Love Stories in This Town (12 page)

“You'd have to reschedule some things, I admit,” said my father, “but it is the Big Easy, after all.”

I hesitated, thinking about another day without having to see the doctor, even if it was a day in a minivan, followed by a night in some skuzzy motel, then a long drive home. In fact, I'd probably have to postpone Julia's evaluation for two days, maybe even a week. By which time, who knew? She might be smiling and holding up her head, even crawling. I put on my blinker.

I turned on Avenue F and drove to Louis's nursery school. I found my son sprawled in a beanbag, wearing My Little Pony panties. “Whoa,” said my father. “What the hell is going on here?”

“His underwear was wet from the sprinkler,” declared a little girl. “So I gave him my spare pair.” Louis nodded seriously, verifying her account. From across the dirt field that served as Creativity Corner's playground, Louis's teacher, Roy, waved lazily, his python tattoo vivid in the bright sun.

“I'm taking Louis with me,” I called, gathering the clothes in his cubby.

“Rock on,” said Roy.

“Are they trying to make him into a gay or what?” my father said loudly.

Back in the minivan, I explained to Louis that we were headed on a road trip to New Orleans. I called Emmett's office, but when I got his voice mail, I hung up.
“Why
are we headed on a road trip to New Orleans?” asked Louis.

“We're going to find a pretty lady named Beverly,” said my father.

“But
why
are we going to find a pretty lady named Beverly?”

“For love, kid,” said my father. “Now shut the hell up.”

“Please don't tell Louis to shut the hell up,” I said.

“Fair enough,” said my father.

We drove in silence for about three minutes before Louis screamed, “OLD MAC DONALD'S! OLD MAC DONALD'S!”

“I could use a Quarter Pounder with Cheese,” my father said. I got in the right-hand lane.

While Louis and my father went inside, I nursed the baby with the air-conditioning on. Julia ate greedily, and I stared at her beautiful face. When she was finished, I propped her in the passenger seat, but she slumped over. I propped her again, and cheerfully, she slumped again. I took her in my arms, and contemplated my life. If only she would stay small, I thought. I wouldn't mind having a baby forever if she were small. It was the adult baby I was scared of, lying around the living room in pajamas, watching
Pimp My Ride
.

The door to the minivan slid open. “Grandpa Fred,” Louis was saying, “did the gook die, when you shot him in the head?”

My father had the dignity to look at me sheepishly.

“Of course not,” I said soothingly.

“He went to the hospital,” said my father. “Where all is magically fixed.” This barb was in reference to the last time I had seen my father, a year before, when Emmett and I had presented him with a one-way ticket to the Promises rehab facility. Presumably, he had not found all the answers there.

I drove for a while on 290, and the city ended. There was a stretch of farmland before the Houston sprawl began. There was the road to Dime Box, Texas, where Emmett and I had picked out a puppy, back when I got accepted to vet school and we thought a puppy would teach us all we needed to know about caring for small things. But the puppy didn't interrupt us when we tried to talk, and the puppy didn't exhaust us past wanting to care for each other. The puppy didn't require ten phone calls and fifty bucks for me to have a pizza and a pitcher of beer with my husband. We didn't wonder, while making love, if the puppy would hear us.

“Dime Box!” I called out gaily as we passed, thinking of Emmett in the canvas sneakers he'd lost years ago (and that Ouray Volunteer Fire Department T-shirt, now in tatters), petting golden retrievers and deciding which one to fall for. Because she had jumped into Emmett's lap, we had chosen Daisy, the last girl left from the previous litter. She moved awkwardly on her big paws. All the way home, we had laughed as she climbed over us, almost causing us to have an accident when she scrambled down by the brake and Emmett practically stepped on her, trying to slow the car.

“Why did you say
Dime Box
, Mommy?”

I opened my mouth, but it seemed impossible to explain all that Dime Box had meant to me, to us. I peeked at Julia via my Baby in Sight Back Seat Mirror. She stared brightly ahead. She didn't smile, which was another sign. “It's just the name of a town,” I said.

“But
why
is it the name of a town?” said Louis.

“Sometimes,” said my father, “things just are what they are, bud.”

Louis considered this for about five seconds.

“But—”

“No more talking!” said my father harshly. “Grandpa Fred needs a nap, and all this racket is giving me a headache.”

The baby began to cry, crammed into her infant seat, and my father yelled, “Shut up!”

In the distance, I saw a sign for the Brenham bus depot, a beacon. I followed the arrow, then pulled the car off the road. Julia continued her crying, and Louis began to whimper. “For the love of GOD,” said my father, “I'd rather take the Bonanza bus!”

The bus station's front window framed an old couple holding hands. They gazed at us placidly. If I turned around, I knew, I would make it back to Austin in time to see the pediatrician. I had read about autism online, and I was deeply afraid that something was wrong.

But unlike my father, who had headed to work one morning and never returned, Emmett would take in all the doctor had to tell us, and then he would make something from
The Thrill of the Grill
for dinner. We would put our children to bed, and sit on the porch swing. Maybe we would cry, and then we would hold each other. When Julia woke us, Emmett would stumble from sleep and pick her up, and then he would scramble eggs. It was worth saying that though my genes were half my father's, I would be there too, finding Louis's Operation Iraqi Freedom figurines, using leaves and twigs to make them a house.

“Get out,” I told my father.

“Oh really?” he said.

“You heard me,” I said.

“You are some piece of work,” said my father. “Kicking a man when he's down.” I didn't say anything, just opened my bag and found my wallet amidst the diapers and snacks. I handed my father a twenty. He looked incredulous, his mouth open and his cunning brain firing. “Well, good luck with the retard,” he said, probably thinking I would answer, and the conversation would continue. But I reached across him and opened his door.

“Say good-bye to Grandpa Fred!” I said cheerily.

Louis stopped sniffling. “Bye, Grandpa Fred,” he said. The baby blinked, and I imagined a hint of a grin, but then she started crying again. My father shook his head as if I had disappointed him but he had expected it, pocketed the twenty, and got out. I drove away, leaving my father walking purposefully toward the Brenham depot.

“Dime Box!” I called, as we passed the turnoff on the way home. Gaily, Louis called out, “Dime Box!” Maybe even the baby would say
Dime Box
someday.

I didn't hear from my father for two years. The day he called, Emmett was planting the purple passion vine he'd bought me for my thirty-eighth birthday. He had come home from work with the flowering plant, and I'd met him at the front door with a big kiss and a packed suitcase. My mother, Nan, had flown in to watch the kids, and I had splurged, renting a cabin on the Llano River. For four days, Emmett fished and drank beer, and I sat by the river, paging through my old Anatomy textbook. We ate pork chops and pickles at Cooper's Barbecue. One afternoon, Emmett had two strikes and one catch, though he threw the fish back. He walked toward me in his wet waders and boots, three days unshaven. “I am so damn happy,” he said, when he reached me.

The day my father called, Louis, in a baseball cap, was standing next to Emmett, holding a shovel that was too big for him. Julia was organizing her plastic animals on the kitchen floor. Sweet old Daisy was asleep, as usual, inside a slice of light. Watching my family, I was filled with a quiet peace.

Our next-door neighbor, whose son, Bam, was being buried at the Veterans Cemetery that afternoon, was lying on his lawn, staring at the space where his tree had been. He wore Barn's sunglasses against the blinding rays. In Iraq, my neighbor had told me, Bam had thrown himself atop a grenade, saving six other men.

On my answering machine, my father said that he had ended up back out west. It was different this time, he said. He'd finally found it—real romance, the real deal—with a woman in Montana, the Last Best Place.

Acknowledgments

Thank you, Gina Centrello, for believing in my short stories. I am grateful to Brian McLendon for the husband's point of view, and to Kim Hovey for her enthusiasm and friendship. Thanks to Clay Smith for publishing my first short story, and to M.M.M. Hayes, Jeff Boison, Whitney Pastorek, Andy Spear, Rob Spillman, and Michael Ray for supporting my work. ASG, thank you for encouraging me from the start, when we waited by our Missoula mailboxes for rejection slips. I found a home in Austin thanks to my friends Juli Berwald, Lacey Schmelzle, Caroline Wilson, Ingrid Johansen, Terry Benaryeh, Emily Hovland, Laurie Duncan, Erin Kinard, Becca Cody, Paula Disbrowe, Mary Maltbie, Jaye Joseph, and Will Heron. This collection would not exist without my editor, Anika Streitfeld, who cares deeply about words, makes my writing life a joy, and believes
beautiful
should replace
lonely
. Thanks to my agent, Michelle Tessler, for her hard work and thoughtful insights. (Also, thank you to Jack, for reminding me that leaves and twigs can make a house.) For Napa weekends, wise advice, and happy phone calls, thank you to Mary-Anne Westley (the most gorgeous grandmother in Savannah), Liza Bennigson (who lights up the room), and Sarah McKay (who somehow manages to mix glamour and brilliance with motherhood). WAM and THM, I love you a million stars. Tip, thank you for inspiring all my love stories, and for filling my life with grace.

A Conversation with
Amanda Eyre Ward

Random House Reader's Circle: Most of your readers know you as a novelist, but you have actually been a short-story writer for longer than you have been a novelist. Can you talk a little about how and when you first started writing stories?

A:
I went to Williams College, where I signed up for Jim Shepard's Introductory Fiction Workshop. I showed up the first day to find the room packed. Jim (Professor Shepard to me then) told us we could submit one story, and he would choose the members of the small class and post a list on his office door. Many of the other students had folders of stories, neatly stapled, but although I was an avid reader, I had never written a story before. I was reading Denis Johnson and Raymond Carver at that time. I typed all night on my Brother word processor, creating a story about a speed-addled trucker on an all-night run. I think the trucker ended up in a “wall of flames.” I wasn't hopeful, so I didn't even check the list on Jim's door. When a friend congratulated me, I had already missed the first class. I showed up the next week, and Jim said, “Now where were you for the first meeting, Amanda?”

“I was at the mall buying sneakers.”

“At the mall buying sneakers,” Jim said. “Class,” he said, “this is what we call
off to a flying start.”

After this “flying start,” I never looked back. Jim taught us what a short story was. He also showed his students, by example, that one could write fiction, that it was possible to study and work hard and become an author, the same way others might become a banker or a hockey coach. This was a revelation to me. My father remembers a moment in his car when I opened the envelope with my final grade in Jim's class—a B-minus—and burst into tears. It was the only grade I cared about, and by the end of college, writing a beautiful short story was the only thing I wanted to do. I wanted to be Raymond Carver, Rick Bass, and Richard Ford, so after a year abroad, I moved to Montana.

RHRC: How do you think your writing has changed since then?

A:
In Missoula, I was imitating writers I loved. My professor at the University of Montana, William Kittredge, taught me to expand my repertoire, to rely on honesty—on my story, what I had to say—instead of shock value. I expanded my reading list, devouring Paul Bowles, Mona Simpson, James Salter, Katherine Anne Porter, Michael Cunningham, and Jennifer Egan. I began to slow my sentences down, working to trust character development, to choose sincerity over sarcasm. He also told me that if I wanted to be a novelist, I needed to move to where my best friend was and write my damn book.

RHRC: One of the stories in this collection grew out of a story you wrote as a graduate student. Can you tell us about that?

A:
“Miss Montana's Wedding Day” was my first published short story. It won third prize in the
Austin Chronicle
Short Story Contest, and when they called to tell me, I was busy at my latest job, answering phones at a software company. I told my colleagues the exciting news, and one called out, “Hey everyone! Amanda's going to have one of her stories published in the
Pennysaver!”

It was strange to revisit the story. I was a heartbroken graduate student when I wrote it, so it was interesting to peek back in time, to see how I viewed love. I now understand some things about the character Lola that I didn't understand then. Sometimes that happens—I don't know
why
a story or book isn't working, and I give up, but when I revisit the work later, some event or knowledge enables me to understand the piece.

On a technical level, I liked to rely on pointing out local color a bit too much, I think. I wanted the setting to tell the reader things that could be conveyed only by allowing readers into Lola's thoughts. (I was trying to be like Paul Bowles … his use of setting is unsettling and amazing.) My editor, Anika Streitfeld, has worked on all four books of mine, and she's really encouraged me to let readers into a character's thoughts. Almost every first draft comes back with pages of Anika's red-penned notes saying, “What is she thinking here?” and “A bit about what he's feeling.”

The end of “Miss Montana's Wedding Day,” when Abe says, “There are no love stories in this town,” seemed very bleak and revelatory to me when I wrote the story. Instead of a sad statement about Lola's future, I now see it as a harbinger of things to come: Lola will leave that town, and she will have a love story of her own.

RHRC: What do you usually start with when you're setting out to write a short story? How do you know that the material is better suited to a story than to a novel?

A:
Generally, I think in “scenes.” I'll see an image—a woman sitting at an airport bar, or a man in a canoe. So for “The Stars Are Bright in Texas,” for example, I saw a couple house hunting, an unhappy woman in the back of a minivan. I'm interested in places like The Woodlands, outside Houston, so I set the story there. As Kimberly and Greg moved through their house hunt, however, I wasn't sure if the “scene” would be a story, a piece of a novel … I didn't know. And when it ended, with Kimberly walking toward Greg at the airport, I just knew the story was over. I didn't need to follow them back to Bloomington, or see how they ended up. I realized that the story was an exploration of loss counterbalanced with hope. And whether or not that hope was fulfilled wasn't what I wanted to write about.

On the other hand, I am now working on a novel, and as I'm following the characters through the scenes, I just keep thinking more of their past and future, and how their stories will dovetail. I don't know how to explain it—I know there's a novel (or maybe ten) there. I wish I knew how it would all work out, but as long as the images keep coming, I feel lucky.

RHRC: “Should I Be Scared” and “The Way the Sky Changed” take place in the wake of 9/11. Did you write them soon after the events in the story occurred? Were these difficult stories to write?

A:
I am from Rye, New York, a town that was deeply affected by 9/11. There are so many heartbreaking stories from my town—families who lost fathers, families who lost sons. And I hadn't lived in Rye for a long time, so it always seemed somewhat idyllic in my memory, a childhood place full of walks to school with my best friend, white picket fences, and lemonade stands. After the collapse of the towers, I was devastated—it seemed impossible that not even Rye was safe. I remember I went to a reading that week, it was Jonathan Franzen reading from
The Corrections
at Book People in Austin. I raised my hand and asked him if he'd ever be able to write about normal, calm life again. He thought my question was strange, and said, “Of course I will.” (Everyone reacted in a different way—in several interviews since, I've read Franzen's take on the 9/11 aftermath, and how it has, in some ways, affected his work.) I drove home that night wondering if I was crazy for feeling so frightened. I wrote “Should I Be Scared?” soon after 9/11, and I have to admit that I did, indeed, get a prescription for ciprofloxacin. I hid the pills in a baggie in my utensil drawer. I didn't write “The Way the Sky Changed” for a while. I actually wrote a short play first about a policeman coming to a 9/11 widow's apartment with her husband's remains. As time passed, the aftermath of 9/11 became so awful it was surreal—the hairbrushes, the bones. I know that many people have been hurt around the world by acts of terrorism, but I don't think I'll ever get over September 11.

RHRC: “
Shakespeare.com
” also captures a particular time and place—the Internet boom in San Francisco. Can you tell us about the evolution of this story?

A:
I worked at many different jobs during the Internet boom—I was just out of graduate school, and though newspapers were calling the time a boom, I had never known anything different. At one point, I got a job as a “Curriculum Developer” for a company in Austin. We had a great time, and most of the details about margarita machines and puppies are true. But there was always a gnawing sense that we might not all strike it rich with this venture. I guess I like the idea that Mimi is knocking at the door of the real world—parenthood, responsibility—but not quite walking through it yet.

The first draft of the story ended with Mimi realizing that she is not pregnant, and the company getting more money and Girl Scout cookies. I sent the story out and was contacted by M.M.M. Hayes, the editor of
Story Quarterly
. We had a great conversation about the story, and she said that she felt I had dropped the ball at the end. She told me she wanted stories that “opened out,” or gave a reader some wider sense of the world.

I took her comments to heart, and I'm really proud of the final story. Like the dinosaurs, Mimi and Leo are about to get hit: by parenthood, by adulthood, by world events like 9/11.

RHRC: As the title suggests, place plays an important role in this collection. How did you come up with the settings for the various stories? How is writing about places you have lived in different from writing about places you haven't?

A:
Luckily, in my search for a home, I've lived in many places. And place is very important to me. I can hardly write about a place I don't really know, though it's often years after I leave a place that I want to write about it. Some time needs to pass before I can figure out what a place has meant to me, what I've learned there. But for the stories to work together, they couldn't all be set in the same towns. “
Shakespeare.com
,” for example, was moved from Austin to San Francisco. My editor's husband, Jared Luskin, had worked in an Internet start-up, so he was able to help me relocate the story without too much trouble. I kept some of the Austin bars, however. Jovita's is here in Austin—you won't find it south of Market.

In general, I don't like to write about places I don't know well. There's no substitute for walking the streets of a city, sitting at a local diner, driving the same streets every day to get to work.

Now that I've settled in Austin, Texas, for a while if not forever, I'm interested in neighbors, in the way proximity leads to friendship and dependence. I'm also able, once in a while, to turn off the fiction writer's radar, to not always be noting the local customs, as if I'm in a foreign country and not in my yard. But that's another story.

RHRC: Can you talk about how Lola developed?

A:
Well, originally, she was named Vera, for one thing. When I realized I had enough stories for a collection, I wasn't sure which stories were about the same character. Many of the women were the same age, and many were married (as I am) to a geologist.

It took some time to trust myself and figure out which characters were connected and how … putting all the stories together was very difficult. Each story was written to be its own world, to stand alone. I had to think about how the book would flow thematically. I feel as if I have a sense about how to structure a novel at this point, but putting this collection together was challenging. I am still changing the order of the stories—even as the book is about to be typeset.

RHRC: Do you think you will continue to write about Lola?

A:
I'm sure I will. I love her, and I can't wait to see how her life turns out. I hope she goes back to vet school. I had also written a scene in which she and Emmett are much older and get matching tattoos—I'd like to use that scene someday.

RHRC: Some of these stories went through a number of rounds of editing. How does that process work? How do you know when a story is finished?

A:
I always feel scared to say that a story is finished, I think. Honestly, I could keep working on all of these stories. But at some point, you do feel that a subtle balance has been achieved—the characters' actions feel true. But Anika and I worked on some of these stories through a dozen or more drafts. I would generally send her a story, and she would send detailed notes, or give me a call. Then I'd let her comments sit with me, and go back at the story. I always get very upset at this stage—hacking away at a story's foundations makes me feel that the whole thing will come crashing down. But Anika has edited all three of my novels, so I take solace when she tells me, “You were just as nervous with
How to Be Lost.”
Each time, it feels like a new terror. Anyway, sometimes a day, sometimes a week, later I would send Anika a new draft. One thing I've learned through editing these stories is that sometimes Anika will say, “This ending isn't working,” but I don't have to fix the ending. I have to fix, perhaps, the character's morning, or her job, or her husband … the scenes leading up to the last scene. Sometimes the problem is where I least expect it. Anika might feel that the character's actions are not working, but sometimes it may not be the actions but the way I set them up. And there's never a simple answer. For example, in one draft of “Motherhood and Terrorism,” the husband was named Anthony, and he was an investment banker. We went through numerous drafts before I realized that the female character was, in fact, Lola, and the husband was Emmett. So Anthony got sent to the graveyard. There's a big pile of discarded characters for this book. I think of them all in a serene graveyard, waiting to be exhumed.