An Unlocked Story by Mary Robison

Read "Likely Lake"

The Paris Review Redux: free interviews, stories, poems, and art from the archives of The Paris Review. View this email in your browser Ohio, 1985. Photograph courtesy of Mary Robison.  "The joke may not be unappreciated, but it is undercherished. I'll admit that humor is paint that covers a lot of sins, but I think readers minimize the ability to mix it in," said Mary Robison to Rebecca Bengal in her recent Art of Fiction interview. "What I like is the element of surprise. It could be a dog crossing the street one morning with a string of wieners, which is something I've always wanted to see. That's my golden dream. I don't think I ever will. But you don't know—it could happen, and it could change you, and change your life." This week, we're unlocking "Likely Lake" by Mary Robison, which was published in issue no. 162 of the Review and appears in Robison's story collection, Tell Me, from 2002.  PROSE Likely Lake Mary Robison   His doorbell rang and Buddy peered through the viewer at a woman in the courtyard. She had green eyes and straight black hair, cut sharply like a fifties Keely Smith. He knew her. She did bookkeeping or something for the law partners next door, especially at tax times. He also remembered her from his wife's yard sale, although that was a couple years ago and the wife was now his ex. She'd bought a jewelry case and a halogen lamp. He could picture her standing on the walk there—her nice legs and the spectator pumps she wore. She'd driven a white VW Bug in those days. But it must have died because later he had noticed her arriving for work in cabs. He had lent her twenty bucks, in fact. Connie was her name. Last June, maybe, when his garden was at its peak. He'd been out there positioning the sprinkler, first thing in the morning, when a cab swerved up and she was in back. She had rolled down her window and started explaining to him. She was coming in to work early but had ridden the whole way without realizing she'd brought an empty handbag. She showed it to him—a beige clutch. She even undid the clasp and held the bag out the window.   From issue no. 162 (Summer 2002) To read more from issue no. 162, including fiction by Peter Ho Davies and Denis Johnson, why not subscribe? You'll receive four print issues a year plus unlimited digital access to our seventy-one-year archive.  Copyright © 2024 The Paris Review. All rights reserved. You are receiving this email because you opted in via our website. Our mailing address is: The Paris Review 544 West 27th Street 3rd Floor New York, New York 10001 Add us to your address book Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe, if you must.