National Story Project
With Paul Auster

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May 2000 -- In this installment of the National Story Project, Paul reads stories by Mary Ann Garrett, Paige Rohmann, Jerry Yellin and Eric Brotman.

Mary Ann Garrett is now seventy-three. For the first fifty-five years of her life she suffered from severe panic and anxiety attacks. She managed to get married and have five children, but she lived in fear that she was going to drop dead of heart failure or go stark raving mad. In 1981, she began reading articles about her condition, and with a great deal of help from family and friends, she began venturing out into a world that had always terrified her. Then came what seemed like an insurmountable challenge. She had to fly from Chicago to Los Angeles by herself. It would be her first solo flight, and even though her husband upgraded her tickets to first class, her dread became overwhelming. She had nightmares about losing her mind and and forcing the pilot to land and let her off the plane. Miraculously, she got through the journey in one piece. They even flew into a thunder-and-lightning storm at one point, but Mrs. Garrett handled it well, and by the time the plane landed, she was feeling elated. She spent several weeks in California, and then she had to think about going home. The same fears and nightmares returned. By the day of her flight, as she puts it, she was a basket case. She sat down in her seat, and as she fought the urge to jump up and run off the plane, she decided to say a prayer. It went something like this: "Please, God, help me -- and do it right now!" "As I sat there with my eyes shut and my hands gripping the armrests," Mrs. Garrett continues, "I heard a commotion on the other side of the first-class section. The flight attendants were pushing black boxes on wheels to the front of the cabin -- the kind used by musicians and other entertainers. I opened my eyes and saw a little old man being escorted to the seats opposite mine. A young man and woman were assisting him, and he was standing with his back to me. They took his overcoat, folded it, and put it into the overhead bin. The old man kept his scarf, placed it carefully around his neck, and patted it down on his chest. The young woman took the window seat, and as the old man turned around to face me, he nodded his head and gave me the most beautiful smile. It was George Burns. I had just seen him play the role of God in the movie Oh, God. I had prayed for help many times in my life, but God has never answered in such a dramatic way. I guess God figured I needed it under the circumstances. I have never been afraid to fly alone again."

Paige Rohmann of Charlotesville, Virginia writes that in 1970 her father gave her a birthstone ring as a present. It had a dark blue sapphire with small diamonds on each side set in a white gold band. Inside the band was inscribed the word FAITH. She treasured this ring and wore it often. "In November 1991," she continues, "I visited a doctor's office and accidentally left the ring in his examining room. I called fifteen minutes after leaving the office to notify the staff to search for the ring. The room could not be searched immediately because a patient was being examined there. When the patient left and the room was cleaned, the ring was gone. I reported it missing to the local police and gave them a detailed description. I posted notices in the elevator of the building. I advertised in the local paper, offering a reward for its return. Over the years, I searched in many jewelry stores, pawn shops, and antique shops to see if I could find a similar ring, but I never could. My father died in 1978....My mother had a ring with an aquamarine stone that her grandfather had given her. She wore it always -- and told me that when she was gone, she wanted me 'to put it on and never take it off.' In October 1991, she came down with an acute illness and had to enter a nursing home. In early March 1995, an official from the nursing home told the family that my mother had only a few more days to live. On March fifth, I was wearing her ring on a necklace. I realized I was afraid that if I wore it on my finger, I would lose it in the same way I had lost the ring my father had given me. Sitting in her room that afternoon as she lay in a coma, I said to her silently, 'Well, Mom, when you get to the other side, maybe you could help me find my ring, so I won't be afraid to wear yours.' My mother died on March seventh. On Thursday, March thirtieth, one of the nurses at the clinic where I work was going through some papers. I entered her office to speak to her, and as her hand moved under the table lamp, a ring she was wearing gave off a great flash of blue light. 'Oh , Gloria,' I said, 'what a beautiful ring.' When I looked at it more closely, I saw that it was identical to the ring I had lost in 1991. She took it off and let me hold it. There, inside the band, worn but still visible, was the word FAITH. Gloria said her boyfriend had found the ring in a used car he was cleaning out for a car dealership. I told her my story, and she returned the ring without question. We have since become close friends...I have puzzled long and hard over the meaning of this incident. Did my mother somehow 'hear' my thoughts through her coma? Was finding the ring a coincidence? I don't think so. Did my mother reach the other side and somehow know to look for the ring? Did my own desire to find it activate the chain of events that brought the ring back to me? I cannot solve this puzzle. Perhaps it is a message to me from both my parents. My only certainty is that this event tells me to 'have faith.'"

Jerry Yellin was in a big rush. He was on his way to a meeting with an architect from the Fort Lauderdale Hotel and Restaurant Commission, Rick Reiley, and was already running late. He took a wrong turn and soon became lost in a maze of one-way streets and canals. As he struggled to find his way back to downtown Fort Lauderdale, he felt what he describes as a "hard bump." "I stopped," Mr. Yellin writes, "and saw a large dog, apparently dead, in back of my car. I ran to a house, rang the bell, but no one answered. I ran to the next house and rang that bell and a young woman in a tennis outfit opened the door. 'I've just killed a dog and need to call the police,' I said. 'Can I use your phone?' She looked out and said, 'That's my dog.' After calling the authorities and calming the woman down, she asked if I would like a cup of coffee. I accepted and sat down in the kitchen. There was a Dale Carnegie book on the table, and I asked her who took the Dale Carnegie course. I managed the area for Dale Carnegie and knew everyone who enrolled. 'My husband,' she said, and when I asked her who he was, she answered: 'Rick Reiley.' Great, I thought. I need this man's approval for my building project, and I've just killed his dog. I explained to Mrs. Reiley that I had an appointment with her husband and asked her to please call him and explain why I was late. I got back into my car and arrived at City Hall a few minutes later. As I walked toward Rick's office, I saw him coming down the hall toward me with a scowl on his face. When he reached me, he grabbed me in a bear hug and said quite loudly: 'You've done us a great favor, Jerry. Our dog was old and blind and had cancer, and neither my wife nor I had the courage to put him to sleep. Thank you so much for what you've done.'"

Eric Brotman of Nevada City, California describes his grandmother as an iron-willed woman, the feared matriarch of the family. Back in the 1950s, when Mr. Brotman was five, she invited some friends and relatives to her Bronx apartment for a party. "Among the guests," he writes, "was a neighborhood bigshot who was doing well in business. His wife was proud of their social status and let everyone at the party know it. They had a little girl about my age who was spoiled and very much used to getting her way. Grandmother spent a lot of time with the bigshot and his family. She considered them the most important members of her social circle and worked hard at currying their favor. At one point during the party, I made my way to the bathroom and closed the door behind me. A minute or two later, the little girl opened the door and grandly walked in. I was still sitting down. I hollered at her: 'Don't you know that little girls aren't supposed to come into the bathroom when a little boy is still using it?' The surprise of my being there, along with the indignation I had heaped upon her, stunned the little girl. Then she started to cry. She quickly closed the door, ran to the kitchen, and tearfully complained to her parents and my grandmother. Most of the guests had overheard my loud remark and were greatly amused by it. But not my grandmother. She was waiting for me when I left the bathroom -- and then I received the longest, sharpest tongue-lashing of my young life. Grandmother yelled that I was impolite and rude and that I had insulted that nice little girl. The guests watched and winced in absolute silence. So forceful was my grandmother's personality that no one dared stand up for me. After she finished her harrangue and I was dismissed, the party continued, but the atmosphere was much more subdued. Twenty minutes later, all that changed. Grandmother walked by the bathroom and noticed a torrent of water streaming out from under the door. She shrieked twice - - first in astonishment, then in rage. She flung open the bathroom door and saw that the sink and tub drains were plugged up -- with the faucets going full blast. Everyone knew who the culprit was. The guests quickly formed a protective wall around me, but grandmother was so furious that she almost got to me anyway -- flailing her arms as if trying to swim over the crowd. Eventually, my grandfather took my hand and sat me down on his lap in a chair by the window. He was a kind and gentle man, full of wisdom and patience. Rarely did he raise his voice to anyone, and never did he argue with his wife or defy her wishes. He looked at me with much curiosity -- but no anger whatsoever. 'Tell me,' he asked, 'Why did you do it?' 'Well, she yelled at me for nothing,' I said. 'Now she's got something to yell about.' Grandfather didn't speak right away. He just sat there, looking at me and smiling. 'Eric,' he said at last. 'You are my revenge.'"

The National Story Project can be heard the first Saturday of every month on Weekend All Things Considered.