The Best American Short Stories 2020
Page 1
Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Foreword
Introduction
SELENA ANDERSON: Godmother Tea
T. C. BOYLE: The Apartment
JASON BROWN: A Faithful but Melancholy Account of Several Barbarities Lately Committed
MICHAEL BYERS: Sibling Rivalry
EMMA CLINE: The Nanny
MARIAN CROTTY: Halloween
CAROLYN FERRELL: Something Street
MARY GAITSKILL: This Is Pleasure
MENG JIN: In the Event
ANDREA LEE: The Children
SARAH THANKAM MATHEWS: Rubberdust
ELIZABETH MCCRACKEN: It’s Not You
SCOTT NADELSON: Liberté
LEIGH NEWMAN: Howl Palace
JANE PEK: The Nine-Tailed Fox Explains
ALEJANDRO PUYANA: The Hands of Dirty Children
ANNA REESER: Octopus VII
WILLIAM PEI SHIH: Enlightenment
KEVIN WILSON: Kennedy
TIPHANIE YANIQUE: The Special World
Contributors’ Notes
Other Distinguished Stories of 2019
American and Canadian Magazines Publishing Short Stories
Read More from the Best American series
About the Editors
Connect with HMH
Copyright © 2020 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company
Introduction copyright © 2020 by Curtis Sittenfeld
All rights reserved
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Photo of Curtis Sittenfeld © Josephine Sittenfeld
“Godmother Tea” by Selena Anderson. First published in Oxford American, 106, September 3, 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Selena Anderson. Reprinted by permission of The Wylie Agency, LLC.
“The Apartment” by T. C. Boyle. First published in McSweeney’s, 56, 2019. Copyright © 2019 by T. C. Boyle. Reprinted by permission of Georges Borchardt, Inc., on behalf of the author.
“A Faithful but Melancholy Account of Several Barbarities Lately Committed” by Jason Brown. First published in The Sewanee Review, vol. CXXVII, no. 2, December 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Jason Brown. Reprinted by permission of Jason Brown.
“Sibling Rivalry” by Michael Byers. First published in Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, Issue 40, 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Michael Byers. Reprinted by permission of Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet.
“The Nanny” by Emma Cline. First published in The Paris Review, 231, 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Emma Cline. Reprinted by permission of Emma Cline.
“Halloween” by Marian Crotty. First published in Crazyhorse, 96, 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Marian Crotty. Reprinted by permission of Crazyhorse, Marian Crotty.
“Something Street” by Carolyn Ferrell. First published in Story, 5, 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Carolyn Ferrell. Reprinted by permission of Carolyn Ferrell.
“This Is Pleasure” by Mary Gaitskill. First published in The New Yorker, July 8, 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Mary Gaitskill. Reprinted by permission of The Wylie Agency, LLC.
“In the Event” by Meng Jin. First published in The Threepenny Review, 159, Fall 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Ge Jin. Reprinted by permission of The Wylie Agency, LLC.
“The Children” by Andrea Lee. First published in The New Yorker, June 10 & 17, 2019. Forthcoming in Red Island House, Scribner, January 2021. Copyright © 2019 by Andrea Lee. Reprinted by permission of Andrea Lee.
“Rubberdust” by Sarah Thankam Mathews. First published in Kenyon Review Online, Jan/Feb 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Sarah Thankam Mathews. Reprinted by permission of Sarah Thankam Mathews and Kenyon Review.
“It’s Not You” by Elizabeth McCracken. First published in Zoetrope: All-Story, vol. 23, no. 3, 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Elizabeth McCracken. Reprinted by permission of Elizabeth McCracken.
“Liberté” by Scott Nadelson. First published in Chicago Quarterly Review,vol. 29, 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Scott Nadelson. Reprinted by permission of BkMk Press, University of Missouri-Kansas City.
“Howl Palace” by Leigh Newman. First published in The Paris Review, 230, 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Leigh Newman. Reprinted by permission of the author and Aragi, Inc.
“The Nine-Tailed Fox Explains” by Jane Pek. First published in Witness, vol. XXXII, no. 1, 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Jane Pek. Reprinted by permission of Witness.
“The Hands of Dirty Children” by Alejandro Puyana. First published in American Short Fiction, vol. 22, Issue 68, 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Alejandro Puyana. Reprinted by permission of Alejandro Puyana.
“Octopus VII” by Anna Reeser. First published in Fourteen Hills, Issue 25, 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Anna Reeser. Reprinted by permission of Anna Reeser.
“Enlightenment” by William Pei Shih. First published in Virginia Quarterly Review, 95/2, 2019. Copyright © 2019 by William Pei Shih. Reprinted by permission of William Pei Shih.
“Kennedy” by Kevin Wilson. First published in Subtropics, Issue 27, 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Kevin Wilson. Reprinted by permission of Kevin Wilson.
“The Special World” from Monster in the Middle by Tiphanie Yanique. First published in Georgia Review, Winter 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Tiphanie Yanique. Used by permission of Riverhead, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.
Foreword
For better or worse, we read fiction in the context of our ongoing lives. It is difficult to write about this moment—even this moment in the American short story—without mentioning the altered and frankly scary state of the world right now. Inevitably, much of the world will define 2020 as the year of the coronavirus pandemic. Most of us have been ordered to stay at home for an undefined amount of time to help “flatten the curve,” or slow the spread of the virus. The global count of those infected is approaching one million and is sure to multiply again and again by the time this book is printed. There are infinite horrors unfolding across the world right now, but there are glimmers of light too. The planet is getting a much-needed break from carbon emissions. Unimaginable acts of courage and generosity occur hourly now, especially on the part of doctors and nurses.
In her essay, “The World’s on Fire. Can We Still Talk About Books?” published in Electric Literature at the end of 2018, Rebecca Makkai makes a case for fostering creativity during the most difficult times. She wr
ites, “Art is a radical act. Joy is a radical act. This is how we keep fighting. This is how we survive.” If nothing else, this has been a time to write—that is, if you are able to summon the focus. It’s a time to read, and try new authors and new genres. Musicians—everyone from Yo-Yo Ma to Wilco to Bruce Springsteen to even the Met Opera—have posted free and live performances online. The Guggenheim and Smithsonian museums are offering virtual tours. Many independent bookstores, the soul of the publishing industry, are providing tailored recommendations for readers, shipping books, and offering virtual events.
I offer a plug for the short story form, although if you are reading this, chances are I’m preaching to the choir. It can be hard (nearly impossible) to focus on reading fiction with one eye on a rapidly expanding global pandemic. The short story is the perfect length when you don’t have the bandwidth for a novel. Of course, it helps if the story is engrossing. To my mind the stories that follow are engrossing and sharp and thought-provoking and beautiful.
The best stories contain enough air to welcome in readers and their troubles, and offer up irresistible and universal questions that have no ready answers. Paradoxes, really, and questioned assumptions. Consider the following sentences. From Selena Anderson’s “Godmother Tea”: “Even my people who are still living don’t let me suffer the way I want to.” Or this, from Michael Byers’s “Sibling Rivalry”: “Your emotional centers were fooled by the physical imitation, and the AI was the real thing, and the growth was to human scales—so what was the difference, anyway?” Or this sentence, from “This Is Pleasure” by Mary Gaitskill: “The whole thing was vaguely sadistic—so vaguely that it was ridiculous; clearly no harm was done.”
Curtis Sittenfeld was such a joy to work with. She was wonderfully articulate about what she did and didn’t like in the 120 stories that I sent her. As she states in her introduction, I grade each story as a method of shorthand for when I return to the stacks at the end of my reading period and begin to reread. Most that I pull from magazines fall within the “B” range, and what keeps them from the top for me can be a variety of things: for example, a lack of confidence on the page. This can manifest in anything from an outsized plot for the characters at hand to labored language or pacing. A short story is most effective when it is released in one sure and steady breath.
These twenty stories make me hopeful for the state of American short fiction. Here are writers digging deep and reckoning with the implications of the #MeToo movement, a future of population control, childhood, adolescent bullying, long-term love, infidelity, mythology, and art. These stories span the globe, touching down in France, Maine, Yonkers, the American Midwest, Tennessee, Madagascar, Alaska, China, Venezuela, California. I was glad to see story writers play with genre: here are pieces that feature elements of magical realism, dystopic fiction, realism, historic fiction, mythology, comedy, and tragedy. This year I’m proud to feature a good number of newer writers, such as Selena Anderson, Sarah Thankam Mathews, Jane Pek, Alejandro Puyana, Anna Reeser, and William Pei Shih. I always aim to cull from a mix of known and lesser known literary journals as well. Magazines like Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, Crazyhorse, Fourteen Hills, and Subtropics are represented in these pages.
I hope that by the time you read these words, the pandemic will have abated or passed, although it seems that it will cause economic, political, and social aftershocks for years to come. As I look back through these twenty stories, so many sentences take on new meaning right now. Elizabeth McCracken writes in “It’s Not You”: “I became kinder the way anybody does, because it costs less and is, nine times out of ten, more effective.” And T. C. Boyle’s “The Apartment” delivers this useful truth: “The world had been reduced. But it was there still, solid, tangible, as real as the fur of the cat.” May these stories draw you in, move you, and provide you comfort in the face of whatever you may be experiencing right now.
The stories chosen for this anthology were originally published between January 2019 and January 2020. The qualifications for selection are (1) original publication in nationally distributed American or Canadian periodicals; (2) publication in English by writers who have made the United States or Canada their home; (3) original publication as short stories (excerpts of novels are not considered). A list of magazines consulted for this volume appears at the back of the book. Editors who wish their short fiction to be considered for next year’s edition should send their publications or hard copies of online publications to Heidi Pitlor, c/o The Best American Short Stories, 125 High Street, Boston, MA 02110, or files to thebestamericanshortstories@gmail.com as attachments.
Heidi Pitlor
Introduction
I loved reading these stories. I’m telling you this up front, right away, because it’s the most important part, and because I can’t be sure you’ll read this essay in its entirety. Perhaps you will. But perhaps you’ll grow bored, or perhaps you’ll be so excited to read the stories themselves that you’ll jump ahead (if so, I understand). In any case, I want to make sure you, the reader, and also you, the authors included here, know how much I admire the work in this anthology, how much joy it brought me, how dazzled I was by its individual and collective creativity, wisdom, daring, humor, and poignance. To the stories’ authors: Thank you.
Now that that’s out of the way, let’s travel back in time—to southwestern France, in the summer of 1992. Before the start of my senior year at a Massachusetts boarding school, I was spending about six weeks abroad, trying to learn to speak French. (If you’re thinking that this anecdote gives off the distinct whiff of privilege, you’re correct.) Although I’d studied French for three years, I was far from fluent and struggled to have conversations with those around me. I was staying with a family in which there was a girl my age . . . who, a couple days after my arrival, had gone somewhere else. I don’t remember where, though I do remember that her brother, who was about twelve, was around and that he seemed to find me almost as annoying as I found him.
There was, however, a saving grace. Prior to the end of the school year, an English teacher had suggested that I buy a copy of The Best American Short Stories. Because I was both bookish and obedient, I’d complied, and it was the 1991 edition. In the small bedroom where I was staying, I’d pull the book out and lie on my back on the twin mattress to read it. The cover was maroon, with the letters in yellow and the digits of 1991 in pale blue. The series editor was Katrina Kenison, and the guest editor that year was Alice Adams, and I can still feel the texture of the cover, can still see the font on the pages. It was in these pages that I first met Lorrie Moore and Amy Bloom and Joyce Carol Oates, Charles D’Ambrosio and Siri Hustvedt and John Updike.
To read their stories felt to me the way I suspect other people feel hearing jazz for the first time, or trying Ecstasy. Oh my God, I thought. This exists! The stories were so good. They were so interesting. There were twenty of them, all in the same place. They were windows into emotions I had and hadn’t had, into other settings and circumstances and observations and relationships. I’m tempted to say that as I read, I felt the world enlarging around me, but it’s probably more accurate to say that I felt my own existence enlarging. I felt so grateful to live on the same planet and breathe the same air as the magically talented individuals who’d crafted these tales. Quickly I realized that, given my current circumstances, I needed to ration them—to consume no more than one or two a day.
In light of the fact that almost thirty years have passed since that summer, it wouldn’t be entirely appropriate if I had retained the sense of wonder I felt reading a BASS anthology for the first time. But still, I’m a little saddened to report just how extensively I haven’t retained it. I am now forty-five years old, the author of six novels and one story collection. I do not take the good fortune of my career for granted; indeed, I am at regular intervals astonished by it. And yet I also at regular intervals experience a disenchantment with the so-called literary industrial complex—an
eye-rolling irritation with the discrepancy between publishing buzz and quality, an impatience with pretentious ways of discussing craft or process. It would not, at this point in my life, be unusual for me to be talking to a writer friend and to declare of an acclaimed new story collection or novel, “Oh, it’s a total piece of shit.” It would not be unusual for me to give up on a book a hundred pages into reading it, and it also would not be unusual for me to give up on a book in the first paragraph, to deem it simply unreadable. On occasion I’ve given up on books in the first sentence.
I should note that there’s a middle ground between the wide-eyed delight I felt in 1992 and the cynicism I’m too often prone to now, a more balanced perspective I attained as a graduate student and strive toward still. At some point after entering the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in 1999 and before finishing in 2001, I realized this: it is perfectly legitimate to read someone’s fiction and think, You are talented, and your writing is not at all to my taste. The legitimacy of such a statement might seem absurdly self-evident, but recognizing it was important in my development, and both parts were equally important. Your writing is not at all to my taste is not simply a more polite way of saying This is garbage. The You are talented part is sincere, the recognition of another person’s abilities, and the not at all to my taste part is equally sincere, the recognition of the subjectivity of my own opinions.
All of which is to say that in January 2018, when BASS series editor Heidi Pitlor invited me to be the guest editor for the 2020 volume, I accepted with a blend of sentiments. My inner sixteen-year-old felt elated. I—Curtis from Ohio, who’s bad at French—would get to do the thing that’s been done by Salman Rushdie, Tobias Wolff, and Louise Erdrich? Meanwhile, my inner grad school student wondered if I’d be reading some great stories and many more whose proficiency I recognized without taking much pleasure in them. And my cynical present-day self (my outer forty-five-year-old?) wondered if I’d struggle to find twenty stories that I genuinely liked. I was definitely curious, and I didn’t consider declining the invitation. But I had reservations.