him with rage.

  He walked at a fast pace up the broad avenue. In the old days there was a bridle path at the side of the walk where the concrete bicycle path was now. And there were fewer trees, their black branches cutting the sunless sky. At the corner of Avenue X, just about where you can smell Coney Island, he crossed the street and began to walk home. He pretended not to see his father cross over, though he was infuriated. The father crossed over and followed his son home. When he got to the house he figured Harry was upstairs already. He was in his room with the door shut. Whatever he did in his room he was already doing.

  Leo took out his small key and opened the mailbox. There were three letters. He looked to see if one of them was, by any chance, from his son to him. My dear father, let me explain myself. The reason I act as I do . . . There was no such letter. One of the letters was from the Post Office Clerks Benevolent Society, which he slipped into his coat pocket. The other two letters were for Harry. One was from the draft board. He brought it up to his son's room, knocked on the door and waited.

  He waited for a while.

  To the boy's grunt he said, There is a draft-board letter here for you. He turned the knob and entered the room. His son was lying on his bed with his eyes shut.

  Leave it on the table.

  Do you want me to open it for you, Harry?

  No, I don't want you to open it. Leave it on the table. I know what's in it.

  Did you write them another letter?

  That's my goddamn business.

  The father left it on the table.

  The other letter to his son he took into the kitchen, shut the door, and boiled up some water in a pot. He thought he would read it quickly and seal it carefully with a little paste, then go downstairs and put it back in the mailbox. His wife would take it out with her key when she returned from their daughter's house and bring it up to Harry.

  The father read the letter. It was a short letter from a girl. The girl said Harry had borrowed two of her books more than six months ago and since she valued them highly she would like him to send them back to her. Could he do that as soon as possible so that she wouldn't have to write again?

  As Leo was reading the girl's letter Harry came into the kitchen and when he saw the surprised and guilty look on his father's face, he tore the letter out of his hand.

  I ought to murder you the way you spy on me.

  Leo turned away, looking out of the small kitchen window into the dark apartment-house courtyard. His face burned, he felt sick.

  Harry read the letter at a glance and tore it up. He then tore up the envelope marked personal.

  If you do this again don't be surprised if I kill you. I'm sick of you spying on me.

  Harry, you are talking to your father.

  He left the house.

  Leo went into his room and looked around. He looked in the dresser drawers and found nothing unusual. On the desk by the window was a paper Harry had written on. It said: Dear Edith, why don't you go fuck yourself? If you write me another letter I'll murder you.

  The father got his hat and coat and left the house. He ran slowly for a while, running then walking, until he saw Harry on the other side of the street. He followed him, half a block behind.

  He followed Harry to Coney Island Avenue and was in time to see him board a trolleybus going to the Island. Leo had to wait for the next one. He thought of taking a taxi and following the trolleybus, but no taxi came by. The next bus came by fifteen minutes later and he took it all the way to the Island. It was February and Coney Island was wet, cold, and deserted. There were few cars on Surf Avenue and few people on the streets. It felt like snow. Leo walked on the boardwalk amid snow flurries, looking for his son. The gray sunless beaches were empty. The hot-dog stands, shooting galleries, and bathhouses were shuttered up. The gunmetal ocean, moving like melted lead, looked freezing. A wind blew in off the water and worked its way into his clothes so that he shivered as he walked. The wind white-capped the leaden waves and the slow surf broke on the empty beaches with a quiet roar.

  He walked in the blow almost to Sea Gate, searching for his son, and then he walked back again. On his way toward Brighton Beach he saw a man on the shore standing in the foaming surf. Leo hurried down the boardwalk stairs and onto the ribbed-sand beach. The man on the roaring shore was Harry, standing in water to the tops of his shoes.

  Leo ran to his son. Harry, it was a mistake, excuse me, I'm sorry I opened your letter.

  Harry did not move. He stood in the water, his eyes on the swelling leaden waves.

  Harry, I'm frightened. Tell me what's the matter. My son, have mercy on me.

  I'm frightened of the world, Harry thought. It fills me with fright.

  He said nothing.

  A blast of wind lifted his father's hat and carried it away over the beach. It looked as though it were going to be blown into the surf, but then the wind blew it toward the boardwalk, rolling like a wheel along the wet sand. Leo chased after his hat. He chased it one way, then another, then toward the water. The wind blew the hat against his legs and he caught it. By now he was crying. Breathless, he wiped his eyes with icy fingers and returned to his son at the edge of the water.

  He is a lonely man. This is the type he is. He will always be lonely.

  My son who made himself into a lonely man.

  Harry, what can I say to you? All I can say to you is who says life is easy? Since when? It wasn't for me and it isn't for you. It's life, that's the way it is—what more can I say? But if a person don't want to live what can he do if he's dead? Nothing. Nothing is nothing, it's better to live.

  Come home, Harry, he said. It's cold here. You'll catch a cold with your feet in the water.

  Harry stood motionless in the water and after a while his father left. As he was leaving, the wind plucked his hat off his head and sent it rolling along the shore.

  My father listens in the hallway. He follows me in the street. We meet at the edge of the water.

  He runs after his hat.

  My son stands with his feet in the ocean.

  SAUL BELLOW (1915- )

  Saul Bellow, born in Quebec, came of age in the Chicago of the 1920's and 1930's, "that gloomy city," which, by way of numerous works of fiction, he has virtually appropriated as his own. This recent story is both a valentine to that city and to the author's bemused recollection of his own idealistic youth.

  One of the most publicly honored of American writers, Saul Bellow began his career with the sombre meditations of Dangling Man (1944) and the tightly constructed The Victim (1947). Subsequent novels have been far freer, extravagant, colloquial, comic and didactic at once, establishing Bellow's reputation as a brilliant portraitist and stylist. Among his outstanding works are The Adventures of Augie March (1953), which can be read as a Jewish-American counterpart to Ralph Ellison's African-American Invisible Man; Seize the Day (1956), Henderson the Rain King (1959), Herzog (1964), Mr. Sammler's Planet (1970), Humboldt's Gift (1975), and More Die of Heartbreak (1987). Bellow has written comparatively few short stories, collected in Mosby's Memoirs (1968) and Him with His Foot in His Mouth (1984).

  "Something To Remember Me By," though distinctively Bellow, is cast in a sweetly rueful tone, as in a sepia print. It is one of the few stories addressed to a child—a story imagined as a gift, though not a gift of any conventional sort.

  Something To Remember Me By

  WHEN there is too much going on, more than you can bear, you may choose to assume that nothing in particular is happening, that your life is going round and round like a turntable. Then one day you are aware that what you took to be a turntable, smooth, flat, and even, was in fact a whirlpool, a vortex. My first knowledge of the hidden work of uneventful days goes back to February 1933.

  The exact date won't matter much to you. I like to think, however, that you, my only child, will want to hear about this hidden work as it relates to me. When you were a small boy you were keen on family history. You will quickly understand that I co
uldn't tell a child what I am about to tell you now. You don't talk about deaths and vortices to a kid, not nowadays. In my time my parents didn't hesitate to speak of death and dying. What they seldom mentioned was sex. We've got it the other way around. My mother died when I was an adolescent. I've often told you that. What I didn't tell you was that I knew she was dying and didn't allow myself to think about it—there's your turntable. The month was February, as I've said, adding that the exact date wouldn't matter to you. I should confess that I myself avoided fixing it. Chicago in winter, armored in gray ice, the sky low, the going heavy.

  I was a high school senior, an indifferent student, generally unpopular, a background figure in the school. It was only as a high jumper that I performed in public. I had no form at all, a curious last-minute spring or convulsion put me over the bar. But this was what the school turned out to see.

  Unwilling to study, I was bookish nevertheless. I was secretive about my family life. The truth is that I didn't want to talk about my mother. Besides, I had no language as yet for the oddity of my peculiar interests.

  But let me get on with that significant day in the early part of February.

  It began like any other winter school day in Chicago—grimly ordinary. The temperatures a few degrees above zero, botanical frost shapes on the windowpane, the snow swept up in heaps, the ice gritty and the streets, block after block, bound together by the iron of the sky. A breakfast of porridge, toast, and tea. Late as usual, I stopped for a moment to look into my mother's sickroom. I bent near and said, "It's Louie, going to school." She seemed to nod. Her eyelids were brown, her face was much lighter. I hurried off with my books on a strap over my shoulder.

  When I came to the boulevard on the edge of the park, two small men rushed out of a doorway with rifles, wheeled around aiming upward, and fired at pigeons near the rooftop. Several birds fell straight down, and the men scooped up the soft bodies and ran indoors, dark little guys in fluttering white shirts. Depression hunters and their city game. Moments before, the police car had loafed by at ten miles an hour. The men had waited it out.