A Small, Good Thing (1983)
Short Story Ekphrasis à la Progymnasmata
In A Small, Good Thing (1983), Raymond Carver teleports the reader to an ungodly place. It’s half-dream, half-reality, and we seem far away from home. Parting ways with warmth early on, with a twirl and twist, he makes an innocent young boy the first victim in his haunting and realist universe.
After a capricious hit-and-run accident, one that leaves the boy in ruins and in limbo, our gaze shifts to his honourable and young parents. We watch as they navigate the confusing torments of hospital-ville. And with that, as the late Martin Amis once intimated through metaphor, Carver welcomes us in.
Between the offended birthday cake baker’s incessant calls and a stubborn but caring husband, a full serving of subversion and suspense descends downward with smothering force. In the wake of the accident, and all of the uncertainty of the good doctor, will the cake baker be a sadist after all? A psychopath? Will the family numbers continue to dwindle? And where is this obscure destination we seem to be careening towards? What an answerless kingdom that has been built.
That second act of horror does not arrive, despite the tease. Curious to a degree, but no matter - its presence in our mind more than accounts for its absence in the real world. But then, maybe the reality of the thing is the horror; maybe that is enough.
What does arrive is relief and therapy, albeit delayed. Not just for Carver’s captive audience but for this small little family as well. So smaller than it was yesterday, the couple begins a different journey than the one they set out on before the death of their imagingings. The travel begins in earnest at that unassuming but important filling station from before.
And amidst the fury, and the rage, a misunderstanding somehow finds itself undone. Lost then is the fury, and the rage. Lost is that sordid quest for answers. The baker’s confections, it turns out, leave no room for questions to be asked, let alone questions to be unanswered.
Beyond the flow and the straightforwardness, it is the chivalry with which Carver meets the reader and the parents that is most astounding. As if opening the clouds and holding the umbrella, he makes and then takes the pain.
The writer George Saunders refers to the work as a masterpiece and that may well be true. In the end, Carver leaves for us what he leaves to the couple he has created - immersion, and appetite.
And building on that Amis metaphor - the one he used to colour Vladimir Nabokov as among the most caring of literary hosts - is Carver. After first submerging us in the depths of the unfamiliar and the strange, he doesn’t just make us feel at home, he takes us there.
This too, is a small, good thing.
A Small, Good Thing (1983) by Raymond Carver can be found here.
An interesting reflection on the short story, written by Abram Van Engen, can be found here.