With a title that brings to mind the American philosopher Henry Thoreau, who wrote that heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads, Andrew Fox's debut collection of stories offers a cast of rootless characters treading their way through life. Over Our Heads follows the Irish in the United States, Americans in Ireland, characters finding their feet – or not – on foreign soil.
Originally from Dublin, Fox now lives in New York, and these two cities form the backdrop for most of the collection. The author has previously had work published in the Dublin Review and the Stinging Fly. His stories are insightful, well paced and observational. They give snapshots of lives unlived or half-lived. There are no neat endings, sometimes no endings at all. The rootlessness is contrasted with a strong sense of place. From lounges on Dawson Street to the tow bridges of the Grand Canal to the sand dunes of Balbriggan, old haunts are painted anew.
New York from the immigrant perspective is equally striking, particularly in the powerful final story, Are You Still There? "I felt grateful to be in New York: to be lurching between the lights in the crush and blare of Midtown, then speeding across the bridge suspended high above the East River. The cab rolled past the no-name clothing stores of downtown Brooklyn."
The Irish narrator in this story falls fast for his American girlfriend, Carol, but a trip to Ireland shows the chinks in the relationship. When Carol discovers she is pregnant after the break-up, the reader suspects her motives in reunion. It is an immersive and emotive story, the informative tone reading at times like narrative journalism, as the awakening dawns for the narrator and he must choose his role unblinkered.
Pondering escape
Stepping up to the plate is a recurring theme, with characters constantly pondering escape – from marriages, friendships, adult responsibility. In the affecting
A Man Should Be Able to Do Things
an adult son deals with the onset of dementia in his father. As the son struggles to install the star nut in his father’s bike, he feels the weight of the role reversal.
How to Go Home reads like an instruction manual for the returning immigrant. The imperative mood places the reader in the story, cleverly connecting us to the characters before delivering a blow: "Stay too long with your father in the pub. Watch daylight stretch itself thin above the harbour beyond the window. Field a phone call from your mother."
In A Vigil, set on the leafy banks of the canal, "a place where you could be by yourself without having to suffer the horror of being alone", a young husband decides that the responsibilities of married life are no longer for him. Everything captures the turmoil in the run-up to a wedding: the overbearing in-laws, the preparation dramas, and the point of no return.
Back in New York, another couple are about to get married in Stag. This time it's an Irish immigrant, now teetotal at the request of Jeanine, his American fiancee, who comes home legless after her "bachelorette".
In Graduation an estranged couple, Martin and Anne, put up with one another's company for their son. Tetchy dialogue shows that resentments linger. Martin's love for his son shines through the bitterness, however, a theme expanded on in conversation with another father: "It's ridiculous to expect that every one of them will just naturally be better than we are . . . But the thing is, at the same time, it's absolutely necessary."
In Stations Mangan and Liz have split up after the death of a child. More than one life has ended. Mangan shuns society and drinks himself numb on a public beach: "Between the islands and the shore, fresh whitecaps rose and fell. Oystercatchers waddled in twos and threes and bent to beak at rock pools. The incoming tide ran from ridge to sandy ridge, seaweed giving form to its movement in streelish trails."
Anecdotal quality
Endings are often left open, trailing off or ambiguous. This generally works well, although it lends an anecdotal quality at times.
Occupations
finishes on the life of a minor character, a pub owner barely mentioned. The realisation for the hotel worker at the end of
Strong
is matter of fact and sudden.
A Vigil
imposes a voice from the future at the very end, taking the reader away from the arresting imagery of the cob at the canal.
These are minor quibbles in an impressive and thoroughly enjoyable collection. From the train-tracked terrain of teenage boys to an expat businessman returning to Ireland for the first time with an almost-adult daughter, Fox lets his characters tramp around their worlds, searching for heaven on earth. Sarah Gilmartin is an arts journalist
