{"id":148492,"date":"2020-10-19T13:11:47","date_gmt":"2020-10-19T17:11:47","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=148492"},"modified":"2020-10-19T14:36:57","modified_gmt":"2020-10-19T18:36:57","slug":"the-art-of-distance-no-30","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/10\/19\/the-art-of-distance-no-30\/","title":{"rendered":"The Art of Distance No. 30"},"content":{"rendered":"

In March,<\/em>\u00a0The Paris Review\u00a0launched<\/em>\u00a0The Art of Distance, a newsletter highlighting unlocked archive pieces that resonate with the staff of<\/em>\u00a0the magazine<\/em>, quarantine-appropriate writing on the<\/em>\u00a0Daily, resources from our peer organizations,<\/em>\u00a0and more. Read Emily Nemens\u2019s introductory letter\u00a0here<\/a>, and find the latest unlocked archive selection below.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cWe are halfway through October and halfway through Edward P. Jones\u2019s \u2018Marie.\u2019 (If you haven\u2019t already, be sure to read part 1<\/a> and part 2<\/a> of the story.) In this week\u2019s installment, Marie worries about the consequences of her outburst at the Social Security office and meets a surprise visitor who has come to hear the story of her life. Marie also pays a visit of her own to an ailing acquaintance as Jones offers community as an antidote to bureaucracy. Don\u2019t forget that\u00a0subscribers<\/a>\u00a0to the print magazine need only\u00a0link their account<\/a> for digital access to this whole story<\/a> right now, in addition to a treasure trove of other stories, poems, landmark interviews, art portfolios, and more. May this week\u2019s The Art of Distance offer you a brief respite from the intensities of election season and the anxieties of the pandemic.\u201d \u2014Craig Morgan Teicher, Digital Director<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Photo courtesy of Evan-Amos \/ Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n

For days and days after the incident she ate very little and asked God to forgive her. She was haunted by the way Vernelle\u2019s cheek had felt, by what it was like to invade and actually touch the flesh of another person. And when she thought too hard, she imagined that she was slicing through the woman\u2019s cheek, the way she had sliced through the young man\u2019s hand. But as time went on she began to remember the man\u2019s curses and the purplish color of Vernelle\u2019s fingernails, and all remorse would momentarily take flight. Finally, one morning nearly two weeks after she slapped the woman, she woke with a phrase she had not used or heard since her children were small: You whatn\u2019t raised that way. <\/p>\n

It was the next morning that the thin young man in the suit knocked and asked through the door chains if he could speak with her. She thought that he was a Social Security man come to tear up her card and papers and tell her that they would send her no more checks. Even when he pulled out an identification card showing that he was a Howard University student, she did not believe.<\/p>\n

In the end, she told him she didn\u2019t want to buy anything, not magazines, not candy, not anything.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, no,\u201d he said. \u201cI just want to talk to you for a bit. About your life and everything. It\u2019s for a project for my folklore course. I\u2019m talking to everyone in the building who\u2019ll let me. Please \u2026 I won\u2019t be a bother. Just a little bit of your time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t have anything worth talkin\u2019 about,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd I don\u2019t keep well these days.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, ma\u2019am, I\u2019m sorry. But we all got something to say. I promise I won\u2019t be a bother.\u201d<\/p>\n

After fifteen minutes of his pleas, she opened the door to him because of his suit and his tie and his tie clip with a bird in flight, and because his long, dark brown fingers reminded her of delicate twigs. But had he turned out to be death with a gun or a knife or fingers to crush her neck, she would not have been surprised. \u201cMy name\u2019s George. George Carter. Like the president.\u201d He had the kind of voice that old people in her young days would have called womanish. \u201cBut I was born right here in D.C. Born, bred, and buttered, my mother used to say.\u201d<\/p>\n

He stayed the rest of the day and she fixed him dinner. It scared her to be able to talk so freely with him, and at first she thought that at long last, as she had always feared, senility had taken hold of her. A few hours after he left, she looked his name up in the telephone book, and when a man who sounded like him answered, she hung up immediately. And the next day she did the same thing. He came back at least twice a week for many weeks and would set his cassette recorder on her coffee table. \u201cHe\u2019s takin\u2019 down my whole life,\u201d she told Wilamena, almost the way a woman might speak in awe of a new boyfriend.<\/p>\n

One day he played back for the first time some of what she told the recorder:<\/p>\n

\u2026 My father would be sitting there readin\u2019 the paper. He\u2019d say whenever they put in a new president, \u201cLook like he got the chair for four years.\u201d And it got so that\u2019s what I saw\u2014this poor man sitting in that chair for four long years while the rest of the world went on about its business. I don\u2019t know if I thought he ever did anything, the president. I just knew that he had to sit in that chair for four years. Maybe I thought that by his sitting in that chair and doin\u2019 nothin\u2019 else for four years he made the country what it was and that without him sitting there the country wouldn\u2019t be what it was. Maybe thas what I got from listenin\u2019 to father readin\u2019 and to my mother askin\u2019 him questions \u2019bout what he was readin\u2019. They was like that, you see \u2026<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

George stopped the tape and was about to put the other side in when she touched his hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo more, George,\u201d she said. \u201cI can\u2019t listen to no more. Please \u2026 please, no more.\u201d She had never in her whole life heard her own voice. Nothing had been so stunning in a long, long while, and for a few moments before she found herself, her world turned upside down. There, rising from a machine no bigger than her Bible, was a voice frighteningly familiar and yet unfamiliar, talking about a man whom she knew as well as her husbands and her sons, a man dead and buried sixty years. She reached across to George and he handed her the tape. She turned it over and over, as if the mystery of everything could be discerned if she turned it enough times. She began to cry, and with her other hand she lightly touched the buttons of the machine.<\/p>\n

Between the time Marie slapped the woman in the Social Security office and the day she heard her voice for the first time, Calhoun Lambeth, Wilamena\u2019s boyfriend, had been in and out of the hospital three times. Most evenings when Calhoun\u2019s son stayed the night with him, Wilamena would come up to Marie\u2019s and spend most of the evening sitting on the couch that was catty corner to the easy chair facing the big window. She said very little, which was unlike her, a woman with more friends than hairs on her head and who, at sixty-eight, loved a good party. The most attractive woman Marie knew would only curl her legs up under herself and sip whatever Marie put in her hand. She looked out at the city until she took herself to her apartment or went back down to Calhoun\u2019s place. In the beginning, after he returned from the hospital the first time, there was the desire in Marie to remind her friend that she wasn\u2019t married to Calhoun, that she should just get up and walk away, something Marie had seen her do with other men she had grown tired of.<\/p>\n

Late one night, Wilamena called and asked her to come down to the man\u2019s apartment, for the man\u2019s son had had to work that night and she was there alone with him and she did not want to be alone with him. \u201cSit with me a spell,\u201d Wilamena said. Marie did not protest, even though she had not said more than ten words to the man in all the time she knew him. She threw on her bathrobe, picked up her keys and serrated knife and went down to the second floor.<\/p>\n

He was propped up on the bed, surprisingly alert, and spoke to Marie with an unforced friendliness. She had seen this in other dying people\u2014a kindness and gentleness came over them that was often embarrassing for those around them. Wilamena sat on the side of the bed. Calhoun asked Marie to sit in a chair beside the bed and then he took her hand and held it for the rest of the night. He talked on throughout the night, not always understandable. Wilamena, exhausted, eventually lay across the foot of the bed. Almost everything the man had to say was about a time when he was young and was married for a year or so to a woman in Nicodemus, Kansas, a town where there were only black people. Whether the woman had died or whether he had left her, Marie could not make out. She only knew that the woman and Nicodemus seemed to have marked him for life.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou should go to Nicodemus,\u201d he said at one point, as if the town was only around the corner. \u201cI stumbled into the place by accident. But you should go on purpose. There ain\u2019t much to see, but you should go there and spend some time there.\u201d<\/p>\n

Toward four o\u2019clock that morning, he stopped talking and moments later he went home to his God. Marie continued holding the dead man\u2019s hand and she said the Lord\u2019s Prayer over and over until it no longer made sense to her. She did not wake Wilamena. Eventually the sun came through the man\u2019s Venetian blinds, and she heard the croaking of the pigeons congregating on the window ledge. When she finally placed his hand on his chest, the dead man expelled a burst of air that sounded to Marie like a sigh. It occurred to her that she, a complete stranger, was the last thing he had known in the world and that now that he was no longer in the world. All she knew of him was that Nicodemus place and a lovesick woman asleep at the foot of his bed. She thought that she was hungry and thirsty, but the more she looked at the dead man and the sleeping woman, the more she realized that what she felt was a sense of loss.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Want to keep reading?\u00a0Subscribers<\/a>\u00a0can unlock\u00a0the whole story<\/a> today. Otherwise, tune in next Monday for the conclusion, and meanwhile, check out Edward P. Jones\u2019s unlocked Art of Fiction interview<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Read part 3 of Edward P. Jones\u2019s short story \u201cMarie.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[63638],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-148492","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-art-of-distance"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Art of Distance No. 30 by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Read part 3 of Edward P. 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