Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.
She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm.
He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light.
"Come to bed," she said.
"I'm coming," he said.
He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom.
"Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!"
"Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on."
He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and began taking off his clothes. His knees trembled.
"Is there anything else to smoke?" she said.
"We don't have anything," he said.
"Then fix me a drink. We have something to drink. Don't tell me we don't have something to drink," she said.
"Just some beer."
They stared at each other.
"I'll have a beer," she said.
"You really want a beer?"
She nodded slowly and chewed her lip.
He came back with the beer. She was sitting with his pillow on her lap. He gave her the can of beer and then crawled into bed and pulled the covers up.
"I forgot to take my pill," she said.
"What?"
"I forgot my pill."
He got out of bed and brought her the pill. She opened her eyes and he dropped the pill onto her outstretched tongue. She swallowed some beer with the pill and he got back in bed.
"Take this. I can't keep my eyes open," she said.
He set the can on the floor and then stayed on his side and stared into the dark hallway. She put her arm over his ribs and her fingers crept across his chest.
"What's in Alaska?" she said.
He turned on his stomach and eased all the way to his side of the bed. In a moment she was snoring.
Just as he started to turn off the lamp, he thought he saw something in the hall. He kept staring and thought he saw it again, a pair of small eyes. His heart turned. He blinked and kept staring. He leaned over to look for something to throw. He picked up one of his shoes. He sat up straight and held the shoe with both hands. He heard her snoring and set his teeth. He waited. He waited for it to move once more, to make the slightest noise.
-A story needs a transgression; at least one of the characters needs to enact, or try to enact, a "plot." The central couple in "What's in Alaska?" is like the couple in "Gazebo": One-half has cheated, and both halves are being foolish by trying to suppress or deny the truth. Carver seemed especially inspired by the state of limbo that a dying relationship gets lodged in. He also knew that a story did not need to tie up big questions, i.e. How long will the troubled couple remain together? A story can have just a small epiphany. A character can go from point A to point B. In "Alaska," Jack gets off work, buys himself some shoes, spots his girlfriend cheating on him, then cowers in the face of the unknown. A seamless, uninterrupted dream. And not a journey that would strike others as immediately worthy of short-story coverage. Carver saw the world in his own way; through his writing, he "remade" the world.
-"Alaska" has a stunning "dominoes" quality. The particular meanness of Mary's opening volleys seems to set everything in motion. Jack, feeling good about his purchases, shows them off, and Mary bluntly informs him that she dislikes the color of the shoes. But what's done is done. "You needed new shoes." Then she sucks her own cheeks. (The killer gesture.) Jack's wordless annoyance pushes Mary further; she wants to stoke the fire. At the lame party that forms the bulk of the story, Mary blithely informs Jack's friends that Jack is "on a bummer." Jack hasn't said this; he is working hard to be an adult. But the intrusiveness and disrespect of Mary's comment help to set him off. This small betrayal is maybe the thing that causes him to crane his neck and confirm, for himself, what he might already know: Mary is having an affair. (And Mary's drug-addled brazenness, her awareness that she might soon be moving to Alaska, may help to explain why she makes the affair overt, or semi-overt, in this story.)
-Jack's disgust toward himself, toward his predicament, becomes clear in the most wonderful way: He spills beer all over his own shoe. His brand-new shoe, the shoe he was once proud of. It's that squishiness that Jack becomes attuned to at the end, when he's not listening to his girlfriend. There's wonderful tension, without the writer directly informing us there is tension: Jack's hyper-alertness to every passing sound suggests that he is on edge. And then there is Mary's desperate announcement: "I need to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack." Jack's total silence further makes us uneasy. This is astounding dialogue.
-Of course, she who wants to be fucked actually does not want to be fucked. She who wants a beer does not want a beer. She who wants to move to Alaska actually wonders why anyone would want that: "What's in Alaska?" (By this point, Alaska has become a symbolic stand-in for the future. Alaska is what's lurking in the dark, Alaska is, maybe, the death-knell of the Jack/Mary relationship.) Jack's distance from Mary manifests itself in delicious questions: "You really want a beer?" "What?" (So much irritation, so much aggression, is packed into that "What?") The story ends brilliantly--with Jack fearing the beast in the jungle, the thing around the corner, which might actually be nothing. How can he trust himself? How can he behave responsibly when his capacity for communication is so limited? If he can't examine his own desires and his own behavior, how can he hope to have a connection with the mysterious Mary? That's where we leave these two. Perched on the edge of a cliff. Jack is like Isabel Archer--mid-flight. By being evasive, by leaving questions unanswered, Carver ensures that his strange story will linger in our thoughts.
She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm.
He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light.
"Come to bed," she said.
"I'm coming," he said.
He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom.
"Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!"
"Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on."
He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and began taking off his clothes. His knees trembled.
"Is there anything else to smoke?" she said.
"We don't have anything," he said.
"Then fix me a drink. We have something to drink. Don't tell me we don't have something to drink," she said.
"Just some beer."
They stared at each other.
"I'll have a beer," she said.
"You really want a beer?"
She nodded slowly and chewed her lip.
He came back with the beer. She was sitting with his pillow on her lap. He gave her the can of beer and then crawled into bed and pulled the covers up.
"I forgot to take my pill," she said.
"What?"
"I forgot my pill."
He got out of bed and brought her the pill. She opened her eyes and he dropped the pill onto her outstretched tongue. She swallowed some beer with the pill and he got back in bed.
"Take this. I can't keep my eyes open," she said.
He set the can on the floor and then stayed on his side and stared into the dark hallway. She put her arm over his ribs and her fingers crept across his chest.
"What's in Alaska?" she said.
He turned on his stomach and eased all the way to his side of the bed. In a moment she was snoring.
Just as he started to turn off the lamp, he thought he saw something in the hall. He kept staring and thought he saw it again, a pair of small eyes. His heart turned. He blinked and kept staring. He leaned over to look for something to throw. He picked up one of his shoes. He sat up straight and held the shoe with both hands. He heard her snoring and set his teeth. He waited. He waited for it to move once more, to make the slightest noise.
-A story needs a transgression; at least one of the characters needs to enact, or try to enact, a "plot." The central couple in "What's in Alaska?" is like the couple in "Gazebo": One-half has cheated, and both halves are being foolish by trying to suppress or deny the truth. Carver seemed especially inspired by the state of limbo that a dying relationship gets lodged in. He also knew that a story did not need to tie up big questions, i.e. How long will the troubled couple remain together? A story can have just a small epiphany. A character can go from point A to point B. In "Alaska," Jack gets off work, buys himself some shoes, spots his girlfriend cheating on him, then cowers in the face of the unknown. A seamless, uninterrupted dream. And not a journey that would strike others as immediately worthy of short-story coverage. Carver saw the world in his own way; through his writing, he "remade" the world.
-"Alaska" has a stunning "dominoes" quality. The particular meanness of Mary's opening volleys seems to set everything in motion. Jack, feeling good about his purchases, shows them off, and Mary bluntly informs him that she dislikes the color of the shoes. But what's done is done. "You needed new shoes." Then she sucks her own cheeks. (The killer gesture.) Jack's wordless annoyance pushes Mary further; she wants to stoke the fire. At the lame party that forms the bulk of the story, Mary blithely informs Jack's friends that Jack is "on a bummer." Jack hasn't said this; he is working hard to be an adult. But the intrusiveness and disrespect of Mary's comment help to set him off. This small betrayal is maybe the thing that causes him to crane his neck and confirm, for himself, what he might already know: Mary is having an affair. (And Mary's drug-addled brazenness, her awareness that she might soon be moving to Alaska, may help to explain why she makes the affair overt, or semi-overt, in this story.)
-Jack's disgust toward himself, toward his predicament, becomes clear in the most wonderful way: He spills beer all over his own shoe. His brand-new shoe, the shoe he was once proud of. It's that squishiness that Jack becomes attuned to at the end, when he's not listening to his girlfriend. There's wonderful tension, without the writer directly informing us there is tension: Jack's hyper-alertness to every passing sound suggests that he is on edge. And then there is Mary's desperate announcement: "I need to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack." Jack's total silence further makes us uneasy. This is astounding dialogue.
-Of course, she who wants to be fucked actually does not want to be fucked. She who wants a beer does not want a beer. She who wants to move to Alaska actually wonders why anyone would want that: "What's in Alaska?" (By this point, Alaska has become a symbolic stand-in for the future. Alaska is what's lurking in the dark, Alaska is, maybe, the death-knell of the Jack/Mary relationship.) Jack's distance from Mary manifests itself in delicious questions: "You really want a beer?" "What?" (So much irritation, so much aggression, is packed into that "What?") The story ends brilliantly--with Jack fearing the beast in the jungle, the thing around the corner, which might actually be nothing. How can he trust himself? How can he behave responsibly when his capacity for communication is so limited? If he can't examine his own desires and his own behavior, how can he hope to have a connection with the mysterious Mary? That's where we leave these two. Perched on the edge of a cliff. Jack is like Isabel Archer--mid-flight. By being evasive, by leaving questions unanswered, Carver ensures that his strange story will linger in our thoughts.
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