Send Me

Send Me

4.0 5
by Patrick Ryan

View All Available Formats & Editions

Patrick Ryan’s first work of fiction is written with such authority, grace, and wisdom, it might be the capstone of a distinguished literary career.

In the Florida of NASA launches, ranch houses, and sudden hurricanes, Teresa Kerrigan, ungrounded by two divorces, tries to hold her life together. But her ex-husbands linger in the background while her four


Patrick Ryan’s first work of fiction is written with such authority, grace, and wisdom, it might be the capstone of a distinguished literary career.

In the Florida of NASA launches, ranch houses, and sudden hurricanes, Teresa Kerrigan, ungrounded by two divorces, tries to hold her life together. But her ex-husbands linger in the background while her four children spin away to their own separate futures, each carrying the baggage of a complex family history. Matt serves as caretaker to the ailing father who abandoned him as a child, while his wild teenage sister, Karen, hides herself in marriage to a born-again salesman. Joe, a perpetual outsider, struggles with a private sibling rivalry that nearly derails him. And then there’s the youngest, Frankie, an endearing, eccentric sci-fi freak who’s been searching since childhood for intelligent life in the universe–and finds it.

Written with wry affection, and with compassion for every character in its pages, Send Me is a wholly original, haunting evocation of family love, loss, and, ultimately, forgiveness.

Editorial Reviews
Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers
Ryan's expansive work of fiction tackles the story of one peculiarly dysfunctional family. Smart, touching, and funny, Ryan's outlandish characters soon become as familiar and dear to readers as their own family members. Such is Ryan's gift: a hugely compassionate eye, which he uses judiciously.

In most families, a certain patriarch or matriarch holds sway, exerting a kind of gravitational force that holds everyone together. Not so with the Ragazzino/Kerrigan clan. While it's doubtful that Teresa, mother of four and Ryan's central character, ever possessed such power over her brood, what little she might have wielded is long gone by the time her second husband exits the scene. Her children spin out of control, orbiting further and further away from her, until it appears they're a family devoid of a center. Her eldest son, Matt, leaves to care for the father who abandoned him. Karen, a formerly sassy teenager, enters a strange marriage with a born-again salesman. Joe, one of two gay sons, is undone by the fact that his younger brother, Frankie, staked claim to the single homosexual slot allotted to any one family. And Frankie, a sci-fi geek who believes in alien life forms, is the only one to return home.

With this beautifully written and haunting story of family love and loss, Ryan stakes his claim in the world of American letters. (Spring 2006 Selection)
Publishers Weekly
Ryan's debut novel, suffused with an earnestness that might seem cloying were it not for his ease and control, follows Teresa Kerrigan as she struggles to raise four children, two from each of her two failed marriages. The novel covers 30 years from the mid-1960s. By the '70s, the family is in northeast Florida, with NASA launches nearby, and youngest son Frankie can't shake his boyhood obsession with spaceships and science fiction. As an adolescent Frankie happily embraces his belief that he is gay, dreaming wistfully of Luke Skywalker. Next oldest Joe, who narrates some chapters, has a more painful time sorting through his own messy sexuality, while the eldest, Matt, leaves the household at 18 to care for his sick father, and Karen, a high school dropout, marries at 21 and withdraws emotionally from her mother-as each child does in his or her own way. Ryan gets the dreariness and tumult of the Kerrigan lives right, presenting Teresa as flawed but sympathetic, and her brood as reactive in familiar but nicely specified ways. All are compassionately drawn through Joe's articulate bewilderment, particularly the sensitive and surprising Frankie, who comes to dominate Joe's own self-exploration. When AIDS eventually figures into the plot, Ryan maintains this impressive debut's nuance and sweetness to the end. (Feb. 7) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
School Library Journal
Adult/High School-Teresa Kerrigan never envisioned herself as a twice-divorced mother of four. Somehow, life has conspired against all of her dreams and she is left trying to raise her children in 1970s Florida, surrounded by the Nixon scandals, Apollo launches, and streets of identical ranch houses. Ryan skillfully weaves Teresa's story with those of her children as they try to make it to adulthood intact. Matt, the eldest, barely remembers his father but impulsively goes to live with him at 18. Karen, the only daughter, uses rebellion as a buffer against the dysfunction that permeates the household and openly flouts parental authority. Joe struggles mightily to be the "normal" and good son, but cannot escape feelings of shame and inadequacy over his homosexuality. And Frankie, the youngest, cloaks himself with myriad eccentricities and uses them as a magnet to draw others into his circle. On the outer perimeter, readers glimpse two ex-husbands and the ways that they ebb and flow in their children's lives. In weaving together the strands that make up the stories of one family over four decades, Ryan does not attempt to tie up loose ends or heal all of the resentments that have built up. But he does paint a powerful picture of dysfunction intertwined with humor, love, and hope. Teens will find much to relate to and may even walk away with a deeper appreciation of the quirkiness of their own families.-Kim Dare, Fairfax County Public Library System, VA Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Think you have trouble in your family? The mother of a party girl, a slacker boy, a closeted gay son and another gay son with AIDS is deserted by two husbands. Like mother Teresa's family, this first novel is fragmented: Chapters set between 1965 and 2006 are told achronologically through the siblings' and parents' viewpoints. Mysterious events (the first husband's disappearance) and wacky ideas (son Frankie's belief in alien abduction) make for some eccentric characters whom Ryan transforms into oddly reasonable and sympathetic people by story's end. The coming-of-age chapters-Karen's hot-rodding with hoodlum friends, Joe's struggle to come out at college-are predictable, but in their 30s and 40s, the abandoned kids, along with their aging parents, feel more individualized. Slacker Matt spends years taking care of the ill father who left him and then took him in. Karen occasionally steps out on, yet always returns to, her evangelical husband. Set largely on Florida's Merritt Island in the shadow of the space program, this book is about going far out from home. Ryan refers to the first Challenger tragedy and knows not everyone makes the return trip, so his novel eschews sentimentality. Several of the chapters, particularly one about all the kids in a single motel room, are even humorous. But covering 40 years and seven characters, the book needs to be twice as long to avoid "remember when?" anecdotalism. If Ryan's dysfunctional family has been invented, rather than reported on or confessed, he has promise.

Product Details

Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:
Edition description:
Sales rank:
Product dimensions:
5.66(w) x 8.22(h) x 0.72(d)

Read an Excerpt

Send Me


Somewhere between Rome and Dixie, he fell asleep behind the wheel. This had happened to his father once, long before Frankie was born: he'd drifted off just outside Grand Rapids, Michigan, and when he'd opened his eyes, his car was somersaulting out of a ditch and across a field, the view through the broken windshield a rapid slide show of sky, grass, sky, grass, sky, grass. One of the doors came off. The backseat was torn loose and expelled. The bumpers, the hubcaps, the headlight rings, the trunk lid, and the jack shot out like shrapnel from a grenade. When the car finally came to rest on its wheels over fifty yards from the highway, it was so mangled that the state trooper who arrived on the scene was unable to make a visual identification of the vehicle's year, make, or model. These details were learned from the young man sitting behind the wheel, dazed and disoriented, but with nothing more than a bruised elbow and a superficial cut on his forehead. "It's a miracle of God," the trooper had said, but Frankie's mother, deserted by two husbands by the time she told him the story, had footnoted the remark: "More like dumb luck."

Frankie's luck—dumb or otherwise—held him steady as he dozed. When his head snapped upright and his mind pulled out of what had seemed like a long stretch of darkness, he found an early afternoon intensely radiant with greens and blues. He was on a road in the Conecuh National Forest of Alabama, both hands on the wheel, and he was centered perfectly in his lane.

The road turned into a bridge, and the Volkswagen skimmed a level path across the river, like a hovercraft. Then the bridge turned back into a road. The trees began to thin out. He saw a sign for Damascus, then another, smaller sign made of two flat wooden triangles nailed to a post. The triangles were painted white and bore words so small that Frankie had to come to a full stop and lean into the windshield to read them.

Here for
The Gallery of
The Eleventh Coming

said the top one, and beneath it:

Damien Lee
(Every-Thing Seen Is for Sale.)

Just in front of the sign stood a mailbox with a number that matched the one on Frankie's Rolodex card. He steered the Volkswagen along the dirt road that led into the marsh.

He'd sketched a road just like this recently. Smears of brown pastel rose on one side of it, snakes of blue pencil reaching across a green plain on the other. But in the sketch there'd been a church as large as an airplane hangar, made entirely of polished steel, and all he saw when he rounded the bend in the dirt road was a small, salmon-colored shack of a house.

It sat on cinder blocks in the middle of a clearing of damp grass. The clearing was fronted by a thick wire strung waist high between a series of fence posts and hung with wooden placards that nearly reached the ground: calendars, he noticed as he pulled up alongside them, each one heavily illustrated. When he shut off the engine, a kinetic silence rose from the ground and hummed against his ears, hindered only by the sound of a cicada, and then shattered completely by the shriek of a screen door.

At the top of three bowed steps, a man stood in an open red bathrobe, a V-neck undershirt, dark slacks, and a pair of hunting boots. His fingertips beneath the cuffs of the robe, his exposed wedge of chest, his neck and face—all were a deep, rich brown. His bald scalp reflected the sun as if his skull were a light source. He was staring at Frankie behind the wheel of the Volkswagen.

He looked livid.

Frankie got out of the car. He stood holding his keys with both hands, dodging the angry gaze by studying the calendars strung along the wire.

"Have you been sent?" the Reverend asked in a voice so low that he seemed to be speaking through a cardboard tube.

"Yes," Frankie said. A gallery owner in Jacksonville had introduced him to the Reverend's work, showing him several original pieces, and slides of a dozen more. But then he added "No," because the owner had refused to give him the Reverend's address, and when she'd left the room, he'd swiped it from her Rolodex.

"You're not sure which one?"

Frankie shrugged. "Maybe both."

"I understand." The Reverend descended the steps carefully and crossed the lawn. "More and more citizens arrive all the time. Three last month alone. Some folks are sent by art dealers too sneaky to do their own buying; some just show up, no idea on Earth why they're here." When he reached the other side of the wire, he made a flourish with his hand to indicate the row of calendars. "Everything seen is for sale. Of course, I'd be a liar if I said the sent ones weren't preferred. No wisdom for fools; I know what butters bread. Which is why all of my prices are not negotiable but reasonable. And that's generous, because this is not a reasonable world. You look like someone who knows that."

Frankie had stepped back from the wire at the Reverend's approach. He glanced at the hunting boots, the sides of which were coated with mud. When he looked up, he saw the Reverend studying him. The man's head was a sieve of perspiration. Where his eyes—bulbous, thyroidal—should have been white, they were yellow clouded with pink: spheres of amniotic fluid that had allowed his pupils to evolve into the receptors that now scanned rapidly over every part of Frankie's body, collecting information. Frankie felt as if he were being x-rayed. Then the Reverend dipped a hand into a pocket in his terry cloth robe and brought a folded handkerchief to his face. He passed it over his eyes. "I'm the Reverend."

"Frankie Kerrigan," Frankie said. "Where's your church?"

The hand that held the handkerchief lifted above his head, and with a long finger he drew a horizontal circle in the air, seeming to indicate the entire sky. "The sent ones come from Atlanta, mostly. Some come from Savannah, or Charlotte. Never west, always east. I got a letter some time back, an art dealer up in New York City wanted a price list. At least she was honest enough to say what she was. I used her paper and sent her back a vision—with the list. I called it 'Twenty Johns and a Whore Are Not Selected.' "

"I saw your work in a gallery in Jacksonville," Frankie offered. He bent his legs against the ache in his knees.

"So you were sent."

"Not really. I just saw your work and . . . decided to come."

The Reverend dragged the handkerchief across the dome of his head. "You might start at the beginning," he suggested, nodding toward the far end of the row of calendars.

Frankie walked down one side of the wire; the Reverend walked down the other. The first placard, Frankie now noticed, wasn't a calendar but a painting of an open white hand against a grid, with orange flames on the tips of each finger. On the palm was a dollar sign. Above it, in green, were the words "Five Dollars Payable for Viewing." He glanced up and saw one of the Reverend's hands extended toward him, palm up.

"Thank you," the Reverend said, once Frankie had dug the bill out of his wallet. "I'll let you be for a while." He stuffed the money into a pocket as he turned away, and walked back toward the house.

Each calendar was laid out traditionally, with the illustration above and the grid for the month below. But the first month was called Normalary, and the days, unnumbered, were peppered with notes: "Been good to dear Lila," "Been a good man," "Still good," "Love my dear Lila." Frankie had seen a similar calendar in Jacksonville. It had been called Lovepril, and had been filled with acknowledgments of having been a good husband. The illustration had depicted, in a pointillist, comic-book style that adhered to no rules of proportion or perspective, a man in a blue baseball cap and a woman in a pink dress holding hands and walking in a field of spiraling colors. In Normalary, the same two people were sitting down to a picnic at the foot of a spectral mountain. A tiny spacecraft hovered in the distance in both paintings, a few minuscule daubs of gray paint that might have looked like a bird to someone unfamiliar with the Reverend's work. The next month on the fence, Betremeber, showed a rowboat on a river of colors, and in it, a bearded man holding his fists in the air while the woman in pink sank her face into his lap. In the distance the spacecraft loomed, somewhat larger now, its underside circled with blue dots. One of the notes on the unnumbered grid read "Blue Light Special!" and on the next day, "L-I-L-A: Lecherous Insipid Lies Accumulate," alongside "They knew before I did." This was followed by a month called Whorefest, and it took Frankie a moment to realize he was looking at a close-up of a vagina, surrounded by a dozen thumb-sized replicas of the bearded man's face. Several placards down was a month called You-Lie, wherein the spacecraft—larger and shaped like a Bundt cake pan with tentacles—hovered over a house much like the salmon-colored shack and emitted a beam of blue light that fanned out to the ends of the clearing. In Lawgust, the man in the blue cap was suspended in midair while the spacecraft above him projected into the swirling night sky what appeared to be a film of the oral sex in the rowboat. Dismember was an entire landscape consumed by primary-color flames. Finally, there was a month called Winter, subtitled "All Liars and Whores of Babel Are Left Behind / Good People Are Driven." The illustration showed a fleet of tentacled Bundt cake pans ascending over a charred and smoking crater. In the crater's center was a small mountain of skulls.

Frankie stepped away and counted the months. There were seventeen. He looked toward the house and saw the Reverend walking out of it, down the steps, backward. It occurred to him that he might have fallen asleep again, might have lain down on the grass next to the fence and slipped into a dream. In trying to confirm this, as he sometimes did while actually dreaming, he squinted and then forced his eyes open wide. The Reverend walked backward all the way across the yard, then turned around at the last post to face Frankie.

"What you see is just a representation."

"Oh, I—I understand that," Frankie said, glancing down at the mountain of skulls.

"I'm saying, there's more in the house." He started across the lawn—walking forward this time—and without looking back, he motioned with a finger over his shoulder for Frankie to follow.

It was a normal house inside, save for the fact that nearly every surface was illustrated. The ceiling was a map of some alternative outer space crowded with planets, many of them triangular or square. The walls were laden with paragraphs of handwritten text framed inside a network of snakes. The coffee table was a mural of an earthquake. The armchair was rendered on fire with red and orange paint that flaked off and collected around it like dandruff, and the floor itself was painted to resemble a flood, scattered with men, women, horses, and dogs, all in the process of drowning. "You might care for this." The Reverend tapped one of his boots against a stool covered with eyes.

"Thank you," Frankie said, eager to sit down.

"I mean, it's for sale," the Reverend clarified. "Everything seen is for sale. Everything unseen is either already gone, or I won't sell it. See this?" He took from one of his pockets what looked to be a perfectly round orb of naked wood no bigger than a tennis ball. "Giotto di Bondone was the only person that ever lived who could draw a perfect circle without even trying. I made this from a branch that fell on my house last summer. I made it with a kitchen knife. It's perfect, and it's for sale."

Beneath the front window, a small plastic tape deck sat on the floor, unplugged. A hammer had been smashed into the top of it, the handle jutting out like that of a hatchet sunk into a tree stump. The Reverend noticed Frankie looking at it and said, "That's a sculpture. It broke, so I turned it into a prophecy. All our machines will fail us."

A small metal fan oscillated on top of a television in the corner, stirring the warm air. Frankie's skin began to itch. He rubbed his fingertips through his hair and looked around for something to sit on that wasn't merchandise. "Why were you walking backward outside?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why were you—can I sit down somewhere?"

"Careful, now. Christmas!" the Reverend said. Frankie felt a warm hand around his upper arm. He'd nearly toppled, and was dangling now over a torrid sea. A cow was swimming for its life beneath him, trying to get a hoof onto the roof of a half-submerged barn. "Careful," the Reverend said again. "Right over here." He guided Frankie to the flaming armchair. It crackled beneath him. "Just sit. I'm going to get you a glass of water."

Frankie closed his eyes. He felt the breath of the fan across his face, heard a faucet running in the next room.

"Drink that," the Reverend said.

He opened his eyes and took the glass. The Reverend sat down on one end of the coffee table, facing him, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His red bathrobe dipped into the floodwater around his boots.

"Tell you what I don't see—not that it matters to me one way or the other. I don't see somebody who came here to buy something."

Frankie had nearly reached the bottom of the glass. He looked over the rim at the Reverend as he drank.

"Let me ask you something, son. How old are you?"


"That's a hard twenty-nine. You eat anything today?"

"Breakfast," Frankie said. And then, remembering, "Lunch too."

"Where are you from, again?"

"Jacksonville. But I grew up lower down the coast, on Merritt Island. Where NASA is."

The Reverend glanced at the ceiling. "Those whores of Babel." With a thumb and forefinger, he wiped the sweat from his eyes. "The heat does catch up. It makes you slow, is how it does it. Really, now. Tell me what you're doing here."

"What's the Eleventh Coming?"

Meet the Author

Patrick Ryan was born in Washington, D.C., and grew up in Florida. His work has appeared in the Yale Review, the Iowa Review, One Story, and other journals. He lives in New York City.

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Write a Review

and post it to your social network


Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews >

Send Me 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 5 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
'Send Me' is called a novel -- and was probably marketed that way by its publisher since novels sell better than short story collections -- but I think it's more accurate to read it as a collection of interwoven stories about the break-up of a family in late 20th century America. What's amazing about the collection is how the stories connect and disconnect with each other and hence mirror the relationships of the family members. These days most story collections are just a bunch of stories put together into a book, with no thematic or artistic arch to the book as a whole. Patrick Ryan's 'Send Me,' though, is actually crafted as a whole, and beautifully so. It represents what a great story collection can be. If you like short stories, you'll love this book!
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is a wonderful book. The author has skillfully drawn his characters and crafted his story. 'Send Me' is humorous in places, poignant in others, but always generous and smart. I recommend 'Send Me' for anyone who loves modern fiction as well as for any reader who, like me, may not regularly read fiction.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This original book chronicals a family over forty years, and stories are told from each of their viewpoints. The members are less than perfect, but are portrayed very realistically, and with a lot of compassion.This was one of those books that was so enjoyable I had to slow down reading, because I didn't want it to end. Highly Recommended.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is a beautiful book. It comes together piece by piece, almost like a mystery, and the characters are more real than any I've encountered in recent fiction. Just buy it and read it you won't be disappointed.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book is choppy and eratic. The cover photos says it all. I almost couldn't get through the first chapter and still can't figure out how it relates to the rest of the book. The characters are annoying and unlikable. I think this author is trying to be Douglas Coupland (All Families are Psychotic) and is falling short.