I Contain Multitudes

Have you ever had a frenemy? You know, the kind of friend who made you a friendship bracelet but won't invite you to her secret birthday party. And that's when she said it. I wish I liked you more. Then she switched on the radio. I'm Meg Wolitzer, and if this sounds familiar, stay with me for Selected Shorts for fiction about contradictory characters. You're listening to Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. So yes, I'm Meg and I'm the host of Shorts, but I'm also a writer and a New Yorker and a mother and a wife and a grandmother and a friend and an ambidextrous person, and I'm also Jewish and an American and a devotee of Scrabble. The point is, I'm not just one thing, and I don't think that you are either. All of us play many different roles in one another's lives and in the world around us. And sometimes, frankly, it can be hard to keep up with all those different roles, not to mention all of the feelings that go along with playing all these parts. Some days we do what we know to be right, like becoming the angelic godmother, following through on a promise to babysit a godson. And other days, we abandon that same promise and become that self-involved slouch who sits at home and eats a family-sized bag of corn chips. Like Walt Whitman said, I contain multitudes of Doritos. Well, no, I guess he didn't exactly say that. On today's Selected Shorts, stories that slowly reveal the multifaceted nature of their characters. Not just the overtly good and bad people who populate many heroes' journeys, but the kind of complex and fascinating people we know from our own lives. People who crave affection but fear intimacy. People who honestly love you, but given the right opportunity, just may betray you. There are many possibilities of combination platters of psychology in a single person. It can be unseemly to gawk at someone and try to understand all their different parts, so sometimes it's better to leave it to a professional. by which I mean a fiction writer. This is one of their specialties. Our first story about these sorts of complex characters is by the writer Shirlene Bazile. She's a Florida-born, L.A.-based, Haitian-American writer who is at work on her first novel. Her story, Tender, about love and competition, was performed as part of our live show, featuring stories from the Best American Short Stories collection of 2023. Author Min Jin Lee, who served as guest editor of Best American 2023, delivered a powerful introduction to a night of performances that included Bazile's tender. What is Best American Short Stories to me? Well, at the beginning of my senior year in college, I bought a paperback copy of the Best American Short Stories 1989, edited by the Canadian literary queen Margaret Atwood. I had read so many, many dead writers. So many. And they were all wonderful and significant. But in a way, their work felt lapidary, beyond reproach, almost divine. Unlike the classics of dead writers, of my younger reading life. The stories in this anthology felt different and vital because I knew for certain that these writers were working at this very moment. And every story had been published only a year prior. Fiction writers became alive and current. That was Min Jin Lee on stage at Symphony Space. Now performing tender is Anna Uzele, She's a Broadway regular whose credits include six and has appeared in series including City on a Hill. Now Uzele reads Tender by Shirlene Bazile. Tender. My best friend doesn't like me much. She said so herself. We were driving to her house so she could braid my hair. I was upset that at the hair store she took her time trying on wigs she wouldn't buy. The braids would take hours. If I wasn't home by 10, my mom would wring my braids around my neck. In the car, the thick heat, the harsh green numbers on the dashboard that read 5.46 p.m. made me so angry I couldn't move. I didn't bother taking off my jacket. I kept the bag of hair extensions scrunched between my seatbelt and my chest, as if it could shield me from the world of my rage. I didn't respond when she said, I'll finish what I can tonight and do the rest tomorrow after school. Easy. After 15 minutes of driving in silence, best friend said, It's 90 degrees. Take your jacket off. You have a death wish? I'm fine, I said. And that's when she said it. I wish I liked you more. Then she switched on the radio. We became friends back in the day. The only two black girls in all of Lee Elementary. We were losers. Mostly because we had immigrant mothers who wore bulging scarves around their heads and weren't afraid to hit or yell at us in public. They sent us to school with saucy, smelly chicken and rice, which ensured we had no friends, because in our part of Florida, no one knew how to deal with difference except to hate it. Soon after, a best friend showed up from Kenya with four large piggy tails and pink barrettes. We sat next to each other every day and pretended we spoke the same language. When the kid made fun of us for being weird, we cursed at them in our respective languages, and the teachers wouldn't say anything because when they tried, best friend called them racist, the insult her mother told her to use if someone did her wrong. Even after Best Friend realized that I understood these kids more than her, they never asked me any questions. They never asked me about living among lions and monkeys. So we stuck together, partly out of habit, partly because we liked each other well enough, and partly because we were more like each other than we were like anyone else. We knew how to be mean in a way that was suggestive of love. We knew when to switch to our nice voices, though we didn't do this often. We sang together, shared our lunch, swapped clothes until our mothers found out, and warned us that that was a fast track for someone to cast a spell on you. Senior year, best friend grew up, or whatever, and decided who to care about, which did not include me. and that might have been all right except I care so much that some days I smile so hard my lips get sore. At night I can't sleep. Best friend lives with her mom and dad in a three-bedroom house in a gated community. I sit near the leather sofa and her legs straddle me. I take the hair out of the packaging, cut off the beige rubber band, and hold out a chunk in my palm. I don't like asking her to do my hair. She thinks I'm embarrassed because I can't pay her. Really, she just braids too tight. I feel the pressure on my scalp even after she releases her thumb. I wonder when she pulls my baby hairs into the braid, tucks them beneath a hill of hair, repeats, does she know she hates me? And just how much? Is it finger length, root length, or maybe the kind that has no length at all because it never stops growing. She turns on the real world, which is all we ever watch these days because it's good practice for chatting with our new white friends. After Obama got elected, they flocked to her. The white girls who thought she was cool and wanted a cool black friend so that they could embrace the end of racism in the U.S. We hate them. The girls who used to make fun of our hair and now tell us that they love it, who still don't invite us to their birthday parties because their parents like black people fine now, but only at a distance. That's fine, best friend would say after each non-invite. We'll throw a better party. If someone doesn't give a fuck about you, don't give a fuck about them. Easy. I don't know why she wants new white friends. The only response she'll give is, they're easier. I think about that sentence a lot, how it's technically complete but also cryptic like it's missing another half. Then you, she means to add. Then you. Best friend's braiding away when she says, I hear David likes you. Dave? She hums so that it's on me to carry the conversation. We went on a date, date-ish, I say. And when she doesn't respond, I add, maybe a half date. He didn't tell you? Dave is best friend's only other real friend. She says, he mentioned he liked you, but I didn't think he was serious. She digs into my scalp to pull my little hairs into the braid. Before I can say anything, she reroutes. She says, well, I just thought you didn't like white guys. I don't, but, and what about Chris? She asks. I can like two guys, I say I don't know why I say this Chris and I have said a total of five words to each other Before I can take it back, tell her just kidding She says, so you do like David Another dig in my scalp, a pulling at the hair She applies a cool slab of gel to my edges When I still don't respond, she says We had sex, you know You never told me, she shrugs If I knew, I tell her, I wouldn't have, I don't like him, she says. I was just attracted. Okay, well, I don't have to, do what you want, Eden. I'm fine with it. David and I are just friends. Best friend changes the subject, swift as the next twist. And now my scalp is burning, and I can't stand it anymore. I say, could you be easier? And pull away. Best friend seems surprised to see me crying, and I say, you know I'm tender-headed. In the floor-length mirror next to the TV, her eyes go cold. I saw that look yesterday during lunch with her fangirls, who talk all the time but don't say much at all. I told one of them that I liked her earrings, neon hoops that matched her hair. I stole it from Walmart, she replied. I didn't know whether she was kidding. All I could think of was the beating I'd get if my mom found out I'd stolen something. Of course, homegirl didn't stop talking. She said, I don't even feel bad about it. They treat their workers poorly. Everyone but me and best friend vigorously nodded. Homegirl continued, it was easy to snag them. They were too busy following a black guy around. Everyone laughed, but best friend and I gave each other a look. Homegirl added in a whisper to me, don't worry, it wasn't Chris. Chris is the only black guy in our year. For most people, that's sufficient cause for a wedding, though no one ever matched best friend to Chris. I excused myself for some milk. And when I returned to the cafeteria table, carton in hand, one of the fangirls had everyone's attention. Best friend was giggling in response to something surely stupid. I slipped into my seat. Mid-giggle, best friend's gaze focused on me. Some kind of haze rested over her eyes, which were hollowed out, replaced by obsidian. The usual warmth in her face was clouded with caution. She was having another conversation entirely. Even as I thought, this is why we shouldn't hang out with white people, I couldn't help but wonder whether she held back when she talked to me, too. After Best Friend finishes a row of box braids, we take a break from each other, a mutual silent decision that exiles me to her bathroom. My mom taught me that if you want to know who a person is, check out their bathroom. Best friend has her own. Coral walls, a dainty window you can stare out of while you pee. Not a single hair clung to the sink. I thought she was a virgin like me, that if I wasn't capable of going there yet, neither was she. Where did she even have sex? She must have liked him for a while without a word to me. I wash my hands thinking of her expression as I pulled away. What part of me displeased her? Could I carve it out little by little? Best friend's mom gets off work. She sighs when she sees how much of my hair is left. She cooks us plantains and chicken and then joins best friends so they can finish my hair before I have to be home. I'm relieved. Though Best Friend's mom is slender, she has thick thighs, and when I sit between them, staining her stretch marks with grease and gel, I feel cradled. She's much nicer than my mom. And when she speaks to Best Friend, she's warm, which strikes me with envy. Her mom turns on passions, and we watch, engrossed by the antics of the headless egomaniac Alistair. Hours later, Best Friend's dad comes home. The past few months, he's been gone for weeks at a time. We never talk about it. Not my place to ask. He tries to kiss best friend's mother on the cheek. She recoils. You know I am here He asks I got a call from your school Your teacher wants to meet I asked her what for and you know what she said Best friend doesn respond She fixes her gaze on the TV Her fingers grow tighter against my hair. She says, you're not doing homework, and you failed a math test. Still, best friend doesn't react. You have time to do hair, but you don't have time for school. He insults her in a language I can't understand, waving his hand in a steady beat. Best friend just pulls and pulls at my hair until I yank it away from her. Her mom pushes her dad away, her legs jolting me and says, she's acting like this because of you, pig. We're watching TV. Leave us. Best friend's mom whispers something in her ear and they both turn to me. Best friend runs her hands through my hair, which is largely unfinished. I get the feeling they're done for the night, which upsets me, though I hold my face. If I went home like this, my mom would yell, and I'm not in the mood. Best friend's mom disappears and comes back with an expensive-looking, earthy scarf that she wraps around my head. Best friend stands up, and I understand that I should follow her, and she'll take me home. We slip on our shoes by the door. I pull at the flaps of my converse and say in a low tone, You sure you can't finish my hair tonight? She starts to laugh, and then her face becomes serious, and she nods without looking at me. not in response to my question but in response to herself just kidding I say in a high-pitched tone she scrunches her lips and opens the door steps over the threshold and turns to face me she looks lovely in the porch light the bushes behind her neatly shaped you're beautiful I tell her she flicks her hand but she smiles and disappears inside the jeep I can finish your hair tomorrow after school she says We can go to your house. I'm not allowed to have friends over. You know that, best friend shrugs. My dad's just so... She's gazing at me, but I'm seized by a coolness that makes me avert my eyes, makes my finger press the lock and unlock button again and again. Terrible, she finishes. Sorry you had to see that. That was nothing. Best friend raises her eyebrows. Just a heated conversation, I add. A bad day. Is that so? She says with an even tone. My mom beats me, I continue. That's why I never take off the jacket. She says she's sorry. Then she's quiet for a moment and adds, I just wish he was better. I shrug. At least he provides for you. Bare minimum. Fathers need to be around, you know. I don't know. I don't say this, though. I lean my head against the passenger window. The pressure on my braids make me wince. Outside, two boys in hoodies strut on the crosswalk, taking their time. Best friend slams the horn, but they don't move any faster. Words can be a kind of violence, she says. Not actual violence. You've got it good, I add. best friend goes rigid and I smile in secret she drops me off without another word even when I tell her thank you and good night my mom is home still wearing her bright pink nursing clothes I try to kiss her on the cheek but she pulls away and says I'm dirty she unravels the rust orange scarf from my hair lets it drop to the floor why didn't your friend finish I shrug she says you look ugly like that, but the braids are nice. What about school? I'll wear the scarf, she says. Where'd you get it? When I tell her, she says, I bet she bought it for $100. I could have found it at a yard sale for five. I like it, I say. Man Man says, I stopped looking at me like that. What are you learning from that friend of yours. I lower my eyes. I'm in no mood to be hit. Everything, I say. I pick up the scarf and head straight to the bathroom, which has stained white tiles on a moldy shower curtain. I pull out scissors from the cabinet behind the mirror, and when I cut the carefully braided hair, it falls into the sink, onto the counter, down my shirt. I unbraid the rest, detach the loose curly strands from my roots. I wrap the scarf around my head, round up all the synthetic strands, and throw them into the trash. All better. The next day, everyone decides to love me. It's the scarf, which makes me look like the right kind of black. Trendy, like best friend, but different. I've unhinged myself from our symbiotic relationship. I keep my smile to a minimum, though inside I am thrilled. I ask Dave on a date. He's already going skating with Best Friend tomorrow, but I could come too. I remember how she had gone frigid in the car, how she wanted my sympathy without ever having offered hers. I'll be there, I say. Best Friend gives me a ride home from school. My mom wants the scarf back, she says. Reluctantly, I unwrap the scarf and place it in the compartment between us. She eyes my hair warily and says, you took it out? I nod, noting that she seems hurt. I lower the visor, finger my hair, which looks like a little hill of fluff. We drive in silence for a few minutes. Then she tells me that, by the way, she's orchestrated an ice skating trip. I know, I said. Dave invited me. I know, she says. He told me. I invited Chris and one of my fans, too. Oh, I'll join you all another time, I say. I already bought the tickets. Group discount. I can't afford it, she says. That's okay. It's on me. Why would you invite both of them, I blurt out. She tells me she forgot, and she looks so concerned I can't tell if she's lying. I check her eyes and almost see her retreat into a back room in her mind. She says, two guys like you, bigger problems out there. Oh, now you understand me, I say. I've never been ice skating before. Best friend rents the skates for both of us and hands me mine. With the skates on, I'm a couple inches taller and I like it. Best friend glides onto the ice, making a sharp yet graceful spin towards me and her fan, who hovers next to me by the rink's barrier. Best friend puts my cheeks in her hands, the smile on her face. I don't recognize the fullness of it. It makes me grin. I say, I didn't know you were good at skating. There's a lot you don't know about me, Eden, she says with a wink. Dave makes small circles near us, and when he sees best friend skating, he says, race me, and they're off. But not before. She gives him that smile, and I wonder if he always gets that side of her. Look at them go, Fangirl says. I smile, a reflex I immediately regret. She never stops talking about you, Fangirl continues. I can pick out best friend in the crowd. She does a tight spin and emerges with Dave. They're skating slowly, their expression and somber, as if they went off not to race, but to have a serious conversation. They fix their faces when they reach us, insisting that we join them. Fangirl lunges towards them, flailing her arms. She bumps into Dave, who catches her before she falls. Best friend takes my arm and gestures for me to let go of the wall. I hesitate, but I let go. Best friend tucks one arm in mine and the other around Fangirl and propels us forward in a single stride. We're skating-ish. Dave skates alongside us, moving slowly so that we can copy his movements. Left foot, right foot, left two, three, right two, three. I'm skating like I have a pole at my butt. As we round the corner, I stumble. Fangirl unhooks her arm before she falls with me. The cold shoots through my skin, but the fall hurts less than I thought it would. Dave helps me up. I'm sure my heart rate triples as he takes my hand. Best friend brushes the frost from my pants laughing. Chris appears from wherever. He's bumping his head to TikTok by Kesha singing oh oh oh. When we ask him where he's been he says he's been here the whole time. I have a talent for blending into the background he says and skating. Maybe you can teach Eden. She just fell, best friend says. Chris extends his arm, which I take, careful not to look at Dave or best friend as we skate by them. Dave, who hasn't take his eyes off of best friend since he entered the rink. And can I blame him? Look at her twirl. Her hands know precisely where to go. She's elegant in a way I'll never be. Her confidence intensified by the coolness of the rink. And me? Well, Chris teaches me the fundamentals, and before I know it, I'm skating back and forth along one side of the rink with no trouble. He wraps his arm in Rhine, and we practice together. I trip over my legs, slip, and fall hard on my butt. Chris stumbles but manages to keep his balance. We're laughing, gazing at each other, a look that lasts too long to be neutral. He has warm eyes, I notice for the first time. He takes my hand and just as he's about to pull me up, I hear laughter. Under his arm, I can see Best Friend a few yards away from me. She's fallen too. She has her hand over her mouth and she laughs outrageously, a sound she stole from her mother. She must have fallen on purpose. What happens to one happens to the other, as if our bodies were bound together. You okay? Chris asks. His expression is so earnest, I want to place his head in a pillowcase. I look back at best friend who's looking at me too only now she's holding Dave's hand we skate for a little longer hand in hand quiet the music changes I'm gonna sit down for a moment I say he skates away after a final squeeze of my palm a woman bumps into me on my way out sorry she says with a big smile I got brave I rest on a bench happy to have something sturdy beneath me. I could like Chris. He's a nice guy. At the very least, it feels good to be noticed. Best friend joins me. She puts her hands on my shoulder and squeezes. I saw you fall. You okay? I nod. I'm so happy you came, she says. It means a lot to me. I fixate on the beauty mark that she drew on her left cheek with her mom's brown lip liner. I'm not sure what to do with her tone. Was she being nice because she won whatever game we were playing? Me too, I say, my voice flat. Disco lights flicker across the floor. When I look back up, best friend seems far away. I'm going back in, she says coolly. What's wrong? I don't like the way you look at me sometimes, Eden. I don't know what you mean. She shakes her head and makes for the rink. I'm about to follow her when Dave comes up behind me. Hey, he says. Hey, I say. He sits next to me. Haven't seen much of you all night, I say, trying to keep my voice from turning bitter. Yeah, he says, yawning, reaching his hands over his head so I can see his pale, lean stomach. He reminds me of a fish. I've mostly been hanging out with the ladies, he adds. I shake my head and look out to the rink. Best friend is nearby, watching. I inch closer to Dave. I probably have to go soon, I say. Bums, he says. I can take you. And then best friend is upon us. She seats herself on the other side of Dave, her arm hanging around his neck, and it's as if I vanish. Hey, what's up, Dave says. Best friend sides loudly. You know, he says. I know. She says, I felt so good when I got onto the rink electric. And then I couldn't stop thinking about all those times my dad took me skating. A mother plops down near us with her son, the woman who bumped into me before. Her son places his leg on her lap and she shimmies off his skate. The boy tries to take his sock off, but the mom gestures for him to leave it on. Best friend continues. He says he'll stay this time. He won't go back to the lady and their baby. her dad has another family the right thing to feel in this moment i know is sympathy instead i feel stupid and embarrassed why would best friend tell me now when a boy is stuck between us blocking the sight of her so that i only have access to her hands which tremble as she speaks which float then sink then cut through the air and then lay still in her lap why didn't she tell me Dave leans back and I can see Best Friend again. Her head's on Dave's shoulder and she's watching me. Only this time, she looks younger, vulnerable. She unwraps herself from Dave and says, I have to take Eden home before her curfew. Dave looks surprised to see me next to them. Let's say bye to our friends, Best Friend says as she stands, taking my hand. Fatima, I say to her. Hmm? She responds, surprised to hear me call her by her name. But I don't have words yet. Outside, my stomach starts speaking, so she ropes me into the subway across from the rink. I stare at the menu, a bit tired and overwhelmed by the number of choices. I don't know what I want, I say. She waits for me to say more. I point at the menu. I'm talking about the sandwiches. The booth feels private. The lights are dimmed. A few employees wash dishes in the back, chatting. I'll pay you back, I say to Fatima, as she puts her wallet back into her purse She shakes her head My dad gave me a debit card because he feels guilty That nice I say I reach for something else to add and settle on Do you want to talk about it? She takes a small bite of her sandwich, guarding her mouth with the tips of her fingers. Not really, she says. That's okay, I say. I had a good time anyway. I had a good time too, I say. Though we both know I'm lying. An employee in the back cackles. I finish my sandwich, run my tongue against the front of my teeth to make sure nothing's stuck. Fatima, I say, I haven't been a good friend. She cocks her head to the side, like she's thinking about it. She takes another bite of her roast beef and chews for a while. I pick at the frayed strings of my jeans. She clears her throat and smiles slightly when she says, no, not really. If I knew, you did know, she says. You didn't want to know. You want so badly for me to be perfect. What do you mean? I'm the queen of imperfection. There, that's it. That's what I mean. You act, Fatima continues, like me having a bad day is a personal affront to you. I'm allowed to have a hard time. That has nothing to do with you. I don't need you pulling me into a competition. I don't like being pulled. It's easy to feel like it's not a competition when you're winning. She scoffs, shaking her head. I lean in, whispering, it's hard being friends with someone who has everything. You fail a test, he's right at your side. You can bring him back. So what he yells at you? Fatima sighs, grabs a napkin, and dabs the tears I didn't notice were falling down my face. Eden, she says, listen to me. You listening? I nod. If you're always the victim, you lose. doesn't matter who you're fighting me she says crumpling the napkin I'm not your enemy I'm your friend when I get home I lean against the front door aware of a dull pain in my backside I wrap some ice cubes in paper towels and place it under my thigh the garage door opens I thrust the ice out of my sight under the table I don't want any questions from my mother her socks shuffle against the floor, ungraceful, angry. She turns down the corner of the hallway so that I can see her now, how tired she looks, her wig chomping her forehead by a quarter. She faces me, leans her purse against the hallway console, scratches her cheek, and says, Hedenia, you know what I would like? Hi, Monmi, how are you? I interject. I would like a daughter who cleans the house while I'm gone. I did everything for my mon mon she says but you your daddy's child only care about yourself and she keeps talking though she knows I've shut the door to my bedroom though she hears the radio now my voice singing and as I sink into my comforter I remember the mother at the ice skating rink how sweetly she removed her son's skates how would it be like to have a mom who would take me places we go to the movie theaters to subway, and she'd have time to do my hair, wrap me in her greasy legs, so that when she moved, I did too. She wouldn't pull with her rough hands, but she'd hold my hair firmly. It wouldn't hurt. That was Anna Uzele performing the story Tender by Charlene Bazile. I think beyond the complex female friendship depicted in Bazile's story, part of what makes it special is our chance to see behind the curtain. That is, as readers, we're introduced to Eden and Fatima's mothers, and we start to understand the root of their insecurity. Author and Best American Short Stories 2023 guest editor Min Jin Lee told the audience what it was in Shirlene Bazile's writing that moved Lee to include the story in Best American. Bazille represents and handles a contradictory aspect of a friendship complicated by both rivalry and symbiosis. The story is both intimate and painful. Similar to the hair braiding ritual the narrator endures from her closest friend. We can trust the narrator's voice and observations about the shortcomings of the significant friendship. Charlene Bazile has said this about her story, quote, I love tenderness as the guiding mood of this story. To be tender-headed is to feel like you've gone bald from a comb slashing through your coarse hair, death by a thousand forceful tugs. I played with the possibilities of intimacies gone awry. What if you don't trust the person doing your hair? And what if it was your best friend? And what if you and your best friend wanted the same things or thought you did? What if you were so fixated on a perceived competition that you couldn't show up for her? What if you were the one who dealt the first wound and they still loved you? That was Min Jin Lee on stage at Symphony Space. When we return, love, competition, and the great Grace Paley. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to Selected Shorts, recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide. Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You, too, can be part of the Selected Shorts family and can see the actors and hear the gasps and laughter live in a theater near you. While most of our stories are recorded at our home theater of Symphony Space in New York City, every year we pack our bags and take the show on the road. We go coast to coast. To see the current lineup of Selected Shorts dates on the road and at our home theater of Symphony Space, head to SelectedShorts.org for the latest tour dates and ticket information. Oh, and while you're there, subscribe to our podcast, where you'll also find bonus episodes and backstage conversations with actors who perform in the show. If you like what you hear, please write us a review and tell your friends how much you love Selected Shorts. In this show, our stories are all about relationships with potentially contradictory elements to them. The second story in this program is by Grace Paley. It was a part of an evening we dedicated to Paley's excellent short stories, which make up collections including The Little Disturbances of Man and Enormous Changes at the Last Minute. Paley, who died in 2007, was a quintessential New York writer. The setting and characters of the contest certainly reflect something of Paley's hometown, but the fraught love affair it depicts might just take place anywhere. Performing the story is Justin Bartha. He appeared in The Hangover and the National Treasure movies, as well as series including Godfather of Harlem. Now Bartha reads Grace Paley's The Contest. The contest. Up early or late, it never matters. The day gets away from me. Summer or winter, the shade of trees or their hard shadow, I never get into my Rice Krispies until noon. I am ambitious, but it's a long-range thing with me. I have my confidential sights on a star, but there's half a lifetime to get to it. Meanwhile, I keep my eyes open, and I am well-dressed. I told the examining psychiatrist for the army, yes, I like girls. And I do. Not my sister, a pimp's dream. But girls, slim and tender, or really stacked, dark brown at their centers, smeared by time. Not my mother, who should have stayed in Freud. I have got a sense of humor. My last girl was Jewish, which is often a warm kind of girls, concerned about food intake and employability. They don't like you to work hard, I understand, until you're hooked and then you bastard sweat. A medium girl, size 12, a clay pot with handles, she could be grasped. I met her in the rain outside some cultural activity at Cooper Union or Washington Irving High School. She had no umbrella, and I did, so I walked her home to my house. There she remained for several hours a yawning cavity half asleep. The rain rained on the Alanthus tree outside my window, the wind rattled the shutters of my old-fashioned window, and I took my time making coffee and carving an ounce of pound cake. I don't believe in force, and I would have waited, but her loneliness was very great. We had quite a nice time for a few weeks. She brought rolls and bagels from wherever the stuff can still be requisitioned. On Sundays, she'd come out of Brooklyn with a chicken to roast. She thought I was too skinny. I am, but girls like it. If you're fat, they can see immediately that you'll never need their unique talent for warmth. Spring came. She said, Where are we going? In just those words. Now, I have met this attitude before. Apparently, for most women, good food and fun for all are too much of a good thing. The sun absorbed July, and she said it again. Freddy, if we're not going anywhere, I'm not going along anymore. We were beach-driven those windy Sundays. Her mother must have told her what to say. She said it with such imprisoned conviction. One Friday night in September, I came home from an unlucky party. All the faces had been strange, there were no extra girls, and after some muted conversation with the glorious properties of other men, I felt terrible and went home. In an armchair looking at an art news full of Dutchmen who had lived 80 years and 40 was Dorothy. And by her side, an overnight case. I could hardly see her face when she stood to greet me, but she made tea first and steamed some of my order into the damp night. Listen, Freddy, she said, I told my mother I was visiting Leona in Washington for two days and I fixed it with Leona. Everyone will cover me, pouring tea and producing seeded tarts from some secret Flatbush Avenue bakery. All this to change the course of a man's appetite and enable conversation to go forward. So listen, Freddy, you don't take yourself seriously, and that's the reason you can't take anything else, a job, or a relationship, seriously. Freddy, you don't listen. You'll laugh, but you're very barbaric. You live at your nerves end. If you're near a radio, you listen to music. If you're near an open icebox, you stuff yourself. If a girl is within ten feet of you, you have her stripped and on a spit. Now, Dottie, don't be so graphic, I said. Every man is his own rotisserie. What a nice girl. Say something vulgar and she'd suddenly be all over me, blushing bitterly, glad that the East River separated her from her mother. Poor girl, she was avid. And she was giving. By Sunday night, I had ended half a dozen conversation and nipped their moral judgments at the homiletic root. By Sunday night, I had said, I love you, Dottie. Twice. By Monday morning, I realized the extent of my commitment, and I don't mind saying it prevented my going to a job I had swung on Friday. My impression of women is that they mean well, but are driven to an obsessive end by greedy tradition. When Doc found out that I'd decided against that job, what job? A job, that's all, she took action. She returned my copy in 1984 and said in a note that I could keep the six wine glasses her mother had lent me. Well, I did miss her. You don't meet such wide-open kindness every day. She was no fool, either. I'd say peasant wisdom is what she had. Not too much education. Her hair was long and dark. I'd always seen it in nice little coiffures or reprably disarrayed until that weekend. It was staggering. I missed her, and then I didn't have too much luck after that. Very little money to spend, and girls are primordial with intuition. There was one nice little married girl whose husband was puttering around in another postal zone, but her heart wasn't in it. I got some windy copy to do through my brother-in-law, a clean-cut croupier who was always crackling banknotes at family parties. Things picked up. Out of my gas bag profits one weekend, I was propelled into the Craggy Moor, a high-pressure resort, a star-studded haven with 1,100 acres of golf course. When I returned, exhausted but modest, there she was, right in my parlor floorfront. With a few gasping, kind words and a modern gimmick, she hoped to breathe eternity into a mortal matter. Love. Ah, Dottie, I said, holding out my accepting arms. I'm always glad to see you. Of course, she explained. I didn't come for that really, Freddy. I came to talk to you. We have a terrific chance to make some real money if you'll only be serious a half hour. You're so clever, and you ought to direct yourself to something. God, you could live in the country. I mean, even if you kept living alone, you could have a decent place on a decent street instead of this dump I kissed the top of her nose If you want to be very serious Dot let get out and walk Come on get your coat on and tell me all about how to make money She did. We walked out to the park and scattered autumn leaves for an hour. Now don't laugh, Freddie, she told me. There's a Yiddish paper called Morgenlicht. It's running a contest. Jews in the news. Every day they put a picture and two descriptions. You have to say who the three people are, add one more fact about them, and then send it in by midnight that night. It runs three months at least. A hundred Jews in the news, I said. What a tolerant country. So Dot, what do you get for this useful information? First prize, $5,000 and a trip to Israel. Also on return, two days each in the three largest European capitals in the Free West. Very nice, I said. What's the idea, though, to uncover the ones they've been passing? Freddy, why do you look at everything inside out? They're just proud of themselves, and they want to make Jews everywhere proud of their contribution to this country. Aren't you proud? Woe to the crown of pride. I don't care what you think. The point is, we know somebody who knows somebody on the paper. He writes a special article once a week. We don't know him, really, but our family name is familiar to him. So we have a very good chance if we really do it. Look how smart you are, Freddy. I can't do it myself, Freddy. You have to help me. It's a thing I made up my mind to do, anyway. If Dottie Wasserman really makes up her mind, it's practically done. I hadn't noticed this obstinacy in her character before. I had none in my own. Every weekday night after work, she leaned thoughtfully on my desk, wearing for warmth a Harris tweed jacket that ruined the nap of my arm. Somewhere out of doors, a strand of copper and constant agitation carry information from her mother's Brooklyn phone to her ear. Peering over her shoulder, I would sometimes discover a three-quarter view of a newsworthy Jew, or a full view of a half-Jew. The fraction did not interfere with the rules. They were glad to extract him and be proud. The longer we worked, the prouder Dottie became. Her face splashed, she'd raise her head from the hieroglyphics and read her own translation. A gray-headed gentleman, very much respected, an intimate of cabinet members, a true friend to a couple of presidents often seen in the park sitting on a bench. Bernard Baruch, I snapped, and then a hard one. Has contributed to the easiness of interstate commerce. His creation is worth millions and was completed last year. Still, he has time for Deborah, Susan, Judith, and Nancy, his four daughters. For this, I smoked and guzzled a hot eggnog Dodd had whipped up to give me strength and girth. I stared at the stove, the ceiling, my irritable shutters, then I said calmly, Chaim Pazi, he's a bridge architect. I never forget a name, no matter what typeface it appears in. Imagine it, Freddy. I didn't even know there was a Jew who had such accomplishment in that field. Actually, it sometimes took as much as an hour to attach a real name to a list of exaggerated attributes. When it took that long, I couldn't help muttering, well, we've uncovered another one. Put him on the list for Van too. Dottie'd say sadly, I have to believe you're joking. Well, why do you think she liked me? All you little psychoanalyzed people now say it all at once in a chorus, because she is a masochist and you are a sadist. No, I was very good to her. And to all the love she gave me, I responded. And I kept all our appointments and called her on Fridays to remind her about Saturday, and when I had money I brought her flowers and once earrings and once a black brassiere I saw advertised in the paper with some cleverly stitched windows for ventilation. I still have it. She never dared take it home. But I will not be eaten by any woman. My poor old mother died with a sizable chunk of me stuck in her gullet. I was in the army at the time, but I understand her last words were, introduce ready to Eleanor Fobstein. Consider the nerve of that woman, including me in a codicil. She left my sister to that ad man and culinary expert with a crew cut. She left my father to the commiseration of aunts, while me, her prize possession, and the best piece of meat in the freezer of her heart, she left to Ellen Farbstein. As a matter of fact, Dottie said it herself, I never went with a fellow who paid as much attention as you, Freddy. You're always there. I know I'm not lonesome or depressed. All I have to do is call you and you'll meet me downtown and drop whatever you're doing. Don't think I don't appreciate it. The established truth is, I wasn't doing much. My brother-in-law could have kept me in clover, but he pretended I was a specialist in certain ornate copy and frequently called for by his concern. Therefore, I was able to give my wit, energy, and attention to Jews in the news, Morgan Leash, the paper that comes out the night before. And so we reached the end. Dot really believed we'd win, I was almost persuaded. Drinking hot chocolate and screwdrivers, we fantasized six weeks away. We won. I received a 9am phone call one midweek morning. Rise and shine, Frederick P. Sims. We did it. You see, whatever you really try to do, you can do. She quit work at noon and met me for lunch at an outdoor cafe in the village, full of smiles and corrupt with pride. We ate very well, and I had to hear the following information, part of it, I'd suspected. It was all in her name. Of course, her mother had to get some. She had helped with the translation because Dottie had very little Yiddish, actually, not to mention her worry about the security of her old age. And it was necessary, they had decided in midnight conference, to send some money to their old aunt Lise, who had gotten out of Europe only 90 minutes before it was sealed forever, and was now in Toronto among strangers, having lost most of her mind. The trip abroad to Israel and three other European capitals was for two. They had to be married. If our papers could not include one that proved our conjunction by law, she would sail alone. Before I could make my accumulating statement, she shrieked, oh, her mother was waiting in front of Lord and Taylor's, and she was off. I smoked my miserable encrusted pipe and considered my position. Meanwhile, in another part of the city, wheels were moving, presses humming, and the next day the facts were composed from right to left across the masthead of Morgan Leashed. Brooklyn girl knows all the answers. Dottie Wasserman wins. Neatly boxed below, a picture of Dot and me eating lunch recalled a bright flash that had illuminated the rice pudding the day before, as I sat drenched in the fizzle of my modest hopes. I sent Dottie a postcard. It said, No can do. The final arrangements were complicated due to the reluctance of the Israeli government to permit egress to dollar bills which were making the grandest tour of all. Once inside that province of cosmopolitans, the dollar was expected to resign its hedonistic role as an American toy and begin the Presbyterian life of a tool. Within two weeks, letters came from abroad bearing this information and containing photographs of Dottie smiling at a kibbutz, leaning sympathetically on a wailing wall, unctuous in an orange grove. I decided to take a permanent job for a couple of months in an agency, attaching the following copy to photographs of upright men. This is Bill Fury. He is the man who will take your order for tons of red-label fertilizer. He knows the Midwest. He knows your needs. Call him Bill and call him now. I was neat and brown-eyed, innocent and alert, offended by the chicanery of my fellows, powered by decency, going straight up. The lean shanked girls had been brought to New York by tractor, and they were going straight up too, through the purgatory of man's avarice to whore's heaven, the palace of possessions. While I labored at my dreams, Dottie spent some money to see the leaning tower of Pisa and ride in a gondola. She decided to stay in London at least two weeks because she felt at home there. and so all this profit was at last being left in the hands of foreigners who had invested to their own advantage. One misty day, the boom of foghorns rolling round Manhattan Island reminded me of a cablegram I determined to ignore, arriving Queen Elizabeth Wednesday 4 p.m. I ignored it successfully all day and was casual with a couple of cool blondes and went home and was lonely. I was lonely all evening. I tried writing a letter to an athletic girl I'd met in a ski lodge a few weeks before. I thought of calling some friends, but the pure unmentionable facts is that women isolate you. There was no one to call. I went out for an evening paper, read it, listened to the radio, went out for a morning paper, had a beer, read the paper, and waited for the calculation of morning. I never went to work the next day, or the day after. No word came from Dot. She must have been crawling with guilt. Poor girl. I finally wrote her a letter. It was very strong. My dear Dorothy, when I consider our relationship and recall its seasons, the summer sun that shone on it and the winter snow as it plowed through, I can still find no reason for your unconscionable behavior. I realize that you were motivated by the hideous examples of your mother and all the mothers before her. You were, in a word, a prostitute. The love and friendship I gave were apparently not enough. What did you want? You gave me the swamp waters of your affection to drown in, and because I refused, you planned this desperate revenge. In all earnestness, I helped you, combing my memory for those of our faith who have touched the press-happy nerves of this nation. What did you want? Marriage? Ah, that's it. A happy daddy and mommy home. The home happy day you could put your hair up in curlers, swab cream in the corner of your eyes. I'm not sure all this is for Fred. I am 29 years old and not getting any younger. All around me boy graduates have attached their bow legs to the ladder of success. Dottie Wasserman. Dottie Wasserman, what can I say to you? If you think I have been harsh, face the fact that you haven't dared face me. We had some wonderful times together. We could have them again. This is a great opportunity to start on a more human basis. You cannot impose your narrow view of life on me. Make up your mind, Dottie Wasserman. Sincerely, with recollected affection, F. P.S. This is your last chance. Two weeks later, I received a $100 bill. A week after that, at my door, I found a carefully packed leather portfolio, hand-sewn in Italy, and a projector with a box of slides showing interesting views of Europe and North Africa. And after that, nothing at all. That was Justin Bartha performing The Contest by Grace Paley. Ah, so heartbreaking to have a character who is so smart and so dumb at the same time. And Bartha does a great job of making all of his ambivalence feel almost, what, relatable. While Freddie is the one telling the story, we question his reliability pretty soon. And though Dottie never gets her own point of view, in a way she actually does get one, because Grace Paley lets us see Freddie through his own words, which then allows us to imagine Dottie's perceptions of him, which must certainly contain, let's call it, ambivalence. Paley has dexterity when it comes to character. Whose story is this, we sometimes wonder. Having such a fine writer move in and out of that question is just a delight. A good story forces us to empathize with characters' traits, even the unsavory ones. Each of us understands, in our own lives, how we might hurt a friend we love more than anyone else, or sabotage ourselves despite our best intentions. When we get the chance to see those character flaws reflected back to us in fiction, we just might feel seen. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Ropleski. The readings are recorded by Miles B. Smith. Our programs presented at the Getty Center in Los Angeles are recorded by Phil Richards. Our mix engineer for this episode was Mie White. Our theme music is David Peterson's That's the Deal, performed by the Deardorff-Peterson Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space. Thank you.