RAYMOND CARVER
BEGINNERS
Raymond Carver was born in Clatskanie, Oregon, in 1938. His first collection of stories, Will You Please Be Quiet, Please? (a National Book Award nominee in 1977), was followed by What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, Cathedral (nominated for the Pulitzer Prize in 1984), and Where I’m Calling From in 1988, when he was inducted into the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He died August 2, 1988, shortly after completing the poems of A New Path to the Waterfall.
William L. Stull is a professor of English at the University of Hartford. Maureen P. Carroll is an adjunct professor of humanities at the University of Hartford and a practicing attorney. For more than two decades, they have published numerous essays and books on the work of Raymond Carver.
ALSO BY RAYMOND CARVER
Fiction
Furious Seasons
Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
Cathedral
Where I’m Calling From: The Selected Stories
(with the author’s foreword)
Short Cuts
(selected and with an introduction by Robert Altman)
Call If You Need Me: The Uncollected Fiction & Prose
(edited by William L. Stull with a foreword by
Tess Gallagher)
Poetry
Near Klamath
Winter Insomnia
At Night the Salmon Move
Where Water Comes Together with Other Water
Ultramarine
A New Path to the Waterfall
(with an introduction by Tess Gallagher)
All of Us: The Collected Poems
(edited by William L. Stull)
Essays, Poems, Stories
Fires
No Heroics, Please
FIRST VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES EDITION, SEPTEMBER 2015
Copyright © 2009 by Tess Gallagher
Unpublished Editors’ Preface and Notes copyright © 2009
by William L. Stull and Maureen P. Carroll
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, a division of Penguin Random House Ltd., Toronto. Reprinted by permission of Tess Gallagher. Originally published in hardcover in different form by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, in 1981, and subsequently published by The Library of America, New York, in 2009.
Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Contemporaries and colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
“Beginners” first appeared in The New Yorker.
The text of Beginners and the “Note on the Text” presented in this volume are reprinted from Raymond Carver: Collected Stories, edited by William L. Stull and Maureen P. Carroll (New York: The Library of America, 2009) and published by arrangement with The Library of America. “Note on the Text” copyright © 2009 by Literary Classics of the United States, Inc., New York, N.Y., www.loa.org. All rights reserved.
The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress
Vintage Books Trade Paperback ISBN 9780307947925
eBook ISBN 9780307947932
Cover design by Mark Abrams
Cover photograph © David Ryle/Stone/Getty Images
www.vintagebooks.com
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Contents
Cover
About the Author
Also by Raymond Carver
Title Page
Copyright
Editors’ Preface
Why Don’t You Dance?
Viewfinder
Where Is Everyone?
Gazebo
Want to See Something?
The Fling
A Small, Good Thing
Tell the Women We’re Going
If It Please You
So Much Water So Close to Home
Dummy
Pie
The Calm
Mine
Distance
Beginners
One More Thing
A Note on the Text
Editors’ Preface
—but that is not the whole story.
R.C., “Fat”
Beginners is the original version of seventeen short stories written by Raymond Carver and published, in editorially altered form, as What We Talk About When We Talk About Love by Alfred A. Knopf in April 1981.
The source of this edition—its base-text—is the manuscript that Carver delivered to Gordon Lish, then his editor at Knopf, in the spring of 1980. That manuscript, which Lish cut by more than fifty percent in two rounds of close line editing, is preserved in the Lilly Library of Indiana University. Carver’s original stories have been recovered by transcribing his typewritten words that lie beneath Lish’s handwritten alterations and deletions.
For ease of comparison, and because Carver provided no table of contents, the sequence of the stories in Beginners parallels their sequence in What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. In both books the penultimate story, albeit in markedly different forms, gives the collection its title. In Carver’s manuscript, that story is called “Beginners” (“But it seems to me we’re just rank beginners at love”). Having shortened “Beginners” by half, Lish adapted a line from elsewhere in Carver’s text to yield the title “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” for the story and the book.
Three months before taking his manuscript to New York City in May 1980, Carver wrote Lish that he had on hand three groups of stories. One group had previously appeared in little magazines or small-press books but had never been published by a major press. A second group either had appeared or were soon to appear in periodicals. A third group, by far the smallest, consisted of new stories still in typescript. These three groups of stories comprise Beginners.
In preparing the manuscript for Lish’s editorial review, Carver made incidental changes to stories that had previously appeared in magazines or small-press books. These authorial revisions, including handwritten corrections, are preserved in Beginners. Obvious word omissions, misspellings, and inconsistencies in punctuation have been silently corrected. A brief publication history of each story is provided in the notes.
The restoration of Beginners has been the work of many years. We gratefully acknowledge the assistance of the staff of the Lilly Library of Indiana University in providing access to the papers of Gordon Lish and the archives of Noel Young’s Capra Press. We warmly thank the staff of the Ohio State University Library, in particular Geoffrey D. Smith, head of Rare Books and Manuscripts, who has overseen the establishment of the Raymond Carver archive in the William Charvat Collection of American Fiction. For permission to reproduce Carver’s writings, we thank the poet, essayist, and short story writer Tess Gallagher.
Raymond Carver dedicated What We Talk About When We Talk About Love to Tess Gallagher in 1981 with the promise that one day he would republish his stories at full length. His attempts to do so were cut short by his death, at age fifty, in 1988. Since then, we have pursued the restoration of Beginners with Ms. Gallagher’s unwavering encouragement. It is to her that we dedicate the outcome of our efforts.
WILLIAM L. STULL
MAUREEN P. CARROLL
University of Hartford
West Hartford, Connecticut
18 May 2009
Why Don’t You Dance?
IN the kitchen, he poured another drink and looked at the bedroom suite in
his front yard. The mattress was stripped and the candy-striped sheets lay beside two pillows on the chiffonier. Except for that, things looked much the way they had in the bedroom—nightstand and reading lamp on his side of the bed, a nightstand and reading lamp on her side. His side, her side. He considered this as he sipped the whiskey. The chiffonier stood a few feet from the foot of the bed. He had emptied the drawers into cartons that morning, and the cartons were in the living room. A portable heater was next to the chiffonier. A rattan chair with a decorator pillow stood at the foot of the bed. The buffed aluminum kitchen set occupied a part of the driveway. A yellow muslin cloth, much too large, a gift, covered the table and hung down over the sides. A potted fern was on the table, along with a box of silverware, also a gift. A big console-model television set rested on a coffee table, and a few feet away from this, a sofa and chair and a floor lamp. He had run an extension cord from the house and everything was connected, things worked. The desk was pushed against the garage door. A few utensils were on the desk, along with a wall clock and two framed prints. There was also in the driveway a carton with cups, glasses, and plates, each object wrapped in newspaper. That morning he had cleared out the closets and, except for the three cartons in the living room, everything was out of the house. Now and then a car slowed and people stared. But no one stopped. It occurred to him that he wouldn’t either.
“It must be a yard sale, for God’s sake,” the girl said to the boy.
This girl and boy were furnishing a little apartment.
“Let’s see what they want for the bed,” the girl said.
“I wonder what they want for the TV,” the boy said.
He pulled into the driveway and stopped in front of the kitchen table.
They got out of the car and began to examine things. The girl touched the muslin cloth. The boy plugged in the blender and turned the dial to MINCE. She picked up a chafing dish. He turned on the television set and made careful adjustments. He sat down on the sofa to watch. He lit a cigarette, looked around, and flipped the match into the grass. The girl sat on the bed. She pushed off her shoes and lay back. She could see the evening star.
“Come here, Jack. Try this bed. Bring one of those pillows,” she said.
“How is it?” he said.
“Try it,” she said.
He looked around. The house was dark.
“I feel funny,” he said. “Better see if anybody’s home.”
She bounced on the bed.
“Try it first,” she said.
He lay down on the bed and put the pillow under his head.
“How does it feel?” the girl said.
“Feels firm,” he said.
She turned on her side and put her arm around his neck.
“Kiss me,” she said.
“Let’s get up,” he said.
“Kiss me. Kiss me, honey,” she said.
She closed her eyes. She held him. He had to prize her fingers loose.
He said, “I’ll see if anybody’s home,” but he just sat up.
The television set was still playing. Lights had gone on in houses up and down the street. He sat on the edge of the bed.
“Wouldn’t it be funny if,” the girl said and grinned and didn’t finish.
He laughed. He switched on the reading lamp.
She brushed away a mosquito.
He stood up and tucked his shirt in.
“I’ll see if anybody’s home,” he said. “I don’t think anybody’s home. But if they are, I’ll see what things are going for.”
“Whatever they ask, offer them ten dollars less,” she said. “They must be desperate or something.”
She sat on the bed and watched television.
“You might as well turn that up,” the girl said and giggled.
“It’s a pretty good TV,” he said.
“Ask them how much,” she said.
Max came down the sidewalk with a sack from the market. He had sandwiches, beer, and whiskey. He had continued to drink through the afternoon and had reached a place where now the drinking seemed to begin to sober him. But there were gaps. He had stopped at the bar next to the market, had listened to a song on the jukebox, and somehow it had gotten dark before he recalled the things in his yard.
He saw the car in the driveway and the girl on the bed. The television set was playing. Then he saw the boy on the porch. He started across the yard.
“Hello,” he said to the girl. “You found the bed. That’s good.”
“Hello,” the girl said, and got up. “I was just trying it out.” She patted the bed. “It’s a pretty good bed.”
“It’s a good bed,” Max said. “What do I say next?”
He knew he should say something next. He put down the sack and took out the beer and whiskey.
“We thought nobody was here,” the boy said. “We’re interested in the bed and maybe the TV. Maybe the desk. How much do you want for the bed?”
“I was thinking fifty dollars for the bed,” Max said.
“Would you take forty?” the girl asked.
“Okay, I’ll take forty,” Max said.
He took a glass out of the carton, took the newspaper off it, and broke the seal on the whiskey.
“How about the TV?” the boy said.
“Twenty-five.”
“Would you take twenty?” the girl said.
“Twenty’s okay. I could take twenty,” Max said.
The girl looked at the boy.
“You kids, you want a drink?” Max said. “Glasses in that box. I’m going to sit down. I’m going to sit down on the sofa.”
He sat on the sofa, leaned back, and stared at them.
The boy found two glasses and poured whiskey.
“How much of this do you want?” he said to the girl. They were only twenty years old, the boy and girl, a month or so apart.
“That’s enough,” she said. “I think I want water in mine.”
She pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table.
“There’s water in that faucet over there,” Max said. “Turn on that faucet.”
The boy added water to the whiskey, his and hers. He cleared his throat before he sat down at the kitchen table too. Then he grinned. Birds darted overhead for insects.
Max gazed at the television. He finished his drink. He reached to turn on the floor lamp and dropped his cigarette between the cushions. The girl got up to help him find it.
“You want anything else, honey?” the boy said.
He took out the checkbook. He poured more whiskey for himself and the girl.
“Oh, I want the desk,” the girl said. “How much money is the desk?”
Max waved his hand at this preposterous question.
“Name a figure,” he said.
He looked at them as they sat at the table. In the lamplight, there was something about the expression on their faces. For a minute this expression seemed conspiratorial, and then it became tender—there was no other word for it. The boy touched her hand.
“I’m going to turn off this TV and put on a record,” Max announced. “This record player is going, too. Cheap. Name a figure.”
He poured more whiskey and opened a beer.
“Everything goes.”
The girl held out her glass and Max poured more whiskey.
“Thank you,” she said.
“It goes right to your head,” the boy said. “I’m getting a buzz on.”
He finished his drink, waited, and poured another. He was writing a check when Max found the records.
“Pick something you like,” Max said to the girl, and held the records before her.
The boy went on writing the check.
“Here,” the girl said, pointing. She did not know the names on these records, but that was all right. This was an adventure. She got up from the table and sat down again. She didn’t want to sit still.
“I’m making it out to cash,” the boy said, still writing.
“Sure,” Max said. He dran
k off the whiskey and followed it with some beer. He sat down again on the sofa and crossed one leg over the other.
They drank. They listened until the record ended. And then Max put on another.
“Why don’t you kids dance?” Max said. “That’s a good idea. Why don’t you dance?”
“No, I don’t think so,” the boy said. “You want to dance, Carla?”
“Go ahead,” Max said. “It’s my driveway. You can dance.”
Arms about each other, their bodies pressed together, the boy and girl moved up and down the driveway. They were dancing.
When the record ended, the girl asked Max to dance. She was still without her shoes.
“I’m drunk,” he said.
“You’re not drunk,” the girl said.
“Well, I’m drunk,” the boy said.
Max turned the record over and the girl came up to him. They began to dance.
The girl looked at the people gathered at the bay window across the street.
“Those people over there. Watching,” she said. “Is it okay?”
“It’s okay,” Max said. “It’s my driveway. We can dance. They thought they’d seen everything over here, but they haven’t seen this,” he said.
In a minute, he felt her warm breath on his neck, and he said: “I hope you like your bed.”
“I will,” the girl said.
“I hope the both of you do,” Max said.
“Jack!” the girl said. “Wake up!”
Jack had his chin propped and was watching them sleepily.
“Jack,” the girl said.
She closed and opened her eyes. She pushed her face into Max’s shoulder. She pulled him closer.
“Jack,” the girl murmured.
She looked at the bed and could not understand what it was doing in the yard. She looked over Max’s shoulder at the sky. She held herself to Max. She was filled with an unbearable happiness.
—
The girl said later: “This guy was about middle-aged. All his belongings right out there in his yard. I’m not kidding. We got drunk and danced. In the driveway. Oh, my God. Don’t laugh. He played records. Look at this phonograph. He gave it to us. These old records, too. Jack and I went to sleep in his bed. Jack was hungover and had to rent a trailer in the morning. To move all the guy’s stuff. Once I woke up. He was covering us with a blanket, the guy was. This blanket. Feel it.”