The Best American Short Stories 2012

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Introduction

  CAROL ANSHAW The Last Speaker Of The Language

  TAYLOR ANTRIM Pilgrim Life

  NATHAN ENGLANDER What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank

  MARY GAITSKILL The Other Place

  ROXANE GAY North Country

  JENNIFER HAIGH Paramour

  MIKE MEGINNIS Navigators

  STEVEN MILLHAUSER Miracle Polish

  ALICE MUNRO Axis

  LAWRENCE OSBORNE Volcano

  JULIE OTSUKA Diem Perdidi

  EDITH PEARLMAN Honeydew

  ANGELA PNEUMAN Occupational Hazard

  ERIC PUCHNER Beautiful Monsters

  GEORGE SAUNDERS Tenth Of December

  TAIYE SELASI The Sex Lives of African Girls

  SHARON SOLWITZ Alive

  KATE WALBERT M&M World

  JESS WALTER Anything Helps

  ADAM WILSON What’s Important Is Feeling

  Contributors’ Notes

  Other Distinguished Stories of 2011

  Editorial Addresses of American and Canadian Magazines Publishing Short Stories

  About the Editors

  Copyright © 2012 Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company

  Introduction copyright © 2012 by Tom Perrotta

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  The Best American Series® and The Best American Short Stories® are registered trademarks of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without the proper written permission of the copyright owner unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal copyright law. With the exception of nonprofit transcription in Braille, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt is not authorized to grant permission for further uses of copyrighted selections reprinted in this book without the permission of their owners. Permission must be obtained from the individual copyright owners as identified herein. Address requests for permission to make copies of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt material to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York 10003.

  ISSN 0067-6233

  ISBN 978-0-547-24209-5

  ISBN 978-0-547-24210-1 (pbk.)

  eISBN 978-0-547-37718-6

  v1.1012

  “The Last Speaker of the Language” by Carol Anshaw. First published in New Ohio Review, Issue 10. Copyright © 2011 by Carol Anshaw. Reprinted by permission of the Joy Harris Literary Agency.

  “Pilgrim Life” by Taylor Antrim. First published in American Short Fiction, Vol. 14, No. 53. Copyright © 2011 by Taylor Antrim. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank” by Nathan Englander. First published in The New Yorker, December 12, 2011. From What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank: Stories by Nathan Englander, copyright © 2012 by Nathan Englander. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.

  “The Other Place” by Mary Gaitskill. First published in The New Yorker, February 14 & 21, 2011. Copyright © 2010 by Mary Gaitskill. Reprinted by permission of Mary Gaitskill.

  “North Country” by Roxane Gay. First published in Hobart, Issue 12. Copyright © 2012 by Roxane Gay. Reprinted by permission of Roxane Gay.

  “Paramour” by Jennifer Haigh. First published in Ploughshares, Vol. 37, No. 4. Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Haigh. Reprinted by permission of Jennifer Haigh.

  “Navigators” by Mike Meginnis. First published in Hobart, Issue 12. Copyright © 2011 by Mike Meginnis. Reprinted by permission of Mike Meginnis.

  “Miracle Polish” by Steven Millhauser. First published in The New Yorker, November 14, 2011. Reprinted by permission of International Creative Management, Inc. Copyright © 2011 by Steven Millhauser.

  “Axis” by Alice Munro. First published in The New Yorker, January 31, 2011. Copyright © 2011 by Alice Munro. Reprinted by permission of Alice Munro.

  “Volcano” by Lawrence Osborne. First published in Tin House, Vol. 12, No. 3. Copyright © 2011 by Lawrence Osborne. Reprinted by permission of The Wylie Agency, LLC.

  “Diem Perdidi” by Julie Otsuka. First published in Granta, Issue 117. Copyright © 2011 by Julie Otsuka, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Julie Otsuka.

  “Honeydew” by Edith Pearlman. First published in Orion, September/October 2011. Copyright © 2011 by Edith Pearlman. Reprinted by permission of Kneerim & Williams.

  “Occupational Hazard” by Angela Pneuman. First published in Ploughshares, Vol. 37, No. 1. Copyright © 2011 by Angela Pneuman. Reprinted by permission of Angela Pneuman.

  “Beautiful Monsters” by Eric Puchner. First published in Tin House, Vol. 13, No. 1. Copyright © 2011 by Erick Puchner. Reprinted by permission of Eric Puchner.

  “Tenth of December” by George Saunders. First published in The New Yorker, October 31, 2011. Reprinted by permission of International Creative Management, Inc. Copyright © 2011 by George Saunders.

  “The Sex Lives of African Girls” by Taiye Selasi. First published in Granta, Issue 115. Copyright © 2011 by Taiye Selasi. Reprinted by permission of The Wylie Agency, LLC.

  “Alive” by Sharon Solwitz. First published in Fifth Wednesday Journal, Issue 8. Copyright © 2012 by Sharon Solwitz. Reprinted by permission of Sharon Solwitz.

  “M & M World” by Kate Walbert. First published in The New Yorker, May 30, 2011. Copyright © 2011 by Kate Walbert. Reprinted by permission of Kate Walbert.

  “Anything Helps” by Jess Walter. First published in McSweeney’s, Issue 39. Copyright © 2011 by Jess Walter. Reprinted by permission of Jess Walter.

  “What’s Important Is Feeling” by Adam Wilson. First published in Paris Review, Issue 199. Copyright © 2011 by Adam Wilson. Reprinted by permission of The Paris Review.

  Foreword

  I THINK THAT THIS YEAR was the strongest for the short story since I began reading for this series six years ago. Far more than usual, I became thoroughly absorbed in literary journals as I sat in the corner of a waiting room or in my car outside my kids’ preschool, trying to conjure ways to stall a doctor or a dentist or my children. It turns out that the statement “I just have a few more pages” does not inspire patience in very busy or very young people.

  Frankly, it’s easier for me during a weaker year. The bolder, funnier, sadder, truer, and more deftly written stories rise immediately to the surface. I struggle a little over whether to pass along a handful of those stories that fell between my “yes” and “no” piles. Then I wait while the guest editor reads. We often learn that we responded most strongly to many of the same stories. Twenty are chosen, authors are contacted. And on to the next year.

  This year, trying to winnow the thousands of stories that I read down to 120 finalists felt like pushing crowds of beloved relatives from an airplane. Tom Perrotta, this year’s guest editor, seemed to agree. I had the sense that after the first batch of stories that he read, he’d assembled most of the book in his mind. But then came the next batch, and with it, a host of new favorites and a complete upending of his earlier list, a process that continued right until the end.

  I admit that I have a sweet spot for humor, although who doesn’t, really? I found myself consistently entertained by a vast number of hilarious voices and characters, as well as happily surprised by the amount of satire. So often humor gets a bad rap, although I don’t see why. Good humor—good timing—in fiction is an art. To tell a story that needs to be told, to transport the re
ader, to entertain, and to be funny—these, to me, are the real challenges and, when achieved, some of the best payoffs of my job.

  I was also glad to see a greater diversity of themes this year, as well as more direct and imaginative ways of addressing real-world issues: the struggling economy figured more frequently, as did the military, video game subculture, the dangers of commercialism, and America’s fascination with all things youthful.

  In February, Tom and I met for lunch at a restaurant in Cambridge. We brought our long lists of final candidates and set about trying to determine the finest twenty stories, those that balanced humor and heft of subject matter, voice and content. He was a stellar guest editor, deeply thoughtful about what makes a good story, as the reader will note in his excellent introduction. He valued directness of voice and simplicity of language. Tom did not fall for the stories with easy laughs or thinly veiled satire, with up-to-the-minute content or zinging in-jokes—stories that, to be candid, I myself was initially drawn to. He puzzled over each finalist story that he and I had chosen: Did the voice hold up until the end? Did the author take risks, and did they succeed? Did the characters need to speak—and did they say precisely what needed to be said? We finished our lunch, ordered coffee, and continued to ponder the lists. We paid our bill. The restaurant emptied. We chose maybe ten stories that would appear in the book. But in the end, it was up to Tom to head off and make the final decisions. As we reached for our coats, I saw that we were the only people other than the wait staff left in the restaurant. On the floor a mouse scurried past as if to remind us that we really had stayed too long.

  Tom chose a list of stories that together form a wonderfully diverse and vibrant collection. There are stories in which humor abuts tragedy, in which characters whose clear-eyed witness to some new or baffling situation is irresistible. Here are stories with premises at once unimaginable and inevitable. And in this book are some of my favorite characters as well as some of my favorite sentences—like this one, from Angela Pneuman’s story: “He reminded Calvin of a cop, the way he could joke around and then get serious, all of a sudden, pulling rank and leaving you feeling like a jerk.” Or this one, Lawrence Osborne’s: “Growing older had proved a formidable calamity.” And, I can’t help myself, one more from the wonderful Edith Pearlman: “Alice Toomey, the headmistress, would have welcomed a rule against excessive skinniness.” See if you don’t come across at least one or two or ten of your own.

  The stories chosen for this anthology were originally published between January 2011 and January 2012. The qualifications for selection are (1) original publication in nationally distributed American or Canadian periodicals; (2) publication in English by writers who are American or Canadian, or who have made the United States their home; (3) original publication as short stories (excerpts of novels are not knowingly 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 publication or hard copies of online publications to Heidi Pitlor, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 222 Berkeley St., Boston, Massachusetts 02116.

  HEIDI PITLOR

  Introduction

  WHEN I WAS a little kid, there was only one pizzeria in my hometown of Garwood, New Jersey, an unassuming place called Nick’s on North Avenue. The pizza was excellent, so good that it completely validated the breathtaking boast printed on the takeout box, alongside an illustration of an insanely proud, somewhat pudgy, presumably Italian chef: You’ve Tried the Rest, Now Try the Best!

  One day, though—I must have been seven or eight—my father decided to check out a pizzeria in Cranford, the next town over. I drove with him to pick up our order and was shocked—incensed, really—to discover that this unfamiliar establishment had the audacity to make the exact same claim as Nick’s.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” I complained. “This can’t be the best. Nick’s is the best.”

  “It’s a matter of opinion,” my father told me. “Nobody can say for sure which one’s better than the other.”

  I was troubled by this explanation, especially when my father added that pretty much every pizzeria in the New York area used the same box, with the same goofy-looking chef and the same rhyming slogan on the cover. It was totally illogical, not to mention unfair to Nick’s pizza, which I was pretty sure was the best in the world. Though I had to admit, once we got home and started eating, that the pizza from Cranford was actually pretty tasty, and possibly even delicious.

  Like the best pizza, an anthology of the best American short stories for a given year is nothing if not a matter of opinion. In this particular case, the operative opinions are my own, though heavily influenced by those of Heidi Pitlor, the series editor, who selected the long list of stories that I then winnowed down to the twenty included in this volume.

  So where, you might ask, do my opinions come from? What are the aesthetic values underlying my decisions? I realize, of course, that not everyone’s dying to know. Many readers—maybe even most, I’m not going to kid myself—will skip this introduction and head right to the stories themselves. It’s possible that some of them have read my work and think they already have a pretty good idea of where I’m coming from. It’s also possible that they’ve come to trust The Best American Series and don’t worry too much about the tastes and biases of the individual editors. Or maybe they’re just hungry to read some good fiction and would prefer not to get bogged down in a discussion of pizza boxes and recent literary history. That’s okay with me—I’m pretty sure they won’t be disappointed. By any standard, this year’s batch of stories is pretty damn good.

  But let’s just stipulate that you’re reading this introduction because you do care about what went into the quixotic task of selecting the twenty best American short stories out of the multitude published over the course of 2011. You may simply be curious, interested in getting to know your editor a little better (in which case I’m flattered), but you may also be skeptical or even mildly hostile, wondering what gives me—gives anyone, for that matter—the right to impose his or her personal tastes on the American reading public.

  Who, I hear you wondering, does this guy think he is?

  Since you asked, let me start with the basics. I’m a straight, white, middle-aged guy from the suburbs, married with two kids. Kind of boring on paper, and maybe not that much more exciting in the flesh. Does that matter? If so, how much? To what extent are my preferences as a reader determined by the boxes I check on a census form?

  You tell me.

  I’m not going to deny the importance of race or gender or age or sexual orientation, claim that I’ve somehow managed to transcend my circumstances or achieve some Zen-like state of detachment whereby these facts about me no longer count. I went to graduate school in the 1980s, absorbed my share of literary theory and identity politics. I understand that I’m always reading as a straight white man, even when I think I’m not or wish I wasn’t, and that some cultural reflexes are so deeply ingrained, we forget they’re there. So it’s entirely possible—inevitable, even—that my reactions and choices have been conditioned by unconscious biases, by who I am rather than by the objective qualities of the fiction I’m purporting to judge. If a critic suggests that this anthology reads as if it was assembled by a heterosexual Caucasian male born during the Kennedy administration, I would have to plead no contest and throw myself on the mercy of the court.

  But that can’t be the whole story. A reader has to be more than the sum of his or her demographically determined reflexes. Like most writers, I actually do possess a literary aesthetic, a set of well-defined preferences that I bring to the table whenever I encounter a work of fiction. To give you an idea of where these preferences originated and how they function in real life, it might be helpful for me to talk a little about two of the most significant American writers of the past thirty years, Raymond Carver and David Foster Wallace.

  I first read Carver in 1983. I was a senior in college, a
working-class kid at Yale, moving uneasily between what felt to me like two very different worlds. I knew I wanted to be a writer, but I was confused about my potential audience. Was I supposed to write for my professors, who seemed to think that Thomas Pynchon was the greatest living American novelist, or should I be writing for the people I’d grown up with, the ones whose stories I was hoping to someday tell? What about my parents, who hadn’t gone to college and hadn’t even heard of Pynchon? Where did they fit in? These were the kinds of questions that were floating, half-formulated, in my mind when I picked up Carver’s first collection, Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?, and read the opening lines of the story “Fat”:

  I am sitting over coffee and cigarets at my friend Rita’s and I am telling her about it.

  Here is what I tell her.

  It is late of a slow Wednesday when Herb seats the fat man at my station.

  The story is short and cryptic, part workplace anecdote, part fable, about a melancholy compulsive eater gorging himself at a diner and the strange compassion he elicits from his waitress, who is telling the story to an uncomprehending friend. Later that night, when the narrator’s boyfriend—a heartless chef named Rudy—forces himself on her in bed, the narrator experiences an even deeper moment of connection with her overweight customer:

  I turn on my back and relax some, though it is against my will. But here is the thing. When he gets on me I suddenly feel I am fat. I feel I am terrifically fat, so fat that Rudy is a tiny thing and hardly there at all.

  It’s hard for me to describe the excitement I felt when I read that story, and the ones that followed. It felt like Carver was offering an answer to my personal dilemma, proving it was possible to write sophisticated literary fiction about ordinary people in language that was both authentic and accessible. When I learned that Carver had written some of his stories while working as a night-shift janitor at a hospital, I decided that I’d found my role model, a true working-class hero.