July 29, 2009
Where the Money Went by Kevin Canty is a collection of brilliant stories, each one a perfect encapsulation of those quiet but momentous events when a life is turned around and inside out, or picked up, soothed, and set on the right track again. His stories ride on an undercurrent of optimism against the odds, and the optimism is rewarded, maybe not with what was sought after but with a sudden clarity of vision: his characters don't necessarily get what they want but they do gain an understanding, a morsel of wisdom, about life. And because I was there with them, drawn in by Canty's easy, flawless writing that takes its time to build a story, I understand also and more than I did before. Only the first story, "Where the Money Went", is a whip-quick snapshot of family life that offers no slice of wisdom but instead presents a bitter truth, its tragedy blithely presented.
Canty's stories are funny, wise, and absolutely heart-touching. The writing is sometimes simple ("In my heart was the last place in the world you lived") and often acute ("A delicious blinding cold went through him all at once in the cold lake-water, a dangerous bliss") but always clear and genuine. His characters are ordinary people trying to do good, but pretty certain they will not quite make the cut to heaven: "I don't think I'm any worse than anybody else, I'm sure of it, in fact" comes from a man trying to reassure himself in the face of what he's done but the words fall flat. The only solace --maybe even forgiveness -- he finds is in being alone, unreachable, swaddled in a sudden snowstorm.
Canty's characters are veined with decency, and muscled with desire, not only sexual but also for renewal, a desire to start over, do better. A man being consoled after a death finds pain in his friends' constant efforts at consolation but he puts up with them because "there is enough suffering in this world; there is no use for further suffering; there is no making sense of things sometimes." A younger man, having been through a long evening after a hard summer, looks out at the night and thinks, "Somewhere down at the lake, not far from here, people were sitting out on the dock and watching the stars come out, enjoying the quiet, the little lake-waves against the pilings of the dock. Somewhere people thought they were safe." I can imagine reading a future story by Canty about this same man, older now, and still wary, yet alive -- as Canty says "life loves life" -- and because he is alive, taking chances against the odds. Life is taking chances, and reality is what happens. And on it goes.
The cycling of life is presented beautifully in these stories: Canty gifts us with gems cut from living moments, with "the perfume of a Midwestern spring, gasoline and rose and tar, the sounds of people gunning it in the distance, the constant hiss of the interstate, the sounds of breaking glass and laughter, the sound of life itself."
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