Lorrie Moore - 100 Years of the Best American Short Stories

When you take her to the supermarket she remembers that coffee is Aisle Two. She remembers that Aisle Three is milk. She remembers the name of the cashier in the express lane who always gives her a big hug. Diane . She remembers the name of the girl at the flower stand who always gives her a single broken-stemmed rose. She remembers that the man behind the meat counter is Big Lou. “Well, hello, gorgeous,” he says to her. She does not remember where her purse is and begins to panic until you remind her that she has left it at home. I don’t feel like myself without it . She does not remember asking the man in line behind her whether or not he was married. She does not remember him telling her, rudely, that he was not. She does not remember staring at the old woman in the wheelchair by the melons and whispering to you, I hope I never end up like that . She remembers that the huge mimosa tree that once stood next to the cart corral in the parking lot is no longer there. Nothing stays the same . She remembers that she was once a very good driver. She remembers failing her last driver’s test three times in a row. I couldn’t remember any of the rules . She remembers that the day after her father left them, her mother sprinkled little piles of salt in the corner of every room to purify the house. She remembers that they never spoke of him again.

She does not remember asking your father, when he comes home from the pharmacy, what took him so long, or who he talked to, or whether or not the pharmacist was pretty. She does not always remember his name. She remembers graduating from high school with high honors in Latin. She remembers how to say, “I came, I saw, I conquered.” Veni, vidi, vici . She remembers how to say, “I have lost the day.” Diem perdidi . She remembers the words for “I’m sorry” in Japanese, which you have not heard her utter in years. She remembers the words for “rice” and “toilet.” She remembers the words for “Wait.” Chotto matte kudasai . She remembers that a white-snake dream will bring you good luck. She remembers that it is bad luck to pick up a dropped comb. She remembers that you should never run to a funeral. She remembers that you shout the truth down into a well.

She remembers going to work, like her mother, for the rich white ladies up in the hills. She remembers Mrs. Tindall, who insisted on eating lunch with her every day in the kitchen instead of just leaving her alone. She remembers Mrs. Edward deVries, who fired her after one day. “Who taught you how to iron?” she asked me . She remembers that Mrs. Cavanaugh would not let her go home on Saturdays until she had baked an apple pie. She remembers Mrs. Cavanaugh’s husband, Arthur, who liked to put his hand on her knee. She remembers that he sometimes gave her money. She remembers that she never refused. She remembers once stealing a silver candlestick from a cupboard, but she cannot remember whose it was. She remembers that they never missed it. She remembers using the same napkin for three days in a row. She remembers that today is Sunday, which six days out of seven is not true.

When you bring home the man you hope will become your next husband, she remembers to take his jacket. She remembers to offer him coffee. She remembers to offer him cake. She remembers to thank him for the roses. So you like her? she asks him. She remembers to ask him his name. She’s my firstborn, you know . She remembers, five minutes later, that she has already forgotten his name, and asks him again what it is. That’s my brother’s name , she tells him. She does not remember talking to her brother on the phone earlier that morning— He promised me he’d call —or going for a walk with you in the park. She does not remember how to make coffee. She does not remember how to serve cake.

She remembers sitting next to her brother many years ago on a train to the desert and fighting about who got to lie down on the seat. She remembers hot white sand, the wind on the water, someone’s voice telling her, Hush, it’s all right . She remembers where she was the day the men landed on the moon. She remembers the day they learned that Japan had lost the war. It was the only time I ever saw my mother cry . She remembers the day she learned that Frank had married somebody else. I read about it in the paper . She remembers the letter she got from him not long after, asking if he could please see her. He said he’d made a mistake . She remembers writing him back, “It’s too late.” She remembers marrying your father on an unusually warm day in December. She remembers having their first fight, three months later, in March. I threw a chair . She remembers that he comes home from the college every Monday at four. She remembers that she is forgetting. She remembers less and less every day.

When you ask her your name, she does not remember what it is. Ask your father. He’ll know . She does not remember the name of the president. She does not remember the name of the president’s dog. She does not remember the season. She does not remember the day or the year. She remembers the little house on San Luis Avenue that she first lived in with your father. She remembers her mother leaning over the bed she once shared with her brother and kissing the two of them good night. She remembers that as soon as the first girl was born, she knew that something was wrong. She didn’t cry . She remembers holding the baby in her arms and watching her go to sleep for the first and last time in her life. She remembers that they never buried her. She remembers that they did not give her a name. She remembers that the baby had perfect fingernails and a very unusual heart. She remembers that she had your father’s long nose. She remembers knowing at once that she was his. She remembers beginning to bleed two days later when she came home from the hospital. She remembers your father catching her in the bathroom as she began to fall. She remembers a desert sky at sunset. It was the most beautiful shade of orange . She remembers scorpions and red ants. She remembers the taste of dust. She remembers once loving someone more than anyone else. She remembers giving birth to the same girl twice. She remembers that today is Sunday, and it is time to go for her ride, and so she picks up her purse and puts on her lipstick and goes out to wait for your father in the car.

GEORGE SAUNDERS was born in 1958 in Texas and raised in Chicago, and graduated with a degree in geophysics from the Colorado School of Mines. He says, “Any claim I might make to originality in my fiction is really just the result of this odd background: basically, just me working inefficiently, with flawed tools, in a mode I don’t have sufficient background to really understand. Like if you put a welder to designing dresses.” He earned an MA in creative writing from Syracuse University in 1988.

Saunders is the author of eight books, including Tenth of December, which won the inaugural Folio Prize in 2013 (for the best work of fiction in English) and the Story Prize (best short story collection) and was a finalist for the National Book Award. He has received the MacArthur Award, a Guggenheim Fellowship, and the PEN/Malamud Prize for excellence in the short story and was recently elected to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. In 2013 he was named one of the world’s 100 most influential people by Time magazine.

Critic Alan Cheuse said, “George Saunders is the real thing, the successor to such dark comedians of ordinary speech as Donald Barthelme and Grace Paley. He’s a Vonnegutian in his soul and, paradoxically, a writer like no one but himself.” Saunders’s fiction often explores the impact of modern consumerism and technology.