Free Mrs. Nixon: A Novelist Imagines a Life by Ann Beattie Page B

have the same desires. They want to be loved. They want to be warm and well fed and safe. Short stories don’t often take that into account. I’ve read some that have made me wonder who these people are, they seem so intent on causing harm. It seems to me that a lot of characters don’t really know how to go about things. There also seems to be a lot of unhappiness, ifyou read enough stories, and—maybe I’m way out of line, but I’ll say it anyway—it seems to me the characters sometimes want to cause unhappiness just for the heck of it. You want to take some of them by the collar and talk sense to them. We can all try to do our best, or we can sink into despair.
    I’ve heard that short stories are written to shake us up, so that when the dust settles, things will be a little different. Why would an author want to do that, though? Think about Cole Porter. His songs tell us something in a nice way, and he’s clever, too. He doesn’t write songs to tell us about some horrible betrayal. He finds a way to get across an upbeat message, so we feel better. When we’re sweeping or cooking, how often do we recite a sentence of a story? And how many times do we sing some Cole Porter lyrics? That’s exactly my point.
    Certain writers, though, can make it seem like you’re somewhere else and even somebody else—like Cinderella, on the night of the ball. I often hear people say they’ve been “lost in a story.” We know we’re supposed to get lost in a fairy tale, because so often one of the characters does. Some little child wanders off the path, ends up in the dark woods or something like that. If someone leaves the path, it’s not quite as obvious in a short story, though sometimes you’ll look up from the page and be startled to find you’re where you are. Maybe you’re startled by who you are, too. Stories are meant to transport us, but we should never let ourselves be overwhelmed with a writer’s sad view of life and think we can’t do anything to change our own lives. If that’s the message, tuck the bookmark inside, shelve that book, and move on!

Caracas, Venezuela, 1958
    S o many angry people. They hate us. Hate Americans. That’s the Venezuelan national anthem playing, and they are Venezuelans, and they want us to do the right thing and stand respectfully while it plays, and all the while they hate us. Spit falls on us, from above. Spit! Let them spit: it can be washed away, but their shame can’t. Music, music. We stand, honoring their patriotic song, and they can think of nothing better than to spit on us, when we’re here to represent the best country in all the world.
    The girls . . . if anything happened to us, how would the girls get along?
    They
would
manage, because they are smart and self-reliant and because people
do
get along. You do what you have to do. You do it hoping it’s the right thing, but sometimes that isn’t clear in the moment.
    They’ll get these terrible people in order.
    (
Later, all twelve Secret Service agents would be commended for heroism by President Eisenhower
.)
    Life involves danger. Every day, there is danger. You can’t think about it, can’t let that hold you back. If you have a job to do, youdo it. If you need to express your anger, you write a letter, or you punch a pillow. That’s what I’ve read about, in some of the same magazines that write about me. They advise that you punch a pillow, not your enemy! Imagine women on the bed, punching pillows! Anger only begets more anger.
    (
Julie Nixon Eisenhower would later write: “At first the spit looked like giant snowflakes
.”)
    Moving toward the car. Their flag being ripped up. Ours. An angry mob, growing larger. They could have set upon us as we stood listening to their national anthem. They might still cause harm, but they are so wrong, so wicked, in the way they are going about this.
    Flowers from a child. One must always accept a bouquet. One must always be kind to children. Little Venezuelan child,