The O. Henry Prize Stories 2017 by Laura Furman

Author:Laura Furman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2017-09-05T04:00:00+00:00

“There was more, but I can’t remember it.”

“Many waters,” said Val with his eyes closed, “cannot quench love; rivers cannot wash it away. If one were to give all the wealth of his house for love, it would be utterly scorned.”

“Thank you,” you said. You looked down at your hands. “Sometimes I think I had something to do with her death. In a weird way, thinking that gave me some comfort. It gave her death meaning, and let me feel something: rotten and guilty at first. So I’d pray for forgiveness and then feel purified on the other side. I think that less and less now. I didn’t kill her, she just died.”

“Amen,” said Denny. “A-fucking-men. Hey, I’m sorry, but so what? I mean, this fat, old broad feels you up in a snowstorm, gets sick and dies. I’m supposed to be impressed?”

When none of us answered, he went on. “Okay, I’m rude and I’m crude, but I tell the truth. Val and me, we’ve been talking about vision, man, vision. Your story is touching and all, but it’s just a story, just coincidence.”

You clenched your jaw. Val stirred but did not respond. It was my turn now. I didn’t know what would come out of my mouth, but I’d win you back.

“Denny—,” I said.

“Oh, man, look who’s back from la-la land. Don’t—don’t even start, man. Look, she’s your girlfriend and all, but don’t get into shit with me you don’t understand.”

“Yeah? Let me tell you something. I can take any—”

“Sirs!” cried Val. He pointed past me, toward the hall.

“Holy Fuck,” said Denny, “what is this shit?”

Mist—or the past or something—was filling the room. It was too weird to be real and too wet to be another vision. Steam. Steam was coming down the hall, out of the kitchen. I was the first to the hallway, you, Denny, and Val coming behind. Up the hall near the kitchen was a lake.

“Shit, shit, shit,” said Denny.

The kitchen was terrific. The kitchen was better than drugs. The low afternoon sun filled the room, making a golden, misty cave. The refrigerator was a monolith, the stove an altar. Beside it, the dishes in the sink were fantastic bones and artifacts. At the same time, what made it the best thing of the day, the best thing in months, was that it was just a kitchen in Detroit, just a hot water faucet I’d left running in a plugged sink. You and I looked at each other, then laughed harder than we had in weeks. We held each other and shook with laughter. “I know exactly what this is,” I cried, “I know exactly!”

“What the fuck, man?” That was Denny, stuck in the hall behind Val.

“Finally, I get a vision.”

“Shit!” he said, splashing past us. “Turn the fucking thing off! What are you, crazy?”

“Absolutely.”

“Fucking-ay.” He wrenched the faucet. “This is not funny, not fucking funny at all. This water, asshole, is going to leak through the floor, ruin the ceiling. You got that?”

We understood, but couldn’t stop laughing.

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