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Executive Times |
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2007 Book Reviews |
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Twenty
Grand and Other Tales of Love and Money by Rebecca Curtis |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Characters The baker’s
dozen short stories in this debut collection of Rebecca Curtis titled, Twenty
Grand and Other Tales of Love and Money display great literary
talent. I was most impressed by the way in which Curtis can create and
present a complex character with depth in a few pages. Many of the characters
are young women leading bleak lives. The best short story writers lead
readers to say, “Wow” as the story ends. In this collection, most readers
will say “Wow” more than once. Here’s an excerpt, from the beginning of the
story titled, “To the Interstate,” pp. 49-51: I couldn’t
believe we were getting away, my friend and I—sister,
if you like. She was my sister. Somehow she’d gotten a car. It was one of
those twenty-year-old Chevrolets or Lincoln Town Cars, it was like a boat, by
which I mean I can see why people say those cars are like boats. The outside
was cream with teak paneling, the seats were pale leather and somewhat cold
even though the sun was shining, and the inside was
big and tall enough to climb around in. I’d been on a boat once, and it had
flown up and down the river beyond my control. My sister
picked me up on a street downtown, not a street near the home, so we were
really getting away. For years I had written her letters, begging her to help
me get out. I never doubted she would. We’d always helped each other no
matter what. When she lived in the home, she argued with anyone who wanted to
hit me and sometimes she combed my hair. And before we were in the home, when
she shot the man, we said I did it. That was her idea, because I was younger.
We both wanted him dead. And I probably would have done it myself, if I
wasn’t so scared of him and if I wasn’t only six. I didn’t mind, because for
so long we were together in the home. Then she got out. She was gone. I
waited as long as I could. Then I wrote letters. They weren’t very good
letters, but they expressed my desire that she help me get out of the home.
When she didn’t answer, I wrote more letters. Eventually she wrote, Don’t
contact me again. I wrote very small, short letters. She wrote, Don’t write
me again. Then I wrote that I would really rather die than stay in the home
and she said that she would get me to the interstate. All we needed to do,
she said, was get me to the interstate. I’d jumped from the roof, taken the
dog path, and waited downtown near the gun store, where she’d told me to
wait. Now I was sitting in the back. She was sitting in the front. I would
have done anything for her. She was going fast. My idea was, we should go
both far and fast, so we would really get away, but I noticed we were
circling through the town. I didn’t understand why. I
said, Do we need gas? Yes, she
said. We need gas. I still
hoped we might get out of town before we got the gas, but ahead was a red
light, and that’s when I saw the homeless men. There were two, by the light,
and by the way they were standing I knew they’d try to get in the car. It’s
not that I hate homeless men and wish they were dead. It’s more I know they
hate me and wish I were dead. Lock the
door, I said. Then I pressed the lock myself. It was a long silver knob on
the door. When I pushed it, it only went a little way down. My sister didn’t
say anything, but I felt safe because I thought the doors were locked. My
sister had a determined look on her face. I thought she was determined we
would get away. As soon as she stopped at the light, both homeless men walked
toward the car. I felt scared, but I thought what would happen was that
they’d try to open the door and be humiliated, because the doors would be
locked. The door next to me opened. I wanted to close it but if I did it
would shut on the man’s groin and I knew that would make him mad. He got in
the car. The other one got in the front. These are
the kind of locks where you have to push them down really far, my sister
said, pushing one down really far to illustrate. We were still at the red
light. Thanks for
not slamming the door on me, the homeless man next to me said. That would
have hurt. No
problem, I said. You know
those handicapped buses? he said. I nodded. Well, he
said, now they have doors that open up really suddenly, so all the
handicapped people trying to get inside get knocked on their asses. I nodded.
He wasn’t handicapped but I guessed he was probably friends with a lot of
handicapped people, because he was homeless. Prior to this
collection, I had read some of Curtis in The New
Yorker, and noted her skills at that time. On reading 13 stories at once,
I was able to appreciate better the scope of her talent, and her ability to
master the short story form while presenting the complexity of life through
interesting characters. Steve Hopkins,
August 25, 2007 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the September
2007 issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Twenty
Grand.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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