Leesa Dean

Leesa Dean is a young writer with genuine promise. I like good sentences, and there are a lot of them in this collection.

Early in the first story “Waiting for the Cyclone,” we read, “He kissed the top of my head and lingered there as if he might forget the smell of my hair once I was gone” (2). Beautifully stated and accurate to male experience. And a bit further on the narrator says, “Michael . . . put his hand between my thighs. I tightened my muscles to keep it there” (6). Again, accurate.

The 12-year-old narrator of “Malad” says, “The rat’s name was Sid, like the singer from the Sex Pistols” (18), which is a carefully nuanced allusion on Dean’s part as she shows the child’s innocence in this error. Sid Vicious was their bass player who tragically died of a heroin overdose, and Johnny Rotten was their singer. Deeper into the story we learn of the mesquite trees that “Sometimes . . . have to dig their roots a hundred feet for water. . . . they’re determined to survive,” and this beneath “the night sky, all lit up with stars. . . . a star forest” (20). And the same young narrator notices that “Her eyes looked fake and shiny, like the clear rocks at the bottom of aquariums” (21).

In “Tiebreaker” we read, “Columbia Lake was the colour of laundry detergent” (37). A strikingly simple complex image.

In “Proverbs,” Dean effectively shows the patterns of pain inherent in infidelity. She evokes the setting as Amy “drops her backpack on the furthest bench where a local teenager has scratched RURAL TORTURE into the paint” (68). Soon we see “A wide veranda laced by dark foliage” (69) and learn that Amy was at one time “in a choir” (73), which hints at her eroded spiritual / emotional foundation. As Amy begins to bond with her cabin mate Michelle, “The mountains are pink edged and the sky is reminiscent of its former blue” (75). As they become closer, the narrator notes, “It could be a ritual, the two of them writing letters to their faraway men by candlelight” (76). And in the beautifully handled climax of the story, “Amy sits close and talks to [Michelle] . . . in a voice that sounds like a soft ocean. . . . [While in] the distance, the ripe eggplants pull toward the ground and the tomatoes stand out, bright red in a sea of green” (91).

In “One Last Time” we read, “When I could no longer be good and let you sleep, I slid my hand across your stomach, knowing you’d wake up and make love to me, once, twice”(126). The author never describes these sexual experiences. This level of minimalist restraint pervades all of the stories. Dean’s strategy invites the reader to visualize, and it also creates the sense that the narratives, especially when they deal with sexuality, are rushed summaries of what happened. For me, this is odd but also effective. The setting in “One Last Time” echoes this pattern of quick, undeveloped touching / intimacy when we learn that “Irrigation sprinklers ticked in wide arcs, leaving tiny rainbows over the parched grass” (129). A beautiful sentence, like a line lifted from a poem. The intimate scenes are luminous, quickly fading.

And in “September” we read, “That night, the sunset over Lake Superior nearly destroyed me. The bright pink sky burst into the car and seemed to hug me. It felt like love and I couldn’t stop crying” (132). Throughout the collection there are hints of spirituality lost, of a numb unease and meaninglessness undergirding the attempts at intimate relationships. It is as if the narrator is often trying to be tough and put on an insensitive façade, while deep inside she is crying out to be “destroyed” with “love.” A good example is in “Monterrico,” where we read, “They’d only been together six months when she found out she was pregnant. Not that she wanted to keep it, but she still felt something when the blue line surfaced on the test” (164). The characters seem to be on the edge of an abyss. There’s more to say about this. And in “Gone to Seed,” pregnant Erika cries as she hears how good it is that she has “a wonderful husband who will be with [her] every step of the way” (189), which of course is not true, but rather her deepest yearning.

In the final story, “Shelter from the Wind,” Dean continues to explore the themes of conception, pregnancy, and solitude: “[Chelsea sees] . . . the grainy ultrasound [which] showed everything—fingers and toes, the shape of the face” (192), and then, “Just before midnight, the city’s north end lost power. Patrick lit a candle, a vigil for his lost opportunity. A marmalade glow emanated from the wick” (193). Soon after this scene, Chelsea flashes back and we read this beautiful description of the conception of her child with Marco: “They left their clothes on the shore and made love in a shallow bay, sand clouding around Chelsea’s knees as she straddled Marco. In the distance, two flamingos stood near the shore with their backs turned, elegantly facing the sun” (197). Wonderful writing. This is my favorite story in the collection and I won’t say more. Read it; it’s really good.

Frequently, in fact, very frequently in Waiting for the Cyclone, Leesa Dean’s stories “pull toward the ground” and “stand out”—and that’s a good way to begin one’s publication career as a writer.

… (altro)