The Best American Short Stories

349 Pages·2016·1.26 MB·English

by  Tom Perrotta

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 reader, 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
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
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