That Girl: On Kathleen Alcott’s “Emergency”

At the heart of every short story in Kathleen Alcott’s new collection is a woman and her mind. All seven are plainly feminine. Sometimes they are “I” and sometimes they are “she,” and, in “Emergency,” the first, best, and titular story, there’s the strange and brilliant use of “we” to talk about one woman who stands apart from “us.” A divorcée’s downfall is the main event, but a few clever lines give the impression of a friend group who bears witness: rich women who met at Dalton, traveled between Ivies on weekends, moved to the city with boyfriends (who became husbands with “fat backs”), carpooled children to Montessori. One member slipped in along the way, accepted because she was beautiful and she thought to do things like thread rosemary through the lemon slices in her water pitcher. She was the Jessa to their Hannahs, Shoshs, and Marnies. Her wildness provided for the group when coffee dates dragged. The summer she turns thirty, what was scary sexy cool has gone rotten, and she crescendos with a shameful act that could be poor judgment if it didn’t read as self sabotage. The chorus of “we” was jealous of her before, but now they’re grateful that they’re not her and never were.