How Far She Went

“...Let us die in abstinence / Of one another, sigh gales, yet refuse / To speak the solving word which opens chaos...”

The Epigraph represents the central theme: resignation to a life without meaning versus a rejection of suffering by seizing control, whatever the cost. Ultimately, the characters who seize control of their circumstances end up opening the door to chaos. This irony stems from their resignation that they have no choice but to act, thus rendering themselves to the same fate of victimhood.

“Lonesome Road Blues.” 

The opening story’s title, “Lonesome Road Blues,” is a recurring theme for this collection. The reference to loneliness is decidedly vague. At first glance, the title refers to the solitary life of the blues traveler in the story, but it is not life on the road that brings loneliness. Loneliness is the road the characters travel, with or without a spouse or family beside them.

“She read her thoughts from that mental page she had been composing all year [...] ’I want you to have a friend!’ she cried so softly not even the sparrow [...] heard her. But Lovingood heard her [...] through the cracks in his crust and into the quick, stinging, reminding him he was alive.”

When the protagonist whispers to Lovingood, she is expressing her need to be not only a friend but his salvation, and to believe in genuine companionship. Her doing so almost breaks the scene’s spell, however, as he, almost by accident, remembers that he is alive while simultaneously remembering his loneliness. Though a poignant moment, Lovingood later leaves her for a random fan, thus underscoring just how tenuous genuine connection is.

“She drove home fast, as though fleeing something [...] He doesn’t even know my name! [...] And at first it was funny. Later she was sorry. And later still (this took some time) she was not sorry anymore.”

The protagonist finds it funny that Lovingood does not know her name, but not authentically funny. Hers is the response of one who is used to being unknown, anonymous, a victim of her loneliness. She is not sorry later when he leaves with another girl because she is resigned to the reality that whether single or coupled, the isolation cannot be escaped. Because of this, her loneliness becomes a form of dangerous, cyclical nostalgia. 

“Solomon’s Seal.” 

The title of the story appears first in the Epigraph, as an excerpt from a poem entitled “False Solomon’s Seal.” The dilemma of the Epigraph—whether to suffer an unfulfilled life in silence or risk the unknown consequences of speaking out—mirrors the dilemma of the protagonist in “Solomon’s Seal.” It is equally symbolic of the issue faced in each of the stories in the collection grapple with real versus fake, truth versus fiction.

“Sometimes, bottle-mellowed, they turned to each other in that shored-up bed, but afterward things were worse [...] and she’d walk for miles in the woods, seeking wake-robin or Solomon’s seal. She always dug at the wrong time, or too shallow, or something. For a few hours it would stand tall as it had grown, but the color would slowly fade, and with it her hopes.”

False Solomon’s seal is traditionally used in folk medicine tinctures. True Solomon’s seal is its poisonous look-alike. The juxtaposition of the True Solomon’s seal in this story versus the False Solomon’s seal in the Epigraph represents the underlying question of the Epigraph, the story, and the collection—whether to suffer loss and isolation in pretense of a life well-lived or risk chaos to reject or escape it. Any attempt to change the situation seems to end with the plants dying—serving as a reminder to the protagonist that she cannot bring to life that which is gone.

“She [...] moved the piled papers and canned goods off her hope chest and raised the lid. Everything she had held out against him all those years was there. She took the coverlet out and [...] After staking the coverlet above her young plants [...] she stooped to see how the Solomon’s seal was doing [...] But already it was dying. There was some little trick to it. ‘You’d think I could learn,’ she said. But she never did.” 

In the final scene of “Solomon’s Seal,” the protagonist again confronts the issue of how to escape the desolation which turns out to be equally present in divorce as it was in marriage. This final attempt to revive the plant is a metaphor for the protagonist: Once again, the plant has died, and she is left with the silent resignation that she will never get it right.

“A Man Among Men.”

This phrase suggests the appearance of one who lives a proper, Southern life, carrying out all the expected actions that earn one the respect of this title at one’s funeral. For the old man’s son, who grew up rejected and abandoned, his father is far from being a man among men. However, the title suggests that perhaps a man among men is only performative—and that doing so renders the old man so lonely that the death of his dog leaves him with nothing but the determination to die and end the suffering.

“All because of a dog. A dog!”

The images of dogs dying are pivotal to the outcome of the stories in this collection. They represent all things loyal, true, and authentic. Their deaths represent loss of the only genuine experience of love and companionship. Their importance is so great, however, that a human being questions their significance here. This question further highlights how the humans in these stories don’t understand the significance of loyalty, truth, and companionship, all things the dogs exemplify.

“His old man lay in Grady Miller’s best steel casket with the same determined-to-die look on his face that he had worn throughout his final two months of decline.” 

These lines open Part 1 of “A Man Among Men,” introducing an image that will occur throughout the story. The old man’s corpse is almost part of the setting. The description of his face as determined to die describes not only the months leading to his death after the death of his dog, but also his life. The backstory of Thomas’s father as a man who was determined to die is juxtaposed with his being known as a man among men—at the expense of any real connection with anyone except his dog. 

“His old man lay in Grady Miller’s front parlor between the adjustable lamps casting their discreet 40-watt pink-of-health upon him head and foot. He was dressed in his Sunday best.” 

The next scene opens again with the image of the old man’s corpse in the background—this time for the viewing and wake. What is established in Part 1—the tense separation he created with his son, Thomas—is witnessed here in the actions that follow. Thomas leaves the wake to answer a work call, rendering even less significant the man who has died and the fact that he has died. Like the pink lamp above the old man’s body, he is forgotten when Thomas exits the parlor to tend to those things that will make Thomas, too, a man among men.

“His old man lay in Grady Miller’s lifetime-guaranteed burial vault, and the mourners—those windblown few who waited for the closing and the anchoring of their wreaths in the raw clay—drifted like dark leaves against the whited wall of Soul’s Harbor Church.” 

Part 3 opens again with the image of the old man’s corpse, in the vault and awaiting burial. As the third set of opening lines describing the corpse as part of the scenery, they cast an image of the old man’s corpse as insignificant as the cliché that declares him “a man among men.” His life and death are reduced to the status of the cold wind in the background. The image evokes the underlying conflict of this collection, of whether it is possible to escape a meaningless life followed by an insignificance in death.

“A Country Girl.” 

In the story, these words are used to reduce Elizabeth Inglish to a portrait of the Georgian pastoral—like a character in a music box that continues an endless cycle. In the course of the story, Elizabeth makes the choice to be exactly as her family, and exactly as the quintessential country girl—guaranteed to be found sitting on the porch with her guitar in complacent acceptance of this picture of a happy life.

“There was not an uninhabited front porch in all the valley on any summer afternoon [...] and it might be that a barefoot girl with a flat-top guitar would stare coolly past you [...] You could pick up one of the little early apples from the ground and eat it right then without worrying about pesticide.” 

The rural imagery of “A Country Girl” creates an illusion of Georgian, pastoral innocence that ironically reveals the recurring, dark tone coloring the collection. The conflict of whether to accept living in sadness, loss, alienation, and isolation as the inescapable prelude to one’s inevitable death is veiled behind the geraniums and wild apples.

“‘Country girl,’ he said, like a slide caption. Before the dust behind them had settled, they had digested her into an anecdote.”

What the photographer and painter do—reducing Elizabeth Inglish to an anecdote—is exactly what she and her family do to themselves. They choose to be the quintessential, Southern family—going through the motions of life without ever seeking meaning or genuine experience. This act of pretend happens repeatedly or the characters in this collection of stories.

“The woman had to stretch across the table to leave her handprint on that blank cheek [...] The girl trembled [...] and then to escape the shame of minding so much she fled. Just headed away blind. It didn’t matter, this time, how far she went.”

At first glance, the title “How Far She Went” appear to be primarily connected with the actions of the grandmother. Here, the reader is shown to whom those words truly refer: the granddaughter, who, in one sense, is the villain of this story. The girl represents evil in the grandmother’s eyes—an evil that the grandmother created. She is responsible for bringing the bikers into their lives. How far she goes to rebel is to incite an event that leads to the killing of all that is innocent and loyal.

“‘Tie her to the fence and give her a bale of hay,’ she murmured [...] she knew, and the baby knew; there was no love in the begetting. That was [...] where all the bad had come from, like a visitation, a punishment. She knew that was why Sylvie [...] before dying had made [...] a child who [...] would carry the hurting into another generation.” 

The memory of the woman’s rejection haunts her—not as much mentally as in the very image of her granddaughter, who reminds her that she is the evil product of a mother who was born without love. When the girl arrives with the bikers, the woman does not see her as a victim, but as part of the evil she must bear for the rejection of her daughter. She kills her dog less to save the girl than to face the punishment she believes she has no choice but to face.

“Her granny rocked the dog like a baby, like a dead child [...] ‘I’m sorry,’ the girl said then, avoiding the dog’s inert, empty eye. ‘It was him or you,’ her granny said [...] They saw each other as well as they could in that failing light, in any light. The woman started toward home, saying, ‘Around here, we bear our own burdens.’” 

The image of the woman embracing the dead dog reveals the truth beneath the seemingly selfless action of the grandmother’s killing of her dog to save her granddaughter’s life. It is not so much for the love of her granddaughter, but out of resignation that this fate was brought on by the initial rejection of her own daughter. She rocks the dog like a child, like the child she long ago abused and did wrong by, suggesting her love for the dog was a stand-in for her own daughter. She kills the dog in acceptance of her hopeless fate (karma) and thus snuffs out whatever remaining joy she had in the world as penance for past sins.

“‘He is conscientious, punctual. This is incredible.’ In the closet, shelved ceiling to floor [...] mementos [...] trophies [...] a scrapbook of himself [...] doing this, saying that, to applause.” 

The protagonist of this story is a fugitive who has discarded a life well lived by committing crimes outside of that life. Like the characters in the first four stories, he performs the quintessential life deserving of applause with the same resignation and complacency on the surface. The difference is that behind the scenes, he acts out the unacceptable, and when confronted with the consequences, he goes public with this acting out—choosing death over suffering by hanging himself. The act elucidates the false nature of those mementos and scrapbooks, items that will be discarded along with any memory of a man once applauded. 

“They had found Lady halfway between the toolshed and the backporch, as near home as she had been able to drag herself. The fine old collie lay dying in their torchlight, bewildered, astonished, trusting them to heal her, to cancel whatever this evil was that had befallen.” 

The recurring image of dogs dying and being killed is significant not only to Lady’s story, but to the collection as a whole. For the characters in the stories preceding the title story, the loss of what is innocent and real renders them resigned to give up. However, after the killing of the title story’s dog, the idea that loss of the true and innocent will be endured is rejected. Lady is the first of the victims to inspire vengeance.

“Carpenter beheld his son. ‘She was shot twice. Once point-blank. Once as she tried to get away.’ [...] It sank in, like slow poison [...]

‘You mean Lady knew them? Trusted them? Then they shot her?’ Dennis spoke eagerly, proud of his ability to draw manly conclusions.” 

The phrase “manly conclusion” first describes how Carpenter resolves issues—in the proper way that a good, Southern man takes care of his family and belongings. When his son, Dennis, follows his father’s example, he is proud that he can think like his father. What his parents do not expect is that Dennis will bring to a manly conclusion the wrongful killing of their dog at the cost of chaos and fatal consequence.

“Hindsight.” 

The title of this story describes both the narration and the conclusion of this story. It is the glance in the rearview mirror—a thing noticed when it is too late. The first half of the story is recollection—a review of all mistakes made leading to the woman’s desolate and abusive marriage. As opposed to the endured suffering that is seen in the first four stories, this unnamed female protagonist exercises control of her suffering and disillusion by ending it—an action characteristic to the stories that follow the title story’s traumatic climax. She does not, however, seize control with the strength and determination of a woman claiming her identity. Ironically, she does so with the resignation that there is no other option—again leaving the question unanswered of whether it’s too late for hope, like the vision in her rearview mirror.

“Here lately she had been dreaming about her mother[...] just before they sealed the coffin [...] and the inexorable progress toward the dark, the sealing, the lowering, the losing sight of, the closing went on until she woke herself dry-mouthed, heart-pounding, telling herself it was only a dream.” 

The use of the term “inexorable progress” signifies irony in the final story. In the story, it is used to describe the inescapable fact of death—as seen in the corpse of Angelina’s mother. In the title, it is a metaphor for Angelina’s slow and calculated movement towards her suicide attempt. Ironically, however, it is also used to narrate the protagonist’s family’s belief that she is making progress in accepting her life as it is. She attempts to stop trying to escape the trap of pretense and lack of meaning but fails.