Anna Noyes - Goodnight, Beautiful Women

“I love your stole,” she said. “Is that real mink?” By now Bruce would be home, calling my name. “Look, you’re all dressed up now. Come out with me.” The rowboats were unruly on the ends of their lines. She untied the smallest one and rooted the oarlocks out from a secret crevice.

“I can’t,” I said, but she climbed into the boat and patted the prow, the sun sinking behind her.

“If you don’t come I’ll have to row out to the island alone and that’s just pathetic,” she said. She dug in her pockets for a tin of sardines and a can of seltzer. “Dinner and drinks. Private island.”

“I wish I could,” I said. “I should get back to my boyfriend.”

She began to drift out from the dock. “I’m supposed to wear a helmet all the time. Imagine what might happen without your company.”

I climbed into her boat. When the rain began I took over rowing. The rain fell so hard all I could do was laugh. I rowed like a maniac, the oars flailing.

By the time we reached the island it was just light enough for me to follow Nancy’s outline along the dark path to its center. Everything was giving off its growth smell in the rain.

“I just need a break,” she said, lying down across the middle of the path. “Don’t worry, this is normal.”

“What should I do?” I said.

“Nothing. I get dizzy. It feels like I’ll never stop spinning.” I crouched beside her and held her hand, wondering if she was small enough that I could carry her. She pushed my hand away. “No dramatics,” she said, rising. She leaned on me to walk. I watched the stream of stars where trees had been cleared for the pathway and tried to let them comfort me.

I had visited the island church when I was a little girl, but was still surprised to see its shape hidden in the overgrowth, one side of the steeple rotted away. Inside, the church smelled of raccoon droppings and death and beer. Clusters of bats hung from the rafters. Nancy flicked her lighter and let the flame play over bottles, scraps of newspaper, an acid-washed jean jacket. A tidy collection of sheep skulls lined the windowsill.

There was no chance of rowing back now, in the dark, in the rain, which was hammering against the roof and leaking in all around us. When I stepped toward Nancy a rivulet threaded down my neck.

“Tell me about this boyfriend,” she said, interlocking her fingers with mine.

“Bruce is a good guy. A gentle giant.”

“Bruce,” she scoffed. “Does he hold doors open for old ladies?”

“He does. That’s exactly right.”

“Tell me about this thing you’ve got going with Bruce,” she said. “Bruce. A fat person’s name.”

I felt sad for him. Bored and anguished and sad. Pressed against Nancy, my wet clothes were unbearably cold.

“I think he’s my person,” I said. Then, she kissed me. She didn’t really want to know about Bruce. I kissed back. She was a bad kisser, frenzied and sloppy with too much tongue, and I didn’t try my best either. We lay down on the floor of the church together, among the newspapers and soggy leaves and the threat of splinters from the rotting floorboards, and she climbed on top of me, the tip of her braid curled against my neck like a snake.

In my dreams I took lovers who were not Bruce, and always in the dream, before sex or after, I would feel a dawning dread. There is someone I’m betraying, I would think, the other lover still inside me, my fingers in their hair. I’d struggle to remember Bruce’s name, dredging for the image of his good, round face, his thinning blond hair, his quick smile, the drooping eyelids that made him look sad and weary even as a little boy. He was always so hard to remember, but I always remembered him, and then I searched for him in mad remorse to confess, my guilt so fierce it turned the dream lucid. Each time waking up was glorious relief.

“Whoa there,” Nancy said as though I were a bucking horse, “dizzy spell,” and she lay down beside me, droplets of rain falling on her forehead, in my mouth, on the back of my hand. “You don’t want this,” she said. “I’m sorry. Tell Bruce I’m sorry. Tell him I’m the loneliest person in the world.”

I had plans for the church. Bruce and I could scrub it clean and line the floor with colored pillows, hang lanterns from the ceiling and light candles in the eaves. We would have to keep the wedding small, so we could ferry guests out to the island. From the shore the parade of boats would look like a fisherman’s funeral, and sympathizers would gather on the beach to wave, and the low-flying seaplane would tip its wings left and right in salute.

I just wanted to be that bride.

To Claudia Ballard, for your faith in me and in short stories, your impeccable intuition, your generosity and patience, thank you. Katie Raissian, extraordinary editor who knows my mind, it has been a joy to bring this book to life under your deeply insightful guidance. Elisabeth Schmitz, your brilliant eye missed nothing, and your connection to Maine and passionate vision made it immediately clear Grove Atlantic was my home.

Thank you to the entire Grove Atlantic team for championing this debut with such care, and special thanks to Morgan Entrekin, Deb Seager, and John Mark Boling. Thanks also to Amy Hundley, Julia Berner-Tobin, Charles Woods, and the art department. And to Chris Russell, for drawing the island of my dreams.

I’m enormously grateful to the editors who first published these stories: Jonathan Lee, Brigid Hughes, and the fantastic team at A Public Space ; Amie Barrodale and Rocco Castoro at Vice ; David Daley at FiveChapters ; and Christine Cote at Shanti Arts Publishing.

To Harry Bauld, always. You treated me like a writer from the beginning, and that made all the difference.

Thank you to Chris Fink, for kind guidance and creative community. To early readers, writers, and friends from The Putney School, Beloit College, and McSweeney’s, thank you. You know who you are, and you got me through. Special thanks to Francesca Abbate, Scott Russell Sanders, Linda Gregerson, Kevin Link, and Jade Daugherty.

I owe so much to the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Deb West, Jan Zenisek, Kelly Smith, and Connie Brothers, you are saviors. Samantha Chang, Ethan Canin, Wells Tower, James Alan McPherson, and Marilynne Robinson, it was a gift to see your minds at work. Kevin Brockmeier and Charles Baxter, your teaching changed my life, and your ongoing support has helped me keep the faith.

For feeding me, dancing, making music, sharing your work and reading mine, thank you to so many workshoppers, and especially Ben Shattuck, Thessaly La Force, Daniel Cesca, Dina Nayeri, Devika Rege, Casey Walker, Stephen Narain, and Kiley McLaughlin (sister and mother of my heart). To Henry Finch, for everything. And to Thomas Gebremedhin, spot-on reader, advisor, healer.

To my Sorrento community and to my family, far and wide, your company has kept me grounded and given me joy. To Terry Noyes, remarkable uncle.

I will always be giving thanks for Sean Hershey, bosom friend and home base.

Finally, to my Dad and Kathleen, Mom and Bob. You’ve been with me every step of the way, believed in me, inspired me, and recognized me. I am so lucky to be your daughter. I love you all.