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who hew to what the narrator, Mr. Adomsek, feels is more important. He is a sort of cousin to the speaker in Mandatory Evacuation; he wins (and perhaps loses) through word choice, he easily discerns the nature of others, and he credits the Catholic Church with brainwashing. One element to especially admire, as it is rare: the story manages to muse about some serious things (recovery of equilibrium after a child’s suicide, say, or the tension between those who “remain in high school” with those who grow up) without ever losing its sense of humor. A complex weave of likenesses informs these stories, strengthening their obsessive concerns, leading us deeper into a very particular setting: the milk route, the Shell station, the Dugout. Catholic parents and the son who thinks the afterlife only a fairy story, fast-running cars, death in traffic accidents, resentment of childhood’s religious instruction, and the uneasy attitudes toward guns recur. The result is a highly unified group of stories. Far more than most collections, this one deals with the interaction between figures risen in the world because of education and those left behind or sometimes encountered unexpectedly. The author’s interest in this intersection of realms is constant, but attitudes portrayed vary wildly, from the stance of young men who don’t want to be snobbish with old high school friends to the unleashed anger of Beth, stressed by the burden of being a caretaker and by a divorce, who verbally assaults an easy target, perhaps causing the death of a man she
believes to be grotesque in appearance and beliefs. Like an O’Connor character who suddenly sees her inner self flash into view as in a mirror, Beth is shocked into tears and prayer. On a related note, the volume shows us more of the world of work that we usually see in contemporary short stories, an aspect of the book that is satisfying. Blue-collar workers mix with teachers and professors. We even see some of those curious made-up jobs that are found so often in rural areas, as when we meet Trapper, who is “a lot cheaper” and “works for himself,” trapping “raccoons, hornets, snakes, rats, bats” (2). Characters often seem close kin, another feature that strengthens the unity of the book. The Hank of “Luck and Love” is congruent with Jim of “Gamesmanship,” right down to the fact that both liked to race cars in high school and were arrested as a result. (And like Peter Makuck, Hank seems to have attended St. Francis College in Maine.) This look at the educated young adult returned home is a lighter piece, a warmer look at parent and son. In “Beyond March Madness,” story is tilted toward a mother’s point of view. The accident and the loss of a father haunting a character like Nick in “Detention and Delivery” become the loss of a husband and the worry over a rootless, unmotivated son – another young man at risk of never quite growing up. Meanwhile, protagonist Nick is in high school, putting up with Bug Dolan and his buddies, the sort of kids who become the adults who “remain in high school” from the
prior story. Nick scorns snobs and Catholic schoolteacher nuns and lazy nurses’ aides and his boss, but in the course of his evening delivering meds for Wanek’s pharmacy, he takes a large step into a life that is richer and stranger and more empathetic. Not that he has shown no signs of being headed that way. Intensely affected by his father’s death, a reader of poetry with his girl, and sensitive to his dreams and the sufferings of the women at the nursing home, Nick is already on the brink of seeing that the world is not as it seems. A recent dream, a fox, Mrs. Farias the sympathetic fortuneteller, and even Mr. Wanek all are beacons that lead Nick forward into a new season of his life, one where he will be more open to the mysteries of life, language, and the enigma of others. A great deal happens in a small space in this fine story. Peter Makuck’s short stories, like his poems, deal with “here” and “there,” often moving back and forth between present and the past that still lives in and shapes his narrators. The poems sweep across the world, evoking a wild variety of landscapes and the people who belong to them. The stories focus more tightly around the people of “there” and “here,” of past and present. “When I read poetry or fiction,” Makuck says, “I want to feel the setting and atmosphere, want to feel a connection between speaker and place, not just look at some arbitrary background as is often the case in films.”3 Here are no arbitrary backgrounds, but a strong umbilical line running from narrator to landscape and milieu. n
3
“An Interview with Peter Makuck,” Sewanee Review Winter (2010): web.