Coulrophobia and Fata Morgana
Review of story collection by Jacob M. Appel
These ten stories, recounting bizarre crises of everyday life, are gritty, funny, and touching.
The first word of the title sent me to the dictionary. “Coulrophobia” is fear of clowns or mimes.
The beginning of every story intrigued me.
— Two days after she finds a packaged ham tucked in among the Passover brisket, the butcher receives a letter from her sister.
— One sharp autumn night in 1944 — before breasts, before boys — Patzi Fierling perpetrated an avian holocaust in the gardens behind the Episcopal cathedral.
— This story begins with one red rose, exquisite and ominous.
— Artie Kimmel and I have worked the border together on Christmas Eve for eaeh of the past eight years, because Artie’s an agnostic Jew from Brooklyn, and because I haven’t spoken to my sister since she shacked up with my ex-husband.
— My father fancied himself a shrewd landlord — he refused to rent to lawyers, the children of lawyers, even a college girl who “had law school written all over her” — but he bit off too much when he sublet to the mime.
— Domestic upheaval. Our daughter, Calliope, swallows a penny.
— Josh had twisted his ankle climbing Hverfell crater, so Megan traveled lone int he jeep with the proprietor’s son and the young couple from El Paso.
— The vice consul’s wife, Julie Odegard, had been giving Norwegian lessons to the chimney sweep for nearly two months, but she still hadn’t decided whether her feelings toward him were maternal or romantic.
— The government paid me good money one summer to interview all the single women in Lawless County, Arizona.
— My dead wife is dating Greta Garbo.
