Signal Fires could only be written by Dani Shapiro- and only now when she’s at the height of her powers. One gets the sense this is the story she has been building toward all these years; a parabolic family drama about the way certain moments echo through time. I’ll never stop thinking about it.”

That quote is from another talented writer, Mary Laura Phillipot. Signal Fires is a book that sticks with you. Not just because of the exquisite writing and unique story that is both haunting and hopeful, a story that crisscrosses time in a purposeful way. But the novel is also unforgettable because of what it implies about death and the universe, the stars, how when we die, it’s not the end. We’re all somehow connected.

The story opens in 1985 on a summer night with a teenage car crash in which one person dies, and the other two are culpable. This accident will become a guarded secret for the respectable Wilf family, shattering each of their lives in different ways. Several years later another family with no knowledge of this tragedy moves in across the street. Events ensue involving that family’s gifted, brilliant and lonely son Waldo that somehow bring grace and forgiveness to the accident that happened decades earlier.

 Here’s my Q&A:

 Dani, can you tell us about the fascinating genesis of this book and its connection to your memoir Inheritance?

 I began Signal Fires a long time ago, before I was really ready to write it. A cast of characters materialized for me who I loved and to whom I felt very attached, but I lost my way in the writing, and after about 100 pages I put the manuscript in a drawer. I was heartbroken, but never thought I’d return to it. I really believed it was the one that got away. But as the years passed, and I wrote more books (Still Writing, Hourglass) some big changes happened in my own life. Perhaps the biggest of these changes occurred when I learned, in 2016, that my dad had not been my biological father. He had raised me, and I adored him. I lost him when I was quite young in a terrible car accident and have missed him every day since. This sudden loss informed much of my work as a writer.

I also had the sense that my parents kept secrets – and I wrote a great deal about the corrosive power of secrets – but never did I entertain the thought that perhaps I was the secret. And this is what turned out to be the case. I was able to meet my biological father and wrote the memoir Inheritance about my discovery. It wasn’t until I completed Inheritance and brought it into the world that I returned to the Signal Fires manuscript. I re-read it and understood for the first time how the story needed to play out. It was as if the characters had slept in that drawer all these years, needing me to grow and evolve into the writer who deserved them.

You begin your story with the word And….

And it’s nothing, really, or might be nothing, or ought to be nothing, as he leans his head forward to press the tip of his cigarette to the car’s lighter. It sizzles on contact, a sound particular to its brief moment in history, in which cars have lighters and otherwise sensible fifteen-year-olds choke down Marlboro Reds and drive their mothers’ Buicks without so much as a learner’s permit.”

 The reader is immediately propelled into the scene that’s already started, knowing somehow, it’s not going to end well. Can you discuss your choice of the word and to start your novel.

When I returned to the novel after my long absence, I hadn’t yet written that very opening scene. And I knew I needed to do so before moving forward. The only thing of which I was certain, though I couldn’t have explained it at the time, was that the first word of this novel had to be “And…” because it felt to me as if it was a world already in motion, and I wanted to convey that to the reader.  I wanted the reader to step into a universe in which past, present, and future all existed at once.

You can read the rest of the interview here on 26’s September newsletter.

September, 2023

The post Q&A with Acclaimed Author Dani Shapiro appeared first on Elena Bowes.

I stared at my new US passport, basking in Elena Bowes and all its official glory. I signed the document with a black ballpoint pen. That felt good too.

But then I got to the emergency contact section. The passport agency requires not one, but two contacts. I wrote Stretch’s details for the 1^st one, a perk to being married, not having those ‘next of kin’ questions depress me anymore. But that second, now that was a problem. If I put one of my three childrens’ names down, and Stretch was with me on that doomed flight where only my passport survived, that would mean one of my kids would get the call. This would be troublesome in two ways. 1) I’d be too dead to explain to the other two that I didn’t love them less for having not chosen them, and 2)  A British Airways bureaucrat would be left telling whichever lucky child I did choose that their dear mother was now departed, terminated, kaput, sayonara’d,  a goner. I clearly couldn’t put my child’s name on that emergency contact. They would never recover.

This passport that only five minutes ago was bringing me great Gloria Steinem joy was now doing just the opposite.

Stretch, what do you put for your emergency contacts?”

Where?”

On your passport?”

Oh, I don’t. I leave ‘em blank. Why?”

That in a nutshell is the difference between Stretch and me. He never thinks that extra mile. He’s happy to play the odds, the odds of survival. Not me. If something has a 98% success rate, I know I’ll be in the 2%. There isn’t a worse-case scenario that I haven’t considered. Like could a deer suddenly turn vicious?

I saw one last night in our garden, happily chomping on our apples. He saw me, stopped munching and stared…ominously.. I tried to act like a tough, noisy human but he didn’t blink. He saw right through me. Still as a statue. That’s when I noticed his antlers. That deer could be the exception, the one deer who decided to charge at me, beheading me with those horns, my head tossed aside next to a half eaten apple. Note to self mid stare down: stop watching SAW films—way too many dismemberment scenes. Just as I was considering back stepping to my door, Rudolph pranced away. Phew, dodged another bullet.

Meanwhile, Stretch has been pestering me for months to join him at his golf club’s weekly pickleball clinic. I’m not sure which word I hate more: golf or clinic. And of course, the word pickleball is problematic in a number of ways.

“It’ll be fun,” Stretch enthuses. “And we can meet people, make new friends.”

 ‘I don’t want to make new friends.”

That line can only work for so long. The truth is I’m scared—scared of injuring myself either physically or emotionally. Stretch mentions that the clinics are mostly women. So catastrophist me imagines him falling for the pickleball-star, golf-playing, clinic-loving housewife. I give in and Stretch immediately signs us up for the next clinic. This turns out to be the same day the NYT publishes an article called  ”Pickleball, Sport of the Future Injury?” on its front page.

My worse-case scenarios aren’t limited to the outside world. There are dangers in my very own home. Yours too, by the way. When I see the expiration date on a carton of eggs, I subtract a week for safe salmonella-free consumption. My husband, on the other hand, likes to roll the dice. He adds a month to the expiration date. I kid you not.

They put that date just to scare people, make ‘em buy more eggs.”

What, does he have some inside track with the hens? How does he know these things?

Stretch got stung by a scorpion in Africa once, when he was 20. This was pre-Google. He watched the poison pulse through his veins up his arm towards his heart. And did nothing! He knew he’d survive. How? How did anyone know anything before Google? Was he carrying an Encyclopedia Britannica around with him in the bush? He was certainly no entomologist. He was just playing the odds.  I often think Stretch’s attitude towards life is a bit cavalier. And the same goes for his attitude towards death.

The other day we were walking by the Long Island Sound.

Apparently, Hindus like to scatter the ashes of their loved ones over the Ganges river,” I said. “They don’t like people to hold onto the ashes. The grievers need to let go—psychologically, emotionally, spiritually.”

Stretch pointed to the Long Island Sound, and said as if it just came to him, no ponderous thought whatsoever.

This is where I want my ashes spread.”

But you’ll be so cold. The water is so grey”

Elena, I’ll be dead.”

And you won’t be with me because I don’t want to be in the freezing, grey Atlantic.”

He laughed and walked on. Oblivious to the fact that we don’t have a proper death plan—And by proper, I mean he needs to join me wherever I choose to go. Which is certainly not going to be in the Atlantic Ocean.

 I think I’d like my ashes—and Stretch’s—scattered somewhere warm where there are no hurricanes or scary weather patterns. I don’t want my ashes to be flailing around amongst dead fish on a dried-out river even if the locals speak French. I think ideally, we should have our ashes scattered over an enormous bathtub filled with rose petals and scented candles, maybe someplace with a big terrace and daily room (and bath) servicing. And this wouldn’t be for a long romantic weekend. This would be forever.

So, amongst all the other things I need to worry about—like murderous deer and don’t get me started on ticks—we now need to start saving up for our Aman Cremation Getaway.

Post-script: There were no women in our pickleball clinic. In fact, the only other person in the clinic besides Stretch and me and the attractive male Croatian pro (conveniently my partner)

was a very competitive man who kept swearing at himself for hitting the fake ball into the low net. I kind of enjoyed that. I hope he comes back next week.

August, 2022

The post Being a Catastrophist Is Not the End of the World appeared first on Elena Bowes.

First there was Salim at the Verizon on 86^th Street who knew about dual sims, but didn’t have any Mac12’s in stock.

There’s one left in the city on 75^th Street. Want me to put a hold?” “

Yes please,” I exclaimed as I rushed out the door, racing to 75^thStreet.

There, they had the phone but were less helpful with installing the dual sim technology. I thought Manhattan was an international center of the world? Didn’t anyone in this city live between two countries and need this same product and service?

We don’t get much demand for these,” said the salesman on 75^th and Second. “Try corporate on 57th.”

I hustled over to midtown and “tried corporate” where my salesman Damien finally  was able to install my dual  sim technology. There was only one glitch,  I couldn’t dial out. Damien said he couldn’t help me, “Because of Covid, you’ll have to try on-line support.”

I returned home and ‘let my fingers do the walking’. On-line support wasn’t answering.

So, I trudged back to Salim on 86^th. He’d been the most helpful, maybe he could assist. Stretch accompanied me this time, recognising that I was at a fragile point, about to break, having been to three Verizon shops around the city, spending a lot of time and money to not have a working phone. It was 7pm. We had friends coming for dinner at 7:30pm. I wanted, no, I needed my phone to work.

Oh right, your phone is fine,” said Salim. “It’s just that Verizon locks all phones for two months to prevent fraud and theft.”

Wait, so, I can’t make calls for two months on this new phone??”

Well, you can after 60 days,” Salim offered as if 60 days sounded more palatable than two months.

Return the phone Elena, cut your losses and return the phone,” said Stretch, annoyance creeping into his voice, and he’d only experienced a fraction of my day. “

You bought a locked phone,” said Salim. “You can only get an unlocked phone from Apple. You should have gone to Apple first thing.”

This is the kind of precious information, like you can’t drive your car without a key, that I could have used hours ago. I returned my new locked phone.

Day 2 went better- I had gone to cheery Apple at 9am, the opposite of no–can–do Verizon. The 59^th street shop was buzzing with blue T-shirted techies eager to help. Stevie Wonder was singing Isn’t She Lovely in the background. I was directed to an attractive young woman with a flashing smile,  warm dark skin, cream coloured flared corduroy trousers and cute ankle boots.

I wondered where she got those pants, but I didn’t think I could ask her just yet.

Hi, I’m Wanda. How can I help?”

Do you deal with dual sims much?” I asked doubtfully.

All the time,” she nodded.  I almost cried and hugged her.

Wanda didn’t bat an eyelid when I told her that I live between New York and London and want to carry just one phone.

It’s such a pain carrying two.”

I can imagine,” she said as she started tapping something into her Ipad. Your new phone will be here in a second. Shall we look at covers in the meantime?”

The choice was endless. I am easily overwhelmed. Sensing my confusion, Wanda said

The forest green and burgundy are our best sellers.”

I want happy, I thought to myself, regaining my footing.

I’ll take the tangerine cover, please. Nice and spring-y.”

Wanda agreed.

Fifteen minutes later, Wanda told me everything was all set with my new unlocked dual sim iPhone. I just needed to go to Verizon so they could activate my local number.

It should only take them a minute.”

I looked at her anxiously. She had no idea.

And there I was at Verizon, yet again, standing, waiting for my old friend Damien. He tried to suggest I call tech support, but I wasn’t budging.

Activating a dual sim phone wasn’t as easy-peasy as Wanda promised, like life itself when we are blessed with choices and decisions we must make.

You want to sit down?” Damien asked, pointing to a windowsill.

Verizon has no chairs. As I stared out the window from my chilly perch, waiting, I listened to Damien call tech-support. He spoke with a faint Jamaican accent, which made me think of the beach and some citrus cocktail, the sun warming my sandy toes.

No, Elena,” I thought to myself, “you are not on a beach. You are sitting on a hard windowsill in a Verizon store on a bleak New York day, trying to get your dual sim to work. What made you think it would be easy? Had it been easy living this dual life ever since you met Stretch? Flying back and forth across the ocean as if you’re commuting on Metro North. Your three kids are in London or heading there. Your closest friends are in London. All those women who were your life support over the last several years are now an ocean away. You try and stay in touch – texting, calling, flying.  Face it, none of this has been easy. And, you are about to get even more committed.”

I could cut the cord, not marry Stretch, move back to my one country life. I read in Michelle Obama’s excellent memoir Becoming that every spring her mother would consider leaving her father, and after mulling it over, the pros and cons, Obama’s mother would decide to stay. Spring cleaning in every sense. I liked that thought of looking at your life straight on, contemplating all the possibilities, choosing your life rather than it choosing you.

When I met Stretch six years ago, I was living in London and my three kids were either living in or heading to the US for college. Fast forward six years, and I am the only member of my family living in the US. Like Ten Little Indians, then there was none. My kids have or are moving back to their roots-London, where their father still lives. He can see them at the drop of a hat, for a dog walk, a pizza, a cup of coffee.

My kids aren’t big phoners. They’re busy. They prefer texting. My ex gets a shared meal, I get a smiley face. Stretch’s son doesn’t see how I can consider myself at all British, not with my full Yankee accent. “

You’re American,” he says to me.

I know I may not sound it,” I tell him, “but when you’ve lived in a country for over half your life, it seeps into your bones, like syrup into pancakes.”

I could walk blindfolded to the glassware department of Peter Jones on Sloane Square-true, it’s on the ground floor near the entrance- but the school uniforms department on the 3rd floor wouldn’t be hard  to find either. When I go to my local coffee shop down the road from my London flat, the barista smiles at me, knowing my order before I’ve uttered it.  Hyde Park- I know every circuitous path, every meadow, every tree, every bench. Jogging, pushing strollers, chasing my kids on scooters, walking, grieving alone after my father’s death and then again during my divorce, walking, chatting with my now adult kids about life in general – we have our best talks on these walks.  Hyde Park has been there for me through thick and thin. It’s my happy place.

Your phone is working” Damien wakes me from my reverie. “Sorry, it took so long, but we got there.”

I leave the shop. The sun is peeking through the clouds. I get a text from Stretch.

How’s it going? Any luck? Love you ”

I smile as I look down at my cool new phone with its two phone numbers and happy case. It wasn’t easy to get, but it was worth it. I know what I’m going to choose.

March, 2021

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