How It Ended: New and Collected Stories - Couverture rigide

The Madonna of Turkey Season
It came to seem like our own special Thanksgiving tradition-one of us inevitably behaving very badly. The role was passed around the table from year to year like some kind of ceremonial torch, or a seasonal virus: the weeping and gnashing of teeth, the breaking of glass, the hurling of accusations, the final nosedive into the mashed potatoes or the shag carpet. Sometimes it even fell to our guests-friends, girlfriends, wives-the disease apparently communicable. We were three boys who'd lost their mother-four if you counted Dad, five if you counted Brian's best friend, Foster Creel, who'd lost his own mother about the same time we did and always spent Thanksgiving with us-and for many years there had been no one to tell us not to pour that pivotal seventh drink, not to chew with our mouths open, not to say fuck at the dinner table.

We kept bringing other women to the table to try to fill the hole, but they were never able to impose peace for long. Sometimes they were catalysts, and occasionally they even initiated the hostilities-perhaps their way of trying to fit in. My father never brought another woman to the table, though many tried to invite themselves, and our young girlfriends remarked on how handsome he was and what a waste it was. “I had my great love, and how could I settle for anything less?” he'd say as he poured himself another Smirnoff and the neighbor widows and divorcées dashed themselves against the windowpanes like birds.

Sometimes, although not always, the mayhem boiled up again at Christmas, in the sacramental presence of yet another turkey carcass, with a new brother or guest in the role of incendiary device, though memories of the most recent Thanksgiving were often enough to spare us the spectacle for another eleven months. I suppose we all had a lot to be thankful for, socioeconomically speaking, but for some reason we chose to dwell instead on our grievances. How come you went to Aidan's high school play and not mine? How could you have fucked Karen Watley when you knew I was in love with her?

We would arrive Tuesday night from prep school or college, or on Wednesday night from New York, where we were working at a bank while writing a play, or from Vermont, where we were building a log cabin with our roommate from Middlebury before heading up to Stowe at first snow for a season of ski bumming. Dad would take the latter part of the week off, until he retired, which was when things really became dangerous. The riotous foliage that briefly enflamed the chaste New England hills was long gone, leaving the monochromatic landscape of winter: the gray stone walls of the early settlers, the silver trunks of the maples, the white columns of birch.

Manly hugs were exchanged at the kitchen door. Cocktails were offered and accepted. Girlfriends and roommates were introduced. The year of the big snow, footwear was scraped on the blade of the cast-iron boot cleaner outside the door. Dad was particularly pleased with this implement, and always pointed it out to guests, not because he was particularly fastidious about mud and snow, but because it seemed to signify all the supposed charm and tradition of old New England (as opposed to, say, its intolerance of immigrants and its burning of young girls at the stake), although he'd bought this particular boot scraper once upon a time at the local True Value hardware store. But somehow Dad had convinced himself that it had been planted here by the early settlers of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, in between skirmishes with the Wampanoags and the Mohicans. He liked to think of himself as an old Yankee, despite the fact that when his grandfathers arrived in Boston, the windows were full of NO IRISH NEED APPLY signs and they weren't likely to be invited to scrape their boots at anybody's front door. A century and a half later, though, we lived in a big white house with green shutters, which Dad inevitably described as “Colonial,” though it was built in the 1920s to resemble something a hundred years older.

Most of the girls we brought-a cavalcade of blondes-were judged by their resemblance to our mother, except when it seemed, as was the case a couple of times with Brian, they'd been deliberately chosen for their controversial darkness. Each of us could see how his brother's girlfriend was a pale imitation of Mom and our own were one-offs who shared some of her best qualities. The girls, for their part, must have been a little daunted at first to discover the patterns of traits they'd cherished as unique. As different as we were, we were all recognizably alike, with the same unruly hair, the same heavy-browed, smiley eyes and all our invisible resemblances, born and bred. Brian, the eldest, kept things lively by bringing a different girl every year; we called him “the Kennedy of the family.” The rest of us took after Dad, who liked to say that Mom was his only true love. Mike had been with Jennifer since his freshman year at Colby, and Aidan met his future wife, Alana, before he was twenty. Actually, Brian showed up two years in a row with Janis, whom he eventually married, much to our and then his own chagrin. The second time, she threw the entire uncarved turkey at Brian's head, a scene that eventually showed up in his second play. Another year, he and Foster nearly came to blows at the table when it came out that they'd lately been sleeping with the same girl. It took two of us to restrain Brian.

Brian's personal life, with all its chaos, Sturm und Drang, was the workshop version of his professional life, a laboratory for drama. And of course he wrote about us. Mike said at the time that the phrase “thinly disguised” was too chubby by half to describe Brian's relation to his source material. His first play revolved around the death of a mother from cancer. There seemed to be a number of those that particular season, but his was the most successful. We all went down to the opening night at the New York Theatre Workshop. The play was directed by Foster, who'd been his best friend ever since Choate, and had gone with him to Yale Drama. We sat there, stunned in the aftermath, as the applause thundered around us. It was hard to know how to react. In the play, Brian seemed to be making a special claim for himself with regard to our mother, in that the character who was obviously him had been more loved and more devastated than the others.

Then there was the question of his portrayal of the rest of us. On the one hand, as brothers we wanted to say, Hey, that's not me, and on the other, But wait a minute; that is me. He'd put us in an untenable position. Brian was a great sophist, and if you complained about the parallels between his life and art, he would start declaiming about the autobiographical basis of Long Day's Journey into Night or point out that “your” character had gone to Deerfield, when you'd actually gone to Hotchkiss. And if you complained about inaccuracies-denied that you'd ever, for example, had carnal relations with the family dog-he would cite poetic license or remind you that you'd been banging on a moment before about resemblances and that this clearly demonstrated the fictionality of his masterpiece.
At first, it was hard to tell how Dad felt about it. He put on a brave face and went over to Phoebe's, the bar down the block, to celebrate with Brian and the cast. He seemed to be in shock. But later, in the cab back to the hotel, and in the bar there, he kept asking us, over and over again, some variant of the question “Was I such a bad father?” In truth, he didn't come off all that badly, but we all had a hard time not viewing the play as a flawed family memoir. He also cornered Foster, our unofficial fourth brother, whom for years Dad had consulted as a kind of emotional translator in his efforts to understand Brian.

“Every artist interprets the world through the prism of his own narcissism,”

Foster told him that night. “He doesn't think you're a bad father. He forgot about you the day he started writing the play. All the characters in the play, even the ones who look and sound like you, are Brian, or else they're foils for Brian.” I don't think my father knew whether to be reassured or worried by this. Of course, he'd long known Brian was massively self-absorbed, prone to exaggeration and outright mendacity. But he seemed pleased with the judgment, repeated to us all many times later, that Brian was an artist. At last, he seemed to feel, there was an explanation for his temperament, and his deviations from what my father considered proper behavior: the drugs, the senseless prevarications, the childhood interest in poetry. For Dad, Foster's assessment counted as much as subsequent accolades in the Times and elsewhere.

That year, Brian brought Cassie Haynes, the actress, who played his former girlfriend Rita Cosovich in the play, although of course he denied that the character was based on Rita, and we all wondered if Rita would, on balance, be more offended by the substance of her portrait or flattered by its appearance, Cassie being a babe of the first order. She caused a bit of a sensation around the neighborhood that Thanksgiving, husbands coming from three streets down to ask after the leaf blower they thought they might possibly have lent to Dad earlier in the fall. When we heard she was coming, we all thought, Great, just what we need, a prima donna actress, though we couldn't help liking her, and hoping she would come back during bathing suit season.

Brian's play gave us something to fight about at the Thanksgiving board for years to come, beginning that first November after the opening, when the wounds were still fresh. Mike, the middle brother, was the first to take up the cause after the cocktail hour had been prolonged due to some miscalculation about the turkey. Mike's fiancée, Jennifer, had volunteered to cook the bird that year, and while she would later become our chief and favorite cook, this was h...

“How It Ended is more than a victory lap for McInerney.  This collection highlights a powerful contemporary American writer...His stories are so immediately enveloping and powerful that we don’t notice how few words he uses to conjure his rich, complicated characters.” – Michael Kroner, Cleveland Plain Dealer

"McInerney's characters get around: some go south to Faulkner country, some to California for the movie business, one to Japan to teach grammar and vocabulary to businessmen, a few even to the heroin fields of Pakistan.  But the real habitat of his fiction is New York.  As it did for Walt Whitman, Thomas Wolfe, Frank O'Hara and an army of others, the city becomes embedded as a symbol of longing with each new detail of grit and squalor...McInerney seems to have constructed a series of laments for lost or diminished civic values, personal fidelity, psychological wholeness, even holiness.  Nowhere in this book does he put a foot wrong.  He has certainly earned the frequently made comparisons of his skills in short fiction with those of Hemingway and Fitzgerald.  This is a first-rate book, not to be missed." –Richard Greene, The National Post [Toronto]

"A great capturer of all time periods and trends...sending up society in a wry but spot-on and smart manner [with] an intellectual wit that is imagery-filled." –Kara Nesvig, Minnesota Daily

“So consistently sharp and precisely observed that one is left thinking it’s time to reconsider McInerney’s career...What’s impressive is just how good–sometimes extraordinarily so–McInerney has been...Precision is precisely what separates the short story from the novel. It’s the art of letting the detail stand in for the whole, and this is where many of the stories in How It Ended make the cut as fine examples of their form.” –Geoff Pevere, The Toronto Star

“A master of short fiction...The characters [McInerney] crafts are so strong, the reader continues to care about them after the last page is turned.” –Dan Scheraga, The Miami Herald

“If you still care about top-drawer fiction you will want to own this book...Kurt Vonnegut said he was a member of ‘the last recognizable generation of full-time, life-time American novelists,’ but with all due respect to Mr. Vonnegut and his contemporaries, for my money Jay McInerney is the last of the full-time, life-time, American novelists.” –Mark Lindquist, The Oregonian

“McInerney has been throughout [his career] a productive artist–this is his tenth book and his eighth work of fiction–and also a diligent one, who has steadily refined his craft and rigorously deepened his subjects and themes. How It Ended reminds us how impressively broad McInerney’s scope has been and how confidently he has ranged across wide swaths of our national experience. It reminds us too that for all the many literary influences he has absorbed, McInerney’s contribution–and it is a major one–is to have revitalized the Irish Catholic expiatory tradition of F. Scott Fitzgerald and John O’Hara...McInerney’s gifts have never been in question. He possesses the literary naturalist’s full tool kit: empathy and curiosity, a peeled eye and a well-tuned ear, a talent for building narratives at once intimate and expansive, plausible and inventive. His sentences, vivid but unshowy, exhibit the same strengths he once identified in Fitzgerald’s; they are ‘sophisticated without being superior, conspiratorial without the gossip’s malice...’ Both [Fitzgerald and Salinger] were ‘voices of a generation.’ So is McInerney. He was the first novelist born in the 1950s who throttled the demon of ‘belatedness,’ in Harold Bloom’s term...the intimidating weight of literary forebears. McInerney and his contemporaries felt that, of course. They also felt the belatedness of having grown up in the Vietnam period but come of age just when its rebellions were being commodified by the unleashed market forces of the Regan years. Many novelists were struggling to make sense of this barometric change. But McInerney got there first. It is one reason his prose seems so free of self-consciousness and of mannerism, and at once postmodern and naturalistic.” –Sam Tanenhaus, front page, The New York Times Book Review

“[McInerney’s] stories have grown more elegant, subtle, shapely and reflective over time, to the point where some of the recent works are perfect specimens.” –Janet Maslin, The New York Times

“Proof that McInerney's star burns as bright as ever.” –Claire Howorth, Vanity Fair

“A splendid short-story writer, [McInerney's] stories are reminiscent of those of F. Scott Fitzgerald, John O'Hara, and Irwin Shaw...A very compelling collection.” –Brad Hooper, Booklist (starred review)

“[McInerney’s] best writing to date, combining a quiet household realism with his gift for pinpointing moments of awkward bafflement.” –Alexis Kirschbaum, TheTimes Literary Supplement

”[McInerney] has the storyteller’s gift of making the familiar seem strange, of casting new light on old ground. The results are funny, shocking, and moving.” –Mark Sanderson, The Sunday Telegraph

“The short story is the perfect measure for [McInerney’s] brand of beautifully distilled prose and dry sophistication.” –Helen Brown, The Independent on Sunday

“Despite the sexual mayhem in McInerney’s stories, a stubborn moral reckoning hovers over the writing...[His] openings hook and reel in the reader with a catchy first line [and] the narration moves speedily over familiar territory with the economy of Raymond Carver and the breathless pace of Stephen Dixon. With language this precise, McInerney possesses the skill to be invisible: he refuse to draw the reader’s attention to himself but instead to the stories.” –Gerard Donovan, Financial Times