Pushcart 2020 XLIV: Jason Brown, “The Last Voyage of the Alice B. Toklas” from Missouri Review #41.3

Sophie Walraven: “Old Aga Stove”

When, at fifteen, I began my first summer as the Rural Carrier Associate of Howland Island, Maine, a post officer from the regional office showed up unannounced and reminded me that I must adhere to the agency’s mission statement by ensuring the “prompt, reliable, and efficient” delivery of the mail. In August I thought of his words as I held the official-looking letter that had arrived for the writer staying in my grandparents’ guest cottage. Most people only received bills and handwritten notes from friends and relatives. Sometimes a postcard. My grandfather, who frequently asked me if I’d heard the writer say anything interesting, would love to see the contents of a typed envelope from the Jonathon Riley Agency, 333a Lafayette St., NY, NY.

At a glance, you might think there are two reasons I would particularly enjoy this story. First, it’s set in Maine, which I always appreciate (though the Islands are a completely different universe from Portland). Second, it involves Don Quixote; anyone who’s read some of my recent posts will know I’ve been a bit obsessed by that novel since my reading last fall, seeing it in stories where it has no business being seen. It’s nice to read a story where it’s explicitly mentioned and thematically relevant.

But those aren’t the real reasons I loved this story. At first, I didn’t even know why. I thought it was because it was a charming piece blending wit and pathos with fun characters, tall tales and family history (and some real history), written by someone who trusted his reader. Then on the second read, it deepened into an example of characters wanting something, the mantra of short story writers. And as I dictated pull quotes for this post, I found myself blubbering over a particular late paragraph where one character recognizes another’s desperate but well-disguised need, and in the final paragraphs, that need is transferred.

It’s an exquisite story, technically and emotionally.

The Howland family is central to the story. Our point-of-view character is fifteen-year-old John, living on Howland Island with his grandparents for the summer. It’s his grandfather who often fills the page with his presence, however. Like many grandfathers, he’s full of family stories – going back some 400 years to the Mayflower, then moving forward to settling and the losing most of Howland Island – and anecdotes of his own adventures. And like many grandfathers, some of these tales may be exaggerated. [Addendum: Jake Weber focuses on these discrepencies as lies, and in doing so connects this story with the prior one, “Scandalous Women in History”] John can recognize some discrepancies with reality (can you see the tie-in with Don Quixote?) but is unsure of other details. I would say the primary movement of the story is John’s coming to terms with one particular discrepancy, and growing into a new kind of role in the family legacy.

The story is put into motion when one of the island’s summer visitors, a writer, gets a fancy letter from New York. As John expected, his grandfather tells him to invite the writer to lunch.

“Should I mentioned the Aga stove?” i said. He didn’t nod, because I’d come dangerously close to calling it what it was: John Updike’s Aga stove. The stove on which John Updike had made tea in the morning before he sat down to write or grilled himself a cheese sandwich after a long day of writing. In our family, if you wanted to speak of John Updike, you spoke of “the stove,” not, as Uncle Alden sometimes called it, “the Aga.” Likewise you could say “Lewiston” but nothing about the dowel factory my great-grandfather had bankrupted. Nothing about China Lake, where my father spent most of his time, nothing about my mother, who had gone to live among the Rarámuri of Copper Canyon

I love the technique here: the story moves forward; a great element, John Updike’s Aga stove (yes, he did have an Aga), is introduced; and we also find out more about the family. All in one paragraph.

I noticed an interesting stylistic element: although John knows the writer’s name and mentions it in that first paragraph, he never refers to him by name, only as “the writer.” Similarly, while he refers to “Grandma” throughout, he only refers to “my grandfather”. I’m not sure of the significance, but it stood out to me. Maybe it’s as though those two characters are set against each other linguistically as well as episodically.

Another thing I notice is how essential every paragraph and sentence is. That’s something you read about in how-to-write books, but it’s kind of amazing to actually see it. Even when there’s a description, it matters:

Under the black metal letters screwed onto the planks of the stern of our boat, you could still see the outline of the name BETSY, the wife of the man, Harold Moore (a distant cousin to my grandfather), who built her and ran her as a lobster boat for almost thirty years. The iron fastenings wept dark rust stains down the sides of the peeling white hull.
…
The main problem with the Alice B which for some reason never seemed to worry my grandfather, was that she was sinking. The electric pumps run day and night.

In most stories, I’d dismiss weeping rust as poetic but not terribly important. Here, it takes on a subtle significance, playing off the title. And let me say again how the writer trusts the reader: we aren’t beaten over the head with anything, but we’re allowed to absorb through our attention. Such as that there is no moment in the story when the boat’s last sail is announced; it’s implied by the title, and thus as we read, we make the connection and realize it ourselves. It’s so much more effective that way, and it lets the reader – this reader, at least – enjoy some self-congratulations on having noticed.

As I see it, the boat is something of a representation of the Howland family: old, tired, functional but sinking. The stove is more about the grandfather’s vision of himself, and as such, it’s the Aga stove that is often a scene stealer:

“One of the ovens is not working,” my grandfather said. “I forget which one.” He opened one door to reveal the firebox, another door to reveal one of the ovens. “Big enough for a turkey,” he noted.
“I would never cook a turkey in this thing,” Grandma said.
Finally, my grandfather opened the door he had wanted to open all along. He knew very well which one. “Oh, this is the one that doesn’t work,” he said and started to close the enameled hatch.
“Wait,” the writer said, stepping forward and pointing. “Was that a pair of tennis shoes?”
My grandfather slowly reopened the door and peered in as if he’d forgotten about the shoes.
“Oh, yes, they were there when we got the stove. We leave them in there to remind us which oven not to use.”
“Are those?” The writer laughed and raised his eyebrows to express exactly the kind of surprise my grandfather hoped for. Instead of answering, my grandfather opened the stove door wider. From the side, you could see that the instep of one shoe had worn at a bevel, and the sun faded canvas tops had been scuffed near the laces. “Updike’s shoes?” the writer said. He leaned over with his hand outstretched. For a moment I feared he might try to touch the shoes. No one, not even my grand father, touched the shoes. The writer seemed to realize he was about to cross a line and retracted his hand.
I knew what would come next.

This is show-don’t-tell at it’s finest. The grandfather is playing a game, using the shoes as a lure. And he’s very good at it. But what is the point of the game? Is it just a way to spend an afternoon? No. The grandfather’s interest in the writer echoes themes from Don Quixote, who hoped one of the people he encountered on his adventures would write of them, and tell of his exploits as did the authors of chivalric tales of old. This doesn’t account for all the exaggeration – according to John, he’s told these tales before – but how better to catch the attention of a writer than with John Updike’s tennis shoes in his stove. John knows what game is afoot:

As we all passed through the dining room to the parlor, the writer gazed at the cracked plaster, paintings, hand-made furniture, the long varnished sweep oar nailed to the ceiling beams along with at least 150 corks from a century of New Year’s Eve parties held around the hearth. I could see the stories about our lives forming in the writer’s head.

Then we find out the grandfather is writing a book, a book about Don Quixote. I’m not going to say more about that, except that it lead to the paragraph that had me in tears. The ending paragraphs as well are all goosebumpy, as John steps into a new role, quite literally. As much as I’d love to quote those paragraphs here, I’ll restrain myself, to leave the discovery for others. You’ll have to take my word for it that it’s worth it.

But wait, there’s more: This is one of the stories in Brown’s recently published collection of linked stories, A Faithful but Melancholy Account of Several Barbarities Lately Committed. I’ve already asked my local independent bookstore to order it [Addendum: got it, read it, posted about it], and I found that Brown gave a reading there just last month; I deeply regret that I was unaware of him, or of this story, so didn’t go to see him.

As a consolation prize, I found a terrific podcast , New Books in Literature by G. P. Gottleib, that features an interview with Brown about the book as a whole. His comments about this particular story start around the 11 minute mark.

This story has me enchanted with this family; I can’t wait to find out what happens next – and all that happened before.