The Best American Short Stories 2018 Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Introduction

  MARIA ANDERSON: Cougar

  JAMEL BRINKLEY: A Family

  YOON CHOI: The Art of Losing

  EMMA CLINE: Los Angeles

  ALICIA ELLIOTT: Unearth

  DANIELLE EVANS: Boys Go to Jupiter

  CAROLYN FERRELL: A History of China

  ANN GLAVIANO: Come On, Silver

  JACOB GUAJARDO: What Got Into Us

  CRISTINA HENRÍQUEZ: Everything Is Far from Here

  KRISTEN ISKANDRIAN: Good with Boys

  JOCELYN NICOLE JOHNSON: Control Negro

  MATTHEW LYONS: The Brothers Brujo

  DINA NAYERI: A Big True

  TÉA OBREHT: Items Awaiting Protective Enclosure

  RON RASH: The Baptism

  AMY SILVERBERG: Suburbia!

  CURTIS SITTENFELD: The Prairie Wife

  RIVERS SOLOMON: Whose Heart I Long to Stop with the Click of a Revolver

  ESMÉ WEIJUN WANG: What Terrible Thing It Was

  Contributors’ Notes

  Other Distinguished Stories of 2017

  American and Canadian Magazines Publishing Short Stories

  Read More from the Best American Series

  About the Editors

  Connect with HMH

  Copyright © 2018 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company

  Introduction copyright © 2018 by Roxane Gay

  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 [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  hmhco.com

  ISSN 0067-6233 (print)

  ISSN 2573-4784 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-0-544-58288-0 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-0-544-58294-1 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-1-328-50667-2 (ebook)

  Cover design by Christopher Moisan

  Gay photograph © Jay Grabiec

  v2.0918

  “Cougar” by Maria Anderson. First published in the Iowa Review, 46/3. Copyright © 2017 by Maria Anderson. Reprinted by permission of Maria Anderson.

  “A Family” by Jamel Brinkley. First published in Gulf Coast, vol. 28, issue 2. From A Lucky Man: Stories. Copyright © 2018 by Jamel Brinkley. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota, www.graywolfpress.org.

  “The Art of Losing” by Yoon Choi. First published in New England Review, vol. 38, no. 2. Copyright © 2017 by Yoon Choi. Reprinted by permission of Yoon Choi.

  “Los Angeles” by Emma Cline. First published in Granta, 139. Copyright © 2017 by Emma Cline. Reprinted by permission of Granta.

  “Unearth” by Alicia Elliott. First published in Grain, vol. 44.3. Copyright © 2017 by Alicia Elliott. Reprinted by permission of Alicia Elliott.

  “Boys Go to Jupiter” by Danielle Evans. First published in the Sewanee Review, vol. CXXV, no. 4. Copyright © 2017 by Danielle Evans. Reprinted by permission of Danielle Evans.

  “A History of China” by Carolyn Ferrell. First published in Ploughshares: Solos Omnibus, vol. 5. Copyright © 2017 by Carolyn Ferrell. Reprinted by permission of Carolyn Ferrell.

  “Come On, Silver” by Ann Glaviano. First published in Tin House, vol. 18, no. 4. Copyright © 2017 by Ann Glaviano. Reprinted by permission of Ann Glaviano.

  “What Got Into Us” by Jacob Guajardo. First published in Passages North, no. 38. Copyright © 2017 by Jacob Guajardo. Reprinted by permission of Jacob Guajardo.

  “Everything Is Far from Here” by Cristina Henríquez. First published in The New Yorker, July 24, 2017. Copyright © 2017 by Cristina Henríquez. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Good with Boys” by Kristen Iskandrian. First published in ZYZZYVA, no. 109. Copyright © 2017 by Kristen Iskandrian. Used by permission of Brandt & Hochman Literary Agents, Inc. All rights reserved.

  “Control Negro” by Jocelyn Nicole Johnson. First published in Guernica, July 29, 2017. Copyright © 2017 by Jocelyn Nicole Johnson. Reprinted by permission of Jocelyn Nicole Johnson.

  “The Brothers Brujo” by Matthew Lyons. First published in Toughcrime.com. Copyright © 2017 by Matthew Lyons. Reprinted by permission of Matthew Lyons.

  “A Big True” by Dina Nayeri. First published in the Southern Review, vol. 53, no. 3. Copyright © 2017 by Dina Nayeri. Reprinted by permission of Dina Nayeri.

  “Items Awaiting Protective Enclosure” by Téa Obreht. First published in Zoetrope: All-Story, vol. 21, no. 1. Copyright © 2017 by Téa Obreht. Reprinted by permission of Téa Obreht.

  “The Baptism” by Ron Rash. First published in the Southern Review, vol. 53, no. 4. Copyright © 2017 by Ron Rash. Reprinted by permission of Ron Rash.

  “Suburbia!” by Amy Silverberg. First published in the Southern Review, vol. 53, no. 2. Copyright © 2017 by Amy Silverberg. Reprinted by permission of Amy Silverberg.

  “The Prairie Wife” by Curtis Sittenfeld. First published in The New Yorker, February 13 & 20, 2017. Copyright © 2017 by Curtis Sittenfeld. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Sittenfeld.

  “Whose Heart I Long to Stop with the Click of a Revolver” by Rivers Solomon. First published in Emrys Journal, vol. 34. Copyright © 2017 by Rivers Solomon. Reprinted by permission of Rivers Solomon.

  “What Terrible Thing It Was” by Esmé Weijun Wang. First published in Granta, 139. Copyright © 2017 by Esmé Weijun Wang. Reprinted by permission of The Wylie Agency, LLC.

  Foreword

  I do not think it hyperbole to say that in 2018, the rapidly changing condition of American democracy has become an absorbing narrative of its own, one that features larger-than-life characters, nonstop conflict, breakneck pacing, and incredibly high stakes. On the day that I write this, April 16, 2018, the former head of the FBI is on a book tour, railing against what he calls our “morally unfit” president, the man who fired him a little less than a year ago. Five days ago, and without the consent of Congress, the president authorized an air strike of Syria after its president used chemical weapons against civilians near Damascus. Six days ago, two black men were arrested and detained for eight hours at a Philadelphia Starbucks after simply asking to use the restroom. Eight days ago, the FBI raided the office of the president’s longtime lawyer, seizing among many other things, evidence of hush money paid to a pornographic actress after an alleged affair with him. By the way, the FBI is also investigating Russian meddling in the 2016 election, the role of Russian hackers and Facebook in the election, and most likely a laundry list of related alarming occurrences. On Valentine’s Day, a nineteen-year-old opened fire at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, killing seventeen people and injuring seventeen more.

  Fiction writers are now faced with the significant challenge of producing work t
hat will sustain a reader’s attention amid this larger narrative. Roxane Gay is just the right guest editor for this moment. With her keen eye for tension, voice, and structure, as well as her deep understanding of the forces at work in our culture, she chose stories that reflect and refract our time, stories that exhibit mastery of pacing, surprise, and rich characterization. Here are stories that hold their own in this day and age, no small feat, and they do so with devastating realism, honesty, humor, and courage.

  Many of these short stories communicate deep longing. Maria Anderson describes the loneliness of a nineteen-year-old rural man whose father has disappeared. Cristina Henríquez writes of a Mexican woman who, after a grueling journey, crosses into the United States only to face a far darker journey: “Where has she gone and what has she become?” In Rivers Solomon’s story, “Whose Heart I Long to Stop with the Click of a Revolver,” a black woman meets her birth daughter, resuscitating memories of the girl’s white father, whose “words sound like truth to me, like something to be afraid of.” In Yoon Choi’s story, “The Art of Losing,” a husband and wife struggle with his excruciating memory loss: “Sometimes she felt that patience and kindness could be stretched so far in a marriage as to become their opposites.”

  I first encountered this series when I was an undergraduate in college, and one of my favorite elements was the contributors’ notes at the back of the book. After reading a stellar story, I turned to the mini-essay that provided access to what seemed like secrets: confessions about the difficulties of writing, self-deprecating comments about the author’s obsessions; profound assessments of the themes of the stories. I admit that I still treasure the contributors’ notes. One by one, they fill my email inbox. After having fallen in love with a story, I savor these notes. Given the escalating conflicts in our country, I was unsurprised to see that this year, many authors described in their notes the nonfictional territory beneath their stories. Underlying Ann Glaviano’s hilarious story is the fact that wife camp is a verifiable thing. Jacob Guajardo writes, “Young, queer people of color become adept at hiding, but it’s hard to hide that you are in love.” The bloody assault of a black college student by local law enforcement prompted Jocelyn Nicole Johnson’s “Control Negro.” Describing the seed of his story, Matthew Lyons explains, “I’ve always been fascinated with the phenomenon of American male rage.” Alicia Elliott describes the vast dangers of Canadian colonialism to Indigenous people and culture. Canadian stories and writers have always been a part of this series; all stories submitted to me and written in English and published in North America are considered.

  The stories in this book offer readers passageway inside contemporary and age-old questions of what it means to live together in a society, as well as what it takes to define and sustain oneself in difficult times. To read great fiction well is to live and breathe inside of it. A couple of years ago came scientific proof that reading literary fiction stimulates “theory of mind,” or emotional intelligence and empathy. Fiction offers truths and humane understanding not found elsewhere. When we ally with fictional characters, we enlarge our understanding of the world, something particularly crucial these days.

  In last year’s foreword, I wrote about my reaction to the 2016 presidential election. I received a few letters requesting that I keep my politics out of my job. I read as any critic does, as a human being with a particular set of experiences. I read as the best reader that I can be, as someone who seeks out engrossing and important stories; beautiful, evocative, funny, or striking language; a sense that I am transported and unable to return to my life at least until I’ve finished reading, no matter the author, no matter the setting, nor the time period, nor the cultural or gender or sexual preferences expressed by the characters. As George Orwell wrote in a 1946 essay, “The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude.”

  I am grateful to share these twenty stories that engage, impress, and transport.

  The stories chosen for this anthology were originally published between January 2017 and January 2018. The qualifications for selection are (1) original publication in nationally distributed American or Canadian periodicals; (2) publication in English by writers who have made the United States or Canada their home; (3) original publication as short stories (excerpts of novels are not 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 publications or hard copies of online publications to Heidi Pitlor, c/o The Best American Short Stories, 125 High Street, Boston, MA 02110 or files to [email protected] as attachments.

  Heidi Pitlor

  Introduction

  We are in the midst of a significant cultural moment. Of course, there has rarely been a time when we haven’t been in the midst of a significant cultural moment. Donald Trump is president, and he is implementing his agenda with relative ease. He is subverting what we once knew as the presidency for his own personal gain. In the late spring of 2018 his wife, Melania Trump, wasn’t seen publicly for weeks, sparking all kinds of speculation about where she was and what had happened to her, because with a man like Trump it was plausible that harm had come to her or that she had simply left him. His adult children are feasting at a bountiful table funded by American taxpayers while his oldest daughter plays at diplomat and part-time First Lady. The cronies the president has installed in office are grifting the American people and they aren’t bothering to hide it, because they know that the Republican Congress is so enamored with the power they wield that they see no need to check and balance. Tensions are high in this country. Tensions are high nearly everywhere in the world. The news offers a constant barrage of terrible, overwhelming truths about the way things are. On social media, people parse all this information and become instant experts on everything from global warming to immigration law. The world feels like it is coming apart. For many vulnerable people, the world is coming apart.

  In times of great personal or public upheaval, I turn to reading. I turn to fiction and how writers imagine the world as it is, was, or could be. I am not avoiding reality when I read fiction; I am strengthening my ability to cope with reality. I am allowing myself a much-needed buffer, a place of stillness and quiet. I read fiction to step away from the cacophony of the news and social media and the opinions of others. The reprieve fiction provides is a necessary grace.

  Being chosen to edit this year’s volume of The Best American Short Stories couldn’t have come at a better time. I craved the distraction, no matter how overwhelmed I was by the task of reading 120 stories and choosing only twenty upon which I could apply the imprimatur of excellence. First, though, I had to get over my surprise at being asked to edit this anthology. I’ve been reading the series for nearly twenty years, always wanting to see what the best short story writers in America have to offer. Sometimes I read the stories while filled with envy, coveting such literary recognition. Other times I read the stories in a given year and was more frustrated than anything else. After reading the 2010 volume edited by Richard Russo, one of my favorite writers, I wrote about how too many of the stories focused on rich white people. I described that year’s offering as having a “profound sense of absence.” Despite the indisputable excellence of all the stories in 2010, I yearned for the collection to offer more, to better reflect the world beyond gilded existences. And then, when my own story “North Country” was selected for The Best American Short Stories 2012, I was gleeful. At the time, I was certain I had reached the pinnacle of my career. Then I called my mom and told her my story had been selected, and she asked, “What is Best American Short Stories?” The pinnacle was promptly dismantled. I was appropriately humbled.

  As I read this year’s stories, I was thrilled by the opportunity. I was also thinking about this ongoing, unfathomable cultural moment and how, if at all, these stories might address it. Often, during significant cultural upheavals, critics wonder w
hen and how fiction writers will respond. Such questions are often voiced immediately following the upheaval, with little regard for craft, as if writers were simply sitting around waiting for cultural crises to which they should respond. Soon after the initial thrust of the Iraq War, I remember reading several treatises that wondered where all the good war fiction was, implying that American letters was failing somehow because this fiction had not yet been published. Those treatises overlooked the fact that writing takes time. Writing often demands distance and space to process events before writers can interpret them creatively. I knew I would likely never write any war fiction and resented the implication that I was somehow falling short because my creative interests lay elsewhere. I also knew there were different ways for me to engage with the world’s turmoil. There were different ways for me to write politically.

  Writers are divided on whether or not it is their responsibility to address the contretemps in their work. Some writers stubbornly cling to the idea that writing should not be sullied by politics. They labor under the impression that they can write fiction that isn’t political, or influenced in some way by politics, which is, whether they realize it or not, a political stance in and of itself. Other writers believe it is an inherent part of their craft to engage with the political. And then there are those writers, such as myself, who believe that the very act of writing from their subject position is political, regardless of what they write. I know, as a black, queer woman, that to write is a deeply political act, whether I am writing about the glory of the movie Magic Mike XXL, or a novel about a kidnapping in Haiti, or a short story about a woman eating expired yogurt while her husband suggests opening their marriage.

  Nearly every major writer has something to say about whether they consider themselves or their writing political. I often return to Chinua Achebe’s thoughts on this matter. In a Paris Review interview Achebe noted, “There is something about important stories that is not just the message, but also the way that message is conveyed, the arrangement of the words, the felicity of language. So it’s really a balance between your commitment, whether it’s political or economic or whatever, and your craft as an artist.” He succinctly addresses what naysayers love to bring up when the political is introduced into conversations about art—that somehow it is impossible to both write politically and make good art, as if the former compromises the latter.