The Mourning Hours
Page 26
Bill and Sharon Lemke were there, of course, and Joanie and Heather, too. We’d only nodded to each other politely during the trial, giving each other space, but we stood together at her gravesite and ate together afterward at a small luncheon at the Lemkes’ house. Bill Lemke didn’t exactly apologize to Johnny, but he offered to help him out, should Johnny ever need anything. Johnny accepted graciously, but I knew he would never take him up on that offer.
Heather and I talked for a while on the Lemkes’ front porch, while Joanie’s redheaded kids chased each other in circles on the lawn. Neither of us mentioned the tetherball match; it was ancient history now. We shared the basic details of our lives: my dissertation, her plans to work for a district attorney’s office after law school. I thought this was a perfect fit—if she took no prisoners on the playground, she would be fierce as a pit bull in criminal court.
“You’ll stay in California when you finish?” she asked, catching me off guard.
“Well, actually—” I hadn’t admitted this to anyone else, and hardly even to myself. “I’ve applied for a few teaching positions in Wisconsin. There’s an opening at Marquette, and another one in Madison.”
“Good,” she said, touching me on the arm. “It’ll be good for you to be home.”
When I returned to California a week later, the homesickness was especially strong. Darby would be starting her senior year soon, and Mom was going to help Johnny rip out the upstairs bathroom, which needed a complete overhaul. We talked every few days, but sometimes that wasn’t enough for me.
Once, late at night, I logged on to Google Earth and visited Watankee through my laptop. I approached first from far away, following the ridges and crevices of the Rockies, whizzing past the flat expanse of prairie, lingering over the neat sections of green-and-brown farmland bisected by gray lines of highway, dawdling over the forests that appeared suddenly, like green heads of broccoli.
I zoomed in on the businesses on Main Street, the striped awnings and flat silver parking lots. I followed the country roads, dotted here and there with pickup trucks and the metallic blurs of oil tankers.
There was a curious absence of human life, as if the farmers in their work boots had been lifted from the fields, the women and children sucked from kitchens and backyards.
Something inside me tightened when I approached 2242 Rural Route 4. My heart ached for the old truck still rusting away behind the barn and the white homes set close together on the lush, green lawn. It didn’t take much to fill the land with people I knew—Johnny and his dog, heading out to the barn; Darby with a backpack slung over one shoulder, waiting for the bus. I could even make one of those blurs into Stacy Lemke, still a sixteen-year-old girl, her red hair trailing over her shoulder, her smile wide and welcoming.
When I zoomed back out, following the neat grids of farmland and pavement, I could almost hear the mosquitoes buzzing in the stagnant water of ditches, the cows flicking flies off their hides. I licked an imaginary finger and held it to the wind, feeling the storm roll in. Then I put an imaginary ear to the ground, listening for the roots of the corn to spread downward, deep down, beyond the face of the earth.
* * * * *
Acknowledgments
If it wasn’t for the inspiration, gentle support and outright arm-twisting of others, this book would never have been written. I would be sorely remiss if I didn’t thank the following people: Paul and Karen Treick, who let me read long past my bedtime; Beth Boon, Sara Viss and Debbie Miller—sisters, friends and readers with impeccable taste; Ruth Batts, in the running for the world’s sweetest grandmother and a faithful reader, too; librarians everywhere, but particularly in Henry County, Ohio, and Stanislaus County, California; my Treick and Rodewald relatives near or from Newton, Wisconsin, who possess only the best and none of the worst qualities of the characters in Watankee; Carol Slager, Dr. Mike Vanden Bosch and Dr. James Schaap, who inspired me at just the right time and in just the right ways; The English Ladies: Cameron Burton, Alisha Wilks, Jenna Valponi, Amie Carter, Michelle Charpentier and the inestimable Mary Swier; Aaron Hamburger, Elizabeth Searle, Boman Desai and my fellow Stonecoast slaves to the written word; Ted Deppe, for saying, “I think there’s something there...why don’t you keep writing?”; Suzanne Strempek Shea (the best cheerleader any writer could ask for); Beth Slattery and Paige Levin—for gewürztraminer-fueled Yahtzee sessions and talking me more than once off a hypothetical ledge; Robb Vanderstoel, who read early drafts; Rex Cline, who steered me in the right direction; my DeBoard and Davenport in-laws, but especially John DeBoard; Alanna Ramirez (who deserves a million thanks and has good karma coming in spades); agent extraordinaire Melissa Flashman at Trident Media Group; my wise and überpatient editor Erika Imranyi and all the folks at Harlequin MIRA, including Michelle Venditti; my creative writing classes at Ripon High School; teaching colleagues who must have resisted the urge to roll their eyes every time I talked about writing; baristas at The Queen Bean and Starbucks; the friends who faithfully “like” my book updates; the three people who read my blog; and finally—Will DeBoard: husband, best friend, first reader of everything, extrovert to my introvert, grounded to my flighty, and fearless navigator of everywhere we’ve ever been. Thanks doesn’t begin to cover it.
Questions for Discussion
At the beginning of the novel, Kirsten’s father tells her that everything you needed to know...you could learn on a farm. In what ways does this statement prove true—both in the book and in real life?
Explaining death to his daughter, Kirsten’s father says, “It’s just how things go. It’s the way things are.” Is this appropriate wisdom to share with a nine-year-old girl? Why does this advice make sense for Kirsten? Kirsten references “the life cycle” throughout the novel. What does she mean by this?
How does Kirsten’s age affect how you read/understand the book? How is it an advantage to the storytelling? In what ways is it a disadvantage?
Consider Johnny and Stacy’s relationship from their first meeting on the softball diamond to their last, ill-fated night together. What attracted them to each other? Is Johnny’s mother right when she says their relationship is too obsessive, or is this just a normal teenage relationship? How would you react if your child was in a similar kind of relationship?
The people of Watankee react to Stacy’s disappearance by convicting the Hammarstrom family in different ways. Is it surprising that few people come to Johnny’s defense? How do you think the small-town culture contributes to people’s responses?
Family loyalty is a strong theme in the book. Is Kirsten wrong for feeling conflicted over whether her brother is guilty or innocent? If your child or sibling was accused of committing a violent crime, how do you think you would handle it?
After the Memorial Day incident, the Hammarstrom family begins to drift apart and eventually disperses to different parts of the country. Only John stays behind on the farm. Do you feel the dissolution of the family could have been prevented? Why do you suppose they fled, and do you feel it was the right thing to do? What, if anything, would you have done differently?
At the end of the novel Kirsten puts “an imaginary ear to the ground, listening for the roots of the corn to spread downward,” referring to something her grandfather used to do. What is this a metaphor for?
A Conversation with the Author
What was your inspiration for The Mourning Hours? Are the characters or events in any way based on real life?
Most of the characters in the story are completely fictional, although Kirsten and Emilie are composites of my three sisters, my niece Kera and me. A significant portion of my life was spent in the Midwest, wearing snow boots and those swishy snow pants. My parents had these horrible cau
tionary tales of people getting lost in snowstorms, when it wasn’t possible to see the way from the house to the barn, and that fear stayed with me through the years.
The novel is told from the perspective of Johnny’s younger sister Kirsten. Of all the characters in the novel, why did you choose Kirsten as your window into the story?
The story actually began as a three-page vignette of a young girl watching her brother’s wrestling match, and it grew from there. I was intrigued by Kirsten’s voice—as a child, she brings an innocence and naïveté to the story, but she also has a way of seeing and knowing things that the adults around her don’t. I suppose I’ve always been intrigued by stories where the principal players aren’t the ones in charge of the story, like The Great Gatsby.
Watankee is a fictional town, but is it inspired by a real place? Why did you decide to set the story in a small Midwestern farm town? How do you feel the setting enhances the story?
Watankee was inspired by a small town in eastern Wisconsin, where one member of my family or another has owned land since the 1800s. The layout of the Hammarstrom farm is similar to the Treick farm—when Kirsten and her father race from the barn to the house, my childhood self is running right along with them. There’s a natural beauty to a farm setting, but it’s somewhat isolated, too. Watankee itself could be any small town in America—welcoming and loyal, but judgmental, too.
The Mourning Hours is the story of a family forced to confront the possibility that one of their own has committed a heinous crime. Each of the characters reacts differently to Stacy’s disappearance and Johnny’s alleged guilt. What do you hope readers will take from this aspect of the story?
I see the Hammarstroms as a typical family that suddenly finds itself in a horrific situation. It’s the sort of thing that could happen to anyone—to you or me, too. We might think we’ll always support the people we love, but doubt can be a powerful force. Ultimately, this family spends many lost years apart before coming to the truth.
What was your greatest challenge in writing The Mourning Hours? Your biggest surprise?
At the beginning, I just let myself write and write and write, to see where the story would take me. That’s undoubtedly the fun part of writing—to create something entirely new that didn’t exist an hour ago. The unpleasant part is losing all those little gems that have to be sacrificed for the good of the whole—the writer Suzanne Strempek Shea refers to this as “killing your darlings.” I was surprised at how the story transported me back to my own life—to the misfit young girl I was and to the obsessed teenager wrestling with first love. At times, the writing felt very emotional and cathartic.
Can you describe your writing process? Do you outline first or dive right in? Do you write consecutively or jump around? Do you have a routine? A lucky charm?
When I’m at home, it’s far too easy to be distracted by piles of laundry and stacks of dishes and pets who demand attention, so I mostly write in local coffeehouses, where I can be distracted by strangers who have no claim on my life. I both credit and blame caffeine for many of my writing decisions. Each day, I have a basic idea of what needs to happen next, and I go from there. If I have an outline at all, it’s very roughly sketched, and designed only to take me through the next chapter or two. There’s a great E. L. Doctorow quote that I believe, too: “Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”
How did you know you wanted to be a writer? How old were you, and what was your very first piece of writing?
I think I always knew I was meant to be a writer. I love to observe things; I was the somewhat weird kid watching life from the sidelines. I was (and still am) an obsessive reader, and in one way or another I’ve always kept a journal. I wrote my first novel when I was nine years old in a seventy-page spiral notebook. Somehow that was very easy—probably because I had a practical goal. When I ran out of pages in the notebook, that was the end of the story.
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ISBN: 9781460315125
Copyright © 2013 by Paula Treick DeBoard
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