Any Other Place Read online

  Praise for Any Other Place

  Michael Croley’s Any Other Place is a story collection of immense power. Croley masterfully gathers disparate worlds through his sympathy and generous grasp. As the characters approach their truths of home, family, and duty, we witness the gorgeous possibility of what ordinary men and women seek—love, acceptance, and forgiveness.

  —Min Jin Lee, Free Food for Millionaires and Pachinko, finalist for the National Book Award

  Like the best writers, Michael Croley takes us into the lives of ordinary people who have been thrust into the extraordinary circumstances of everyday life. There is not a wasted word in these thirteen taut and thrilling stories of grief, exile, and devotion. We leave Any Other Place feeling as if we know each of these sharply drawn characters and traveled to their places in the world, all of which Croley presents with startling clarity and complexity. This is one of the most exciting and beautiful story collections to come down the literary pike in a long time and announces a major new talent who infuses every story with emotion that leaves us feeling gut-punched in the best of ways. Any Other Place is a stunner.

  —Silas House, Southernmost

  In these thirteen stunning stories, Michael Croley delves deep into the lives of characters undone by grief and betrayal with crystalline compassion and deft surprise. How do we reckon with the troubled legacies we inherit? How do we square our own stark limitations with our desire to create love? Any Other Place is beautifully unafraid of such vast and thorny questions. This magnificent collection is the kind of fiction that will expand your comprehension of the world, a debut that reads with the precision and punch of a writer already in full command of his powers.

  —Laura van den Berg, The Third Hotel

  Michael Croley shows us the lives most of us inhabit—simple on the surface, with a rich and complicated inner life. His people yearn, fight, and love, make mistakes and gain success, and remain optimistic despite tough circumstances. This book will teach you about humanity and about yourself.

  —Chris Offutt, Country Dark

  Writing with assurance born of bone-deep knowledge and insight, Michael Croley brings us these taut, brilliant, understated stories from the new “global South”—each one occurring in a charged, liminal space, its characters caught at the crossroads of their lives, between countries, between past and present, between conflicting loyalties or desires. Each perfect ending is a surprise, yet perfectly realized, reverberating in the mind long afterward. Any Other Place is a revelation.

  —Lee Smith, Dimestore: A Writer’s Life and The Last Girls

  Any Other Place is a beautiful and moving collection. Michael Croley is a master at locating those quiet moments that reveal a character’s truest emotions; his balance between their inner lives and the surrounding complexities of daily life is extraordinary.

  —Jill McCorkle, Life After Life

  Unlike some writers, Michael Croley isn’t afraid to lay it all out there. These are some of the most emotionally honest and beautifully moving stories I’ve read. What does it mean to say that Croley’s stories help me feel a little better about the human race in these times? They are not soft, not prettified, they don’t pull punches, but they’re comforting in their deep empathy for humanity itself.

  —Brad Watson, Miss Jane

  ANY OTHER PLACE

  Michael Croley

  BLAIR

  Copyright © 2019 by Michael Croley

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover design by Laura Williams

  Blair is an imprint of Carolina Wren Press.

  The mission of Blair/Carolina Wren Press is to seek out, nurture, and promote literary work by new and underrepresented writers.

  We gratefully acknowledge the ongoing support of general operations by the Durham Arts Council’s United Arts Fund.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright owner. This novel is a work of fiction. As in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience; however, all names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Croley, Michael, author.

  Title: Any other place : stories / by Michael Croley.

  Description: Durham : Blair, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018057564 (print) | LCCN 2019003373 (ebook) | ISBN 9781949467017 (eBook) | ISBN 9781949467000 (pbk.) Classification: LCC PS3603.R6365 (ebook) | LCC PS3603.R6365 A59 2019 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018057564

  For Olive and Arlo

  There’s no place I want to be without you two.

  CONTENTS

  Slope

  Larger Than the Sea

  Two Strangers

  Since the Accident

  Smolders

  Diamond Dust

  The World’s Fair

  Passing Shadows

  The Beginnings of a Storm

  Solid Ground

  Siler, Kentucky, 1970

  Washed Away

  Satellites

  Acknowledgments

  SLOPE

  WREN ASHER IS nearing thirty, and over the summer, like his father before him, he’s fallen in love with a woman who lives in another country. But that’s where all similarities end. For one, Hannah is an American who grew up outside Boston and now lives in Paris. And second, she lives with a boyfriend, a man for whom she moved to France. Wren knew from the beginning getting mixed up with her was a bad idea, and when they parted in August he thought whatever he felt for her would fade. But since her return to Paris she calls him every night at two in the morning because of the six-hour time difference. She waits until the boyfriend is gone for work—and before she goes to the high school where she teaches English—then she dials Wren. He likes to be wakened by her voice and sleeps with the cell phone beside the bed so that before he answers he sees the picture he snapped of her in the Metro in DC.

  “It wasn’t strange?” she asks one night.

  “What?” he says.

  “Growing up there.”

  “Of course it is now, but not then. It was just my childhood, and it was as happy as most, I think. Happier, probably.”

  Her boyfriend is Algerian. She hasn’t told Wren much about him, and Wren hasn’t asked. One night she told him, “I’m drawn to people with backgrounds different from mine.”

  Now she says, “But you have so many stories about how backward it is there.”

  “It is and it isn’t,” he says, feeling the need to defend his hometown against the stereotypes about Kentucky. “My best friends’ parents were doctors and lawyers. Insurance salesmen. I don’t know anybody whose father worked in a coal mine, but plenty of them worked at the railroad. It was suburban more than anything else, I guess. I just got a cool accent in the breakdown,” he tells her, but there’s more to it than that because he knows that while Fordyce is a town and not the country, it’s not by any stretch cosmopolitan or refined.

  Hannah sighs through whatever wires or towers make calls possible anymore, frustrated, it seems, by his answer. He knows she’s in bed too, and he tries to imagine the room she’s in, her black skirt and silk blouse across the back of a chair, the indention of her boyfriend’s head on the pillow beside her.

  “Sometimes,” she says, “I think you and I are more different, culturally, than I am with him.” She never says his name, th
ough Wren knows it’s Henri. On Facebook Wren has seen the pictures of them in and around Paris and vacationing at St. Tropez. The two of them look happy with the city lights or the blue of the Mediterranean at their backs, and when he thinks about the possibility of a future with Hannah, he thinks he’ll never compare with the images on the computer screen. In a race between his love and France, France will win.

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “I don’t know,” she says.

  “Yes, you do. You said it. You’ve been thinking of it.” His room is completely dark except for the red glow of numbers from the alarm clock he’s turned against the wall so he can’t count the minutes until she calls.

  “It’s nothing,” she says. “Forget I said it.”

  “How am I supposed to forget it?”

  “It was just something stupid I said. I don’t even really know what I meant.” She has dropped the subject, and the only way for them to come back to it is if she brings it back up.

  For a month, they’ve been going this way. They met at the beginning of Wren’s internship in DC last summer. Hannah was teaching in a summer college program and was the friend of a girl in the senator’s office where Wren worked. They met in a big group at a bar, and by the end of the night they were alone, everyone else having begged off for early mornings at their offices. Hannah turned on the barstool, her crossed leg revealing itself under her summer dress. She edged closer to him, and he ran his fingers along her calf. “Is this okay?” he asked. She smiled, giving a quiet nod. “And this boyfriend you mentioned earlier?”

  The smile disappeared, and she narrowed her eyes. “He’s not here now.”

  It was only a matter of time, and a week later when they found themselves in the same bar, cashing out, ready to head home, he felt her behind him. She reached up and laid her hands across his chest, putting her weight against his back, and she felt soft, like a thousand feathers pressed next to him. He finished signing the credit card slip and held it up to the bartender. “Thanks,” he called out and then turned, held her gaze, and took her hand to walk out. Hannah let him lead her through the crowd spilling out of the Adams Morgan bars, and when they were finally on a quiet part of Connecticut Avenue, before a block of row houses, he stopped and stood before her. His heart was beating fast, and sweat ran down his back. Light from a street lamp fell through the leaves of an oak tree, and shadows danced on her face. “It’ll be a mistake,” he said, but she was up on her toes and kissing him before the words were out of his mouth. They caught a cab back to his place, and later, while she slept and he was still awake, sobering up and holding her, he was already giving himself over.

  HE REMEMBERS BEING eight years old at Kmart and in the checkout line with his mother. It was a bright day, and the sun came through the big panes of glass at the front of the store and bounced off the cars in starburst reflections. He’d asked for a Snickers, but his mother ignored him. She was distracted, looking toward the automatic doors at some man. She was so lost in her thoughts that the cashier had to call to her. “Ma’am,” she said, “the candy bar?”

  “No,” she said and took it from Wren and put it back. She paid quickly and moved toward the man, walking right up to him. “Did you lose something in my face?” she said.

  The man looked confused, as if he wasn’t sure she was talking to him. Then his mother started in again. “You were looking awfully hard for somebody that hasn’t lost something. Do I know you?”

  “N-n-no,” the man stammered but then straightened up, regaining his confidence. But before he could say anything Wren’s mother was done with him.

  “I didn’t think so,” she said and took her son’s hand.

  People in Fordyce had always watched her when she came into a store. They’d see her olive skin, soft almond eyes, the long dark hair, and they’d wonder where she was from, who she was. She’d told him stories about managers following her up and down the aisles of the Dollar General Store while she shopped and grocers at the Pic-Pac who spoke to her in slow, overenunciated ways when she paid.

  Frightened, Wren asked what the man did.

  “He wouldn’t stop staring at me,” she said. “Nobody can look at me that way.” Her hands were shaking, and she needed a moment before starting the car.

  It is Wren’s first memory of fear. In the car, his own pulse quickened, worried if the man had struck his mother what he, being a boy, could have done to defend her. He hadn’t told his parents about the taunts at school. He was constantly being called Japanese or Chinese. Nobody ever guessed Korean. And later, in middle school and high school, he was called gook and chink. One boy called him ching-chong over and over, singing a song about it, but no one ever called him a slope, something Wren learned in graduate school was the correct slur for Koreans, but he had no idea why one slur was more logical or appropriate than another. In Fordyce they were all the same.

  Out in the world, away from his hometown, his slanted eyes and dark hair haven’t seemed out of place. In New York or DC, he’s marked more by his Kentucky accent and the country sayings he picked up around his cousins and uncles. People sometimes ask him to repeat what he says, as if he’s a form of entertainment and his speech has the quaint air of someone who is simple.

  THE LAST NIGHT Wren and Hannah spent together he booked a hotel room in Georgetown. He didn’t love her then, but that was coming. He had a sense that once they were away from each other it would be easy for her to forget him, but he pushed that from his mind. They spent the day walking in and out of the shops along M Street, and despite the stickiness of the day, she held his hand, and every so often, when waiting for the light to change to cross the street, she leaned her head on his shoulder and sometimes kissed his cheek. They followed the towpath along the Potomac, hoping to catch a breeze, but the air was still. Overheated, they started back for the hotel, and then Hannah stopped at a fountain, hiked up her green dress, and stepped over the lip and into the cool water. Wren watched her. She piled all that dark hair of hers on top of her head, giving the fair skin of her neck to the light, and she laughed and smiled at him, splashing him once.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, but he wanted her to stay in the water just a little longer so he could watch her playfulness. She had the hem of her dress balled into one hand and traces of light shimmered from the water and onto her legs.

  Back in the room they passed the afternoon in each other’s arms, making love with the curtains wide open and then watching bad television and movies, including one set in Paris.

  “What’re the odds?” Wren said. Outside the sky began to purple, and the sounds of the students out on the quad died out. Hannah was laughing at the movie, telling him how they had spliced the film so all the famous landmarks appeared to be near one another. A little Peugeot zipped past the Louvre and crossed under the Arc de Triomphe, and the Eiffel Tower was almost always in the background. He imagined her in the city, walking its streets, and he thought about his lone visit there, that old European architecture, walls the color of sand turned dingy with soot and grime and centuries of history lying in their cracks. In a week’s time they’d be half a world apart, and he wouldn’t know her the way he did now, lying next to her, listening to her laugh. The images of Paris reflected off her eyes. The sun had completely disappeared from the sky, and when she saw he wasn’t paying attention, she turned to him and smiled, crinkling her nose. They switched off the TV, and the room was filled with early beams of moonlight.

  “WHAT HAPPENED?” HIS mother says.

  “Nothing. I got in a fight.”

  They’re at the airport in Lexington, and other travelers are looking at him with his bulging black eye and the bruise on his right cheek.

  “With who?” his mother asks, examining the swollen skin and small cut along his nose.

  “Nobody. Some punk at the gym.”

  “You’re too old to get in fights.”

  “Well, I guess not.”

  She reaches up to his face, and he pushes he
r hand down. “It’s fine, Mom.”

  “It doesn’t look fine,” she says. “You need to watch your temper. I worry about you all the time and how angry you get.”

  “You’re one to talk,” he says, but it comes out nastier than intended.

  “Hey,” she says, stopping their walk to baggage claim.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “Let’s get my bag and get out of here.”

  On the ride home his head pulses with pain. He knows he’s too old to get in fights. And if Hannah hadn’t called him that day, he probably would have been able to let the kid’s comment at the gym pass. The pickup game was already too physical, and when the kid said to Wren on the foul, “You got me with that samurai chop,” Wren went after him. He put his hands on the kid’s throat, got him down on the ground, choking him, and watched the kid’s eyes bug out. He thought he could kill the kid right then—that he was capable. Then it was Wren who had fear running through him, and he opened his fingers wide, releasing his grip as if he had grabbed hold of a fire that was searing his palms.

  Two guys on his team pulled him up by the arms, and the kid unloaded two quick shots with his left and opened up Wren’s eye and bloodied his nose before anybody wrapped the kid up. It was Wren’s only real fight since high school, when he had come up from the lunchroom to grab his books for chemistry and found that someone had written Gook, Go home on his locker.

  His size—six feet, two hundred pounds—had prevented a lot of fights back then. He played three sports, and people admired his ability to catch touchdown passes, hit jump shots, and throw strikes. His friends were other athletes, the cheerleaders and girls on the dance team, but he never felt part of the clique they formed, and those words on his locker confirmed his feeling of being an outsider.

  The writing on his locker continued for a week, and none of his friends told him who was doing it, but Wren figured it out and confronted a boy from the football team. Wren had never taken a punch and wasn’t sure if he could. He’d always been afraid of being suspended or of ruining his reputation as a good kid, but he understood that if he ate shit then he’d be eating it for the rest of his life. The first punch came easy, right at the boy’s chin. His red hair was in bangs that hung down over his eyes, and it flew back with the impact of Wren’s fist. The boy threw Wren into the lockers and a metal lock dug into his back. Then a teacher came running. “What’s going on here?” he asked. He had been a colonel in the army, but to Wren he didn’t look like an army man. He was soft in the middle and taught Romance languages. He kept the two boys apart with a firmer grip than Wren expected.