Hannah Tennant-Moore - Wreck and Order

Why can’t I stay here?

It’s not my home.

Inside the airport, a scratchy Muzak rendition of “Take Me Home, Country Roads” hovers over the heads of tired-looking people pushing silver carts piled with luggage. I almost give in to the generic yearning. But my bangs are matted to my forehead and my pants are cleaved to my thighs and I will not be able to shower or change for the next twenty-four hours. I close myself in a bathroom stall, strip to my underwear, wash myself off with the toilet hose, mop the dirty residue off my lower back and thighs with wads of toilet paper, put my clothes back on, splash water on my face, pin my hair back with a barrette that is mercifully close to the top of my bag.

At my gate, Sri Lankan men in business suits and Teva-clad Europeans stand in line, waiting to walk out to the small plane that will take us to Delhi. A young man wearing a suit that’s too big for him stands at the door, checking passports. When I hand him mine, he glances down at the startled twenty-six-year-old pictured there, and cries, “U.S.A.!” Clapping the passport shut, he belts out, “He was a buffalo soldier! In the heart of America! Stolen from Africa!” He beams and waves his hands back and forth in rhythm with the words. I join my voice to his, even though it’s grating and off-key, even though I hate this song. It’s only polite to sing along.

“When will you return to Sri Lanka?” he asks.

“I have no idea.”

“You won’t even remember me.” He hands me my passport, looking to the passenger behind me, eager for the next round of jokes.

I walk onto the tarmac. The heat-softened asphalt makes a soft sucking sound with each step. Off-white clouds are pasted against the smoggy sky. There will be turbulence on the plane — maybe as we pass over Nepal, whose mountains I used to think I’d cross one day with a man I loved, the intensity of our sex life marking the distance we’d put between ourselves and the worldly — and as the plane shivers, I’ll cross my legs and tighten my groin and close my eyes and feel almost really good; I always get wet when we hit a rough patch of air. A woman wearing an orange vest motions to me with small flicks of the wrist. I am meant to join a group of passengers standing between two planes. Not so long ago sleet was falling against the window of the bedroom I shared with the man I meant to marry, the ping of ice on glass punctuating my pleas — I want you to do everything to me, everything, everything. A roar bursts from the engine of the plane behind me, almost overwhelming the husky whir of the propeller in front of me. My hair flies upward into the space where one huge sound rests against another. Standing in this glut of white noise, I wait for someone in a uniform to motion me forward.

Wreck and Order benefited from early readings by Christine Smallwood, Alex Chee, and Russ Spencer. My agent, Jin Auh, saw with quick brilliance what worked and what didn’t in my first draft; her guidance was invaluable. Alexis Washam is the editor I never dared to hope for. Her hard work, precise suggestions, and insightful questions made Wreck and Order the book it wanted to be. I’m grateful also to Jessica Friedman at the Wiley Agency, as well as Sarah Bedingfield, Dyana Messina, Kayleigh George, and everyone else at Hogarth: My book is blessed to have landed in such passionate, competent hands.

For wise words that informed this book directly and indirectly, I am indebted to Upul Nishantha Gamage, Munindra-ji, Kevin Courtney, and — most of all — Eddie Ellner. In addition to filling my head with zany, helpful ideas about the world, Eddie introduced me to Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj, whose transcribed talks figure heavily in this book.

Mom, Dad, and Corina: Your love, encouragement, and humor sustained me throughout the highly uncertain process of writing a first novel. Thank you all for being there no matter what.

Lanka Ekanayake: It’s easy enough to thank you for practical help with Sinhala language and customs, but impossible to put into words my gratitude for your friendship.

Wyatt Alexander Mason: I feel lucky every day that I get to spend my life exploring the limits of words with you. Thank you for being my champion, kicking my ass, reading every sentence of every draft with love and care, showing me how it feels to be understood.

—

I am also grateful to the following pieces of writing, which are referenced in Wreck and Order :

“Head, Heart” by Lydia Davis

When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chödrön

Brief Interviews with Hideous Men by David Foster Wallace

The Journals of Spalding Gray

“Archaic Torso of Apollo” by Rainer Maria Rilke

I Am That: Talks with Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj

“Sonnet IV” by Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Myth of Freedom by Chögyam Trungpa

“Self-Improvement” by Tony Hoagland

“The Chattering Mind” by Tim Parks

“The Arms and Legs of the Lake” by Mary Gaitskill

“On Not Being a Victim” by Mary Gaitskill

HANNAH TENNANT-MOORE’S work has appeared in the New York Times, The New Republic, n+1, Tin House, Salon, and the Los Angeles Review of Books and has twice been included in The Best Buddhist Writing. She lives in the Hudson Valley.