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Executive Times |
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2005 Book Reviews |
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Stop That
Girl by Elizabeth McKenzie |
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Rating: •• (Mildly Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Unconventional Elizabeth McKenzie presents nine
stories featuring the life of Ann Ransom from childhood to adulthood, in her
new novel, Stop That
Girl. While each story stands on its own, the connection through character
provides an exposition similar to that of a novel. Here’s an excerpt, from
the end of the story titled, “Let Me Take You Down,” pp. 112-118: That
summer, the least of it was my classes. The bird-of-paradise woman increased
my hours, and I was spending whole afternoons with her. I fed the
birds-of-paradise with fish emulsion and kept all weeds at bay I learned how
to separate overcrowded clumps and start new colonies in various corners of
the yard. I maintained beds of annuals and pruned a vibrant eugenia hedge. I rescued plums from the birds and wove
tendrils of jasmine onto a bald fence. My ear clicked and crackled the faster
I worked, but all the industry made the bird-of-paradise woman look out her
back door and smile. While
I ate my tuna sandwich full of pickles, she often mentioned her dead husband,
Conrad. “Conrad used to hate weekends,” she’d say “He detested this town, he was so tired of all the students and coffee
shops.” “Conrad used to sit there all weekend; I couldn’t get him to budge.”
And Conrad had complained about her cooking. “It was never as good as his
mother’s, but that man could really wolf down a meal.” I
was tempted to ask what she’d seen in Conrad, but no matter what she told me,
she spoke of him without rancor. I came from a family of anger and impulse. I
couldn’t imagine myself living for years with someone like Conrad. Or could
I? It
stayed hot those days on the peninsula, the kind of scorching weather that
kept the grass brown until the rains fell again in winter. I had a vision
that kept me happy, of living in a creaky Victorian in Then,
the last day of summer school, after paying off the college bursar and the
ear specialist, I rode my bike over to say goodbye to the bird-of-paradise
woman. She had prepared a plump sack of oatmeal cookies for my journey, and
I threw my arms around her, wishing for a moment she was my own grandmother,
or at least someone I didn’t have to say goodbye to. I had the impulse to
love somebody too quickly and desperately, I could see that much. I’d have to
be careful of that. There
were parties, address exchanges. “What’re you going to do about Archie?”
Hannah asked. “Not
much. I have a lot of studying to do this year” I said. “I
wish we got to know each other better. Let’s for sure stay in touch, okay?” “For
sure!” She
gave me a Smith College T-shirt that said A CENTURY OF WOMEN ON TOP. She’d gained early admittance, knew
her life’s course. Party girl that she was, she wanted to go into the
diplomatic corps and later did just that. But for now we all packed and
vacated the dorm one Saturday morning before noon, just kids going home, and
Hannah’s young, attractive parents gave me and my bike a lift to the bus
station. They made jokes about how in the world had I put up with a scoundrel
like Hannah, I must be a saint, and so forth, but they were beaming at their
daughter and their daughter was beaming at them. It was a love fest. I
couldn’t wait to get out of the car. I
had to turn my head and point my good ear at him. “Not bad,” I said. “How’s
everything at home?” “Not
too good,” he said. “We’ll probably start looking to move.” “Again?” “No
use hassling over it all. We’re not attached to the place anyway. Are you?” “It’s
my senior year,” I said. “I don’t want to change schools.” “We’ll
try to keep you at the same school,” he said. “Don’t worry about that.” “How’s
Mom?” “Your
mother is a great human being.” “I
mean, is she feeling okay?” “She
has a lot on her plate. No more trouble; do we have an understanding?” “I
just got home!” “Well,
do we?” “Yes! God!” Soon we pulled up in the driveway of
our now designated non-home. The sight of it made me sick, like being
greeted by a crippled old dog you’ve decided to take out behind the barn.
Mom and Kathy rushed out to meet me. There were hugs and hellos all around. “Did you have the time of your life?”
Mom asked. “I hope not.” “Why, what’s wrong?” “Did you bring me anything?” Kathy
said. I did have something for Kathy, and I
groped numbly for it in my bag. “What is it?” she asked when I handed
it to her. “A gerenuk.” “What’s a gerenuk?” “It’s an animal from She frowned at the gerenuk. “One’s
probably enough.” Mom said, “Behold,” and pointed to the
sycamore, which had grown in my absence to further obscure the view. “Oh, well,” I said. “Oh, well, is right,” she said. “We’re
moving before anything else goes wrong!” We all gathered around the kitchen
table, and it was nice because they wanted to hear about my adventures,
though I deleted the ear thing and substituted “a guy on my hail” for Archie
in the story of my door. Mom seemed shocked by some of the things she hadn’t
known. “You had a job?” she said. “You went to this woman’s
home off campus? What kind of person was this? You ate there?” After she
calmed down, since, after all, I’d only just arrived, she said, “Well, she
sounds like a very nice woman. You’ll have to send her a thank-you card
immediately.” And since I’d only just arrived, I couldn’t say, “Back off!”
could I? But I made them laugh, describing the girl from That
evening, unpacking in my room, eager to call my friends and announce my
return, wondering what I’d be facing next, I found myself gazing idly for a
moment at my shelf of owls. Something was missing: my beautiful nozzle! I ran
to the den and asked Mom if she’d seen it. “The
nozzle on your shelf? I needed it.” I
ran outside. We had a bunch of hoses in our yard, stationed in various
places. A thick aqua-colored one, a thin-skinned dark green one, a short
stiff one, a crackled one, one with a stripe. In the moonlight, I could see
each had a nozzle attached. While the hoses were different, the nozzles
looked identical. “Which
hose did you use it on?” I cried, running back in. “I don’t remember,” my
mother said. “Why does it matter?” “You’ve
got to. Was it the one by the door?” “Maybe.
I honestly can’t say” “Was
it the one out by the fence, where the tomatoes are?” “Ann,
calm down.” “Come
on, think!” Mom
said, “I don’t remember, and you’re making me extremely tense.” I started to cry. My life was a ruin.
There was no hope for me anytime, anywhere. “What’s going on, was it a special
nozzle?” she said. “Yes.” “Did Archie give it to you?” she asked,
smoothing my hair. “No!”
I said. “I hate Archie,” I added. “I’m
not surprised,” Mom said. “He was arrogant and narcissistic, and I couldn’t
stand him, frankly.” “God,
couldn’t you have asked me, about the nozzle?” My
mother said, “You should have hidden it away, if it was so important.” “Oh,
great, is that the way to live life?” “Please
go get some rest,” she said. I
tossed. I turned. I was full of horrible feelings, feelings I couldn’t name.
I wanted to attack something. I had to attack something. I decided to
attack the tree across the street. I
crept out of bed, slipped on a T-shirt and jeans,
let myself out the back door. I moved stealthily down the driveway and
across the street to inspect the small tree that truly was starting to block
the so-called view. Up close, I could see it was larger than I’d thought. The
trunk was a few inches thick at the base, and when I tried wiggling it, it
barely budged. No
matter. I pushed it, kicked it, twisted it, threw myself
at it. I ripped off its lower branches and bent it to the ground. I jumped on
it, cracked it, split it. In so doing, I began to expose some of the roots. I
sawed and pounded and hacked at them with a stone. I tore at them. I
lacerated whatever part of any root I could see. After nearly an hour, I was
finally able to wrest the tree from the ground. At about twelve feet long, it
was heavy. I
ran down the street, pulling the carcass along. It scraped the asphalt,
leaves ripped and scattered, twigs jumped and snapped. At last I stood at the
top of a small ravine, a dark area between two houses. I threw the murdered
sapling like a javelin, and gravity brought it to rest with a shivering thud. Then
I walked home. My work was done. The night was warm, as it was late August in
the valley. I lifted my T-shirt and let the air touch my skin, blotted my
face with the hem of it. Then I found a place on the curb in front of our
house and sat a moment, letting my heart slow down. My hands were grazed and
torn but I hardly cared. I was still young and silly enough to wonder if what
I’d just done might make a difference. Keep us from having to move again.
Change the course of history. I couldn’t wait for morning, when Mom would
look out and realize her view was no longer being obstructed. At first I
imagined her excitement about it, then wondered how
long it would take her to find something else to worry about. I planned on
keeping a perfectly straight face. McKenzie
creates tension in these stories through the ways in which Ann struggles to
life a normal life, but ends up becoming as unconventional as her mother,
whose example she tried not to emulate. Stop That
Girl has some good writing, and some of the stories are very good. Others
seem underdone for the short story genre, but fit into the novel. Steve Hopkins,
November 21, 2005 |
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ă 2005 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the December 2005
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Stop
That Girl.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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