After watching this week’s virtual lecture on The Formalist Method, discuss TWO literary devices that you think are relevant to Tallent’s short story and explain why.  In other words, how do they help communicate the author’s main idea or the theme of the work?

No One’s a Mystery by Elizabeth Tallent
For my eighteenth birthday Jack gave me a five-year diary with a latch and a
little key, light as a dime. I was sitting beside him scratching at the lock,
which didn’t seem to want to work, when he thought he saw his wife’s
Cadillac in the distance, coming toward us. He pushed me down onto the
dirty floor of the pickup and kept one hand on my head while I inhaled the
musk of his ciga rettes in the dashboard ashtray and sang along with Rosanne
Cash on the tape deck. We’d been drinking tequila and the bottle was between
his legs, resting up against his crotch, where the seam of his Levi’s was
bleached linen-white, though the Levi’s were nearly new. I don’t know why
his Levi’s always bleached like that, along the seams and at the knees. In a
curve of cloth his zipper glinted, gold.

“It’s her,” he said. “She keeps the lights on in the daytime. I can’t think of
a single habit in a woman that irritates me more than that.” When he saw that I
was going to stay still he took his hand from my head and ran it through his
own dark hair.

“Why does she?” I said.
“She thinks it’s safer. Why does she need to be safer? She’s driving

exactly fifty-five miles an hour. She believes in those signs:

10 Short Fiction

`Speed Monitored by Aircraft.’ It doesn’t matter that you can look up
and see that the sky is empty.”

“She’ll see your lips move, Jack. She’ll know you’re talking to

“She’ll think I’m singing along with the radio.”
He didn’t lift his hand, just raised the fingers in salute while the

pressure of his palm steadied the wheel, and I heard the Cadillac honk twice,
musically; he was driving easily eighty miles an hour. I studied his boots. The
elk heads stitched into the leather were bearded with frayed thread, the toes
were scuffed, and there was a compact wedge of muddy manure between
the heel and the sole—the same boots he’d been wearing for the two years
I’d known him. On the tape deck Rosanne Cash sang, “Nobody’s into me, no
one’s a mystery.”

“Do you think she’s getting famous because of who her daddy is or for
herself?” Jack said.

“There are about a hundred pop tops on the floor, did you know that?
Some little kid could cut a bare foot on one of these, Jack.”

“No little kids get into this truck except for you.”
“How come you let it get so dirty?”
” `How come,’ he mocked. “You even sound like a kid. You can get

back into the seat now, if you want. She’s not going to look over her
shoulder and see you.”

“How do you know?”
“I just know,” he said. “Like I know I’m going to get meat loaf for

supper. It’s in the air. Like I know what you’ll be writing in that diary.”
“What will I be writing?” I knelt on my side of the seat and craned

around to look at the butterfly of dust printed on my jeans. Outside the
window Wyoming was dazzling in the heat. The wheat was fawn and
yellow and parted smoothly by the thin dirt road. I could smell the water in
the irrigation ditches hidden in the wheat.

“Tonight you’ll write, ‘ I love Jack. This is my birthday present from
him. I can’t imagine anybody loving anybody more than I love Jack.”

“I can’t.”
“In a year you’ll write, `I wonder what I ever really saw in Jack. I

wonder why I spent so many days just riding around in his pickup. It’.s true
he taught me something about sex. It’s true there wasn’t ever much else to
do in Cheyenne.’ ”

“I won’t write that.”
“In two years you’ll write, `I wonder what that old guy’s name was, the

one with the curly hair and the filthy dirty pickup truck and time on his
hands.’ ”

Short Fiction 11

” I won’t write that.”
“Tonight I’ll write, `I love Jack. This is my birthday present from

him. I can’t imagine anybody loving anybody more than I love Jack.’ ”
“No, you can’t,” he said. “You can’t imagine it.”
“In a year I’ll write, `Jack should be home any minute now. The

table’s set—my grandmother’s linen and her old silver and the yellow
candles left over from the wedding—but I don’t know if I can wait until
after the trout a la Navarra to make love to him.’ ”

“It must have been a fast divorce.”
“In two years I’ll write, `Jack should be home by now. Little Jack is

hungry for his supper. He said his first word today besides “Mama” and
“Papa.” He said “kaka.” ‘ ”

Jack laughed. “He was probably trying to finger-paint with kaka
on the bathroom wall when you heard him say it.”

“In three years I’ll write, `My nipples are a little sore from nursing
Eliza Rosamund.’

“Rosamund. Every little girl should have a middle name she hates.”
” `Her breath smells like vanilla and her eyes are just Jack’s color of

b l u e . ‘
“That’s nice.” Jack said.
“So, which one do you like?”
” I like yours,” he said. “But I believe mine.”
“It doesn’t matter. I believe mine.”
“Not in your heart of hearts, you don’t.”
“You’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong,” he said. “And her breath would smell like your milk,

and it’s kind of a bittersweet smell, if you want to know the truth.”

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