Calling Up the Dead

Death, in most cases, provides writers with a convenient stopping point, a period after which readers can assume what they wish and the writer need not concern himself that their imaginations will, in any way, undermine that which has gone before: a character dies, and that is the end of it all.  In “Calling Up the Dead,” however, Brett Weaver has managed to make “death” a starting point, or, in some instances, to allow it to form a new beginning–after all, funerals are for the living and not the dead. In the title story, an officious, unpleasant woman, Miss Mith, is transformed into a likeable character who discovers her ability to love through the spirit of her deceased father whom she has reluctantly come home to bury. In “Three for Tango” it is the fear of death, and its slippery companion, old age, which allows the Argentinian professor to realize the true love he has for his wife, despite his indiscretions which he has, initially, deemed so necessary.  And in “Knockout: A Fairy Tale,” Nickolai comes to understand that the death which captured his parents does not need to also encompass him as he is rescued from his emotional quagmire by a death-defying young Russian woman.  The story “Regards the Balcony” demonstrates that, at times, death can be a much healthier alternative to life as the sorrow-filled narrator (an eighteenth-century French hotel  alcony) brings about the disillusioned protagonist’s demise.  “Princess Preparation” transports the reader to darkest Africa where three children, refugees from genocide, immunized against the horrors of death, attempt to delve into the after-life and protect their ancestors.  “Grove of No Birds” examines the role of fortune and death as an Indian family revenges itself upon a cruel and despotic father, in front of a reluctant witness who is then forced to question himself and his location in life’s waters.  And the final story, “Eternity Points,” attempts to remove death entirely from life’s equation as readers encounter a character who possesses eternal life, and yet finds no more happines than the average and “three–score-and-ten” narrator with whom she shares her horrific secret.  Death, in these stories, is, as it should always be, more than a character; it not only plays roles, but draws the line between where actors may and may not work out their drama–it is the moment in time prior to which everyone must speak their part before the silent curtain of memory falls.