Novelist and short story writer Jon Boilard’s work is potent, like poison. And unlike taking a homeopathic dose of arsenic for vomiting from food poisoning, it’s not always clear that it’s for your own good.
A lot of Boilard’s characters, especially the guys, are people you don’t want to know. They drink, beat each other up and sleep with each other’s girlfriends. They buy chocolate frappes at the pharmacy in Bucktown, a town that bears some striking resemblances to South Deerfield, so they can take them down to Northampton and throw them at gay men.
But before you get the wrong impression, let me say that I love Boilard’s work.
I’ve written pieces for The Recorder about both of Boilard’s novels, “A River Closely Watched” and “The Castaway Lounge.”
Boilard’s newest book is a short story collection, “Settright Road,” that will hit bookstores Jan. 10. It includes a Q&A and a bonus story from a future collection.
Boilard has lived in San Francisco since the mid 1980s but grew up in South Deerfield. Part of the enjoyment of reading his work lies in recognizing familiar landmarks within his fictionalized western Massachusetts landscape. In the barely 3-page story, “The Mohawk Trail,” a father brags about a 1967 Mustang convertible he picked up in Bernardston. In other stories, characters mention or frequent businesses you’re familiar with, such as Nourse Farms, Pekarski’s and The Hot L Warren. You’ll find yourself well situated in Franklin County.
But Boilard knows a darker side of the county than I’ve encountered in my 35 years here — and maybe that’s part of why I read him.
I read the new collection in uncorrected proof back in October, gulping it down like one of the addictive substances most of Boilard’s characters are hooked on. A couple of times the book got too intense for me and I put it aside. But then I’d wake at 4 a.m., turn on the light and go at it again.
Why?
For one thing, Boilard writes like a predator. His stories grab you by the throat in the first sentence and you have to keep reading out of self-defense. He can write a sentence whose fury and momentum drag you straight through hell, such as this one from the title story: “They use the Jaws of Life to pull him free and the torn metal roof is the mouth of some angry backwoods brute with sharp and misshapen silver teeth glinting and grinning, spitting your busted brother into the hands of men who cannot save him.”
And he can write sentences so calm and tender, like these from “Listen to that Train Whistle Blow,” that you suddenly forgive him for making you face what a horrible place the world is: “Somewhere behind me a train whistle blows, long and low. A farm dog answers the train and then a second dog joins in. They sing out like that for a long time. And when their voices fade away and I open my eyes, I’m all alone, and it’s quiet as a dream.”
When I met with Boilard in October, we talked about “The Mohawk Trail.” While he wouldn’t characterize the story — or any of them — as autobiographical, there is an emotional truth in each one, Boilard said.
“The boy in ‘Mohawk Trail’ would’ve been pretty young. I guess he could have been a pretty early version of Bobby (the main character of “A River Closely Watched”) before he hardened up,” he said.
“A lot of the male characters, regardless of age, kind of come from that same place. I think I go back to that well a lot. The younger they are, the more vulnerable they are. And probably more likeable. And then the older they get, the harder they get … You can kind of excuse it because you see how they get there.”
On the homepage of Boilard’s website (jonboilard.com), this phrase is the first thing you notice: “I like to write about people who are in trouble, whose souls are in danger.”
So maybe I read Boilard because there’s some measure of comfort in knowing that someone cares about the people whose souls are in danger — and isn’t that all of us, to one degree or another, if we’re honest?
It’s not as simple as saying that Boilard, for all his gritty situations and hard-knock characters, offers glimpses of redemption. Redemption’s hardly ever on anybody’s radar in a Boilard story. Everybody’s just trying to make it through another goddamned day.
But as I write that, it occurs to me that the stories in Boilard’s new collection are bookended by grace. The inscription at the front, from Matthew 10:28, states: “Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul.”
And then there’s the last story’s title: “Sometimes There’s God.”
Sometimes there is.
Trish Crapo is a writer and photographer who lives in Leyden. She is always looking for poets, writers and artists to interview for her columns. She can be reached at tcrapo@mac.com.