by Anna Bruno
Lucas walked toward me. Addie followed gleefully. He didn’t say anything. I bent over and clipped on the leash. Addie and I disappeared into the park.
She looked back in the direction of the cemetery, hoping, I’m sure, that we were playing a game, just like when we used to crouch down and hide behind the gravestones. She assumed we would eventually emerge, as we had always done, and we’d be together again.
* * *
THE OVERCAST, MOONLESS NIGHT makes seeing the house difficult. The neighbor’s front lamp is on, and looking closely, I can see the trim is half-naked, still covered only by a primer coat, just as Lucas, Jimmy, and Yag left it the day Lionel died. The paint is peeling off the siding on the front of the house. If Lucas doesn’t attend to it soon, the wood will rot. The process of decay is difficult to curtail once it has begun.
Some of the neighbors have gone with fiber cement siding, which lasts longer than wood and doesn’t require constant maintenance. It doesn’t look as good, though. It wouldn’t do justice to the stately old house, our bungalow with a weirdly tall body. Lucas would rather do nothing and watch it rot away than do something that would strip it of its character, its history: what it once was and could be again.
When I moved out, I half expected Lucas to rip out that redbrick walk. Lucas’s dad replaced a portion of the brick to erase the stain of our son’s blood, but I doubt Lucas was ever able to eliminate it from his mind. As I stand here now, I imagine the shape of the mark, bigger than a splotch, an ocean of blood, running off into the grass, seeping into the dirt below, still there, detectible, just not to the eye.
We put in the front walk before Lionel had even been conceived. Maybe it makes sense that the walk remains as we remain: a reminder of how we were before it happened, a reminder of it happening, and an enduring presence now that it has happened. Here lie three walkways: before, during, and after. Who would have the heart to rip out such a walkway? The walk that I envisioned, that Lucas built, that our son died on, that Grandpa Murphy partially replaced. It’s a relief that the red brick remains. It means Lucas hasn’t tried to forget.
My gut is twisted in knots. I think about heartbreak, how it should be either delivered or received, not both. Maybe it happens all the time, but I feel exceptional in the way I broke two hearts, mine and Lucas’s, by denying myself and him the very thing we both cherished. We lost a child and then chose, freely, to lose each other.
I’d built a reputation on making other people feel worthy of change. My book sold to millions. But I never reached the people who really mattered. I see now that the only way forward, the only future that is not consumed by self-destruction, is one where I am kind to Lucas, kind to myself, and kind to the memory of our son.
There was a chalkboard by the fridge, which we’d put up for grocery lists, but we were never very good at using it. One day, I opened the fridge to grab some milk for my coffee and on the board Lucas had written a single line: Here we find haven and haunt. I stole it from him when I scratched it into the wall in the ladies’ room at The Final Final. He wrote it before Lion was born; I plagiarized it after Lion died.
Addie and I linger. She is busy sniffing something in the grass. It’s been more than a year since we moved out, but the seasons haven’t washed away the scent of the place. A dog’s nose is a steadfast compass, always pointing toward home.
The porch swing catches my eye, and I think about those three handprints on the underside: Lionel’s handprint, Lucas’s handprint, my handprint, clustered together willy-nilly and sealed so they will last forever. It’s not my house anymore, not my swing, but those prints belong to me, to us. I need to see them. Just a glimpse.
I tug Addie’s leash and we turn up the walk. I lie down on the floor of the porch and scoot my body under the swing. It’s too dark, so I turn on the flashlight on my cell phone. I find three prints, just where we left them.
A light comes on in the kitchen. Lucas is awake.
I pull myself up on two feet and tiptoe to the side of the picture window so I can peek in. He moves toward the pantry. He’s probably just grabbing a box of cereal for a late-night snack, but I imagine him rooting around for a can of tomatoes. I think, If he has the right ingredients, maybe he’ll make pasta. I want to try it again. I want to remember exactly what it tastes like.
Addie bounces up and down when she sees him through the glass. She pulls hard on the leash. Seconds pass, brief but expansive—enough time for my heart to make a million infinitesimal calculations.
Lucas opens the door with his arms stretched wide. We hug for a long time.
Eventually, he says, “Happy birthday,” as if he’d been expecting me all along.
I don’t think, If only, if only. My mind is quiet. My heart speaks instead: Someday, someday. And I say aloud, “Lord, give me forgiveness but not just yet.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Ordinary Hazards was written with the support of many people and some very special institutions. To them, I owe a debt I cannot repay.
My agent, Samantha Shea, is a consummate professional and a great champion. She discovered this book, believed in it, and made it better. Others at Georges Borchardt, including Valerie Borchardt and Rachel Ludwig, helped bring it overseas.
Two weeks after the birth of my son, Lindsay Sagnette told me she wanted to buy Ordinary Hazards on behalf of Atria. Even sleep deprived and delirious, I knew immediately she was The One. Her empathy for these characters transformed this novel. Fiora Elbers-Tibbitts answered all my dumb, first-time-author questions. The rest of the team at Atria, from production and copyediting to marketing and publicity, brought this novel to the hands of readers with great care.
The Iowa Writers’ Workshop provided three years to write, funded in part by the Flannery O’Connor Graduate Fellowship and a Teaching-Writing Fellowship. Sam Chang built a culture of camaraderie in place that could easily turn competitive under the stewardship of someone else. Connie, Jan, and Deb kept the place running. Deb threw the best Hawkeye tailgates. Three great writers had an enormous impact on me through their teaching: Ethan Canin, Charlie D’Ambrosio, and T. Geronimo Johnson. Brilliant, generous, and tough, all in different ways.
Roy H. Park and the Triad Foundation supported me as I pursued my first graduate degree, an MBA from Cornell University. The Park Fellowship is unique in its vision and has an enduring legacy that stretches throughout many corporations. It should surprise no one that it played a part in supporting the arts to boot. Clint Sidle gave us an education that business schools so rarely offer.
The first three readers of this book were Christine Utz, Jennifer Adrian, and Sophia Lin, women with wildly different and exceptionally beautiful souls. I cannot wait to read the books they publish. In particular, Sophia wrote a very long letter that altered the terrain of this novel in remarkable ways. Stephen Markley is the guy from workshop who I most want to grab a beer with, and Tim Taranto is a storyteller through and through. What a cohort!
Some of the banter recorded here came from the lips of good friends: Tony Pagliai, Mike and Kate Richard, Emily Salmonson and Dan Peterson, Ian and Raquel MacKay, Rachel Vanderwerff, Ryan Whiting, and Ned Carter. May we have many more long nights at the bar together.
My colleagues at the University of Iowa’s Tippie College of Business, Pam Bourjaily and Mark Petterson, influenced me as a teacher and provided the sanity of a day job as I wrote these pages.
Above all, I’d like to acknowledge my family directly…
Lynne and Bill Bruno: This book exists because you raised a confident woman. Thank you for teaching me I have a seat at the table of my dreams. After love, you gave me a liberal arts education, from Shady Side to Stanford, where I first read Dante and Tolstoy, who endure in memory and touch these pages. Mom, you have great taste—truly finger-on-the-pulse. Thank you for always calling it how you see it.
Billy Bruno: Thank you for toughening me up as only a big brother could, lovingly. Tamara Kraljic: You read this novel early, before almost anyone
, and you’ve supported everything I’ve ever done. I won’t forget it.
Nancy Parker and Dwight Dobberstein: I did, in fact, hit the in-law jackpot. Thank you for all you do, especially for watching the baby while I write. Talk about a grant for the arts!
Parker: This book is dedicated to you. Without you, there would have been a book, but it wouldn’t have been this book. It wouldn’t have been a love story.
An Atria Reading Club Guide
Ordinary Hazards
Anna Bruno
This reading group guide for Ordinary Hazards includes discussion questions, ideas for enhancing your book club, and a Q&A with author Anna Bruno. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.
Topics & Questions for Discussion
1. By the end of the first chapter, it’s fair to say that Emma is reckoning with something in her past. She makes multiple references to the differences between the woman “she is” and the woman “she used to be” (pages 2 and 27). What do you make of this distinction so far? Why do you think Emma is obsessed with who she was in the past?
2. On page 52, we first learn about Emma’s book, The Breakout Effect, and what Emma describes as the key insight, which is that it’s “not who you are that makes you a leader, it’s the story about who you are.” How do you think that mentality has shaped Emma’s present? What does it say about how she views her own successes and the successes of others?
3. Emma credits Lucas’s career for her better understanding of walls. On page 67 she says, “I began to see walls for what they really are: a thin façade covering up ducts and electrical wiring . . . [now] I think about everything it takes to make the surface appear smooth.” How does that apply to how she sees other people, especially those closest to her? What walls does it appear Emma has put up for herself?
4. Take a moment to discuss Emma’s relationship with her father. Consider the scene on page 76 when he’s giving her the Cobble Hill town house on the night of her wedding. How would you describe their dynamic? What impact do you think his parenting has had on her and the way she approaches life?
5. Emma again references the meaning behind The Breakout Effect on page 100, making note of the interconnectedness between the feeling of pain and the major concepts within her book. What do you make of her keen interest in pain’s influence on life’s outcomes?
6. Why do you think the author included the scene with the sparrow in the bar (pages 100–103)?
7. There’s a moment during the conversation between Emma and Gil (page 131) when she realizes he doesn’t know about what happened to her and Lucas. She thinks, “This sudden realization of my own anonymity feels fantastic.” Why does Emma have the desire to be unknown? Can you think of other examples of things Emma has done to maintain anonymity?
8. Revisit the scene where Cal finds his wallet in Martin’s coat, and the ensuing scene between Emma and Martin in the bathroom (pages 154–159). Why do you think Emma chooses to tell the truth and bail him out? Do you feel any more empathy toward Martin after their talk in the bathroom? What did you learn about all the characters during these scenes?
9. There is a lot to digest at the end of the chapter titled “10PM.” In the midst of all the chaos, we learn that Martin was with Lucas the day the traumatic event that changed Emma’s life occurred. At this point, what do you believe that event was? Why do you think Martin chose that moment to tell Emma this?
10. We learn on page 207 why Jimmy believes that he is responsible for what happened to Lionel. Emma, Lucas, and Jimmy all blame themselves for it. Why might that make it more difficult for each of them to find closure?
11. Discuss Addie’s significance in the novel. What does she mean to Emma? To Lucas? To their story as a whole?
12. On page 249 Emma thinks, “To inhabit a place is to alter it in some way, to leave a mark.” Do you agree with that? How important is it to leave one’s mark, or to have a legacy?
13. The Final Final is a place with which Emma has a special connection. Where the students see a run-of-the-mill dive bar, Emma sees a place full of memories made with Lucas and their friends. However, because it’s a bar, drinking plays an integral role throughout the action of the entire novel. Does this affect her reliability as a narrator? What, if any, impact does it have on the narrative?
Enhance Your Book Club
1. As readers, almost all new information learned throughout the novel is done so through memories and flashbacks, yet the story itself takes place in the present. How does the pacing at which we learn new things about Emma’s life or the lives of everyone in the story impact our reading of the novel? How would it have changed had we known about what happened to Lionel earlier on? Did your opinions of any of the characters change because of the order in which the story was told?
2. Did Ordinary Hazards remind you of any other novels you’ve read? Whether it be due to themes (relationships with friends and family, the pursuit of personal success, definition of happiness), characters, or events that harken back to other stories. Did those other stories provide commentary on those same themes or topics that differ from that of this novel?
A Conversation with Anna Bruno
Q: Did you always know this was the story you wanted to tell with your debut novel? Where did the inspiration for it come from?
A: From the first word, I knew the story would take place in a bar over a single night. When I’m in a public place, especially an intimate one, I am aware that the people who surround me all have stories. People are always falling in love or out of love. They may be in immense pain, or simply stuck in the doldrums of everyday life. They are constantly making the small decisions that propel their lives forward. I wanted to give the reader an opportunity to be a fly on the wall—to learn the gritty details about a woman who would otherwise just be another person at the bar.
When I started writing, I did not yet know anything about Emma or what brought her to the bar. Lucas and Lionel did not yet exist. As I got to know her, I came to know them too.
Q: While the primary action of the novel takes place over the course of one night, the reader is given a very thorough history of the characters and their stories through vignettes woven throughout. Why did you choose this time-fluid method to tell the story?
A: Some sort of constraint seems essential in the writing process. Otherwise, the blank page is too daunting, the world building too arbitrary. The decision to limit the present story line to one night at the bar focused the plot on a singular chain of events. Of course, when a constraint is imposed, something is always lost or impossible. Lucas, for example, is not at the bar because he can’t be. As the night slowly spirals out of control, Emma’s memories allow for limitless exploration of the people in her life, their intertwined histories, as well as her feelings of complicity and guilt.
Present circumstances trigger memory, and memory informs decisions that alter the course of the present. This fluidity between present and past feels true to me. The vignettes woven throughout operate in the way that memory imposes itself on the here and now. Emma relives these memories because she must, because she doesn’t want to lose them, but as she tells her story, the world inside the bar moves ever forward. As the patrons interact, tension bubbles, and Emma’s memory is continually triggered. By the end, when Emma and Jimmy finally talk directly about what happened, past and present collide.
Q: The Final Final is such an important place in your novel that it almost takes on a character of its own. Is this based off of a real place in your life?
A: There are four bars that factored into building the world of The Final Final. In Upstate New York, where I lived for two years while attending business school at Cornell, the best hangout for grad students and locals alike was a bar called Chapter House. We had Wednesdays off (no classes so MBAs could travel down to the city to netw
ork), so we drank at Chapter House every Tuesday night (dubbed “Tuesdays at Chappies”).
When I moved to Iowa City, I met the man who would eventually become my husband. He liked to hang out at a little townie bar called IC Ugly’s (now defunct). His friends had a habit of texting one another “Ugs?” and gathering there without notice, often several days a week. The bar was exceptional because it was populated almost exclusively by regulars, a handful of mostly middle-aged men. University students rarely crossed the threshold. It was an oasis.
We also spent a great deal of time at a place right around the corner, Georges, which has been an Iowa City staple for decades. Writers love Georges, especially poets. The bartenders know the patrons’ names and what they drink. They pour whiskey generously. There, I drank limitless grapefruit juice and soda water when I was pregnant with my first child.