{"id":148618,"date":"2020-10-26T13:12:48","date_gmt":"2020-10-26T17:12:48","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=148618"},"modified":"2020-10-26T14:33:39","modified_gmt":"2020-10-26T18:33:39","slug":"the-art-of-distance-no-31","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/10\/26\/the-art-of-distance-no-31\/","title":{"rendered":"The Art of Distance No. 31"},"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

\u201cBelow, we offer the fourth and final installment of \u2018Marie,\u2019 by Edward P. Jones, originally published in the <\/em>Review in 1992. Over the past month, we\u2019ve read along as Jones explores the frustrations of government bureaucracy, the balm of friendship, and the consequences of a strong, open-palmed slap. The story examines what happens when society overlooks and underappreciates the elderly, and what can come to pass when those same elders are acknowledged and embraced. <\/em>I will hold on to the lines that closed last week\u2019s installment of \u2018Marie\u2019 for a long time: \u2018She 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.\u2019 So many have felt a sense of loss this year; that grief can take on a more visceral sensation, an emptiness or need. But I will also remember Jones\u2019s recollection of what inspired him to write \u2018Marie\u2019 and the other stories of his first collection, <\/em>Lost in the City. In his Art of Fiction interview<\/a>, he explains that after grad school, he moved to Northern Virginia and all but stopped writing. \u2018I just went back to living my life, you know, but I was thinking about the stories. I felt, partly, that I wasn\u2019t really ready or able to do them. Then, in the late eighties, two guys died whom I had worked with \u2026 They had both wanted to be writers. And I thought, Here I am, still alive, in good health \u2026 It seemed a shame to continue like that, so I started working on the stories.\u2019 <\/em>I don\u2019t posit that every loss can encourage someone to take up a torch\u2014life\u2019s correlation is nowhere near that neat. But I don\u2019t want to forget that the two can exist alongside one another, loss and inspiration, the missed opportunity and the realized one. With that, enjoy the conclusion of \u2018Marie,\u2019 and have a safe week.\u201d <\/em>\u2014EN<\/em><\/p>\n

P.S. If you haven\u2019t already, be sure to read part 1<\/a>, part 2<\/a>, and part 3<\/a> of \u201cMarie.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Photo: Ben Franske. CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n

Two days later, the Social Security people sent her a letter, again signed by John Smith, telling her to come to them one week hence. There was nothing in the letter about the slap, no threat to cut off her SSI payments because of what she had done. Indeed, it was the same sort of letter John Smith usually sent. She called the number at the top of the letter, and the woman who handled her case told her that Mr. White would be expecting her on the day and time stated in the letter. Still, she suspected the Social Security people were planning something for her, something at the very least that would be humiliating. And, right up until the day before the appointment, she continued calling to confirm that it was okay to come in. Often, the person she spoke to after the switchboard woman and before the woman handling her case was Vernelle. \u201cSocial Security Administration. This is Vernelle Wise. May I help you?\u201d And each time Marie heard the receptionist identify herself she wanted to apologize. \u201cI whatn\u2019t raised that way,\u201d she wanted to tell the woman. <\/p>\n

George Carter came the day she got the letter to present her with a cassette machine and copies of the tapes they had made about her life. It took quite some time for him to teach her how to use the machine, and after he was gone, she was certain it took so long because she really did not want to know how to use it. That evening, after her dinner, she steeled herself and put a tape marked \u201cParents\/Early Childhood\u201d in the machine.<\/p>\n

\u2026 My mother had this idea that everything could be done in Washington, that a human bein\u2019 could take all they troubles to Washington and things would be set right. I think that was all wrapped up with her notion of the gov\u2019ment, the Supreme Court and the president and the like. \u201cUp there,\u201d she would say, \u201cthings can be made right.\u201d \u201cUp there\u201d was her only words for Washington. All them other cities had names, but Washington didn\u2019t need a name. It was just called \u201cup there.\u201d I was real small and didn\u2019t know any better, so somehow I got to thinkin\u2019 since things were on the perfect side in Washington, that maybe God lived there. God and his people \u2026 When I went back home to visit that first time and told my mother all about my livin\u2019 in Washington, she fell into such a cry, like maybe I had managed to make it to heaven without dyin\u2019. Thas how people was back in those days \u2026<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The next morning she looked for Vernelle Wise\u2019s name in the telephone book. And for several evenings she would call the number and hang up before the phone had rung three times. Finally, on a Sunday, two days before the appointment, she let it ring and what may have been a little boy answered. She could tell he was very young because he said hello in a too loud voice, as if he was not used to talking on the telephone.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello,\u201d he said. \u201cHello, who this? Granddaddy, that you? Hello. Hello. I can see you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Marie heard Vernelle tell him to put down the telephone, then another child, perhaps a girl somewhat older than the boy, came on the line. \u201cHello. Hello. Who is this?\u201d she said with authority. The boy began to cry, apparently because he did not want the girl to talk if he couldn\u2019t. \u201cDon\u2019t touch it,\u201d the girl said. \u201cLeave it alone.\u201d The boy cried louder and only stopped when Vernelle came to the telephone.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes?\u201d Vernelle said. \u201cYes.\u201d Then she went off the line to calm the boy who had begun to cry again.<\/p>\n

\u201cLoretta,\u201d she said, \u201cgo get his bottle \u2026 Well, look for it. What you got eyes for?\u201d<\/p>\n

There seemed to be a second boy, because Vernelle told him to help Loretta look for the bottle. \u201cHe always losin\u2019 things,\u201d Marie heard the second boy say. \u201cYou should tie everything to his arms.\u201d \u201cDon\u2019t tell me what to do,\u201d Vernelle said. \u201cJust look for that damn bottle.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t lose noffin\u2019. I don\u2019t,\u201d the first boy said. \u201cYou got snot in your nose.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t say that,\u201d Vernelle said before she came back on the line. \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d she said to Marie. \u201cWho is this? \u2026 Don\u2019t you dare touch it if you know what\u2019s good for you!\u201d she said. \u201cI wanna talk to grandaddy,\u201d the first boy said. \u201cLoretta, get me that bottle!\u201d<\/p>\n

Marie hung up. She washed her dinner dishes. She called Wilamena because she had not seen her all day, and Wilamena told her that she would be up later. The cassette tapes were on the coffee table beside the machine, and she began picking them up, one by one. She read the labels: Husband No. 1, Working, Husband No. 2, Children, Race Relations, Early D.C. Experiences, Husband No. 3. She had not played another tape since the one about her mother\u2019s idea of what Washington was like, but she could still hear the voice, her voice. Without reading its label, she put a tape in the machine.<\/p>\n

\u2026 I never planned to live in Washington, had no idea I would ever even step one foot in this city. This white family my mother worked for, they had a son married and gone to live in Baltimore. He wanted a maid, somebody to take care of his children. So he wrote to his mother and she asked my mother and my mother asked me about goin\u2019 to live in Baltimore. Well, I was young. I guess I wanted to see the world, and Baltimore was as good a place to start as anywhere. This man sent me a train ticket and I went off to Baltimore. Hadn\u2019t ever been kissed, hadn\u2019t ever been anything, but here I was goin\u2019 farther from home than my mother and father put together \u2026 Well, sir, the train stopped in Washington, and I thought I heard the conductor say we would be stoppin\u2019 a bit there, so I got off. I knew I probably wouldn\u2019t see no more than that Union Station, but I wanted to be able to say I\u2019d done that, that I step foot in the capital of the United States. I walked down to the end of the platform and looked around, then I peeked into the station. Then I went in. And when I got back, the train and my suitcase was gone. Everything I had in the world on the way to Baltimore \u2026<\/p>\n

\u2026 I couldn\u2019t calm myself down enough to listen to when the redcap said another train would be leavin\u2019 for Baltimore, I was just that upset. I had a buncha addresses of people we knew all the way from home up to Boston, and I used one precious nickel to call a woman I hadn\u2019t seen in years, cause I didn\u2019t have the white people in Baltimore number. This woman come and got me, took me to her place. I \u2019member like it was yesterday that we got on this streetcar marked 13TH AND ONE<\/small>. The more I rode, the more brighter things got. You ain\u2019t lived till you been on a streetcar. The further we went on that streetcar\u2014dead down in the middle of the street\u2014the more I knowed I could never go live in Baltimore. I knowed I could never live in a place that didn\u2019t have that streetcar and them clackety-clack tracks.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

She wrapped the tapes in two plastic bags and put them in the dresser drawer that contained all that was valuable to her: birth and death certificates, silver dollars, life insurance policies, pictures of her husbands and the children they had given each other and the grandchildren those children had given her and the great-grands whose names she had trouble remembering. She set the tapes in a back corner of the drawer, away from the things she needed to get her hands on regularly. She knew that however long she lived, she would not ever again listen to them, for in the end, despite all that was on the tapes, she could not stand the sound of her own voice.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Read Edward P. Jones\u2019s Art of Fiction interview<\/a>, which is free for a limited time. And don\u2019t forget that as a subscriber<\/a>, you can unlock \u201cMarie<\/a>\u201d in its entirety today, along with many, many more stories.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Read the conclusion of Edward P. Jones\u2019s short story \u201cMarie,\u201d which we\u2019ve been serializing throughout the month of October.<\/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-148618","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-art-of-distance"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Art of Distance No. 31 by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Read the conclusion of Edward P. 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