The Collected Stories of Richard Yates

About the Author

Richard Yates was born in 1926 in Yonkers, New York. After serving in the US Army during the Second World War, he worked as a publicity writer for the Remington Rand Corporation, and for a brief period in the sixties as a speech-writer for Senator Robert Kennedy. His prize-winning stories first appeared in 1953 and his first novel,
Revolutionary Road
, was nominated for the National Book Award in 1962. He is the author of eight other works, including the novels
A Good School, The Easter Parade
and
Disturbing the Peace,
and two collections of short stories,
Eleven Kinds of Loneliness
and
Liars in Love
. Richard Yates was twice divorced and the father of three daughters. He died in 1992.

ALSO BY RICHARD YATES

This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form (including any digital form) other than this in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Epub ISBN: 9781446420812

Version 1.0

  

Published by Vintage 2008

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

Copyright © The Estate of Richard Yates 1957, 1961, 1962, 1974, 1976, 1978, 1980, 1981, 2001, 2004

Richard Yates has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

First published in Great Britain in 2004 by Methuen Publishing Ltd

These stories first appeared in
The Atlantic Monthly, Charm, Cosmopolitan, Esquire, Ploughshares, The New Yorker, Harper's Magazine
, and in the books
Eleven Kinds of Loneliness
and
Liars in Love

Vintage

Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

London SW1V 2SA

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The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780099518549

“Evening on the Côte d'Azur” and “Thieves” were previously published in the journal
Ploughshares
in 1974 and 1976, respectively. The rest of Richard Yates's uncollected stories make their first appearance in this volume. Other than standard typographical corrections, the stories are published as Richard Yates wrote them.

The editor and Monica Shapiro, the author's daughter, would like to acknowledge Ronald J. Nelson of James Madison University for discovering the uncollected stories in the Richard Yates Collection at Boston University in 1996.

ALL MISS PRICE
had been told about the new boy was that he'd spent most of his life in some kind of orphanage, and that the gray-haired “aunt and uncle” with whom he now lived were really foster parents, paid by the Welfare Department of the city of New York. A less dedicated or less imaginative teacher might have pressed for more details, but Miss Price was content with the rough outline. It was enough, in fact, to fill her with a sense of mission that shone from her eyes, as plain as love, from the first morning he joined the fourth grade.

He arrived early and sat in the back row—his spine very straight, his ankles crossed precisely under the desk and his hands folded on the very center of its top, as if symmetry might make him less conspicuous—and while the other children were filing in and settling down, he received a long, expressionless stare from each of them.

“We have a new classmate this morning,” Miss Price said, laboring the obvious in a way that made everybody want to giggle. “His name is Vincent Sabella and he comes from New York City. I know we'll all do our best to make him feel at home.”

This time they all swung around to stare at once, which caused him to duck his head slightly and shift his weight from one buttock to the other. Ordinarily, the fact of someone's coming from New York might have held a certain prestige, for to most of the children the city was an awesome, adult place that swallowed up their fathers every day, and which they themselves were permitted to visit only rarely, in their best clothes, as a treat. But anyone could see at a glance that Vincent Sabella had nothing whatever to do with skyscrapers. Even if you could ignore his tangled black hair and gray skin, his clothes would have given him away: absurdly new corduroys, absurdly old sneakers and a yellow sweatshirt, much too small, with the shredded remains of a Mickey Mouse design stamped on its chest. Clearly, he was from the part of New York that you had to pass through on the train to Grand Central—the part where people hung bedding over their windowsills and leaned out on it all day in a trance of boredom, and where you got vistas of straight, deep streets, one after another, all alike in the clutter of their sidewalks and all swarming with gray boys at play in some desperate kind of ball game.

The girls decided that he wasn't very nice and turned away, but the boys lingered in their scrutiny, looking him up and down with faint smiles. This was the kind of kid they were accustomed to thinking of as “tough,” the kind whose stares had made all of them uncomfortable at one time or another in unfamiliar neighborhoods; here was a unique chance for retaliation.

“What would you like us to call you, Vincent?” Miss Price inquired. “I mean, do you prefer Vincent, or Vince, or—or what?” (It was purely an academic question; even Miss Price knew that the boys would call him “Sabella” and that the girls wouldn't call him anything at all.)

“Vinny's okay,” he said in a strange, croaking voice that had evidently yelled itself hoarse down the ugly streets of his home.

“I'm afraid I didn't hear you,” she said, craning her pretty head forward and to one side so that a heavy lock of hair swung free of one shoulder. “Did you say ‘Vince'?”

“Vinny, I said,” he said again, squirming.

“Vincent, is it? All right, then, Vincent.” A few of the class giggled, but nobody bothered to correct her; it would be more fun to let the mistake continue.

“I won't take time to introduce you to everyone by name, Vincent,” Miss Price went on, “because I think it would be simpler just to let you learn the names as we go along, don't you? Now, we won't expect you to take any real part in the work for the first day or so; just take your time, and if there's anything you don't understand, why, don't be afraid to ask.”

He made an unintelligible croak and smiled fleetingly, just enough to show that the roots of his teeth were green.

“Now then,” Miss Price said, getting down to business. “This is Monday morning, and so the first thing on the program is reports. Who'd like to start off?”

Vincent Sabella was momentarily forgotten as six or seven hands went up, and Miss Price drew back in mock confusion. “Goodness, we do have a lot of reports this morning,” she said. The idea of the reports—a fifteen-minute period every Monday in which the children were encouraged to relate their experiences over the weekend—was Miss Price's own, and she took a pardonable pride in it. The principal had commended her on it at a recent staff meeting, pointing out that it made a splendid bridge between the worlds of school and home, and that it was a fine way for children to learn poise and assurance. It called for intelligent supervision—the shy children had to be drawn out and the show-offs curbed—but in general, as Miss Price had assured the principal, it was fun for everyone. She particularly hoped it would be fun today, to help put Vincent Sabella at ease, and that was why she chose Nancy Parker to start off; there was nobody like Nancy for holding an audience.

The others fell silent as Nancy moved gracefully to the head of the room; even the two or three girls who secretly despised her had to feign enthrallment when she spoke (she was that popular), and every boy in the class, who at recess liked nothing better than to push her shrieking into the mud, was unable to watch her without an idiotically tremulous smile.

“Well—” she began, and then she clapped a hand over her mouth while everyone laughed.

“Oh,
Nancy
,” Miss Price said. “You
know
the rule about starting a report with ‘well.'”

Nancy knew the rule; she had only broken it to get the laugh. Now she let her fit of giggles subside, ran her fragile forefingers down the side seams of her skirt, and began again in the proper way. “On Friday my whole family went for a ride in my brother's new car. My brother bought this new Pontiac last week, and he wanted to take us all for a ride—you know, to try it out and everything? So we went into White Plains and had dinner in a restaurant there, and then we all wanted to go see this movie,
Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
, but my brother said it was too horrible and everything, and I wasn't old enough to enjoy it—oh, he made me so mad! And then, let's see. On Saturday I stayed home all day and helped my mother make my sister's wedding dress. My sister's engaged to be married, you see, and my mother's making this wedding dress for her? So we did that, and then on Sunday this friend of my brother's came over for dinner, and then they both had to get back to college that night, and I was allowed to stay up late and say goodbye to them and everything, and I guess that's all.” She always had a sure instinct for keeping her performance brief—or rather, for making it seem briefer than it really was.

“Very good, Nancy,” Miss Price said. “Now, who's next?”

Warren Berg was next, elaborately hitching up his pants as he made his way down the aisle. “On Saturday I went over to Bill Stringer's house for lunch,” he began in his direct, man-to-man style, and Bill Stringer wriggled bashfully in the front row. Warren Berg and Bill Stringer were great friends, and their reports often overlapped. “And then after lunch we went into White Plains, on our bikes. Only we
saw Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
” Here he nodded his head in Nancy's direction, and Nancy got another laugh by making a little whimper of envy. “It was real good too,” he went on, with mounting excitement. “It's all about this guy who—”