by Corrine Watson
February 6, 2024
Corrine Watson is a freelance writer and editor based in Charlotte, NC. Her work has appeared in Wretched Creations, the Southern Review of Books and F(r)iction. Follow her on Twitter @CorrineWatson6.
The Gunman and The Carnival: Stories by Catherine Gammon; Baobab Press; 144 pages; $16.95.
The Gunman & The Carnival, recently released by Boabab Press, captures Catherine Gammon’s unique modern voice as she explores the quiet interiority of the human experience and the desire to be part of something greater. These contemporary stories loosely based around the pandemic present haunting vignettes of modern violence and a sense of isolation.
In the first portion of the collection, Gammon presents characters whose forced solitude is perhaps more circumstantial or by choice, and there is an awkward, conflicting desire to make acquaintances or build relationships while simultaneously keeping themselves at an emotional distance. The opening story, “Eudora Loves Her Life,” aptly illustrates these feelings as Eudora grasps for a cosmic connection to find meaning in her discovery of a dead woman on the beach on her birthday. Yet when her neighbor, a struggling single mother, attempts to engage, Eudora goes through the motions of casual conversation. She recognizes the opportunity to demonstrate small acts of kindness just like the former neighbors did for her when she was in a dark place, but she seems closed off and keeps the woman at a distance because “she often feared someone, anyone wanting something from her.” (11) The way Gammon presents this fear of being needed stands out as uniquely honest as she draws attention to a trait society would write off as damning and selfish, particularly in a woman who is expected to be nurturing and self-sacrificing. But through Eudora, Gammon illustrates the benefits of healthy boundaries as she shows that Eudora is capable of connecting with others, even though she won’t allow people to take more than she is willing to give.
While Eudora rejects this connection, it is more common that the characters in these stories find themselves taking up a role or personality that serves those around them, perhaps illustrating the cost of what it means to be needed. In “Claudine,” Gammon draws the reader in to the narrative with distant reflections on Claudine’s childhood trauma in the day leading up to her attempted suicide. As she reminisces with her friend, she has the epiphany that, “her friend was like her father, Claudine thought. Or saw. Saw suddenly. And again. The two of them — wanting her to be who she wasn’t in order to meet their own unspecified needs.” (45) While the insinuation of trauma, and the dynamics of Claudine’s relationship to her father is perhaps a bit too vague, the story does capture the detrimental effects of an unbalanced relationship where only one party is receiving.
This is also illustrated in more romantic contexts in “A Vampire Story?” as well as “Agency,” where the characters are orbiting in a constant give and take in relationships that are inescapably emotional even if the parameters of the relationship circulate more around sexual desire. As the power dynamics shift in “Agency,” the man considers ending the arrangement, “but feels bound still to her body, and withdrawing from her — his withdrawal — increases her demands. He likes her demanding body as she likes his brutal body withdrawing.” (35) The dynamics of the relationships Gammon presents are complex as she successfully captures the ways it might seem that a union has run its course once the novelty of lust wears off. Yet she also aptly captures the ways shifting power dynamics and the character’s insecurity, or fear of letting go plays a part in decisions to simultaneously desire to move on or cling to a failing relationship. The way Gammon presents these vignettes of relationships suggests that she is endeavoring to capture portraits of human connection, and while these dynamics are compelling, they land a bit flat in comparison to more character centered stories.
The sense of physical isolation stands out in the stories that overtly take place during quarantine as Gammon captures what we lost in a year of limited human contact. In “Cul-De-Sac,” Gammon writes that “living with the virus was like waiting for an extinction event, an asteroid or space junk to hit the earth.” (65) In spite of this expectation for catastrophe, the stories in the collection follow the quiet solitude with brief moments of connection. Yet there is a haunting sense of unease as the characters sit with the everyday violence of people, and catastrophic wildfires on top of the pandemic. In the midst of quarantine, Gammon illustrates the inherent desire to find community and seek a connection no matter how fleeting. After days alone, the narrator in “Cat Sitting for a Ghost” jumps at the opportunity to keep her delivery guy in conversation for as long as possible. She notes that “he didn’t have much of interest to offer, but still it was good to hear a voice in the doorway, in the room with her, to see another body in all its dimensions, to smell another being, even dangerously to breathe his breath, to know he would leave some molecules behind.” (127) In the throes of solitude, there is an inherent desire for intimacy, not necessarily romantic, but the intimacy that comes from sharing space with other people in spite of the risk of infection.
One of the other perspectives Gammon focuses on with a bit more interiority in the pandemic focused story, “Pack Rat, All Will Be Well,” is Agnes, a young woman who seems a bit embarrassed to be a cop because she assumes that her neighbors would look at her with disdain or distrust if they knew. It seems Gammon is calling for sympathy for Agnes as she expresses her concern for the kids and their mysterious project at her elderly neighbor’s house and envies their community. But as she considers her role on the law enforcement side of a protest, it feels clear that she’s telling us her job doesn’t include protecting the public, and her “concern” for their safety isn’t going to stop her from doing her job as directed whether she agrees or not. This doesn’t make Agnes’s character particularly likable, but Gammon successfully paints the complex dynamics.
Gammon writes that, “Solitary violence was easier to reckon with — after a brutality, the silent voice that says I live.” which is a profound sentiment that seems to capture the tone of the collection. The Gunman & The Carnival takes those quiet lonely moments of everyday life, particularly during the pandemic, where it seems like there is an unseen threat around every corner, and allows the characters to sit with these feelings, and come out enlightened or with a stronger sense of self.
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Exploring Isolation and Found Community in the Age of the Pandemic in Catherine Gammon’s The Gunman & The Carnival
FICTION REVIEW
Image by Mikhail Nilov from Pexels
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