Carla heard the car coming before it topped the little rise in the road that around here they called a hill. It’s her, she thought. Mrs. Jamieson—Sylvia—home from her holiday in Greece. From the barn door—but far enough inside that she could not readily be seen—she watched the road Mrs. Jamieson would have to drive by on, her place being half a mile farther along the road than Clark and Carla’s.
If it was somebody getting ready to turn in at their gate it would be slowing down by now. But still Carla hoped. Let it not be her.
It was. Mrs. Jamieson turned her head once, quickly—she had all she could do maneuvering her car through the ruts and puddles the rain had made in the gravel—but she didn’t lift a hand off the wheel to wave, she didn’t spot Carla. Carla got a glimpse of a tanned arm bare to the shoulder, hair bleached a lighter color than it had been before, more white now than silver-blond, and an expression that was determined and exasperated and amused at her own exasperation—just the way Mrs. Jamieson would look negotiating such a road. When she turned her head there was something like a bright flash—of inquiry, of hopefulness—that made Carla shrink back.
Maybe Clark didn’t know yet. If he was sitting at the computer he would have his back to the window and the road.
But Mrs. Jamieson might have to make another trip. Driv- ing home from the airport, she might not have stopped for groceries—not until she’d been home and figured out what she needed. Clark might see her then. And after dark, the lights of her house would show. But this was July, and it didn’t get dark till late. She might be so tired that she wouldn’t bother with the lights, she might go to bed early.
On the other hand, she might telephone. Any time now.
This was the summer of rain and more rain. You heard it first thing in the morning, loud on the roof of the mobile home. The trails were deep in mud, the long grass soaking, leaves overhead sending down random showers even in those moments when there was no actual downpour from the sky and the clouds looked like clearing. Carla wore a high, wide-brimmed old Australian felt hat every time she went outside, and tucked her long thick braid down her shirt.
Nobody showed up for trail rides, even though Clark and Carla had gone around posting signs in all the camping sites, in the cafes, and on the tourist office billboard and anywhere else they could think of. Only a few pupils were coming for lessons and those were regulars, not the batches of schoolchildren on vacation, the busloads from summer camps, that had kept them going through last summer. And even the regulars that they counted on were taking time off for holiday trips, or simply cancelling their lessons because of the weather being so discouraging. If they called too late, Clark charged them for the time anyway. A couple of them had complained, and quit for good.
There was still some income from the three horses that were boarded. Those three, and the four of their own, were out in the field now, poking around in the grass under the trees. They looked as if they couldn’t be bothered to notice that the rain was holding off for the moment, the way it often did for a while in the afternoon. Just enough to get your hopes up—the clouds whitening and thinning and letting through a diffuse brightness that never got around to being real sunshine, and was usually gone before supper.
Carla had finished mucking out in the barn. She had taken her time—she liked the rhythm of her regular chores, the high space under the barn roof, the smells. Now she went over to the exercise ring to see how dry the ground was, in case the five o’clock pupil did show up.
Most of the steady showers had not been particularly heavy, or borne on any wind, but last week there had come a sud- den stirring and then a blast through the treetops and a nearly horizontal blinding rain. In a quarter of an hour the storm had passed over. But branches lay across the road, hydro lines were down, and a large chunk of the plastic roofing over the ring had been torn loose. There was a puddle like a lake at that end of the track, and Clark had worked until after dark, digging a channel to drain it away.
The roof had not yet been repaired. Clark had strung fence wire across to keep the horses from getting into the mud, and Carla had marked out a shorter track.
On the Web, right now, Clark was hunting for someplace to buy roofing. Some salvage outlet, with prices that they could afford, or somebody trying to get rid of such material secondhand. He would not go to Hy and Robbert Buckley’s Building Supply in town, which he called Highway Robbers Buggery Supply, because he owed them too much money and had had a fight with them.
Clark had fights not just with the people he owed money to. His friendliness, compelling at first, could suddenly turn sour. There were places he would not go into, where he always made Carla go, because of some row. The drugstore was one such place. An old woman had pushed in front of him—that is, she had gone to get something she’d forgotten and come back and pushed in front, rather than going to the end of the line, and he had complained, and the cashier had said to him, “She has emphysema,” and Clark had said, “Is that so? I have piles, myself,” and the manager had been summoned, to say that was uncalled-for. And in the coffee shop out on the highway the advertised breakfast discount had not been allowed, because it was past eleven o’clock in the morning, and Clark had argued and then dropped his takeout cup of coffee on the floor—just missing, so they said, a child in its stroller. He said the child was half a mile away and he dropped the cup because no cuff had been provided. They said he had not asked for a cuff. He said he shouldn’t have had to ask.
“You flare up,” said Carla.
“That’s what men do.”
She had not said anything to him about his row with Joy Tucker. Joy Tucker was the librarian from town who boarded her horse with them. The horse was a quick-tempered little chestnut mare named Lizzie—Joy Tucker, when she was in a jokey mood, called her Lizzie Borden. Yesterday she had driven out, not in a jokey mood at all, and complained about the roof’s not being fixed yet, and Lizzie looking miserable, as if she might have caught a chill.
There was nothing the matter with Lizzie, actually. Clark had tried—for him—to be placating. But then it was Joy Tucker who flared up and said that their place was a dump, and Lizzie deserved better, and Clark said, “Suit yourself.” Joy had not—or not yet—removed Lizzie, as Carla had expected. But Clark, who had formerly made the little mare his pet, had refused to have anything more to do with her. Lizzie’s feelings were hurt, in consequence—she was balky when exercised and kicked up a fuss when her hoofs had to be picked out, as they did every day, lest they develop a fungus. Carla had to watch out for nips.
But the worst thing as far as Carla was concerned was the absence of Flora, the little white goat who kept the horses company in the barn and in the fields. There had not been any sign of her for two days. Carla was afraid that wild dogs or coyotes had got her, or even a bear.
She had dreamt of Flora last night and the night before. In the first dream Flora had walked right up to the bed with a red apple in her mouth, but in the second dream—last night—she had run away when she saw Carla coming. Her leg seemed to be hurt but she ran anyway. She led Carla to a barbed-wire barricade of the kind that might belong on some battlefield, and then she—Flora—slipped through it, hurt leg and all, just slithered through like a white eel and disappeared.
The horses had seen Carla go across to the ring and they had all moved up to the fence—looking bedraggled in spite of their New Zealand blankets—so that she would take notice of them on her way back. She talked quietly to them, apologizing for coming empty-handed. She stroked their necks and rubbed their noses and asked whether they knew anything about Flora.
Grace and Juniper snorted and nuzzled up, as if they recognized the name and shared her concern, but then Lizzie butted in between them and knocked Grace’s head away from Carla’s petting hand. She gave the hand a nip for good measure, and Carla had to spend some time scolding her.
Up until three years ago Carla never really looked at mobile homes. She didn’t call them that, either. Like her parents, she would have thought “mobile home” pretentious. Some people lived in trailers, and that was all there was to it. One trailer was no different from another. When Carla moved in here, when she chose this life with Clark, she began to see things in a new way. After that she started saying “mobile home” and she looked to see how people had fixed them up. The kind of curtains they had hung, the way they had painted the trim, the ambitious decks or patios or extra rooms that had been built on. She could hardly wait to get at such improvements herself.
Clark had gone along with her ideas, for a while. He had built new steps, and spent a lot of time looking for an old wrought-iron railing for them. He didn’t make any complaint about the money spent on paint for the kitchen and bathroom or the material for curtains. Her paint job was hasty—she didn’t know, at that time, that you should take the hinges off the cupboard doors. Or that you should line the curtains, which had since faded.
What Clark balked at was tearing up the carpet, which was the same in every room and the thing that she had most counted on replacing. It was divided into small brown squares, each with a pattern of darker brown and rust and tan...
ONE OF THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW 10 BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR:
“Her 11th collection of short stories about people, often women living in rural Ontario, whose vivid, unremarkable lives are rendered with almost Tolstoyan resonance.”
“In a word, magnificent.”
, starred review
“Dazzling...What’s astonishing about Munro’s work is how simultaneously unsparing and forgiving it is, how willing she is to say things no one else will admit out loud. Munro hasn’t mellowed with maturity. She only grows sharper with time.”
–Francine Prose, More
“Global, bighearted, and warm...Munro’s characters are hopeful and proud as they face both the betrayals and gestures of kindness that animate their relationships. One never knows quite where a Munro story will end, only that it will leave an incandescent trail of psychological insight.”
, starred review
“Haunting...[Munro’s] sheer perception and eloquence make her one of the foremost contemporary practitioners of the short story in English...Remarkable.”
, starred review
“New Munro stories: who could ask for anything more?”
“A sensitive and deeply insightful writer, Munro renders hauntingly realistic characters with an unflinching eye.”
Magazine Reader’s Prize
“Another carefully calibrated collection about [Munro’s] favorite themes: unfaithful women, fraying marriages, long-standing deceptions....Simply breathtaking.”
–Fort Worth Star Telegram
is] quintessential Munro at top form...Throughout the work Munro captures the defining human struggle to make sense of a capricious or shapeless reality, to reach ‘the discovery that leaves everything whole.’”
–Quill & Quire
“The great Alice Munro proves again why short-story writers bow down to her.”
“Alice Munro has a strong claim to being the best fiction writer now working in North America....Runaway
is a marvel....Runaway
is so good that I don’t want to talk about it here. Quotation can’t do the book justice, and neither can synopsis. The way to do it justice is to read it...Which leaves me with the simple instruction that I began with: Read Munro! Read Munro!”
–Jonathan Franzen, on the cover of The New York Times Book Review
"As with so many of Munro's stories, you read to have your premises altered and deepened. Could anything be better?"
–Michael Frank, Los Angeles Times
"In Alice Munro's hands, the smallest moments contain the central truths of a lifetime."
–Judith Timson, Maclean's
“Munro is routinely called one of the finest living writers. You can turn to any of the eight stories in Runaway
and see why...Let’s be clear about one thing here: this is a rave.”
–Richard Lacayo, People
“[These] eight wonderful stories...seem at first to be about women, but they’re about being human–how that condition cradles us, limits us....[Runaway
is] a big dish of Beluga caviar, [sailing] in on a sparkling bed of ice, with a mother-of-pearl spoon. You remember: This is why you eat, read, make love, whatever–to be left silly with admiration and delight.”
–Carolyn See, The Washington Post
, a new collection of stories by one of the greats of the 20th century, Munro writes again about love–romantic love, sexual love, love between parents and children–and how it changes lives, not always for the better....To Munro, love is always momentous, but never predictable and never without cost.”
–Polly Shulman, Newsday
“One after another, these stories, saturated with grieving insight, leave us ‘outraged, but warmed from a distance, clear of shame’–with endings that are as satisfyingly appropriate as they are goosebumpingly unforgettable. And that’s
a consummation devoutly to be wished.”
–Daniel Asa Rose, New York Observer
“With a faultless ear for poignant detail, Munro presents ordinary lives that disguise larger dramas. She delves deep into human belonging and exile....Runaway
may very well be the synthesizing work of one of literature’s keenest investigators into the human soul.”
–Maria Fish, USA Today
“Munro’s new collection is again filled with small masterpieces illuminating real life... profound in important ways.
–John Marshall, Seattle Post-Intelligencer
“Beautifully written and startlingly real...Her characters are so real that they walk off the page. I had to close the book after each story, letting the experience sink in.”
–Ashley Simpson Shires, Rocky Mountain News
“Superlative...[Munro offers] a wealth of telling detail [and] clear cut, no-nonsense language,...focusing on the earth-shattering, quietly.”
–Leonard Gill, Memphis Flyer
"Munro is wise in the ways of human emotion, and her stories are so rich…that even a tale of less than 50 pages feels as rounded as a novel."
–Lee Aitken, People,
"Each of the stories in Runaway contains enough lived life to fill a typical novel, and reading them is to become immersed in the concerns and worlds of their various characters…Her women are heroic. They endure the lives produced by their choices and the fates, and they endure in the mind of the reader."
–David Thoreen, Boston Globe