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Hot Springs

Vibrant, sexy, and quite possibly crazy, Bernice is determined to reclaim the child she gave up for adoption five years ago. She convinces her boyfriend, Landis, to help carry out her plan, but once the abduction is accomplished, Bernice—whose own mother was given to manic episodes and strange behavior—is plagued with doubts. Will Landis stay with her, given her volatile personality and his own drifter past? Will she and Landis both end up in jail for this crime? And, perhaps most importantly, will she fail at being a mother? Dovetailed with this is the story of the conservative Christian adoptive parents, Tessa and David, and the effect the kidnapping has on their troubled marriage. As Bernice and Landis journey across America, from Colorado Springs to Tucson to Baltimore, Bernice must confront her past and the secrets she has kept.

  • Page Count: 301
  • Direct Price: $12.00
  • List Price: $14.95
  • 5 x 7 1/4
  • TP
  • February 2010
  • 978-0-9820539-4-2
Format Price

Price as Configured $0.00

Geoffrey Becker’s book of stories Black Elvis won the 2008 Flannery O’ConnorPrize for Fiction and will be published by the University of Georgia Press in the fall of 2009. He is the author of two previous books, Dangerous Men, a short story collection that won the Drue Heinz Prize, and Bluestown, a novel. His other awards and honors include an NEA fellowship, selection for the Best American Short Stories anthology, the Nelson Algren Award from the Chicago Tribune, and the Parthenon Prize. He teaches writing at Towson University in Maryland, where he also directs the graduate program in professional writing.

"Geoffrey Becker's fantastic Hot Springs works hard to conceal its own scope and ambition, but the book's coyness (not to mention its humor) only heightens the uncanny, moving power of the question at its core: When it comes down to it, how far will people go for love?...Throughout the novel, characters ignore their own better judgments, creating a thrilling psychological drama that unfolds alongside the external events and creates space for the unexpected on virtually ever page. Becker has a gift for surprises...Becker's technical expertise and natural storytelling gifts are difficult to deny, as is his admirably muted sense of the absurd...Of all the reasons to be excited about Hot Springs, though, the book's strange and fresh treatment of love itself is the best...it's a taut meditation on letting go and a convincing reminder that love, for all the destruction it can cause, can usually rebuild just about anything."
—Patrick Somerville, The New York Times Book Review

"You won't trust a person in this book but it's hard to look away. People may be feckless and unreliable in the big ways, but their longing for children drives them without relent. Hot Springs is a road trip layered with desire and mistake and the impossibility of keeping a secret from rising through the years."
—Ron Carlson, author of The Signal

". . . a remarkably taut narrative and a rousing testament to humanity's capacity for resilience. Nobody gets off the hook, though they do find uneasy deliverance in unexpected places."
Publishers Weekly, Starred Review


"In Hot Springs, his rollicking new novel, Geoffrey Becker has assembled a delicate collage of damaged souls...Becker gives them to us with such earnest and empathetic insight that he makes us root for even the most ungracious among them."
—Rachel Rosenblit, ELLE

"Geoffrey Becker gets you in fast and deep to the humor and the danger of the situation."


"Becker's skills as a writer grow increasingly apparent as he lures readers into understanding and empathizing with each of the book's characters despite their flaws and misdeeds."
Colorado Springs Independent

"Becker also balances Hot Springs’ momentum with keen insights, creating a terrific tension between the characters’ hunt for faith and redemption and their more profane cravings."
—The Rumpus.net


"The dichotomy of Bernice and Landis is the sort of thing that makes for great fiction..."
Time Out Chicago

"'Bernice was ten when her mother walked around the block naked,' Becker starts out, neatly drawing the reader into a world where the division between normal and crazy is razor thin."
The Oregonian

"Becker's skills as a writer grow increasingly apparent as he lures readers into understanding and empathizing with each of the book's characters despite their flaws and misdeeds."
Colorado Springs Independent

"Becker is a phenomenal storyteller; only a writer of his caliber could have pulled this off so well."
Sacramento Book Review

"As the plot unfolds, readers are inexorably drawn into the narrative and are compelled to keep reading to learn the ultimate outcome...Becker demonstrates great skill in depicting distasteful characters whose unhappy experiences are so morbidly fascinating and so bloated with perplexing uncertainty as to provide their own uniquely tainted attraction." 
—Morton I. Teicher, ForeWord

"Like the first dip into the searing mineral soup for which the book is named, the first pages of Hot Spring shock and lure...Ultimately, Hot Springs is a beautifully crafted novel with a tightly woven yet unconventional storyline...the characters shape and propel the plot, yet eventually, that plot allows for the full development of the characters themselves." 
—Christy Corp-Minamiji, Blogcritics.com


"Tin House is not so quietly putting out some awesome fiction and this is yet another example. Emotionally complicated, funny, page turning." 

Just north of Truth or Consequences, Landis heard the unmistakable bang of metal punching through metal deep inside the engine. Lights came on all over the dash and then they were coasting along dead. He pumped at the brake pedal, which had lost its power assist, and aimed toward the shoulder.


"What did you do?" Bernice said, once they'd come to a full stop.


"I didn't do anything.  We threw a rod, I think.  I told you there was a rattle."


"So, this is my fault?"


"I didn't say that."  He sighed.  "It's no one's fault."


Emily, who had been asleep, rubbed her eyes and sneezed.


"Oh, baby," said Bernice.  "You want a tissue?"


Emily nodded.  She had dark brown curls and blue eyes, a high forehead, sharply defined eyebrows, and wore a detached expression that suggested she was constantly in a state of remembering something that had happened elsewhere and at another time.  She had on blue and white Oshkosh’s over a light green undershirt, an outfit Bernice had selected for her early that morning at the Hardings' after poking around to see where the child's clothes were kept.


Bernice leaned back and wiped Emily's nose clean, then balled the tissue and tossed it to the floor.  "You're thinking 'I told you so,' aren't you?"


"Not at all."


"I know you are.  Can it be fixed?"


He turned the key.  There was a clicking from the solenoid, but that was all.  "With a new engine."  Landis stared out at the huge rock formation that slept off to the side of the highway, rising up layered and dark out of the flat, desert landscape.  “That’s Elephant Butte,” he said.  “It’s on the map.”


“I know all about it,” she said.  “Now, don’t you think we’d better see about getting a hotel room?"


The temperature was nearly one hundred degrees out, and with the AC off, the car was quickly turning into a convection oven.  He turned to Bernice, in her jeans and white tank top, her bright-lemon dyed hair standing up off her head like some comic-book artist had drawn it that way.  He loved her.  But she scared him a little, too.




He worried that a state trooper would come along, but it was a cowboy who stopped and asked if they were OK.  Twenty minutes later, they were getting a tow into town.  They stayed in the car, the three of them, tipped backward in their seats like they were headed up a roller coaster; at any moment, Landis expected his breath to be sucked away as they reached the top and went spilling over.  Instead, the windshield remained full of bouncing blue sky.


The mechanic had gone home for the day, and the boy who'd towed them took Landis's forty dollars and wrote down his name on a grimy legal pad by the register.


"Where you staying at?" he asked.


"What you got?" Landis said.  He could hear Bernice outside with Emily, trying to kick a soda out of the Pepsi machine.


"Oh, there's a bunch of motels.  Where you are, here, this is a resort town."


**"Last resort, don't you mean?" said Landis.


"Used to be people come here for the hot springs."


"And now?"


The boy adjusted his dirty cap.  "Just to say they been."


"Sounds like my wife's having a little trouble out there."


"I'll bet she is.  There ain't no soda in that machine."


Landis didn't find this surprising.  The whole town seemed to him like it had been emptied of its contents.  Or maybe more like a stage set – one of those fake towns you could visit for six bucks, where desperadoes shot it out with lawmen in the middle of the street every day at noon.


"Any of these cars for sale?"


The attendant looked dubiously out toward the side of the lot where, next to the wrecker, there were three parked cars, one on blocks.  "The Nova, maybe.  You'd have to talk to the owner.  He went down to Hatch today."


Landis had four hundred dollars in cash with him, along with a maxed-out Discover card. He wasn't sure about Bernice. He knew there was a roll of bills in her purse, but he had no idea how much it came to.


They checked into the Hot Springs motel, two blocks down the street, and took naps. When they awoke, they went to the Fiesta Cafe for dinner. After their orders arrived, Emily leaned her head forward and clasped her hands together. Bernice rolled her eyes and batted at the flies hovering over her chicken. "Thank you, Lord," Emily said in a quiet voice, "for the bounty we are about to receive."


"Bounty," said Landis.  "That's one way of looking at it."


There used to be a candy bar called Bounty," said Bernice.  "I can't tell you what was in it, though.  Probably coconut.  Do you like coconut?"


Emily didn't answer.


"This town was named after a television show," Landis said.


"I'm not allowed to watch television," said Emily.


"Yes, you are," said Bernice.


“No, just videos.”


"There's a town in Montana that changed its name to Joe." It occurred to Landis that trying to explain this further would be more trouble than it was worth.


"They should have called it 'Hollywood Squares,'" Bernice said.  "Or 'Star Trek.'"


They turned their attention to the food.  Emily had a bowl of macaroni with butter on it.  She ate half, then pushed it aside and drew quietly on her placemat with a Bic pen.  Landis tried to get her interested in the mini-jukebox that hung over the table, but with no success.  Bernice took the pen and did Emily’s portrait on a napkin.  After coffee and pie and milk, the three of them walked through the still, hot air back to the motel.


The mirror over the dresser was missing about two inches of the upper left corner.  The dresser itself was covered in cigarette burns.  "Look," said Bernice, "a rotary phone.  You don't see that every day."  She turned the television on to the cartoon channel.  Emily, clutching the stuffed turtle they'd bought her at a rest stop outside of Albuquerque, climbed up on the bed to watch.  Bernice stared hard at her.


"What?" said Landis.  "Something wrong?"


Bernice turned to him and squinted.  "You're kidding, right?"  She went over and touched Emily's face with the back of her hand and held it there.  "She's burning up.  I knew she was hot, but I thought it was just the weather.  I thought she'd cool off once we got her into better air-conditioning.  Come on over here and feel her."


Landis touched her forehead.  "Maybe she should take something?" he suggested.


Bernice brought over a glass of water, but Emily wouldn't drink.  Her cheeks were red blossoms against her white face, as if she'd been slapped.


"Please, honey?  I think you have a touch of the flu.  We have to put out the fire."


Emily shook her head.


"Hey, little girl," said Landis, "listen up.  Drink that water."


Bernice set the glass on the night table.  "Never mind.  Go on and watch the show."  She motioned to Landis to join her outside, and the two of them stepped out the door.


"We need another car," he said.


"I know you think this is my fault, but it's not."  She lit a cigarette.  "You drive too rough."


He watched a bug bang itself against the floodlight attached to the side of the building. Getting into a big fight with Bernice wasn't worth it. He had suggested using his truck, but she'd insisted on her Hyundai, because it was a family car, and because it was illegal to drive a kid around in a truck. He’d distrusted the thing, but conceded her point.


Bernice sucked deeply on her cigarette, then tossed it. "I'm going to go sit with her. It's no fun being sick."


The door clicked shut. He stared for a moment at a dark cloud shaped like a hand floating in the purple sky. Bernice had a friend in Tucson. She and Emily were going to stay with her at first. Landis would ride the bus back to Colorado Springs, take care of details – packing up her apartment and his trailer – then drive down in the truck in a few days. After that, they would start their new life together.




He'd met her six months ago at Midnight, the club downtown where he was substitute soundman.  Their first date was the movies, followed by cheap Mexican food, and not a lot of talking.  That was OK with Landis, as talking made him uneasy.  It had been his experience that people gave him more credit the less he said.  They agreed to see another movie the following night – the latest Bond – and afterward went back to his trailer with a bottle of Hornitos.  There she told him her story about how she’d been living in Atlanta and gotten pregnant.  She'd answered an ad from a childless couple, come out to the Springs, and stayed with them.


"They prayed for me and the baby every night – I could hear them up in the living room, just kind of murmuring. Creepy. After I gave birth, I got out as fast as I could, to Florida, where I beach-bummed, waitressed, took some classes. But I always knew I’d come back. I kept a key.”


All fall, she explained, she’d been going to the house. She’d park a block away, sneak in, eat leftovers from the fridge, watch a little TV, look at the pictures of Emily. She’d even managed to get hired at the Coffee Connection across the street from where Emily was in day care,. She could step outside and watch the children playing in the yard. “It’s Christian day care, of course,” she told him. “Whatever that means. The Hardings both have jobs in town, but the mother isn’t full-time. The mother drops her off Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.” Emily liked to sit by herself, Bernice said. Emily was leading the wrong life, and even if she didn’t understand that, exactly, she *sensed it, and it was making her unhappy.


It was nearly 4 am, and they both still had on all their clothes.  This was not what Landis had envisioned, but he was coming to the conclusion that Bernice wasn't much like other girls he'd known.


"They are brainwashing her.  It isn't right.  They bought my child from me because they couldn't have one of their own, and now they are killing her mind, one day at a time.  If there is a God, I think it’s pretty clear that he did not mean for these people to have children."


"What are you going to do about it?" he asked.


"Take her back."


"Excellent idea."


Her eyes narrowed.  "You don't believe me?"  She lifted her hand to her mouth and bit into the fleshy part at the base of her thumb.


"Hey," said Landis.  "What are you doing?"


She didn't answer, just looked out at him over her hand, which she continued to bite.  After a few seconds, when blood appeared, she stopped.  "Most people couldn't do that to themselves," she said.


"Most people wouldn't want to."


"You're looking at a woman with a purpose."  She grinned, the traces of red on her mouth like smeared lipstick.  Then she took off her T-shirt and wrapped it around her wrist.  Landis tried not to appear to be staring at her breasts.  "Will you help?" she asked.


"No way in hell," he told her.




Emily's room was Bernice's old one, in the basement, so it had been easy enough slipping in and getting her this morning. Emily didn't seem surprised when they woke her. She held on to Bernice's hand like she'd been doing it all her life. Seeing them that way had given Landis a warm feeling.


Bernice was on the bed now, next to Emily, watching Scooby Doo.  "Remember Lucky Charms?" she said.  "Those marshmallow pieces made your teeth hurt." 


Landis saw that she'd wrapped Emily in a blanket.  "If she's cold, we don't need this."  He went over to the air conditioner and switched it off.  It shuddered, did a miniature version of the noise the Hyundai had made, then fell silent. 


"She was shivering, and her fever seems worse.  I don't like this at all."


Emily poked at a cigarette hole in the blanket and said, "I can do the minor prophets."


"This ought to be good," said Landis, sitting on the edge of the bed to listen.  “I’m a sucker for the minor prophets.”


She closed her eyes.  "Amos, Obadiah, Jonah, Micah, Nahum . . ."


"Bert, Ernie, and Kermit."  Bernice stood up.  "I'm getting you an aspirin."


She went into the bathroom and fumbled through her bag.  From where he was, Landis could see her reflection in the mirror, her smooth strong arms tanned and pretty against the white of her T-shirt.  She came back in with a tablet that she had cut in half in her hand.  "Please?"


“Don’t you give kids Tylenol?” asked Landis.  “I think aspirin might be bad for them.”


“Ever hear of baby aspirin?” she said. 


“Seems like they just give that to old people.”


Bernice held the pill in front of Emily’s flushed face.  “Anyway,” she said, “this is Tylenol.  I just said aspirin.”


Emily turned her head and looked at Landis for a moment, then brought her attention back to Bernice.  She swallowed the half pill, washing it down with water Bernice gave her in a plastic cup.


The water tastes ucky,” she said.


Landis got up and peered out the side of the blinds.  He could see across the parking lot to the lobby, where a fluorescent light illuminated the Vacancy sign.  There were two other cars in the lot, both of which had been there when they'd arrived.  He wondered if they belonged to guests, or if they were always there.  He tried to put himself in the Hardings' position. They would have called the police pretty early this morning – Bernice said they got up around eight.  The police would have asked who they thought might have taken the child.  Would they think of Bernice?  It hardly mattered.  Even if Landis and Bernice could somehow manage to return Emily without getting caught, the child could identify them.


"I can get us a Nova, I'm pretty sure," Landis said.  "Then I think maybe we should turn around and take her straight back.  Drop her off on the corner, give her a push in the right direction, and run."


Bernice stood silently in the middle of the room, her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.  “Are you backing out on me?” “No, of course I’m not.”


"Do you think I'm crazy?" she asked.


"I don't know.  No.”


"But you think it's possible, right?"  She came over and leaned against the wall beside him.  With the air-conditioning off, the room had quickly grown stuffy.  The walls were permeated with old cigarette smell.  "I need to hear from you that except for the engine blowing up in my car, and for Emily getting sick, this was an OK plan."  She pushed up against him and touched his arm with her hand.  "Please?  Can you just say that?"


In the various conversations they’d had about this through the spring and early summer, he'd tried to talk to her about alternatives. The courts, for instance, regardless of the papers she'd signed. But she wouldn't listen, claimed he didn't know what he was talking about. “You think knowing how to run a PA system qualifies you to give legal advice?” she said. And then they’d stop talking about it, except that it was always there, an underlying hum in the system that would not go away. She was the strangest girl he’d ever known, and time and again, he’d thought that if he were smart, he’d have nothing more to do with her. But then he’d see her, with that infectious smile, that look in her eyes that suggested imminent sex, an electric surge that seemed to radiate from her and make everything in her vicinity vibrate. Some days they made love four, five, six times, doing it in her unmade bed and on the floor and just about anyplace, until both of them had reached a point of exhaustion, until Landis was so sore it hurt to button his jeans. But then she’d disappear for a day or two, and he wouldn’t know what to think. He’d feel her absence in his whole body, like a fever. As long as her plans about Emily had remained hypothetical, he hadn’t figured there was that much to worry about. People lived with all sorts of stories they told themselves.


“I know what I’m doing,” she’d promised him, when she’d told him last week that it was time.  They were at his trailer, in bed, listening to the coyotes. “It’s all going to work out fine.  You have to trust me.”  She’d gotten up her nerve, she explained, and, when the girls who supervised the playground outside Little Angels weren’t paying attention, she had leaned over the wall to talk to Emily.  “I just said, ‘Hi.’ Know what she said?  ‘It’s you.’  I asked her, ‘You, who?’  And she said, ‘My real mommy.’”


“And what did you say?” Landis asked.


“I didn’t say anything.”  Bernice was beaming.  “I put out my finger and she gave it a squeeze.”  She held up the finger to show him.


“Don’t you think she might say something about this to the people?”


“No, no, she won’t.  She knows it’s a secret.”


“Kids aren’t great with secrets.”


She wrapped herself around him and hugged him hard, and he realized with some surprise that without ever consciously making a decision, he had in fact made one. 


"It was an OK plan," he said, now.


She went into the bathroom and began running water into the tub.  "Go get some ice," she said.  "Get a whole big bag."


He was gone less than five minutes.  When he returned, Bernice had put Emily in the tub.  He reached a hand in and quickly pulled it out.  "That's cold."


"What do you think the ice is for?  We need to get her fever down."


"That can't be right.  Look at her."  He put the bag down in the sink.  Emily's naked body was magnified and flattened under the bluish lens of the bathwater, and she was clearly shivering. Her eyes were shut tight.  Landis reached in and scooped her up in his arms.  Water splashed all over the floor and all over him. She was so light.  He grabbed a couple of towels off the rack and wrapped them around the child, brought her back into the room and placed her in her bed.  Behind him, he heard the bathroom door click shut.  He dried her off and put the T-shirt back on her.


“Did I do that OK?” he asked.


“You forgot my toes,” Emily said.


So he did them, too.


“And I want underpants.”.


“Right.”  He found them on the floor, handed them to Emily, and looked away as she pulled them on.  Then he tucked her in, leaving a towel under the back of her head where her hair was still wet.


Landis knocked, entered, and found Bernice staring into the mirror over the sink.  "I've ruined everything," she said.  "I'm an unfit mother."


"Shhh.  Nothing's done that can't be undone."


"It isn't?  Do you know what you are saying?  Are you even in the same movie as me?  Because mine is a bad gangster one, and it ends in a hail of bullets."


"Just stop it.  Everything is under control.  We've got a little money.  We've got Emily.  What we need is to get some sleep." 


They went quietly back into the bedroom.  Emily's face was still flushed, her closed eyelids fluttering like tiny moths.  He couldn’t tell if she was asleep.  She was a strange one, he thought, like her mother.  Any other kid would have been screaming in that ice water.  Landis took the towel out from under her head and hung it on a chair.  "She's still hot," he whispered.


Bernice took off her clothes and got into bed, and Landis did the same.  He inventoried his body: his chest, hairy and beginning to gray; his appendicitis scar; another scar on his left thigh where a disturbed woman had stabbed him on a Greyhound ten years ago; the flat feet he'd inherited from his father.  There'd been a time in his life when he was impressed by his body, the fact that he had muscles, the full head of long hair that made him look like a rock star.  Now, he was just glad nothing embarrassed him too much. 


He climbed into bed and slipped his arms around her.  "Who was he?"


"Who was who?"


"The guy.  Her daddy."


“I’ve told you before, I don’t want to say.  It doesn’t matter.”


“If it doesn’t matter, why not tell me?”


"Just some kid I liked for a while.  He was a baker."


"A baker?  Really?"




"What did he bake?"


"Muffins.  Bread.  Cakes.  Pies."


"So what happened?"


"I was a part-time cashier at the bakery.  I saw the ad in Creative Loafing and I called."


"Where is this baker now?"


"Married his high school sweetheart.  That was his plan all along.  Let's not talk anymore, OK?"


"You never told him?"


"Nope.  It didn't involve him."


"It didn’t?  How can you say that?"


"I'd flunked out of school.  I just did this thing.  It was my business."


“If it was me,” he said, after a while, “I think I’d want to know.”


There was a rustling from the next bed, and Emily got up and padded into the bathroom. When she came out, she did not return to her own bed, but climbed up and got in next to Bernice.  Landis turned on his side so that he was pressed up against Bernice's back and put his left arm over her, his fingers just brushing against Emily's hot shoulder.  As he lay there trying to gauge from their breathing whether either or both of them were asleep, the child took his hand and squeezed it, lightly at first, then harder.  She was making sounds.  He thought about what he had prayed for as a child – a dog, a ham radio, his parents to stop the yelling that went on night after night.  That was the thing about kids – they believed if they just asked the right way, they could get the things they wanted, all of them.




In the morning, Emily's shirt was soaked and clammy with sweat, but her fever was down.  "It was the bath," said Bernice, proudly.


Landis left them to clean up, walked back to the repair place, and struck a deal with the owner: the much newer Hyundai, plus a hundred cash, for the Nova.  It was fifteen years old and on its second engine, and there was rust lacing the metal around the wheel wells, but it ran, the tires were decent, and the radio worked.


"Never thought I'd have a Korean car," the owner mused.  He was a fat, red-faced man of about fifty, with thick eyebrows.  From the adjacent service bay came hammering sounds as the boy who'd towed them yesterday attempted to remove a tire from a rim.  "But I used to say that about the Japs, and look at them now.  That Nova’s a Jap car.  I had a real Nova, a ’69, with a 350 V-8.  That puppy could fly.  Traded it for an El Camino.  Shouldn’t have. Did you know the bombs Japan dropped on us at Pearl Harbor were made out of steel we sold them?"


"I guess what goes around comes around," said Landis, fingering a collection box for cerebral palsy on the counter.  "I'll be back in a few minutes with my wife to sign over the title."


"I'll bet that car is made of steel from bombs we dropped on Korea.  I wouldn't be surprised."


"Swords into ploughshares," said Landis.  "Or sedans."  He thought about Emily.  How long would it be before she asked to go home?  It surprised him that she hadn't already, but there was something between her and Bernice, an understanding, that he would probably always be excluded from.  He supposed he didn't mind that much.


"My point exactly.  It's nice to have an intelligent conversation like this from time to time."  The owner wiped sweat off his face with the back of his hand. It occurred to Landis that the last thing he ought to be doing was making an impression on people.  He found a penny in his pocket and stuck it in the box.


"Well, I'll go get the plates off that one," the man said.


Landis followed him out into the sun.  A mangy yellow dog watched him from the shade beside a dumpster.  As he headed back up the street to the motel, he reminded himself not to forget to transfer the booster seat they’d bought last week, the two of them shopping the baby section of Walmart like any other responsible set of parents.

  • The University of Georgia just published your second collection of short stories, Black Elvis, and Hot Springs is your second novel. Do you have a preference for either form, and if so, why?

    I don’t have a preference—I like both.  I’ve always enjoyed poetry for its compression and emphasis on language itself, and the story form leans in that direction.  I also like the mystery of stories.  We don’t know what came before, we don’t know what happens after, we just get this intense glimpse of a world that lasts ten or fifteen pages.  If writing a story is going on a hike, writing a novel is more like walking from Paris to Istanbul.  I don’t believe an author is the same person when he finishes a novel as when he began.  Too much time has elapsed.

  • Three of the main characters in Hot Springs are two women and a little girl. How did you approach writing from a woman’s point of view, especially about potentially cliché issues such as motherhood and mother-daughter relationships? 

    There is also a male protagonist, Landis, but I guess it’s true that he’s outnumbered.  I approached point of view in this story the way I always do, which is to try to imagine what it would be like to be a particular person and go from there.  I’ve never worried a lot about who that person is—male, female, young, old.  I just try to do my best, to believe in the material, to put as much of myself in there as I can.  Yes, men and women are different, but I think we have more in common than we do separating us.  I don’t believe in clichéd situations, only in clichéd writing.

  • You’ve described Hot Springs as “part road trip novel” and throughout the work place and setting feel almost as important as the plot and the characters. How do you choose the settings for your work? 

    It’s easier to write convincingly about a place if you have some firsthand knowledge of it.  I’ve lived in Colorado and the Southwest.  Elephant Butte is a volcanic rock formation, not far from Truth or Consequences.  The first time I saw it from the highway, it seemed to me somehow numinous (they don’t call New Mexico “The Land of Enchantment” for nothing).  The novel began with my imagining three people in a broken-down car within sight of it.  Baltimore, where I have been for ten years now, is full of conflict.  There are neighborhoods here with million-dollar mansions within strolling (if not thinking) distance of ones with boarded-up row homes and corner take out joints advertising a “Hog Maw Dinner” for $4.95. 

  • The adoptive parents in the novel, Tessa and David, are conservative Christians. Did you have any concerns as to how to portray them objectively, especially given the current rise of Christian evangelism in the United States? Did outside sources influence your decisions about their actions? 

    I hope I respect all my characters enough to make them believable, regardless of their beliefs.

  • Are there any books that influenced your writing of Hot Springs?

    None in particular.  I knew I wanted to try something with multiple points of view.  I also knew I did not want to do multiple narrators—I wanted to write the book in third person.  But there’s no denying that when you read something, it influences you.  I’ve heard Doctorow say that when he’s writing fiction, he doesn’t read fiction.  That’s probably wise, but given that I also have a teaching job, it’s not really an option for me. At some point while I was writing Hot Springs, I read John Williams’s novel Stoner, which I admired, and even though it is completely unlike my novel, his themes—dedication, the importance of work in defining who you are, the search for some kind of meaning for your life—resonated with me.  Probably some of that crept in.

  • You have won several prizes for your work, including the Flannery O’Connor award and the Parthenon Prize. Do you feel awards help your writing and your work? If so, how?

    When I won the Drue Heinz prize, which led to the publication of my first book of stories,Dangerous Men, I did some fist-pumping in the rented room I was living in (this was Atlanta), then had to go for a long jog to try to calm down.  I am so grateful for that prize, and for the O’Connor, and for the Parthenon, and for every other nice thing that has happened to me.  Prizes are validation.  Some mean publication; most mean at least a little bit of money.  Like anyone else who has ever tried to write something, and particularly in the past when I was un- or serially employed, I’ve had times when I wondered what I was doing, and why I was bothering to do it.  Winning a prize can remind you that there are people out there who like what you are writing, who think you are doing something worthwhile.

  • How many endings did you consider for the novel? How did you know when you had the right one?

    The first draft of Hot Springs had a different ending.  My agent didn’t think it was strong, and I respect her opinions and I’d already had my own doubts, so I thought hard about it and wrote another one.  I kept working the material and experimenting until I eventually came up with an ending that felt right.  It’s a little mysterious to me how all of this works.  I think part of being any good as an artist is learning to improvise and play around while at the same time keeping a critical eye on the overall proceedings, and knowing when to call a halt to them.

  • There is a lot of music in Hot Springs. One of the main characters is a sound man and part of the novel takes place during an open mike. Are you a musician? What kind of role do you think music can serve in literature?

    I have played guitar, both solo and in various bands, on and off since I was thirteen.  I’ve hosted open mikes.  If I hadn’t had something of a second life as a musician all these years, I probably wouldn’t have had anything to write about.  That said, I also think that music—along with visual art—is extraordinarily hard to describe with words.  There’s a funny quote (I’ve seen it attributed to both Martin Mull and Frank Zappa): “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.”  It may not be that impossible, but since the only way to approach the subject is through analogy and figurative language, it’s easy to run off the rails.  I try to stick mostly to writing about the people involved rather than attempting to describe the sounds they are making.  One of my favorite pieces of writing about music, by the way, is the final few pages of James Baldwin’s story “Sonny’s Blues.”  Baldwin gets elaborately poetic and metaphorical, but in the process he really nails the interaction of the guys in the band. 

  • A portion of Hot Springs was originally published as a short story with the same title inPloughshares. Did you always intend for it to be a novel?

    I did not.  I thought it was a story.  Turns out I was wrong.

  • What have you read recently that you would recommend?

    I mentioned Stoner, which I loved, but I’m not sure I’d tell everyone to go out and read it.  It’s quite sad, so you have to be a person who likes sad stories, which I am, although I like to laugh, too, so if a book combines both those elements, then I’m really going to love it.  The Remains of the Day is a favorite that I recently reread. Again, though, it’s not for everyone.  My friend Jim Magruder has a new novel out, Sugarless, that’s wonderfully funny and well-written, and captures a point in time—the mid-1970s—extremely well.  Part of why I liked it so much was that I related to it and shared so many of the references.  I think Elizabeth Strout is an excellent writer and recommend her books, all of them.  I’ve spent a lot of time in Maine, and I like how good she is at understanding that place, and its people.  After reading a story I’d written about football, a friend of mine loaned me his copy of Delillo’s second novel, End Zone, which I thought was great, and which also stopped me from ever wanting to write anything about football again, since Delillo’s thoughts on the subject put my own philosophical musings to shame.  Lately, having had the opportunity to visit Andalusia, the house where Flannery O’Connor lived with her mother after she was diagnosed with lupus and returned to Milledgeville, Georgia, I’ve been reading her letters in The Habit of Being and imagining her life in a way I couldn’t have before. Behind the main house there’s a weathered barn with a hayloft, and you just know that’s where old Hulga had her wooden leg stolen by that traveling Bible salesman.
  • 1. Is Hot Springs a love story? 

    2. How would you characterize Bernice’s relationship with her mother? 

    3. The novel’s title refers, at least in part, to the former name of a town in New Mexico that tried to reinvent itself. How does this idea of reinvention or starting over play out through the action?

    4. What various ways do you see ideas of religion or the need to believe in something beyond the mundane and everyday as driving the characters in Hot Springs?

    5. As a child, Bernice decides that “the world is full of misfits and grotesques who hid away most of the time,” and many of the book’s characters seem to exist somehow outside the mainstream of society. To what extent is Bernice herself different? Is that difference something beyond her control, or has she chosen to be that way?

    6. Is Landis a fool for being with Bernice? What are his motivations?

    7. Is there a hero in the story? A villain?

    8. Is there an overall tone to the novel? What elements of the novel do you see as essentially comic? 

    9. What role does Tessa Harding play in the story? Is she in a better place at the end than she was at the outset?

    10. Do Bernice and Landis have anything in common that would argue for their future together?