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Spoiled: Stories (Random House Reader's Circle) - Softcover

Macy, Caitlin

 
9780812971729: Spoiled: Stories (Random House Reader's Circle)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0812971728 ISBN 13: 9780812971729
Verlag: Random House Publishing Group, 2010

Inhaltsangabe

A young woman does a good deed for her nanny, only to have it go horribly wrong. A newly married woman struggles to gain the upper hand with her self-assured cleaning woman. An anxious woman desperate for an authentic experience makes a rash decision to leave the grounds of her Moroccan luxury hotel. In this sophisticated and provocative story collection, acclaimed author Caitlin Macy turns her unsparing eye on well-heeled thirtysomething women who, despite their education and affluence, struggle to keep their footing in their relationships with their friends, spouses, and children—not to mention their help. Full of surprising, sometimes shocking insights and brimming with outrage and compassion, Spoiled is a remarkable collection from a boldly talented writer.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Caitlin Macy is the author of The Fundamentals of Play. A graduate of Yale, she received her MFA from Columbia. Her work has been published in The New Yorker, The New York Times Magazine, and Slate, among other publications. She lives in New York City with her husband and two children.

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Chapter One

Christie

When you met Christie for the first time, it took only minutes to learn that she was from Greenwich, Connecticut, but months could go by before you got another solid fact out of her. After a couple of years in New York, she realized that she had to give people a little more information to stop them from digging, so once she’d mentioned Greenwich she would quickly add that she’d gone to “the high school,” meaning the public one. The first time she said this, you’d find her forthrightness refreshing—disarming, even, in the midst of so many pretenders. You’d be prompted, perhaps, to admit something about yourself—the fact that you were doing Jenny Craig, for instance, and had to sneak the packaged food into your office microwave when no one was paying attention. But then you’d overhear Christie making the same confession to someone else, and it would lose its charm. It was just Fact No. 2, which, added to Fact No. 1—her childhood in Greenwich —represented the sum total of what could be stated about Christie Thorn’s background, about her entire life before college and New York, where I’d met her.

Plus, you couldn’t help being suspicious of her motives in revealing Fact No. 2. If, at a party, a group of people were standing around, sharing a corner of a room, and someone made an opening bid— mentioning Hotchkiss or St. George’s, say—Christie would always pointedly interject, “Oh, I wouldn’t know. I went to public school. Greenwich High. That’s right—I was a good old suburban kid.” Of course, Christie and the person who had mentioned boarding school were doing the same thing—preemptively defending themselves against attack—yet rightly or wrongly you were tempted to give the Hotchkiss guy a free pass. With him you could figure that his parents had divorced badly, or his mother was an alcoholic, or his brother had committed suicide (or perhaps it really had been an accidental overdose), or that in keeping with the family tradition Dad had gone crazy and now spent his days in slippers and a robe shooting intricate, archaic forms of pool. On account of one or more of these family problems, the young man felt insecure about himself as an individual, and so, in moments of social anxiety, he mentioned boarding school a little too early, and a little unnaturally, to shore up his resolve. Still, whatever his problem, whatever the big bad family secret, it was just the slightly burned edge on a cake that everyone still wanted to eat. How bad could those family problems really be, you’d asked yourself more than once, if, at the same time, you had the house in Edgartown? How bad—if you had the gray shingles, the weathered shutters, the slanting attic roof, the iron bedstead, the needlepoint pillow on the wicker settee proclaiming “A woman’s place is on the tennis court!” the batterie de cuisine of lobster pots and potato mashers from the forties, and the octagonal kitchen window, through which you could glimpse the dunes and smell the salt air—could anything really be?

Meanwhile, you’d assume that Christie had more to protect, that her history was more embarrassing, somehow: a chronological downsizing of suburban homes (all of them, albeit, technically in Greenwich), a cheapness in things like bedding and glassware, or four people sharing one bathroom with a stand-up shower. And you wouldn’ t be wrong. The real story was simple, of course, and if it was sad, the sadness lay only in the gap between it and Christie’s grand expectations. Christie’s father had gone into business for himself and had cash flow problems. That was all. No one had murdered anyone; there wasn’t a whiff of incest or abuse, embezzlement, or even tax fraud. Mr. Thorn had owed money his whole life, but he paid his bills more or less on time, and when he died, his life insurance policy would pay off the mortgage on the house. He was an honest man with a clean conscience.

Yet Christie’s conscience was not clean, and seemed never to have been. In a typical scenario from her adolescence, her father would plan a nice vacation for the family, then wouldn’t be able to swing it, Christie would throw a tantrum, and her mother, who spoiled her, would charge the trip on her credit card to appease her. Christie would go on the vacation, but she would go alone, with a similarly spoiled friend. She and the friend would go helling around Key West, say, or Miami Beach, feeling worse and worse and worse and laughing harder and harder. And then, and this was the kicker, Christie’s mother would pick them up at LaGuardia (the friend’s mother could never be bothered) and would want to know—would have been anxious about, primordially concerned about—whether they’d had a good time.

On the way back from one of these vacations, when she was sixteen or seventeen, Christie and her friend checked in late and were bumped up to first class. They were separated and Christie was seated next to a affluent-looking older man. The man drank Scotches and read a golf magazine, and, when the flight was delayed, the two became partners in peevish complaint, the man turning to Christie to include her in his “Can you believe this?” glare. Eventually, he asked her where she was from, and when she said, “Greenwich,” he looked at her with a kind of absolute approval that Christie couldn’t recall ever having inspired before. After that, whenever a flight of hers was delayed she’d shake her head and say, “Time to spare, go by air,” as the Scotch-drinking man had, and when she met people, she liked to make sure that they knew where she was from.

After college (four ambitious yet misguided and ultimately obscure years at Colgate) after a prolonged phase of running around New York while drifting through a series of support jobs at big firms, and after she had slept with fifty-five, or was it sixty-five men, Christie found someone to marry. We spent a lot of time speculating as to who would be invited to the wedding (only a strange, angry girl named Mary McLean, who had made some Faustian bargain with Christie long before any of us met her, considered herself one of Christie’s real friends), but in the end everyone was invited—to the Pierre, no less. Throughout the evening, Christie wore a look of incurable dissatisfaction. Her face was gaudily made up, as if for a school play or an ice-skating competition. At the reception, her parents seemed frightened. It was as if they had been instructed to keep their mouths shut at all costs. A guest would shake Mrs. Thorn’s hand in the receiving line and say, “Hi, I’m Jen Ryan. Christie and I were roommates at Colgate” and Mrs. Thorn would nod, grim-faced, and say— literally—nothing, a strange gravelly noise sounding from the back of her throat. The groom’s name was Thomas Bruewald, and he was gawky and tall, with an oversized head and a unibrow. His parents were never identified; perhaps they were not in attendance. Apparently they were foreign. He had grown up half over here and half over there— in Bavaria, was it? Or Croatia? At any rate, it wasn’t Umbria or Aix or anywhere worth trying to lock in an invitation for. Bruewald had gone to one of those Euro institutes with the word polytechnical in the name. The champagne at the reception was a little too good, and some people had more than their fill and, by the end of the night, were making rude remarks. One guy said that Christie’s parents must have taken out a second mortgage to pay for the wedding. “Didn’t know you could get a second mortgage on a trailer,” a yet unmarried,...

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Verlag
Random House Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2010
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0812971728
ISBN 13 
9780812971729
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
256
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
gpsr@libri.de
gpsr@libri.de

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