Book Review of

Spirit Crossing

by William Kent Krueger

August 10, 2024

 

As always, to sit in a quiet place to read a book written by William Kent Krueger is a lot like preparing for a long-awaited family member to return home. Etchings of joy dance around your spirit in anticipation, a soothing light fills your eyes, and the melodious and cacophony of music threaded through this novel both soothe and disturb your soul.

People often concern themselves only with the world around them, rarely venturing out to investigate the goings-on outside their purview. It’s like walking out of a Walmart store and gazing at the black and white posters of the missing, pausing slightly, before moving on to put your keys in the ignition.

Something inside you changes after reading Spirit Crossing. It’s profound. Provocative. Unsettling. Repetitive. Mindful. Disturbing. Could it be the realism coming from the events surrounding the story?

Indeed.

By the time the story ended, I was left with this one question: How can I solve the problem of prejudice, sexual abuse, other’s murderous intent, children who have lost their way? The question is so overwhelming I almost lost perspective on what I could do, which is to work with one individual at a time. When I see something, say something; not walk away helpless.

The ending of Spirit Crossing was as moving as its beginning, leaving you with a myriad of emotions you can’t control or identify until days later. The story moves fast, filled with action-packed events. There are too many characters to count, and I almost needed to create a ledger to keep up with them. Krueger doesn’t waste time overloading you with feely-touchy thoughts. He’s on a mission … to exploit the facts … that we are prejudice and bent on putting others beneath ourselves for the sole purpose of supporting the misguided theory that we are superior.

He also doesn’t shy away from exposing the carelessness of grownups who have changed the hopeful future of precious children. The ill behavior of grown people who are commissioned to care for the helpless can often weave webs of confusion and anger, leaving these precious babies without an outlet—except to impose their trauma upon others, which they sometimes do, which is why some are psychological disturbed, addicted, incarcerated, or killed.

At the end of Spirit Crossing, you will undoubtedly face your prejudice and be left to deal with it. Surprisingly, you’ll find yourself at a crossroad. Wait for it— Whatever you feel toward others will also be reciprocated toward you. If you don’t nurture your children, they will in turn absorb and impose your evil behavior upon others. And there lies the world’s dilemma … a repetitive conundrum we can’t seem to break.

Though I do not consider the writing to be Krueger’s best, the substance of the story saves. And that’s the point.

 

by Donna B. Comeaux

Author

Here is an excerpt from the middle of chapter 4 of my novel, “Breathe for Me.” To purchase the book: https://rb.gy/b7fwne

Setup:  Robert Jaeger a/k/a Roberto Giovanni Santiago, rescued a strange woman earlier in the day from the raging river in Glenwood Springs, Colorado. He spent hours at the hospital waiting to hear if she would survive. Now, he’s back at his rented cabin, tired, cold, hurt, and more remorseful over spending too much time at work than on nurturing his family. As he showers and tries to gather himself, he reflects on how he met his wife, of times when things were good between them. This will lead him back to reflect on the woman he saved.

 

I hope WordPress’ terrible formatting doesn’t ruin the read of this (sometimes it indents, sometimes it doesn’t).

 

I sincerely hope you enjoy this read.

 

—–

 

What he desired most was Christina’s reassurance, her guidance, and to touch her delicate hands. He pressed his chin on his shoulder, closed his eyes, and waited for her to sneak up behind him, wrap her arms around his waist, tenderly rub her nose up and down his spine, then slide graceful fingers inside his pants. A pleasant chill traveled through him as he envisioned strolling into their bedroom, his pajama pants barely hugging his waist, his wife lying in the center of their bed in a sheer nightie, patting the mattress, beckoning him to lie with her.

 

He immediately dispelled the dream and drew a heart on the steamy mirror with his finger, placed a C in the upper left and an R in the lower right corners with an arrow in between. Christina introduced him to this outward display of affection by giving him a penciled sketch with Cupid sitting on a feathered fletching. She signed it, Affectionately yours – Christina Mitchell.

 

“Babe, I miss you,” Robert whispered.

 

He gripped the edges of the bathroom sink, and, out of nowhere, he laughed credulously. “Those ridiculous Converse …”

 

She wore the shoes the day he first saw her during his first year of college. At seventeen, still—in the words of his mentor, Frederick Vaughn—learning to form his first words in broken English, he asked her out. She declined. A year later, he rushed past her before he doubled back.

 

While sitting on the steps outside his computer science class, she erased pencil drawings on a large white pad. She wore a Royals baseball cap sideways. Her medium-frame sported baggy jeans cuffed at the ankles. On her feet, a pair of black and white, high-top Converse. Her soles rested on a skateboard, which she rolled back and forth while concentrating on her sketches. Robert later concluded the skateboard helped perfect her work. When he recognized her, he vowed not to let her get away. He sat beside her and expressed curiosity, told stupid jokes, then, at last, in broken English, he whispered,

 

“Why you hiding beauty under so many clothes?”

 

She ignored him and hummed an old favorite of hers he later came to know as the Blue Bayou, then she glanced over her shoulder. “Beat it. I’m busy,” she warned.

 

“What if I say you most beautiful woman? What you think?”

 

She tucked her chin tight to her shoulder and scrutinized every inch of him. “I’d think you were after one thing. Let’s cut to the chase. The answer is no. Now, go away. I’m trying to get ready for class.”

 

“You go to class but won’t concentrate.”

 

“Where are you from?”

 

“Italy.”

 

“You speak terrible English.”

 

“Teach me.”

 

“Get a tutor.”

 

“Why not you?” Robert asked.

 

“I don’t have time.”

 

He tilted his chin. “You won’t concentrate.”

 

“And why is that?”

 

“You think of me as I think of you.”

 

“How lame. It shows that no matter what part of the world you’re from, pickup lines are all the same. Seriously, I must finish these drawings—”

 

“I can help, if you have coffee with me.”

 

“You? Help me?” She arched her eyebrows. Then laughed. “That’s funny.”

 

“I draw well.”

 

“I bet you do.” She rolled her eyes and turned away.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

She stood and gathered her things. “Looks like I chose the wrong spot to sketch.”

 

“Have coffee with me.”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Lunch.”

 

“It’s past two.”

 

“Dinner, then.”

 

“It’s too early. I need to study.”

 

“We study together, yes?”

 

“Can you help with advanced biology?” When he hesitated, she wrinkled her nose. “I bet that’s a no.”

 

“I help.”

 

“Of course, you can.” She picked up her knapsack and adjusted it on her back.

 

“We discuss over coffee, yes?”

 

“I don’t drink coffee this late. I prefer tea. Excuse me, but I’ve got to go.”

 

She slid her cross-body purse over her shoulder, then reached for her skateboard, but he stepped in her way. “Dinner?” he asked, but she ignored him. “I tell you what—”

 

“My goodness, you’re hardheaded.”

 

“See, you consider it, correct?”

 

“Your psychology one-oh-one won’t work on me. Step aside. And return my skateboard.”

 

“Coffee with me could change your life.”

 

“What? Are you nuts?”

 

“I’m in love.”

 

“You are nuts.”

 

“Nuts for you.” He reached for her hand. “Let’s make—what Americans call it?—a deal, I think. I make a deal with you. If you have coffee with me, I never bother you again.”

 

“How about this? You turn around and keep walking.” She pointed east toward the men’s dormitory.

 

“Only if you join me. I need study partner.”

 

“I thought you said you could help me with advanced biology. Why do you need a study partner? Is the English language holding you back?”

 

“You holding me back.”

 

“So, we’ve come full circle.”

 

“Yes.” He bent forward and stuck out his lower lip. “Please. Just coffee. Nothing more. And I promise,” he crossed himself, “I never bother you again.”

 

She readjusted her knapsack and considered it while holding the sketch pad tight to her chest.

 

He reached for her hand. “I’m Roberto. I mean— Robert.”

 

“So, I’m about to have a drink with someone who doesn’t know his name. Maybe I’m the one who’s lost her mind.”

 

“I’m trying to get accustomed to new American name.”

 

“Why change your name?”

 

Robert tightened his grip on her skateboard and headed toward several off-campus eateries as she kept keen eyes on him and followed along.

 

“I changed my name to blend in.”

 

“You’ll need to get rid of your accent to blend in.”

 

“I’m working on it.”

 

“I’m Christina,” she said, walking backward to size him up.

 

“I’m Robert Jaeger.”

 

“What’s your real name?” she asked before turning to keep in step with him.

 

“Roberto Giovanni Santino.” He enjoyed seeing her eyes light up when he said his name.

 

“Think I like Robert Jaeger better.”

 

And that’s how it went most of the evening, the two laughing over silly things, sharing funny childhood stories, poking fun over bad habits. Half an hour passed before they spoke of serious topics—her first kiss; his teenage crush on a Hollywood celebrity.

 

He loved how her dark hair peeked from underneath her baseball cap and he grew curious about how she might look without it. It was daring, but he took a chance and gently removed it. They exchanged a pleasant smile. She brushed hair off her brow with a quick sweep of her hand and continued talking about the pitfalls of being an only child. Robert gravitated toward her and almost kissed away the remains of a cinnamon roll from the corner of her mouth. There was a tiny mole in the curve of her chin, and when she smiled, he warmed all over. It was hard to suppress a smile as she obsessed about the arts—the drawings, designs, and color palettes she mused over all afternoon.

 

Her etiquette reminded him of his nonnina’s way of doing things—folding paper napkins as if they were fine linen, placing disposable plastic ware in their proper place before eating, and he would be remiss to ignore her careful removal of a drinking glass from her knapsack.

 

He lied when he told her he would never bother her again. Yes, he was confident he would see her again, even if it meant waiting in front of her dorm all night.

 

To his surprise, she allowed him to kiss her goodnight. He took full advantage of the opportunity, kissing her for a long time—exploring, enjoying, craving more. When he came up for air, it was clear. He was in trouble. If he hadn’t kissed her, she’d still be a fantasy inside his head. Conceivably. But since their lips and tongues released long sought-after desires, their union, in his opinion, was sealed.

 

Robert dried the bathroom mirror as if to erase the memories. He raised his razor to trim his beard but changed his mind. His weary arms wouldn’t endure the shave.

 

Barefooted, he entered the kitchen, towel-dried his hair, and draped the cloth around his neck. He retrieved prepackaged coffee from a narrow cabinet above the countertop and placed it in the coffeemaker. Decided against it. Brewed tea instead.

 

Loneliness whisked away fond memories of them drinking tea while holding intimate conversations in their garden and inflated their many fights over his work schedule. Pain corkscrewed his heart. His body trembled. Tea spilled on the kitchen counter. His knees gave way and he tumbled to the floor.

 

 

He yanked the collar band of his T-shirt and curled into a fetal position. His wide eyes stared at the fireplace and tried to focus on shifting wood and erratic sparks. A yellow glow filled the room. Unaware he shouldn’t move, he pushed upward. His arms collapsed, and his chest hit the floor. He grabbed his knees and tucked them tight to his chest to stop the tremors.

 

It took ten minutes to rise and grip the kitchen counter for support. He regretted declining Dr. Crane’s offer for a sedative. Once steady, he cleaned the spill and made another pot of tea.

 

Robert’s hands shook as he tried to cradle the hot cup, pressing his back against the refrigerator, and crossing his legs at the ankle. Earl Grey seeped through his nostrils and relaxed him as the woman from the river came to mind.

 

Who was she?

 

It was a preposterous notion, but he somehow connected with her and had even seen Christina in the strange woman’s face. Oddly enough, the two women didn’t have a thing in common, and it perplexed him she bore more of a resemblance to him than to his wife. It was the look in her eyes before the river swept her away, or perhaps it was the fact she stood there in the cold with no other place to go.

 

On the sofa, in front of the fire, flecks of light flickered in his tear-filled eyes. He needed to poke the wood to even out the burn but was too weak to move. It hurt to wiggle his fingers or form a fist, and was confident he couldn’t hold the poker long enough to nudge the wood. The mercurial flames bore similarities to the heat Christina vented when she threatened to leave him if he didn’t stay home to nurture his family. “I didn’t marry myself. I married you. Remember that,” Christina told him during a heated argument. She was right. He was wrong. Dead wrong.

 

His moist eyes toyed with the blaze until a smoky image of Christina impaired his vision. “Forgive me,” he begged. The fire dimmed momentarily, then the room’s soft glow gathered in one place and highlighted the contours of her face.

 

“Wait! Don’t go! Dance with me.”

 

But the blaze shot up, crackled, and her dusty silhouette faded into the flames.

 

Christina didn’t make it … I’m sorry, Mr. Jaeger. We couldn’t stop the hemorrhaging, and she bled to death. We tried everything. There was nothing we could do. Mr. Jaeger? Mr. Jaeger? Please stay focused. Your little girl needs you. It’s a miracle your daughter is alive. Had the box truck hit the rear of your wife’s car, you would have lost them both.

 

Donna B. Comeaux

Author

“Breathe for Me”

Chapter 4 Excerpt