When Mary Ladd Gavell died in 1967, at the age of forty-seven, she had never been published. But her story “The Rotifer” was fortuitously discovered by John Updike, who called it a “gem” and included it in The Best American Short Stories of the Century . With the publication of I Cannot Tell a Lie , Exactly, Mary Ladd Gavell takes her rightful place among the best writers of her—and our—time.
Mary Ladd Gavell died at the tender age of 47 in 1967. She pursued a master's degree in linguistics, left Texas to work for an international organization in Washington DC, and became managing editor of Psychiatry magazine. During her life, she published nothing. Thirty years after her death, however, a collection of her short stories was found in a drawer. One of them, The Rotifer, was published in the magazine she'd edited, as a tribute. John Updike scooped it up, and included it in his "The Best American Short Stories of the Century". Now, sixteen of her stories appear in this little gem of a collection, introduced by Kaye Gibbons and praised by the likes of Elinor Lipman, Anita Shreve, and Elizabeth Berg. Me, I'm not a big fan of tender poignant mother-child reminiscences. Though Gavell was ahead of her times in many ways, she was a mother and much of her writing reflects her personal experience, as literary work often does. Still. I was caught up in her stories. After finishing them, I find myself wondering how much of her perspective reflects the mindset of the time, and how much reveals the universality of certain human experience. That I find it difficult to tease out the difference is a testimony to how good these stories are. A little story called "His Beautiful Handwriting" is three and a half pages long. It absolutely moved me to tears. That doesn't happen often. And I find The Rotifer a haunting puzzle of conflicted motivation. This would be an ideal collection for book group discussion, and potentially more provocative than first blush might promise. I'm going to leave you with a paragraph from the Rotifer. Her description captured so perfectly a man I had known years ago that Gavell took my breath away. That's what great writers do.
"He was a good-looking young man in his late twenties, with a conservative tie, a direct eye, and a firm handshake. He greeted me with a special cousinly warmth, and his manner toward Leah was a charming mixture of serious protectiveness and teasing adoration. Leah was radiant. I looked at the young man again, and I imagined that his neatly cut face was clearly sinister and that his every word and gesture was plainly false. He was a bright enough, nice enough young man, who, I surmised, thought his ways to be a little more winning, and other people a little more simple, than they were, and whose eye was firmly fixed on the main chance. (Years later) Leah's still a handsome woman, but the dazzle is gone, and she looks tired around the eyes. But so do I; so, in time, does everybody."
As even the most earnest student longs for graduation, the most faithful employee yearns for retirement, so Martha Hedges looked forward to widowhood. She would not by word or deed have attempted to hasten such an outcome; this is not a murder story. On the contrary, she was a devoted wife who lived in loving concord with a genuinely good husband. Being, in her shy and quiet way, a devout woman, she expected eventually to join Harold in Heaven for all eternity; but she counted on a nice long vacation first.
Were John Cheever to have had a twin sister who also wrote short stories, and had that imaginary sister spent time as a child in the loving care of her aunts, Dorothy Parker and Dawn Powell, she might write like Mary Ladd Gavell, the author of a single slim book of short stories. I Cannot Tell a Lie, Exactly: And Other Stories is a collection of wonderfully written stories that combine both depth and heart, while avoiding sentimentality and regard life with an eye for the subtle humor. Gavell died unpublished; it was only when a single short story (The Rotifer) was published in a trade magazine as a tribute to her, that she was discovered. The few stories she did write are sublime. My favorite is Baucis, which begins with the above paragraph. Gavell's stories concern the domestic; a child taking the school bus, an older couple caring for her mother as she dies, another couple on the search for antiques in New England, and they are pitch perfect. I'll be holding on to my copy because I know that I'll want to reread this more than a few times.
The front and back covers of this book are covered with praise:
"Everyone should have this book on their shelf...for the pleasure of reading a perfect story again and again."-Chicago Sun Times
"Each [story:] is a perfect gem..."-Bookpage
"[I Cannot Tell a Lie, Exactly:] helps elevate the story to a national art form."-The Seattle Times
And so on. It's a little intimidating to start a book with all this hanging over my head. If I didn't proclaim this book's brilliance would it be because of my own inability to recognize it?
I think I can honestly say, though, that these are among the best short stories I have ever read and I have read loads of them. Mary Ladd Gavell's stories are sweet and familiar with just enough of an edge to them that they never feel sappy. Mostly they just feel true. She's funny like Flannery O'Connor, but not so brutal. Some of her stories have a bit of a wicked twist, but it's a sort of gentle wickedness.
I came across this book one day at work and was instantly attracted to the wonderful title. I love short stories, so I decided to give it a shot and I'm glad I did. This book is taking a permanent spot on my bookshelves. It makes me really sad that these sixteen stories are all we're ever going to have from Gavell.
I read these stories long ago and have never forgotten some of them, though I had to do some detective work to remember the title of the book and the author's name. Mary Ladd Gavell was editor of a journal of psychiatry where there was no room for her fiction. Her husband read the stories as she wrote them and then they were filed away until they were found in a drawer. They were published in the spring of 1967 when she had been dead for a few months.
I remember one about a woman whose son is grown and married, but she goes out after dark and swings and sees her son as the little boy of long ago. Another is the story of a woman who dies before her husband whose care and feeding have been her duty for many years of marriage. Her one wish has been that she outlive him so that she could have a little freedom. Her children interpret her death as being so loving that she can't bear to think of living without him.
I read "The Rotifer" in the somewhat immodestly titled anthology, The Best American Short Stories of the Century, and was caught up with its subtle insights into the moral implications and confounding risks of intervening for the good in the lives of others. I sought more information about the author, whom I'd never heard of before, and found that she published no stories in her lifetime. After her untimely death, "The Rotifer" appeared as a memorial to her in Psychiatry magazine, where she had been managing editor. It received praise at the time but didn't get more notice until it was included in the anthology. This interest led to the publication of this fine collection of her work, which consists of penetrating, nuanced stories about the lives of ordinary people, people whose personalities and behavior are marked by the inevitable contradictions that are part of the human condition.
It took me so long to finish the book because I read it piecemeal-- it's a little gem of a collection of short stories published after the early demise of its author, Mary Ladd Gavell.
Clearly borrowed from bits and pieces of her life, of her sons' lives, Gavell sets out situations clearly and without ostentation. Her characters are totally believable, appealing (or not) in their own 9 year old boy or middle-aged farm wife ways.
Reading the book is like eating a small box of elegant chocolates: 16 pieces, ranging from a cotton field in east Texas to a country store to a college science lab.
The only thing wrong in this set up is that the author did not live long enough to write more.
The stories in this posthumous collection are pleasant, very short, and structured for the most part like high school literature lessons. A bit less shallow are 1) a scattered set of vignettes presenting Jane, a Christ-like seven year old and 2) The Blessing, a hopeful search for redemption through dementia.
Many of the stories deal with the shallowness of understanding between family members. That's a dependably effective trope. Unfortunately, most of Mrs. Gavell's characters are equally ignorant of their internal identities and feelings. It's hard to respect a writer who consistently talks down to her own creations.
This is so completely a 5 star book. It is a collection of short stories that was published posthumously by Mary Ladd Gavell's sons. I accidentally found it one day while browsing in the library. After I read it I immediately ordered a copy for myself from Amazon. It is the kind of book that you want to read again and again. We also read it as a book group selection. And everyone agreed with me that it is a truly amazing collection. Each story is like a perfect pearl.
Nicely crafted short stories, mainly about women and girls in Texas. The stories feel honest, often touching, but not overly sentimental. Definitely worth reading for those who like short stories.
A new author for me, but I loved her work. She writes in the mid-20th century about families that could be mine. Short stories happy and sad, always with a little twist that you don't expect.