Detonator

Peter Mountford

Reviewed in Publishers Weekly

Sensorily rich and narratively captivating, the stories in Detonator are utterly addictive.  Author Peter Mountford invites readers with a balance of humor, sensuality, and compassion while spanning continents, offering intimate portraits of flawed characters caught in the crosshairs of personal and political upheavals.  

In “One More Night Behind Walls,” set against the early 1980s-onset of Sri Lanka’s civil war, the young protagonist observes, “Some say the grown-ups used the war as an excuse to let go, but I think it’s more like the war forced them together, and that’s what made them go off the rails.” Soon, the interpersonal dramas of the expat community beget casual debauchery and fatal consequences during a drunken New Year’s Party.  

In other stories, an American consultant faces personal and professional ruin after fateful decisions concerning Ecuador’s post-revolution economy. A divorcee in her forties finds unexpected chemistry with her ex-husband’s girlfriend after a Scottish Highland funeral. A married suburban feminist experiments with the escape of a dangerous love affair in Washington, D.C.   

With remarkable sensitivity and psychological acuity, Mountford positions his characters not at the center of historical events, but at their peripheries — witnesses to momentous changes they can only partially comprehend.  

“Our minds were frail, troubled by old wounds that kept calling for help, and we were forever confused and looking in the wrong direction,” says the character of the title story, “Detonator,” about a man who blows up his life, again. And again. Rather than rendering them insignificant, this perspective reveals their profound humanity as they navigate desire, grief, and meaning against political instability and social transformation.  

Mountford illuminates each character with stunning humanity — free from condescension — as consequences swirl through even the purest intentions. With striking precision, he captures the visceral authenticity of emotions as characters gather fragmented understandings of their place in the world. Each story traces a unique path along the plane curve of history, honoring the messy, beautiful complexity of lifetimes unspooled and most of all — lived.

Around the Corner 

      Once, as a child, I almost saw a man kill himself. The boys up at the wall looked down at him as he, weeping, put his head on the tracks. I stood back, watching them as they watched him. Or that’s how I remember it, but I also remember his face, so I’m not sure I believe my memory.

      The boys were hollering with joy, as I recall, but that seems unlikely to me now. What I know about people, even cruel children, is that amusement there, in that context, isn’t likely. I remember they averted their eyes at the last second as the train passed, so none of them saw him die, either. But, yeah, we were all there.

     Decades later, lying in bed with my girlfriend, I tell her this story and she says, “Jesus.”

     And I say, “But do you think they really laughed?”

     “I do,” she says, but I guess I already knew that.

     A few weeks later I drive over a goose, which walked onto the freeway and just stared at me. I slammed on my brakes, honked at it, but it just stood, staring, and I couldn’t stop, not there, so I drove slowly over it, my left rear tire lifting a little. “In the rearview,” I tell my girlfriend on the phone minutes later, “it wasn’t dead yet, I saw one of its wings extend up toward the sky.”

     “Oh God, yikes—that’s awful,” she says. “I don’t want to know.”

     “No, but I didn’t kill it,” I say pulling over onto the shoulder, putting my hazards on. “Someone behind me—”

     “Please,” she says.

      But I’m not done, I need to tell her about the wing pointing upwards, like it wanted to tell me something. I need her to hear that yes, maybe we’re all dying, but it’s not my fault.