There's a story by Louise Erdrich called "The Stone" that has taken hold of me.
The story was published in the 9 September 2019 issue of The New Yorker. I didn't have a subscription to the magazine back then so it was probably December by the time I read the story. My friend Brian was a subscriber and would send me his copies once he finished reading them. Every few months a large box would arrive containing a stack of New Yorkers, and sometimes a couple of issues of Vanity Fair or other periodicals.
Brian transferred his subscription to me a few weeks ago. Now the magazine reaches me as a single issue with my name on the label promptly every Friday. I pass the issues on to Victoria, another resident here at Babcock Place, when I'm finished.
I felt full to bursting after reading "The Stone" the first time. I wanted to tell someone about it or persuade them to read it. But there didn't seem to be anyone to tell. And the sense of holding the story deep inside myself, all alone with it, matched the mood of the story. I didn't pass that issue on to Victoria. I slid it under the stack of unread issues without explaining the decision to myself.
There's no water in the building this morning. Some sort of repair or upgrade in progress necessitates turning it off for a few hours. (It's always something here...) Rather than indulge the grumpy rant I composed internally upon seeing the posted announcement last weekend about the upcoming outage, (i.e., go on with my day but fixate on how inconvenienced I am and return to pick at the annoyance for as long as it possible), I decided to make coffee, stay in bed, and consume the remaining four or five unread New Yorkers by my bed.
I pulled one from the middle of the stack. Hmmm. This cover looks familiar. Did I already read this issue? I flipped to the Fiction section. It's my favorite part of the magazine and a sure tell if I've already been here before. An unforgettable Ruth Van Beek photo illustration accompanies the piece. (I encourage you to find it online.) Oh, yeah. I remember this image. I must have read the story already. Still, on the strength of my reaction to the image, I sniffed around the first paragraph of the story -- What was it about again? I couldn't stop reading. I was drawn in. Again.
The protagonist is an Oldest Child. And she plays the piano. She's described at one point as "...a girl so self-sufficient (though pleasant, smart, musical, organized, sociable)..." I didn't remember that from the first reading but this morning I fell right in and identified strongly with her. At points in the story, I had trouble breathing.
The protagonist is an Oldest Child. And she plays the piano. She's described at one point as "...a girl so self-sufficient (though pleasant, smart, musical, organized, sociable)..." I didn't remember that from the first reading but this morning I fell right in and identified strongly with her. At points in the story, I had trouble breathing.
At the end of the story, I Googled Erdrich. The engine harvested photos of her at various ages. We are contemporaries, born the same year. Her birthday is the day after the only "best friend" I ever had. (I lost that friend but that's another story.)
The New Yorker website includes an audio clip of Erdrich reading the "The Stone". I clicked Play and surprisingly -- but not really -- I cried several times as I listened.
The New Yorker website includes an audio clip of Erdrich reading the "The Stone". I clicked Play and surprisingly -- but not really -- I cried several times as I listened.
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All this to say that reading this morning provoked that full and alone feeling again. I thought I'd try blogging to relieve the pressure. It did help.
