This collection of character-driven stories is full of vivid details that range from achingly ordinary to quirky to meaningful and even sublime. I love how much Selecky trusts her readers to become as deeply involved in her stories as she and her characters are. Every story does a masterful job of fulfilling Joy Williams’ essential attributes of the short story, particularly #1: “There should be a clean clear surface with much disturbance below.”
I’m not going to try to fit the stories I liked best –—“Standing Up for Janey,” “Watching Atlas,” Throwing Cotton,” “How Healthy Are You?,” “Go Manchura,” “Paul Farenbacher’s Yard Sale,” and “One Thousand Wax Buddhas” — into a single category. My reasons for liking them stem mostly from the lush details, the expertly-drawn characters and the settings and circumstances. In other words, everything that makes a great story.
The situations range from mundane to poignant and the story arcs vary. Sometimes there is a dramatic turn of events, as in “Throwing Cotton” and “Watching Atlas.” You don’t yet see the fallout, but you know that upheaval lurks. People’s lives will change in wrenching and permanent ways.
Sometimes it’s a small but significant release of pent-up emotion, as in “Paul Farenbacher’s Yard Sale.” Throughout the story, the narrator Meredith holds herself above grief, aided by her memories of the man and her objectivity about the stuff of his life, now arrayed on the front lawn for any takers. I was struck by the uncanny similarity of the Lazy-Y-Boy in which Paul Farenbacher spent his last days and my own father’s last-days recliner. Here an object takes on meaning beyond itself and carries in its plush, mechanical bulk all the heartbreak of the loss of a good man—neighbor, father, mentor, friend. The significance of the chair to Meredith only hits her as she watches it being loaded onto the buyers’ truck.
“One Thousand Wax Buddhas” is possibly the most well-constructed story in the collection. I admire the way that Selecky works with time here. The narrator skips ahead and doubles back in such a natural way, as though you’re in a pub and he is telling you his true and tragic story. You know before it ends what happens, but that only adds to the impact. Again, the fallout is left to the reader’s imagination, which is just as it should be.
Food plays a central role in many of these stories. Preparation, meals, a tense meeting in a café, obsession over health, an awkward gala dinner. The scenes are so realistic and exquisitely observed, you could reverse engineer a couple of recipes from them. Always, the food serves either to bring people together or push them apart by highlighting unbridgeable differences.
Just for fun, here are a few gorgeous passages:
A cache of Chianti left behind by a boyfriend when he moved out: “the twelve dark, moody bottles.” (p. 92)
A description of Milt, soon to be married to Janey, who we’ve just learned is having an affair: “I can’t look into Milt’s open face for longer than a couple of seconds. His big eyes, his wide mouth. When he smiles, it’s like he’s throwing open a set of double doors so you can step out onto the veranda.” (p. 98-99)
“There’s a strange voice coming from the stereo. Deep and unwavering, a voice like fruit soaked in liquor.” (p. 103)
“Wait! I call after them, half running across the lawn like a lachrymose widow, my throat filled with hot and itchy clots of tears, crying now, because I remember the last thing that Paul Farenbacher said to me, Bis morgen, which wasn’t significant at the time, just a little thing he said to me before I left him for the night, tucked in to that chair, that blue chair.” (p. 173)
“The fire is still confined to the back, in the wicking station. And I see them all, lined up in rows: one thousand multicoloured Buddhas, smiling at me in enlightenment, their heads burning off.” (p. 229)