Pushcart 2021 XLV: Lydia Conklin, “Laramie Time” from American Short Fiction #69

“I want to have a kid with you.” I meant the words to sound basic but invested with meaning – inflected emotion on “kid” and “you” – those two words the sum total of my future reality. But the sentence spilled out like a sneeze.
“That’s amazing.” She spoke flatly, her unseasonable tennis shoes sinking into the slush. Why was she speaking flatly? “I’m glad you came around.”
I expected the conversation to be joyful. Matty had begged me for a kid for years. She should have jumped into my arms when I agreed. She should have fucked me right there on the Boulevard, even though it was winter in Laramie, even though we’re lesbians, so fucking wouldn’t help with getting the kid.
“Aren’t you happy?”
The bubble of a tear occluded one eye, but she squeezed it closed, squeezed both eyes closed. When she opened them, they were clear. “Thank you. I am happy.” She sounded like a robot. But sometimes she was like that – a sweet little logic robot. She waited until we stepped onto the curb on Custer Street to clamp me in a cold hug.

For a straightforward story, there’s a lot going on here. I keep trying to lay everything out in neat little piles with arrow pointing from one to the other, but it really works better as kinetic art, everything in motion, more implicit than explicit. Or maybe I’m just not up to the task.

The straightforward part is: half of a lesbian couple wants to have a baby, and the other half has been deferring. Now she agrees, but suddenly something else comes up, and it’s all complicated again, at least in her head. That’s part of what’s going on here: we only see Leigh’s point of view. Everything else, including Matty’s behavior and thoughts, are filtered through her. And we learn much later that Leigh isn’t anywhere near as clued in to Matty as she thinks she is.

Another thing that’s going on is the life of the creative worker. Leigh is a cartoonist, author of a comic about lesbian turtles, while Matty has recently abandoned work on a novel. Creative work is more unpredictable than, say, office work or food service or academia. Leigh’s stated reason for wanting to delay baby-making has been her career, but now it looks like her comic is about to take off as a TV series (someone’s gonna do this, aren’t they? Or have they already and I’m just so uncool I don’t know about it?) so that excuse no longer holds. But it leads to the other issue of having to move to LA whereas Matty is a New Yorker through and through. Oh, and about Laramie, smack in between NY and LA:

We’d moved to Wyoming at the end of the summer to “think about it” in a neutral zone while we lived off the rent from our subletter in New York. We nicknamed this period The Laramie Time. Matty had abandoned her career in academic publishing to finish a novel. Our close friend, Arun, a chatty professor, had spent years making the forgotten town with its wide streets and slouching wood frame houses and staring white men seemed cool. He assured us cougars crossed the highway and food was cheap. He even secured us free housesitting for his colleague who’d left on sabbatical.
Arun insisted that the famous hate crime had unfairly stigmatized the town. Matty had been straight her whole life before me, and the idea of Laramie bothered me more than it bothered her. Arun looked at me when he explained that the whole town knew that Matthew Shepard and his killer had been lovers. The crime wasn’t political, but personal. As though that made it so much better.

Laramie as a setting stirs in a lot as undercurrent: danger, betrayal, anger, grief. The cost of living life as the person you are. Unspoken truths, spoken lies. All reflected in Leigh’s acknowledgement early on: “She’d have known better than to count on me.”

The backbone of the narrative is the process of baby-making. No, not that process, the more complicated process when the prospective parents have only ovaries to work with: where to get that necessary sperm? This provides some comic relief that keeps the story from sinking into a depression. And then there’s the issue all parents face: what to name the child. Matty, sick of “pretentious names,” goes with Jane or Michael. Leigh feels a moment of regret that they won’t be considering Jiminy or Puck. 

It’s during the sperm-transfer process that Leigh becomes aware of something that shifts her perspective. That creativity, it’s glorious, but it’s also out to get you, and mixing up the writing and the sperm with deception is perfect. Leigh could be an adult about it. She could face it squarely and work it out. But I don’t think she’s been really on board this whole time, so she goes deceptive herself, in a rather shocking way. But let’s face it, Matty doesn’t win any awards for straightforward adulthood herself. The fallout is only speculation; we don’t see the actual morning after. Given the levels of deception, and buried emotionality, on both sides, it must’ve been epic, even if only in its absolute silence.

Yes, this is a story that’s better left in motion, not pinned down. It flies just fine on its own.

One response to “Pushcart 2021 XLV: Lydia Conklin, “Laramie Time” from American Short Fiction #69

  1. The more I read of this, the less I liked it. Sure, the narrator gets less and less likeable but the whole premise is not all that interesting. The narrative method? So distant, all telly, tedious. Pretty creepy, dishonest behavior at the end. Little life in this. Again, for me, it didn’t work.

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