The Best American Short Stories® 2011 by Geraldine Brooks Page B
Authors: Geraldine Brooks
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was upon him. His lips were wet in a way that made her wonder if his lunch had just been interrupted. The man looked at her husband, then at her, and then back at her husband. "We leave now," he said, relying, for the moment, on his presence as reason enough to leave. Her husband refused to look at the man. Instead he shook his head and muttered, "I paid my seven euros. I'm seeing the synagogue. Not leaving." The man in the pink sweater, who seemed both covetous of and frightened by the opportunity to use force, was then summoned by David. They spoke in hushed, spiralingly fast Italian. David's opinion, whatever that might be, seemed to win the day. The man in the pink sweater shook his head while David made another phone call. Soon enough, the hatless police officer from the corner cubicle outside entered the synagogue—and, oddly, crossed himself.
At the sound of the door opening, her husband turned. At the sight of the approaching, expressionless officer, he sighed. "Come on," he said to her. His tone was light; she could nearly hear his mind rearranging what had just happened into nothing more than an amusing misunderstanding. "Let's get thrown out of the synagogue together at least."
He stuck out his hand: his old trick. She took the hand and walked with him past the officer. As the box of daylight at the end of the synagogue aisle grew larger and brighter, she was surprised by how quiet it was—and she knew this, this sound, this sound of different hopes collapsing, of separate divinities forming, of exclusion, of closed doors, of one story's end.
Out of Body
Jennifer Egan
FROM
Tin House
Y OUR FRIENDS ARE PRETENDING to be all kinds of stuff, and your special job is to call them on it. Drew says he's going straight to law school. After practicing a while, he'll run for state senator. Then U.S. senator. Eventually, president. He lays all this out the way you'd say, "After Modern Chinese Painting I'll go to the gym, then work in Bobst until dinner," if you even made plans anymore, which you don't—if you were even in school anymore, which you aren't, although that's supposedly temporary.
You look at Drew through layers of hash smoke floating in the sun. He's leaning back on the futon couch, his arm around Sasha. He's got a big, hey-come-on-in face and a head of dark hair, and he's built—not with weight-room muscle like yours, but in a basic animal way that must come from all that swimming he does.
"Just don't try and say you didn't inhale," you tell him.
Everyone laughs except Bix, who's at his computer, and you feel like a funny guy for maybe half a second, until it occurs to you that they probably only laughed because they could see you were
trying
to be funny, and they're afraid you'll jump out the window onto East Seventh Street if you fail even at something so small.
Drew takes a long hit. You hear the smoke creak in his chest. He hands the pipe to Sasha, who passes it to Lizzie without smoking any.
"I promise, Rob," Drew croaks at you, holding in smoke, "if anyone asks, I'll tell them the hash I smoked with Robert Freeman Junior was excellent."
Was that "Junior" mocking? The hash is not working out as planned: you're just as paranoid as with pot. You decide, no, Drew doesn't mock. Drew is a believer—last fall, he was one of the die-hards passing out leaflets in Washington Square and registering students to vote. After he and Sasha got together, you started helping him—mostly with the jocks, because you know how to talk to them. Coach Freeman, aka your pop, calls Drew's type "woodsy." They're loners, Pop says—skiers, woodchoppers—not team players. But you know all about teams; you can talk to people on teams (only Sasha knows you picked NYU because it hasn't had a football team in thirty years). On your best day you registered twelve team-playing Democrats, prompting Drew to exclaim, when you gave him the paperwork, "You've got the
touch
, Rob." But you never registered yourself, that was the
At the sound of the door opening, her husband turned. At the sight of the approaching, expressionless officer, he sighed. "Come on," he said to her. His tone was light; she could nearly hear his mind rearranging what had just happened into nothing more than an amusing misunderstanding. "Let's get thrown out of the synagogue together at least."
He stuck out his hand: his old trick. She took the hand and walked with him past the officer. As the box of daylight at the end of the synagogue aisle grew larger and brighter, she was surprised by how quiet it was—and she knew this, this sound, this sound of different hopes collapsing, of separate divinities forming, of exclusion, of closed doors, of one story's end.
Out of Body
Jennifer Egan
FROM
Tin House
Y OUR FRIENDS ARE PRETENDING to be all kinds of stuff, and your special job is to call them on it. Drew says he's going straight to law school. After practicing a while, he'll run for state senator. Then U.S. senator. Eventually, president. He lays all this out the way you'd say, "After Modern Chinese Painting I'll go to the gym, then work in Bobst until dinner," if you even made plans anymore, which you don't—if you were even in school anymore, which you aren't, although that's supposedly temporary.
You look at Drew through layers of hash smoke floating in the sun. He's leaning back on the futon couch, his arm around Sasha. He's got a big, hey-come-on-in face and a head of dark hair, and he's built—not with weight-room muscle like yours, but in a basic animal way that must come from all that swimming he does.
"Just don't try and say you didn't inhale," you tell him.
Everyone laughs except Bix, who's at his computer, and you feel like a funny guy for maybe half a second, until it occurs to you that they probably only laughed because they could see you were
trying
to be funny, and they're afraid you'll jump out the window onto East Seventh Street if you fail even at something so small.
Drew takes a long hit. You hear the smoke creak in his chest. He hands the pipe to Sasha, who passes it to Lizzie without smoking any.
"I promise, Rob," Drew croaks at you, holding in smoke, "if anyone asks, I'll tell them the hash I smoked with Robert Freeman Junior was excellent."
Was that "Junior" mocking? The hash is not working out as planned: you're just as paranoid as with pot. You decide, no, Drew doesn't mock. Drew is a believer—last fall, he was one of the die-hards passing out leaflets in Washington Square and registering students to vote. After he and Sasha got together, you started helping him—mostly with the jocks, because you know how to talk to them. Coach Freeman, aka your pop, calls Drew's type "woodsy." They're loners, Pop says—skiers, woodchoppers—not team players. But you know all about teams; you can talk to people on teams (only Sasha knows you picked NYU because it hasn't had a football team in thirty years). On your best day you registered twelve team-playing Democrats, prompting Drew to exclaim, when you gave him the paperwork, "You've got the
touch
, Rob." But you never registered yourself, that was the
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