I had an interesting personal journey with the 2001 edition of the O. Henry Prize Stories. Let’s start with the anecdote that I’m writing this review in January, 2019. Seems I have a little catching up to do, although this will probably never happen.
I started reading the 2001 edition in early 2011. At the time, I was living on Divisadero Street in San Francisco. While I was reading the collection, I moved to Dubuque, Iowa, survived the 2014 polar vortex, and returned to San Francisco. I had numerous jobs during this time: working as a project manager for an educational publisher; a front-desk receptionist for H&R Block; a call-center representative who sold an astonishing collection of absurd miscellanea (jumbo-sized panties that somehow filled a niche for elderly Southern women; flashlights, cheese platters, and bargain-basement wigs); a project manager for a loyalty-program-based tech company that boasted clients with names such as Ugly Stik (fishing rods), Tison (more wigs—I can’t seem to escape them), and Yankee Candle (whose elite line of candles includes scents called “Man Town” and “On Tap.”); a senior editor and writer for the Exploratorium, a world-renowned science-and-art museum in San Francisco; and a content editor for Chase Bank.
I’ve been to a lot of places, seen a lot of things innocent Chads should never see. During this period of geographical-and-occupational identity mishaps, I occasionally pulled out the 2001 O. Henry Collection and read another story. I’m really not sure why I only infrequently visit these collections, but I love opening the O. Henry anthologies and reading new stories by writes I admire—and falling in love with writers whose work I’ve never read.
The 2001 anthology features stories about subjects as bizarre and random as the jobs I had during the eight years it took me to read the anthology. Dan Chaon’s “Big Me” describes an imaginative twelve year old who believes his new neighbor is an older version of himself who has traveled back in time. The two main characters in T. Coraghessan Boyle’s “The Love of My Life” start out as high school sweethearts and end up incarcerated for dumping their unplanned baby into a garbage dumpster. (I realize this brief, probably egregiously inadequate, summary won’t make anyone reading this review want to run out and find the piece. In reality, Boyle’s story is both beautifully written and unflinching in its exploration of love and adult responsibility.) George Saunders’s “Pastoralia” is so long it could almost be termed a novella. The story takes place in a surreal historical-reenactment theme park, and most of the scenes take place within the confines of an artificial cave. The main characters are actors portraying cavepeople, and tensions arise when Janet, the “cave woman” descends into depression and can no longer play her part. The story is filled with Saunders’s trademark eccentric humor, while making scathing commentaries on how corporations treat their workers.
“Floating Bridge” by Alice Munro didn’t win first prize, but it’s the story that resonates most strongly with me. Jinny Lockley wants to leave her husband Neal, but a diagnosis of terminal cancer makes it unnecessary for her to carry through with her decision to divorce him. Unlike many of Munro’s stories, which can skip years and span vast amounts of time, most of the action in “Floating Bridge” takes place during one long afternoon and evening. Jinny and Neal hire Helen, a young woman with a “fresh-out-of-the-egg look…as if one layer of skin were still missing” as a live-in caregiver for Jinny. Neal and Jinny drive Helen to her house to pick up some of her belongings, and Helen’s family invites Jinny and Neal inside for food and drinks. Jinny, who isn’t feeling well, refuses, but Neal agrees. He leaves Jinny sitting outside in the car, alone, for hours. After Neal accompanies Helen and her family inside, Jinny remarks that “to be alone was a great relief.”
The last half of the story is a meditation on isolation and miracles. We learn that Jinny’s cancer has gone through an unexpected remission. The oncologist doesn’t want to raise Jinny’s hopes, but he thinks she’s beaten her illness. Jinny’s first reaction isn’t happiness or relief; it’s the realization that she now must take responsibility for leaving Neal. As Munro writes, “…it was true that what he (the oncologist) had said made everything harder. It made her have to go back and start this year all over again. It removed a certain low-grade freedom. A dull, protecting membrane that she had not even known was there had been pulled away and left her raw.”
Ricky, Helen’s teenage brother, appears during the story’s last few pages. He’s described as “slim and graceful and cocky, with an ingenuous enthusiasm that would probably not get him as far as he hoped.” Time passes. Neal doesn’t leave the house, or even bother to check on Jinny. Ricky offers to drive Jinny home. On the way, he stops the car and guides her across a floating bridge. The symbolism of a bridge might seem obvious (life threatened/life given back; the removal of a decision/the necessity to make a decision), but Munro writes the story’s final moments as a quiet awakening for Jinny. Ricky kisses Jinny softly, and the story ends with these two beautiful sentences, “Jinny felt a rain of compassion, almost like laughter. A swish of tender hilarity, getting the better of her sores and hollows, for the time given.”
“Floating Bridge” is one of Munro’s best stories, which is not a light statement. It’s like saying Starry Night is one of Van Gogh’s best paintings—or that Orion is the most stunning constellation. Besides the pieces by Munro, Chaon, Boyle, and Saunders, I also recommend the following stories in the 2011 edition of the O. Henry Prize Stories: “The Girl with the Blackened Eye” by Joyce Carol Oates,” The Smoker” by David Schickler, “The Mourning Door” by Elizabeth Graver, “At the Jim Bridger” by Ron Carlson, “The Paperhanger” by William Gay, “Bliss” by Dale Peck, and the exquisite “Bow Down” by Murad Kalam.
You should trust my suggestions. I’ve had eight years to think about them.