"This is one of my rare memory pieces, in which I mine the past for drama and resonance by way of opening a window onto my own hapless participation in the human condition. That wife is mine, those children are mine, that house was mine. This is fiction, however, and the events have been remodelled to fit the architecture of the story (and, yes, I did make the mad leap from the roof on the impulse of the moment)."
"There's a risk of the children drowning in the pool or being bitten by spiders; there's the danger of a brush fire on the nearby hillside; and more. There are multiple Chekhovian guns, and I won't spoil the story for anyone who hasn't read it yet by saying how many of those guns are eventually fired. In the meantime, the narrator chooses to do next to nothing to keep these things from happening."
A young couple with two small children and another on the way move into a Los Angeles house with a swimming pool. The husband narrates rising unease as hidden hazards accumulate: risk of the children drowning, spider bites, brush fires on nearby hills, and even a snake. The father repeatedly hosts pool parties and largely neglects his pregnant wife and children, exhibiting fear of adulthood and inertia despite recognizing potential consequences. The narrator reflects on youthful recklessness followed by aged foresight that nonetheless fails to prevent harm. The atmosphere tightens through Chekhovian threats and mounting moral tension.
Read at The New Yorker
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