Lori Ostlund - The Bigness of the World

Harold and his father made their way back down the half-lit hallway to his classroom, where his mother was still deep in conversation with the other mothers, standing in a circle near the bulletin board on which Miss Jamison had placed examples of what she considered their best work. In Harold’s case, she had tacked up an uninspired summary of the process of photosynthesis, something he had dashed off one morning before school. Harold knew that people would assume that science was his favorite subject, particularly given the correctness of the writing, but the truth was that he hated science and had written about it correctly only because it would have required more effort to write incorrectly, to misplace commas or choose less exact words.

His mother, unaware that he and his father had returned, was indeed pointing to his paragraph as she described a boy fascinated by earthquakes, the solar system, and creatures without legs, speaking for several minutes but never mentioning that his fascination was a function not of curiosity but of fear. The other mothers chuckled politely, and then, her voice rising toward closure, his mother announced, “I guess Harold’s just all boy,” invoking his name to refer to a boy who seemed to him as unknowable as God. His mother turned and saw Harold behind her, and her words became a door shutting between them.

* * *

By Minnesota standards, the winter was mild, meaning that the temperature hovered just above zero rather than dipping precipitously below. Still, as they drove home, the road stretched before them treacherously, the icy patches more difficult to detect at night. His mother, who was better on ice, was behind the wheel, Harold beside her because his father had climbed into the back, indicating his wish to be left alone. His mother did not take heed of this, however, instead offering comments about the other mothers that would normally have made his father laugh. Harold wondered whether he would someday grow to care about the sorts of things that his parents did, things like whether a person was missing a button or had applied slightly more mascara to the right eye than the left.

“Oh,” she blurted out, as though suddenly remembering a missed appointment or forgotten birthday. “The librarian. How was he?”

“Ichabod Crane,” said his father tiredly. “Skinny. Bookish. Disheveled.”

Harold’s father did not approve of skinniness in men. He believed that men should be muscular, and though he himself was not, he had established a workout space in a small room at the back of the house, filling it with variously sized barbells and two weight machines and covering the walls with pictures of men flexing their muscles. Harold knew that his father had taped up the pictures to provide inspiration, but the men frightened Harold because they had a hard, geometric quality: they wore V-shaped swimming suits, and their torsos — small waists and broad shoulders — were inverted triangles topped off by square heads. Often, his father came home from work and went directly into this room without even changing out of his suit and tie, and when Harold was sent to call him for dinner, he always paused at the door and then left without knocking because he could hear his father inside, groaning.

* * *

A week later, Harold entered the house to the now familiar sound of his mother speaking to Aunt Elizabeth on the telephone. School had been dismissed an hour early because it was the start of Christmas break, but his mother seemed to have forgotten this, and Harold set about quietly preparing his favorite snack, Minute Rice with butter. “Before we even met, apparently,” he heard his mother say as he waited for the water to boil, “but do you suppose he thought to tell me about it? I’m just the wife — the blind, convenient, little banker’s wife.”

She listened a moment, then cut in sharply. “Don’t patronize me, Elizabeth. I know that.” She snorted. “In the closet,” she said derisively. “Where do you even get these terms?” She slammed down the receiver, and as Harold ate his Minute Rice with butter, he could hear his mother sobbing in her bedroom upstairs.

When she came down an hour later, she looked surprised to find him sitting at the kitchen table. He had washed his rice bowl and pot and put everything away, and he let her believe that he had just arrived.

“Should I make you a snack?” she asked.

“No,” Harold said. “I’m not really hungry.” He waited until she took out the cutting board and began cutting up apples for a crisp. “Remember when you fired Mrs. Norman for putting me in the closet?” he said in what he hoped was a casual voice.

His mother turned toward him quickly. “That’s not why we fired Mrs. Norman,” she said, and she explained in great detail about the socks. “He’s always been like that. So particular.” She paused. “Harold, your father is leaving. I’ll let him explain it to you.” She turned back around and continued cutting.

That night, after the three of them had eaten dinner in silence, Harold walked outside with his father, who was carrying two suitcases and a garment bag. His father stowed the luggage in the trunk of his car, and then told Harold that he had something to say.

“Okay,” said Harold.

His father cleared his throat several times, sounding like a lawnmower that would not turn over. “According to basic economic theory,” he began, “human beings always work harder to avoid losing what they already have than they do at acquiring more. You see, loss is always more devastating than the potential for gain is motivating. I want you to remember that, Harold.”

Harold nodded and thrust his hands deep into his pockets, seeking out Mrs. Norman’s toenail, which he flexed between his thumb and index finger.

“I have a new friend,” his father said, “and I’m moving in with”—he hesitated— “ him.”

“Does that mean that you won’t be checking the windows and doors anymore?” Harold asked. Every night before shutting off the lights, his father walked through the house, staring at each window and each door, checking to make sure that they were properly closed. His mother had always been annoyed by the practice, by the time it took his father to inspect the entire house, but it was something that he had done every night of Harold’s life and so Harold considered it as much a part of bedtime as brushing his teeth and closing his eyes.

“I guess not,” his father said, sounding disappointed at Harold’s question. He reached out and placed his hand on his car door, and Harold knew what this meant: that his father was ready, even impatient, to leave, that as he stood there explaining himself to Harold, he really wanted to be in his car driving away, away toward his new friend and his new house — while Harold stayed behind in this house, where he would continue to brush his teeth and close his eyes as he always had, except from now on he and his mother would sleep with the windows and doors unchecked all around them. The thought of this filled him with terror, and as he stood there in the driveway watching his father leave, Harold found himself longing for the dark safety of the closet: the familiar smells of wet wool and vacuum cleaner dust, the far-off chatter of Mrs. Norman’s television shows, the line of light marking the bottom of the locked door, a line so thin that it made what lay on the other side seem, after all, like nothing.

I am grateful for the Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction and the publication of this collection. I would like to thank Nancy Zafris, the Flannery O’Connor Award series editor and a wonderful writer, who was generous with both her knowledge and her enthusiasm as she guided me through the process of publishing my first book. I am also deeply indebted to the staff at the University of Georgia Press. Finally, I would like to thank everyone at Scribner for deciding to give this collection a second life and working with their usual care and dedication to do so.