What does Carver’s minimalist “dirty realism” style have to say about how we communicate with one another?
Do you feel this style is effective? Why or why not?
Finally, what is Carver trying to say about love and loss?
So Much Water So Close To Home By Raymond Carver
My husband eats with a good appetite. But I don’t think he’s really hungry. He chews, arms on the table, and stares at something across the room. He looks at me and looks away. He wipes his mouth on the napkin. He shrugs, and goes on eating. “What are you staring at me for?” he says. “What is it?” he says and lays down his fork. “Was I staring?” I say, and shake my head. The telephone rings. “Don’t answer it,” he says. “It might be your mother,” I say. “Watch and see,” he says. I pick up the receiver and listen. My husband stops eating. “What did I tell you?” he says when I hang up. He starts to eat again. Then throws his napkin on his plate. He says, “Goddamn it, why can’t people mind their own business? Tell me what I did wrong and I’ll listen! I wasn’t the only man there. We talked it over and we all decided. We couldn’t just turn around. We were five miles from the car. I won’t have you passing judgment. Do you hear?” “You know,” I say. He says, “What do I know, Claire? Tell me what I’m supposed to know. I don’t know anything except one thing?’ He gives me what he thinks is a meaningful look. “She was dead,” he says. “And I’m as sorry as anyone else. But she was dead.” “That’s the point,” I say. He raises his hands. He pushes his chair away from the table. He takes out his cigarettes and goes out to the back with a can of beer. ~ see him sit in the lawn chair and pick up the newspaper again. His name is in there on the first page. Along with the names of his friends. I close my eyes and hold on to the sink. Then I rake my arm across the drainboard and send the dishes to the floor. He doesn’t move. I know he’s heard. He lifts his head as if still listening. But he doesn’t move otherwise. He doesn’t turn around. He and Gordon Johnson and Mel Dorn and Vern Williams, they play poker and bowl and fish. They fish every spring and early summer before visiting relatives can get in the way. They are decent men, family men, men who take care of their jobs. They have sons and daughters who go to school with our son, Dean. Last Friday these family men left for the Naches River. They parked the car in the mountains and hiked to where they wanted to fish. They carried their bedrolls, their food, their playing cards, their whiskey. They saw the girl before they set up camp. Mel Dorn found her. No clothes on her at all. She was wedged into some branches that stuck out over the water. He called the others and they came to look. They talked about what to do. One of the men-my Stuart didn’t say which-said they should start back at once. The others stirred the sand with their shoes, said they didn’t feel inclined that way. They pleaded fatigue, the late hour, the fact that the girl wasn’t going anywhere. In the end they went ahead and set up the camp. They built a fire and drank their whiskey. When the moon came up, they talked about the girl. Someone said they should -keep the body from drifting away. They took their flashlights and went back to the river. One of the men-it might have been Stuart-waded in and got her. He took her by the fingers and pulled her into shore. He got some nylon cord and tied it to her wrist and then looped the rest around a tree. The next morning they cooked breakfast, drank coffee, and drank whiskey, and then split up to fish. That night they cooked fish, cooked potatoes, drank coffee, drank whiskey, then took their cooking things and eating things back down to the river and washed them where the girl was. They played some cards later on. Maybe they played until they couldn’t see them anymore. Vern Williams went to sleep. But the others told stories. Gordon Johnson said the trout they’d caught were hard because of the terrible coldness of the water. The next morning they got up late, drank whiskey, fished a little, took down their tents, rolled their sleeping bags, gathered their stuff, and hiked out. They drove until they got to a telephone. It was Stuart who made the call while the others stood around in the sun and listened. He gave the sheriff their names. They had nothing to hide. They weren’t ashamed. They said they’d wait until someone could come for better directions and take down their statements. I was asleep when he got home. But I woke up when I heard him in the kitchen. I found him leaning against the refrigerator with a can of beer. He put his heavy arms around me and rubbed his big hands on my back. In bed he put his hands on me again and then waited as if thinking of something else. I turned and opened my legs. Afterwards, I think he stayed awake. He was up that morning before I could get out of bed. To see if there was something in the paper, I suppose. The telephone began ringing right after eight. “Go to hell!” I heard him shout. The telephone rang right again. “I have nothing to add to what sherirn…” He slammed the receiver down. “What is going on?” I said. It was then that he told me what I just told you. I sweep up the broken dishes and go outside. He is lying on his back on the grass now, the newspaper and can of beer within reach. “Stuart, could we go for a drive?” I say. He rolls over and looks at me. “We’ll pick up some beer,” he says. He gets to his feet and touches me on the hip as he goes past. “Give me a minute,” he says. We drive through town without speaking. He stops at a roadside market for beer. I notice a great stack ofpapersjust inside the door. On the top step a fat woman in a print dress holds out a licorice stick to a little girl. Later on, we cross Everson Creek and turn into the picnic grounds. The creek runs under the bridge and into a large pond a few hundred yards away. I can see the men out there. I can see them out there fishing. So much water so close to home I say, “Why did you have to go miles away?” “Don’t rile me,” he says. We sit on a bench in the sun. He opens us cans of beer. He says, “Relax, Claire.” “They said they were innocent. They said they were crazy.” He says, “Who?” He says, “What are you talking about?” “The Maddox brothers. They killed a girl named Arlene Hubly where I grew up. They cut off her head and threw her into the Cle Elum River. It happened when I was a girl.” “You’re going to get me riled,” he says. I look at the creek. I’m right in it, eyes open, face down, staring at the moss on the bottom, dead. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” he says on the way home. “You’re getting me more riled by the minute.” There is nothing I can say to him. He tries to concentrate on the road. But he keeps looking into the rear-view mirror. He knows. Stuart believes he is letting me sleep this morning. But I was awake long before the alarm went off. I was thinking, lying on the far side of the bed away from his hairy legs. He gets Dean off for school, and then he shaves, dresses, and leaves for work. Twice he looks in and clears his throat. But I keep my eyes closed. In the kitchen I find a note from him. It’s signed “Love.” I sit in the breakfast nook and drink coffee and leave a ring on the note. I look at the newspaper and turn it this way and that on the table. Then I skid it close and read what it says. The body has been identified, claimed. But it took some examining it, some putting things into it, some cutting, some weighing, some measuring, some putting things back again and sewing them in. I sit for a long time holding the newspaper and thinking. Then I call up to get a chair at the hairdresser’s. I sit under the dryer with a magazine on my lap and let Marnie do my nails. “I am going to a funeral tomorrow,” I say. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Marnie says. “It was a murder,” I say. “That’s the worst kind,” Marnie says. “We weren’t all that close,” I say. “But you know?’ “We’ll get you fixed up for it,” Marnie says. That night I make my bed on the sofa, and in the morning I get up first. I put on coffee and fix breakfast while he shaves. He appears in the kitchen doorway, towel over his bare shoulder, appraising. “Here’s coffee,” I say. “Eggs’ll be ready in a minute?’ I wake Dean, and the three of us eat. Whenever Stuart looks at me, I ask Dean if he wants more milk, more toast, etc. “I’ll call you today,” Stuart says as he opens the door. I say, “I don’t think I’ll be home today.” “All right,” he says. “Sure.” I dress carefully. I try on a hat and look at myself in the mirror. I write out a note for Dean. Honey, Mommy has things to do this afternoon, but will be back later. You stay in or be in the backyard until one of us comes home. Love, Mommy I look at the word Love and then I underline it. Then I see the word backyard. Is it one word or two? I drive through farm country, through fields of oats and sugar beets and past apple orchards, cattle grazing in pastures. Then everything changes, more like shacks than farmhouses and stands of timber instead of orchards. Then mountains, and on the right, far below, I sometimes see the Naches River. A green pickup comes up behind me and stays behind me for miles. I keep slowing at the wrong times, hoping he will pass. Then I speed up. But this is at the wrong times, too. I grip the wheel until my fingers hurt. On a long clear stretch he goes past. But he drives along beside for a bit, a crewcut man in a blue workshirt. We look each other over. Then he waves, toots his horn, and pulls on up ahead. I slow down and find a place. I pull over and shut off the motor. I can hear the river down below the trees. Then I hear the pickup coming back. I lock the doors and roll up the windows. “You all right?” the man says. He raps on the glass. “You okay?” He leans his arms on the door and brings his face to the window. I stare at him. I can’t think what else to do. “Is everything all right in there? How come you’re all locked up?” I shake my head. “Roll down your window?’ He shakes his head and looks at the highway and then back at me. “Roll it down now.” “Please,” I say, “I have to go.” “Open the door,” he says as if he isn’t listening. “You’re going to choke in there.” He looks at my breasts, my legs. I can tell that’s what he’s doing. “Hey, sugar,” he says. “I’m just here to help is all.” The casket is closed and covered with floral sprays. The organ starts up the minute I take a seat. People are coming in and finding chairs. There’s a boy in flared pants and a yellow shortsleeved shirt. A door opens and the family comes in in a group and moves over to a curtained place off to one side. Chairs creak as everybody gets settled. Directly, a nice blond man in a nice dark suit stands and asks us to bow our heads. He says a prayer for us, the living, and when he finishes, he says a prayer for the soul of the departed. Along with the others I go past the casket. Then I move out onto the front steps and into the afternoon light. There’s a woman who limps as she goes down the stairs ahead of me. On the sidewalk she looks around. “Well, they got him,” she says. “If that’s any consolation. They arrested him this morning. I heard it on the radio before I come. A boy right here in town.” We move a few steps down the hot sidewalk. People are starting cars. I put out my hand and hold on to a parking meter. Polished hoods and polished fenders. My head swims. I say, “They have friends, these killers. You can’t tell.” “I have known that child since she was a little girl,” the woman says. “She used to come over and I’d bake cookies for her and let her eat them in front of the TV.” Back home, Stuart sits at the table with a drink of whiskey in front of him. For a crazy instant I think something’s happened to Dean. “Where is he?” I say. “Where is Dean?” “Outside,” my husband says. He drains his glass and stands up. He says, “I think I know what you need.” He reaches an arm around my waist and with his other hand he begins to unbutton my jacket and then he goes on to the buttons of my blouse. “First things first,” he says. He says something else. But I don’t need to listen. I can’t hear a thing with so much water going. “That’s right,” I say, finishing the buttons myself, “Before Dean comes. Hurry?”
Why Don’t You Dance? by Raymond Carver
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, 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 took up 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, and a few feet away from this stood a sofa and chair and a floor lamp. 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, all the stuff was out of the home. He had run an extension cord on out there and everything was connected. Things worked, no different from how it was when they were inside. 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,” the girl said to the boy. This girl and this boy were furnishing a little apartment. “Let’s see what they want for the bed,” the girl said. “And for the TV,” the boy said. The boy 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 touching the muslin cloth, the boy plugging in the blender and turning the dial to MINCE, the girl picking up a chafing dish, the boy turning on the television set and making little adjustments. He sat down on the sofa to watch. He lit a cigarette, looked around, flipped the match into the grass. The girl sat on the bed. She pushed off her shoes and lay back. She thought she could see a 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?” she said. “It feels firm,” he said. She turned on her side and put her hand to his face. “Kiss me,” she said. “Let’s get up,” he said. “Kiss me,” she said. She closed her eyes. She held him. He said, “I’ll see if anybody’s home.” But he just sat up and stayed where he was, making believe he was watching the television. Lights came on in the houses up and down the street. “Wouldn’t it be funny if,” the girl said and grinned and didn’t finish. The boy laughed, but for no good reason. For no good reason, he switched the reading lamp on. The girl brushed away a mosquito, whereupon the boy stood up and tucked in his shirt. “I’ll see if anybody’s home,” he said. “I don’t think anybody’s home. But if anybody is, I’ll see what things are going for.” “Whatever they ask, offer ten dollars less. It’s always a good idea,” she said. “And, besides, they must be desperate or something.” “It’s a pretty good TV,” the boy said. “Ask them how much,” the girl said. The man came down the sidewalk with a sack from the market. He had sandwiches, beer, whiskey. He saw the car in the driveway and the girl on the bed. He saw the television set going and the boy on the porch. “Hello,” the man 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,” the man said, and put down the sack and took out the beer and the whiskey. “We thought nobody was here,” the boy said. “We’re interested in the bed and maybe in the TV. Also maybe the desk. How much do you want for the bed?” “I was thinking fifty dollars for the bed,” the man said. “Would you take forty?” the girl asked. “I’ll take forty,” the man said. He took a glass out of the carton. He took the newspaper off the glass. He broke the seal on the whiskey. “How about the TV?” the boy said. “Twenty-five.” “Would you take fifteen?” the girl said. “Fifteen’s okay. I could take fifteen,” the man said. The girl looked at the boy. “You kids, you’ll want a drink,” the man said. “Glasses in that box. I’m going to sit down. I’m going to sit down on the sofa.” The man sat on the sofa, leaned back, and stared at the boy and the girl. The boy found two glasses and poured whiskey. “That’s enough,” the girl said. “I think I want water in mine.” She pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table. “There’s water in that spigot over there,” the man said. “Turn on that spigot.” The boy came back with the watered whiskey. He cleared his throat and sat down at the kitchen table. He grinned. But he didn’t drink anything from his glass. The man gazed at the television. He finished his drink and started another. He reached to turn on the floor lamp. It was then that his cigarette dropped from his fingers and fell between the cushions. The girl got up to help him find it. “So what do you want?” the boy said to the girl. The boy took out the checkbook and held it to his lips as if thinking. “I want the desk,” the girl said. “How much money is the desk?” The man 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 their faces. It was nice or it was nasty. There was no telling. “I’m going to turn off this TV and put on a record,” the man said. “This recordplayer is going, too. Cheap. Make me an offer.” He poured more whiskey and opened a beer. “Everything goes,” said the man. The girl held out her glass and the man poured. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re very nice,” she said. “It goes to your head,” the boy said. “I’m getting it in the head.” He held up his glass and jiggled it. The man finished his drink and poured another, and then he found the box with the records. “Pick something,” the man said to the girl, and he held the records out to her. The boy was writing the check. “Here,” the girl said, picking something, picking anything, for she did not know the names on these labels. She got up from the table and sat down again. She did not want to sit still. “I’m making it out to cash,” the boy said. “Sure,” the man said. They drank. They listened to the record. And then the man put on another. Why don’t you kids dance? he decided to say, and then he said it. “Why don’t you dance?” “I don’t think so,” the boy said. “Go ahead,” the man said. “It’s my yard. You can dance if you want to.” Arms about each other, their bodies pressed together, the boy and the girl moved up and down the driveway. They were dancing. And when the record was over, they did it again, and when that one ended, the boy said. “I’m drunk.” The girl said, “You’re not drunk.” “Well, I’m drunk,” the boy said. The man turned the record over and the boy said, “I am.” “Dance with me,” the girl said to the boy and then to the man, and when the man stood up, she came to him with her arms wide open. “Those people over there, they’re watching,” she said. “It’s okay,” the man said. “It’s my place,” he said. “Let them watch,” the girl said. “That’s right,” the man said. “They thought they’d seen everything over here. But they haven’t seen this, have they?” He felt her breath on his neck. “I hope you like your bed,” he said. The girl closed and then opened her eyes. She pushed her face into the man’s shoulder. She pulled the man closer. “You must be desperate or something,” she said. Weeks later, she said: “The guy was about middle-aged. All his things right there in his yard. No lie. We got real pissed and danced. In the driveway. Oh, my God. Don’t laugh. He played us these records. Look at this record-player. The old guy give it to us. and all these crappy records. Will you look at this shit?” She kept talking. She told everyone. There was more to it, and she was trying to get it talked out. After a time, she quit trying.
