American Purgatorio is the story of a happily married man who discovers, as he walks out of a convenience store, that his wife has suddenly vanished. In cool, precise prose, written as both a detective story and a meditation on the seven deadly sins, Haskell tells a story that ranges from the brownstones of New York City to the sandy beaches of Southern California. The novel follows the journey of a man whose object of desire is both heartbreaking and ephemeral, and confirms John Haskell's reputation as "one of those rare authors who makes language seem limitless in its possibilities" ( Los Angeles Times ). “Make no mistake: this is not an ordinary novel . . . [it's] a literary affirmation of fiction's potential to go beyond mere scene . . . and tap into the deepest roots of human motive.” ― San Francisco Chronicle “Gutsy, weirdly engrossing . . . Turn the last page and you'll realize that this strange, moving book has done just what a first novel should: It has left an impression.” ― The New York Times Book Review “One of those books that sets the reader's mind in new directions.” ― Houston Chronicle “All suspicions are now confirmed. Haskell is a terrific writer.” ― The Buffalo News John Haskell is the author of Out of My Skin , American Purgatorio and of the short-story collection I Am Not Jackson Pollock . A contributor to the radio program The Next Big Thing , he lives in Brooklyn, New York. American Purgatorio By John Haskell Picador USA Copyright © 2006 John Haskell All right reserved. ISBN: 9780312424992 Chapter One I'm from Chicago originally. I went to New York, married a girl named Anne, and was in the middle of living happily ever after when something happened. I didn't know what it was, and if you would have asked me at the time I would have said nothing, that nothing was happening, because for me nothing was. I was standing in a convenience store next to a gas station along a picturesque parkway in New Jersey. I was perusing the assorted candies and snacks, debating with myself what to bring back to Anne. She was waiting in the car. We were driving to her mother's house and I was probably reading the labels, looking for something nutritious to eat. Although it wasn't a dream, the unnatural light of the convenience store made it seem as if I was existing in the world of a dream, the main difference being that, unlike a dreamworld, in this world, the convenience store world, nothing much was happening. That's not right. It was all happening, I just wasn't seeing it. I wasn't seeing it because my attention was absorbed by walls of refrigerated cases and the aisles of bright displays. I was concentrating on all the possible choices, which, after a while, I'd narrowed down to a thin pack of peanuts, a protein-style candy bar, and a so-called energy drink. When I paid the cashier I didn't notice the rings on the woman's fingers, and I didn't count my change. When I walked to the door I didn't notice the grease stains on the square brown tiles or the sky which was blue through the window. When I walked outside, back to the car, all I noticed was that the car was gone. * * * This is a story of a man who ... I won't say I was never stuck, but I was good at making adjustments. That was my specialty, adjusting to circumstances-I prided myself on this ability-and so the first thing I did was convince myself that nothing had happened, that Anne would suddenly appear. And when she didn't appear I began looking for her. She had to be somewhere, in some part of this service station area, and because there were only a limited number of places she could be, I kept looking in those places. I expected to see her, either waiting for gas or putting air in the tires or parked in the lot behind the small store. Although I didn't actually see her in any of the places she ought to be, I knew she was there in one of them, and that in my mind I was making a mistake, that fatigue or oversight or an optical illusion was keeping me from seeing what must be right in front of me. According to our plan Anne would be filling the car with gas and I would be buying some treats for the road, for our journey to Nyack, north of New York City. New York City was where we lived, in a house in Brooklyn, and we were driving to Anne's mother's house, and now she was parking the car, or had parked it, and was waiting for me in the parking area behind the store. But she wasn't there. The service station compound was not that big, and as I walked the length of it and took an inventory of every car, I could see that our car, our little maroon station wagon, wasn't getting gas and it wasn't getting air and it wasn't waiting in the parking area. Something was happening. I wanted nothing to be happening. I wanted not to be nervous and worried, and although I was worried, I tried to keep that worry safely below consciousness. Which wasn't easy. To keep it there I had to assume certain things. I