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Written by Dan ChaonAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Dan Chaon


List Price: $11.99


On Sale: November 04, 2009
Pages: 288 | ISBN: 978-0-307-48144-3
Published by : Ballantine Books Ballantine Group

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Read by Dylan Baker and Becky Ann Baker
On Sale: July 03, 2001
ISBN: 978-0-7393-0032-9
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In this haunting, bracing new collection, Dan Chaon shares stories of men, women, and children who live far outside the American Dream, while wondering which decision, which path, or which accident brought them to this place. Chaon mines the psychological landscape of his characters to dazzling effect. Each story radiates with sharp humor, mystery, wonder, and startling compassion. Among the Missing lingers in the mind through its subtle grace and power of language.


Safety Man

Safety Man is all shriveled and puckered inside his zippered nylon carrying tote, and taking him out is always the hardest part. Sandi is disturbed by him for a moment, his shrunken face, and she averts her eyes as he crinkles and unfolds. She has a certain type of smile ready in case anyone should see her inserting the inflator pump into his backside; there is a flutter of protective embarrassment, and when a car goes past she hunches over Safety Man’s prone form, sheilding his not-yet-firm body from view. After a time, he begins to fill out—to look human.

Safety Man used to be a joke. When Sandi and her husband, Allen, had moved to Chicago, Sandi’s mother had sent the thing. Her mother was a woman of many exaggerated fears, and Sandi and Allen couldn’t help but laugh. They took turns reading aloud from Safety Man’s accompanying brochure: Safety Man—the perfect ladies’ companion for urban living! Designed as a visual deterrent, Safety Man is a life-size simulated male that appears one hundred eighty pounds and six feet tall, to give others the impression that you are protected while at home alone or driving in your car. Incredibly real-seeming, with positionable latex head and hands and air-brushed facial highlights, handsome Safety Man has been field-tested to keep danger at bay!

“Oh, I can’t believe she sent this,” Sandi had said. “She’s really slipping.”

Allen lifted it out of its box, holding it by the shoulders like a Christmas gift sweater. “Well,” he said. “He doesn’t have a penis, anyway. It appears that he’s just a torso.”

“Ugh!” she said, and Allen observed its wrinkled, bog man face dispassionately.

“Now, now,” Allen said. He was a tall, soft-spoken man, and was more amused by Sandi’s mother’s foibles than Sandi herself was. “You never know when he might come in handy,” and he looked at her sidelong, gently ironic. “Personally,” he said, “I feel safer already.”

And they’d laughed. Allen put his long arm around her shoulder and snickered silently, breathing against her neck while Safety Man slid to the floor like a paper doll.

Now that Allen is dead, it doesn’t seem so funny anymore. Now that she is a widow with two young daughters, Safety Man has begun to seem entirely necessary, and there are times when she is in such a hurry to get him out of his bag, to get him unfolded and blown up that her hands actually tremble. Something is happening to her.

There are fears she doesn’t talk about. There is an old lady she sees at the place where she often eats lunch. “O God, O God,” the lady will say, “O Jesus, sweet Jesus, my Lord and Savior, what have I done?” And Sandi watches as the old woman bows her head. The old woman is nicely dressed, about Sandi’s mother’s age, speaking calmly, good posture, her gloved hands clasped in front of her chef’s salad.

And there is a man who follows Sandi down the street and keeps screaming, “Kelly!” at her back. He thinks she is Kelly. “Baby,” he calls. “Do you have a heart? Kelly, I’m asking you a question! Do you have a heart?” And she doesn’t turn, she never gets a clear look at his face, though she can feel his body not far behind her.

Sandi is not as desperate as these people, but she can see how it is possible.

Since Allen died, she has been worrying about going insane. There is a history of it in her family. It happened to her uncle Sammy, a religious fanatic who’d ended his own life in the belief that Satan was planting small packets of dust in the hair behind his ears. Once, he’d told Sandi confidentially, he’d thrown a packet of dust on the floor of his living room, and suddenly the furniture began attacking him. It flew around the room, striking him glancing blows until he fled the house. “I guess I learned my lesson!” he told her. “I’ll never do that again!” A few weeks later, he put a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Sandi’s mother is not such an extreme case, but she, too, has become increasingly eccentric since the death of Sandi’s father. She has become a believer in various causes, and sends Sandi clippings, or calls on the phone to tell her about certain toxic chemicals in the air and water, about the apocalyptic disappearance of frogs from the hemisphere, about the overuse of anti- biotics creating a strain of super-resistant viruses, about the dangers of microwave ovens. She accosts people in waiting rooms and supermarkets, digging deep into her purse and bringing up photocopied pamphlets, which she will urge on strangers. “Read this if you don’t believe me!” And they will pretend to read it, careful and serious, because they are afraid of her and want her to leave them alone.

But she is functional. At sixty-eight, she still works as a nurse’s aide on the neurological ward of the hospital. She’ll regale Sandi with the most horrifying stories about her brain-damaged patients. Then she’ll say how much she loves her job.

Sandi, too, is functional. Besides Safety Man, there is nothing abnormal about her life. She works, like before, as a claims adjuster at the IRS. She used to have trouble getting up in the morning, but now she wakes before the alarm. She is showered and dressed before her daughters even begin to stir; she has their cereal in the bowls, ready to be doused with milk, their lunches packed, even little loving notes tucked in between bologna sandwiches and juice boxes. She stands at the door as they finish their breakfasts, sipping her coffee, her beige trench coat over her arm. At this very moment, hundreds of women in this exact coat are hurrying down Michigan Avenue. She is no different from them, despite the inflatable man in her tote bag.

The girls love Safety Man. Megan is ten and Molly is eight, and they have decided that Safety Man is handsome. They have been involved in dressing him: their father’s old black leather jacket and sunglasses, and a baseball cap, turned backward. They are pleased to be protected by a life-size simulated male guardian, and when she drops them off at school, they bid him farewell. “So long, Jules,” they call. They have decided that they would like to have a boyfriend named Jules.

Sandi works all day, picks up the girls, makes dinner, does a few loads of laundry. She doesn’t have hallucinations or strange thoughts. She doesn’t feel paranoid, exactly, though the odor of accidents, of sudden, inexplicable death is with her always. Most of the time, during the day, her fears seem ridiculous, and even somewhat clichéd. She knows she cannot predict the bad things that lie in wait for her, can never really know. She accepts this, most of the time. She tries not to think about her husband.

Still, when the girls are asleep and the house is quiet, Sandi feels certain that he will appear to her. He is here somewhere, she thinks. The most supernatural thing she can imagine is the idea that he has truly ceased to exist, that she will never see him again.

At night, she goes down to the kitchen, which is where he passed away. He had been standing at the counter, making coffee. No one else was awake, and when she found him he was sprawled on the tile, not breathing. She called 911, then pressed her mouth to his lips, thrust her palms against his chest, trying to remember high school CPR. But he had been dead for a while.

She finds herself standing there in the kitchen, waiting. She imagines that he will walk in, a translucent hologram of himself, like ghosts on TV—that loping, easygoing tall man’s walk he had, a sleepy smile on his face. But she would be satisfied even with something less than that—a blurry shape in the door frame like a smudge on a photo negative, or a bobbing light passing through the hall. Anything, anything. She can remember how badly she once wanted to believe in ghosts, how much she’d wanted, after her father died, to believe that he was watching over her—“hovering above us,” as her mother said.

But she never felt any sort of presence, then or now. There is nothing but Safety Man, sitting in the window facing the street, his positionable hands clutching a book, his positionable head bent toward it in thoughtful repose, a Milan Kundera novel that she’d found among Allen’s books, a passage he’d underlined: “Chance and chance alone has a message for us. Everything that occurs out of necessity, everything expected, repeats day in and day out, is mute. Only chance can speak to us. We read its messages much as gypsies read the images made by coffee grounds at the bottom of a cup.” Alone beside the standing lamp, Safety Man considers the passage as Sandi sleeps. Because he has no legs, his jeans hang flaccidly from his waist. He reads and reads, a lonely figure.

Most of the time, Sandi is okay. Everything feels anesthetized. The worst part is when her mother calls. Sandi’s mother still lives on the outskirts of Denver, in the small suburb where Sandi grew up; her voice on the phone is boxy and distant. Mostly, Sandi’s mother wants to talk about her job, her patients, whom Sandi has come to know like characters in a book—Brad, the comatose boy who’d been in a bicycle accident, and whose thick, beautiful hair her mother likes to comb; Adrienne, who had drug-induced brain damage, and who compulsively hides things in her bra; little old Mr. Hudgins, who suffers from confusion after a small stroke. Sometimes he feels certain that Sandi’s mother is his wife. But the cast of her mother’s stories is always changing, and Sandi has learned not to become too attached to any one of them. Once, when she asked after a patient that her mother had talked about frequently, her mother had sighed forgetfully. “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” she said. “He passed away a couple of weeks ago.”

Sometimes, Sandi’s mother likes to talk about death or other philosophical issues. One night after dinner, while Sandi is drinking tea at the kitchen table and the girls are watching music videos on television, Sandi’s mother calls to ask whether she believes in an afterlife.
Dan Chaon|Author Q&A

About Dan Chaon

Dan Chaon - Among the Missing

Photo © Philip Chaon

Dan Chaon is the acclaimed author of Among the Missing, which was a finalist for the National Book Award, and You Remind Me of Me, which was named one of the best books of the year by The Washington Post, Chicago Tribune, San Francisco Chronicle, The Christian Science Monitor, and Entertainment Weekly, among other publications. Chaon’s fiction has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including The Best American Short Stories, Pushcart Prize, and The O. Henry Prize Stories. He has been a finalist for the National Magazine Award in Fiction, and he was the recipient of the 2006 Academy Award in Literature from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Chaon lives in Cleveland, Ohio, and teaches at Oberlin College, where he is the Pauline M. Delaney Professor of Creative Writing.

Author Q&A

A Conversation with Dan Chaon
Scott Phillips
is the award-winning author of The Ice Harvest, which was nominated for an Edgar Award, a Hammett Prize, and an Anthony Award and was the recipient of the California Book Prize Silver Medal for First Fiction. A native of Wichita, Kansas, Phillips currently lives in California and will publish his second novel, The Walkaway, in August 2002.

Scott Phillips: The humor in these stories often comes from inappropriate behavior in the face of the serious or taboo--the egg yolk-monocle in "Burn with Me," for example, on the day of the grandfather's funeral, or David's uncomfortably oedipal joking with his mother's young lover in "Late for the Wedding." Do most readers see the humor in those moments, or do some react to them the way the other characters do?

Dan Chaon: This has always been an issue for me. I personally think that many of the stories are quite funny, but I'm not sure how readers respond. Based on the reviews I've read and comments I've heard from people, "hilarious" isn't the first word people think of when they talk about the stories. Because of the basic seriousness of the subject matter, many readers feel uncertain about whether they're allowed to laugh. Once, after a reading at a bookstore, someone came up to me and told me how he hadn't realized that there was humor in the stories until he'd heard me read them aloud, and I found that worrisome. Maybe what I found funny was too personal or idiosyncratic? Or too full of mixed emotions? Two of the stories that I think of as among the saddest in the collection-- "Safety Man" and "Prodigal"--are also the stories that I was most conscious of trying to make funny as well. I was gratified recently, listening to the audible.com version of the sto-ries, read by the actor Dylan Baker. I loved his reading of "Prodigal" especially, because he was able to negotiate the fine line between the jokes and the grief. "Oh!" I thought. "He got it!" And it gave me hope that other readers would get it as well.

Of course, you can't tell people how to feel when they read your work. You can only hope to connect. For me, trying to translate a very particular--and perhaps, peculiar-- type of humor is among my most difficult tasks as a writer. I don't blame people if they find the stories in Among the Missing dark-edged, but I hope they don't find them relentlessly grim. I like the idea that we can laugh and cry at the same time. I like the idea that tragedy and comedy can coexist, and if there is anything of my own personality in the stories, it is this habit or urge I have to be contrary, to find ambiguity in apparently cut-and-dried emotions, to notice the sorrow at the edge of a moment of ecstasy, or to see something absurdly silly prancing around the background of some terribly sad scene. I think that very often it is a human urge to think of our feelings as states of being--to think, for example, that it is possible to "be" happy ever after, or to think that you can maintain a state of eternal outrage. People try, of course. But to me it's genuinely funny when the bigger world interrupts our private dramas to remind us that what we're experiencing is not at the very center of the universe. Is this irony? Absurdity? I guess it is, but I don't think it's bitter, ni- hilistic humor, either. I love the world, and I love people, perhaps especially in their most awkward moments.

SP: People in other parts of the country tend to think of the Great Plains as a nice, quiet place full of sweet, innocent people, which doesn't seem to be your take on the region--many of your characters are alienated from family and friends, often starting in childhood, and there's a lot of drinking and mayhem going on. Do you hear from Mid-westerners who feel misrepresented in your work? To me, having been raised in Kansas, it rings perfectly true.

DC: I haven't heard any complaints so far. The truth is, though many of the stories are set in or refer to a particular area of the Plains area of the U.S.--western Nebraska, where I grew up, or Wyoming, or Colorado, or South Dakota--I didn't set out to be "regionalist" in the sense that the stories are meant to summarize a particular sociological group in the way a book like, say, Winesburg, Ohio does. I don't mean my characters to be representative of the people of the Great Plains region as a whole.

Still, for various reasons I find myself returning to this particular setting again and again, despite the fact that I haven't lived in the Great Plains region for almost twenty years. There's something about that landscape--a spooky, haunted, craggy beauty--that seemed to evoke the mood I felt as I was writing these stories. That sense of alienation you mention could probably be evoked anywhere, and certainly it isn't the special province of the people of the Great Plains, and yet certain specific details seemed like great con- tainers for the larger emotions I was trying to get at--the way the interstate and roads are set off against the flat horizon, the sheer distances people have to travel to get from one large town to the next, the fact that many of the tiny towns I knew when I was growing up are literally in the process of becoming ghost towns, and some of them have vanished altogether. Talk about "among the missing"!

SP: In Michael Chabon's introduction to "Big Me" for Prize Stories 2001: The O. Henry Awards, he calls it a ghost story, and it seems to me that several of these stories-- "Safety Man," "Among the Missing," and "Here's a Lit-le Something to Remember Me By" in particular--could be described the same way, though none of them has any supernatural element. Would you agree with that assessment?

DC: Absolutely. I was really delighted by Chabon's introduction, because he picked up on a number of things that were important to me about the stories in the book, and the "ghostly" aspect was definitely something I was very aware of. When I first conceived of the collection, I was going through a period of reading the work of a number of the women writers of the early twentieth century--Edith Wharton, Elizabeth Bowen, E. Nesbit--all of whom wrote these books of particularly atmospheric ghost stories, stories in which the supernatural elements were used as a means to explore the mysteries of human psychology and fate. I felt there was something about the sense of dread in these stories that I especially connected to, and that was particularly appropriate to the contemporary world that I was writing about. I recall someone once writing that The Red Badge of Courage was a ghost story in which the ghosts fail to appear, and that's an idea that stuck with me.

On the other hand, I feel like the stories are basically true to reality. To me, American life itself is often fairly haunted, uncanny, unsettling in both its large events and small details. This is a country where a town can literally dry up and disappear over the course of less than a century, where thousands of people go missing every year. It's also true that one of the commonplaces of end-of-century America is the sense that it's very easy to have a secret life. You know the old story: Someone comes in and kills his coworkers with a semiautomatic, or a serial killer spends years murdering folks and burying them in the crawl space beneath his house, and then later his acquaintances and coworkers are terribly surprised. He's described as "quiet," "a nice guy," "no one suspected anything was wrong." It's a cliche, but kind of a horrific cliche if you think about it. It's a weird thing about the society in which we live that we regularly have such a superficial "relationship" with people that we see every day, that the social codes of "niceness" and so on are often so shallow. To me, the secret inner life is at the very heart of the contemporary American experience, and not just for serial killers and wackjobs, but also for ordinary people. It's my feeling that very often the complexity of someone's inner life and emotions is not only kept in check by the social institutions that regulate our daily lives--such complexity is positively unwelcome, and that creates a lot of ghosts.

SP: Several of these stories end without the narrator knowing the fate of a friend or loved one. In "Among the Missing," Sean's mother has disappeared, and though there's evidence she just packed up and moved out without telling anyone, there's also the fact that she told Sean she was worried someone had been stalking her. Tom, in "Here's a Little Something to Remember Me By," halfway believes he may have seen his presumed-dead friend Ricky in Florida. Is there a real answer to these questions, or is the ambiguity part of the point?

DC: I think I'm very attracted to things that are unanswer-able, and the stories you mention are good examples of that attraction seeping into my stories. As a kid, I adored those "True Mystery" books, which told of unsolved occurrences like the disappearance of the early American colony of Roanoke, with that spooky final detail of the letters CRO carved into a tree. I still get all tingly thinking about it. I know that this affection for the unexplained can get me into trouble with some people, though. One of the ideas about fiction that I don't particularly like is the notion that a story or novel is a little brightly wrapped package containing a Big Idea or Deep Thought or Secret Message, a very popular way of teaching literature to young people. (For example, from one of my sixth-grade son's work sheets: "What is the theme of this story? What do you think the author is trying to say?") I think one of the biggest difficulties for an artist trying to work in contemporary society is the need to package everything for easy consumption. Walker Percy writes about this in his essay "The Loss of the Creature," where he talks about the division in a modern technical society be-ween "expert and layman, planner and consumer." That is, "The expert and the planner know and plan, but the consumer needs and experiences: the planner creates a 'recreational experience' to satisfy a 'recreational need.' "

I think one of my main interests as a writer are those moments that are unpackagable, and, conversely, trying to re-mystify the stuff that's been already packaged. I feel like we already live in a society that is too constantly encapsulating and explaining and summarizing itself, and that we're often too quick to find easy insights, themes, and messages. I'm not particularly interested in the idea of Truth, or even of "epiphany" in fiction. Instead, I think the thing I value most is the stuff that shakes us up and makes us question our solid ground. I don't feel like I can stand up on a stage and preach anything convincingly; I'd prefer if the reader and I were standing together on a common ground, both of us puzzling and wondering in the face of these moments that can't be explained.

SP: One thing that echoes throughout your stories is a sense of the grisly--the tooth in the ashtray in "Safety Man," or the burn victims in "Passengers, Remain Calm," "Prosthesis," and "Burn with Me." In "Passengers ...," there's also the little girl with her arm halfway down the snake's throat, and in "Among the Missing" we're presented with the disturbing thought of the Morrison family having been partly devoured by the scavenging fish of the lake. Would I be wrong to suggest that these details are presented with a slight amount of glee on your part?

DC: A certain amount of glee? Ahem. Well, maybe you've got me there. I'll admit that I'm a fan of horror movies and books, and that those have influenced my sensibility to an extent that I'm sometimes unconscious of. I also grew up in a family that tended to relish the gruesome and macabre, which I suppose many rural families do, given their daily closeness to the death of various fellow mammals, as well as the many dangers that often lead to accidental demise or disfigurement of people.

Although none of these stories are autobiographical in their characters or situations, I have to admit that many of them had their earliest seeds in specific grisly stories or incidents. I really did see a little girl being attacked by a snake at a county fair; and my cousin Larry, a volunteer fireman and EMS worker, told me the story of a body, being removed from a burned car, falling apart like overcooked chicken. When I was about seven, my grandfather told me the disturbing ghost story at the center of "Burn with Me"; and another cousin of mine once went out of his way to show me the corpse of a dog in a lake, which was being delicately nipped by carp and catfish. (This cousin, a Vietnam vet, also told me a war story that to this day has kept me from eating stewed tomatoes. I won't repeat it here.) But I can't blame it all on my family. My own imagination tends to tilt in that direction anyway. The earliest glimmer of the story "Safety Man" started when I thought I saw a human tooth in one of those standing outdoor ashtrays. Upon closer inspection, the "tooth" turned out to be a hardened piece of chewing gum.

SP: In "Prodigal," the narrator suggests that parental failure is inevitable, even natural; and certainly estranged parents and children crop up again and again in your work, often despite one or the other's efforts to mend things. In "Passengers, Remain Calm," though, the relationship between Hollis and his nephew F. D. seems very loving and healthy. Imperfect as he is, Hollis seems determined not to let F. D. down or disappear on him the way his father has. Is this in any way a conscious counterpoint to the strained parent-child relationships in the other stories?

DC: I don't think it was a deliberate counterpoint, but I do think that I probably gave Hollis more unconditional love than I gave to any other character in the book. Hollis is a kind of thank-you letter to a number of the older male cousins I had who helped raise me, and who were enormously kind despite their own troubles. Some of those people have died, and I think I was particularly conscious of them when I was writing "Passengers, Remain Calm."

At the same time, I think Hollis exists on a certain continuum of parental figures I was thinking about. I like the fathers in "Burn with Me" and "Big Me," and I like the way Sandi and her girls interact in "Safety Man." And even in "Prodigal" I don't think the narrator has a terrible relationship with his children. Many of these stories came into being as I was trying to negotiate through the early years of being a parent myself, and I think that a lot of my own anxiety is inherent in the fears and mistakes that the characters make. As strained as many of the relationships are, I hope they don't come across as being stories about innocent children being victimized by cruel parents. To my mind, all of the parents in the book are doing their best under their various circumstances. I share the dislike that the narrator of "Prodigal" feels for "precociously perceptive child-narrators one finds in books . . . clear-sighted, very sensitive." It's harder to be an adult than those kids think it is! As parents, we make so many mistakes, and we can't help but be aware that in one way or another whatever we do will end up becoming a permanent scar that our children will have to struggle with; and the way that even small actions and mistakes can travel through time is fascinating to me. Some of the parents in the book are more successful than others, but I don't think any of them are monsters.

SP: This is your second collection of short stories. At what point did you realize you were writing them well enough to publish? When you started getting attention and winning prizes, did that come as something of a shock?

DC: As a writer, I feel like I'm always teetering on the edge between colossal egotism and soul-crushing humility. I've been writing stories since I was in junior high school, and even back then, when I was fourteen years old, I would finish a story and immediately believe that I'd created brilliance. A few weeks would pass, and I'd reread it and realize that it was crap, and that I was in fact the crappiest cranker-outer of crap who ever existed. I still haven't fully escaped that fourteen-year- old mind-set, though I now think I am able to come to a more balanced opinion eventually, and I'm more patient with the process of revising.

Ultimately, though, the process of trying to publish still seems totally random to me. Many of the stories in the collection that went on to win prizes were flat-out rejected by any number of magazines, and even when I personally feel confident that something I've written is the best that I can do, I can't hold on to more than a hope that someone else is going to like it. It's always a shock when a story gets attention or wins a prize, and it doesn't seem like it will be less of a shock as time goes on, because it always feels to me like I'm starting over every time I start new work. I immediately enter into that old cycle: It's great! Wait! No, it's terrible!

SP: The stories in Among the Missing cover some pretty intense emotional ground, and while I'm aware they're not in any way autobiographical, I still wonder to what degree they reflect your personal experiences and background. Are there incidents here that were drawn from your own life?

DC: Inevitably there are various incidents that have their roots in real experience, and there are even details that are more or less "true" in that they formed the core around which a story emerged, though none of the stories are "true" in any historically accurate way. Rather, they are lies that reflect various autobiographical states. Certainly I'm drawing on my own experience with the landscape of the stories that are set on the Great Plains, and I'm often aware of starting the stories around the details of various bits of gossip, rumors, news reports, even the specific things I've observed. I suppose that more than anything, there's a degree of emotional autobiography. The stories were written in the years following the death of my parents, both of whom passed away in 1996, and a lot of the intensity of the experience of losing my parents was channeled into the themes and moods of the stories, even when the specific incidents and characters were imaginary.

Praise | Awards


“One of the best short story writers around . . . Dan Chaon’s stories are funny, heartbreaking, beautifully written, and intelligently conceived.”
Author of Birds of America

National Book Award—winning author

“With a story like [‘Big Me’] from the marvelous writer Dan Chaon, I am confronted not only with an unfathomable mystery such as that of the endurance of a single human identity over time, but also with new proof of the enduring value of telling tales in the ongoing struggle to understand those mysteries.”
Pulitzer Prize-winning author of
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay


WINNER YALSA Best Books for Young Adults
SELECTION 2002 ALA Notable Book
FINALIST 2001 National Book Awards
Discussion Questions

Discussion Guides

1. Among the Missing is full of stories about parents and children and siblings who have lost touch with one another, who rarely communicate, or who are completely estranged from one another. Do you sense love between these characters nonetheless, or regret?

2. In the story “Safety Man,” Sandi longs to see the ghost of her dead husband. Does the artificial man of the title fill that function in any way? What other characters in these stories could be read as ghosts?

3. In “Falling Backwards,” the central character argues with her father about the ambiguity of a film they’ve just watched. Are the ambiguous conclusions of “Here’s a Little Something to Remember Me By” and “Among the Missing” akin to the feeling one gets with a tabloid news story, one whose solution may never be known? In these stories, is wondering more satisfying than knowing?

4. In “Big Me,” the author takes the common fantasy of visiting one’s younger self to dispense advice and turns it on its head: The boy imagines he’s spying on his older self, to the bitter amusement of the disappointed man he’s watching. What function do the characters’ fantasies play in these stories?

5. Secrets withheld from loved ones play a large part in“Here’s a Little Something to Remember Me By” and in “Late for the Wedding.” In what ways do the withheld secrets affect the relationships involved? Would the secrets have been easier to reveal early on in those relationships,and would their revelation later cause more damage than relief ?

6. As a small boy, the narrator of “Burn with Me” clowns around with a boiled egg the day of his grandfather’s funeral in much the same way that Hollis in “Passengers, Remain Calm” keeps going on and on about the dog with the missing leg as they drive his stricken father to the hospital. Is this reaction a failure to notice misfortune, or ameans of coping with it?

7. In “Late for the Wedding,” Trent plans to ask Dorrie to marry him, despite the difference in their ages and her condescending attitude toward him and his background. Given that it seems likely she’ll say no, even before he slugs her son, what do you think makes him want to take such a step?

8. In “I Demand to Know Where You’re Taking Me,”Cheryl believes that her brother-in-law Wendell is guilty of the heinous sex crimes of which he’s been accused, whereas her husband and his family fervently believe in his innocence. What are the costs of her silence to her family and her marriage, and what does she get in return?

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