Trafford Publishing: Checking Out of Arden

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Checking Out of Arden

by Ryan Stattelman

212 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0379; ISBN 1-55369-566-6; US$20.50, C$23.99, EUR17.00, £12.00

A young author returns to his hometown and reflects on a teenager's suicide, and the murders of two young people in a small South Dakota town.

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about the book about the author sample excerpts catalogue info

About the Book

In Arden, South Dakota a mere 700 people reside, most of which are old farmers, even older farmers, and the bankers who own most of their earthly possessions. The story begins as Matt Hanens, Arden native, returns home after a five year absence. Matt had become a small time celebrity before leaving town right out of high school, having written a book about what could have been the only interesting event happening there in years.
As Matt enters town, he reflects on childhood memories including his impressions on rural America, his "one hit wonder" novel, and how his life hadn't turned out as he'd expected. He arrives in front of his father's house, sees one of the last two copies of his book Checking Out Of Arden in his car's back seat, and begins to read it.
While Matt was in high school, the area was shocked to hear of the killing of two of its young people by one troubled young man, who shortly after had killed himself. Everything was explained in a note left behind by the killer, 17-year-old Brian Williams, addressed to his best friend Matt. Matt first explains his relationship and impressions of Brian, then includes what he read in the note which details the love triangle leading his friend to murder, and to take his own life.
Through a long night alone with Brian's year-long diary, Matt learns of the jealousy, betrayal and lies which led up to his friend's untimely death, and the terrible secrets Brian Williams had left behind.

About the Author

Ryan Stattelman is a 23-year-old newspaper editor who has used his spare time over the past five years to compile this partially true story about the way life really is in small town America. Begun in his junior year of high school, most of Checking Out of Arden was hand-written in such exotic locales as study halls, city council meetings he'd covered for work, airplanes, and even jail. As Ryan watched his best friend dying of cancer in the late 1990s, he reflected on the terrible things he'd done to him throughout his life, including the most recent stealing of his friend's only love. It turned out she had intended to marry him before Ryan came into the picture, and the author states he believes his friend would have kept on fighting had he not taken the man's life away. Ryan never did have the chance to apologize to his friend before he died, and treated writing this book as sort of a therapeutic experience to help him cope with what he had done and understand why.
"As for myself, I ruined a chance with a wonderful girl at that same time and haven't seen her since," he says.
Residing in his hometown of Clinton, Minnesota, Ryan and fiancè Adrienne Harrison will be married this July. He is kept busy not just with writing and work, but enjoying the small town life he's grown up with, and has tried to reflect in his book.
Currently, Ryan is at work on his second novel, which he promises will take far less than the five years spent on Checking Out Of Arden.

Sample Excerpts

People like my grandmother should be awful proud of me. Not only did I restrain myself and remain a total gentleman, but I didn't even think of Jessi the entire time Amanda's body was pressed against mine. We kissed and touched but neither one could muster the nerve to do anything further. After our shower together, which lasted until all the hot water ran out and we started freezing to death, we dressed once again and proceeded to her room, where I perused her collection of country music CDs and tried not to make it noticeable that I was watching her all the while. Even little things like drying her hair or the way she turned to smile at me just drove me crazy, evidenced by my own smile and the bulging towel around my waist. Each stood in their respective corner of the room, facing one another, while we clothed again slowly, teasing.
Amanda and I laid on her bed and talked for hours, about little stupid things like our families, where our favorite vacation had been and our best memories of childhood. It was all so simple and pure, making all other times I thought I had felt love seem childish. Including Jessi.
When our eyelids grew heavy and we could no longer speak, Amanda and I curled up under the covers together, fully clothed, and fell fast asleep in each other's arms. I had slept next to my mother, my aunt when I was in elementary school, and my cousin Arnie on vacation once, and had previously thought it was impossible for me to share a bed with anyone. This time, however, we curled perfectly into one another. Her head fit perfectly into my chest and my arm was the exact length to go around her neck and rest gently on her breast. At the risk of sounding even more sappy, it felt like we were made for each other in more ways than one. I only awoke once all night, to find her propped up on an elbow watching me.
"What do you feel for me?" she asked, "quick, before you can think about it. What's the first thing that comes to your mind." Trying to adjust eyes to the darkness and focus on hers, I told her I felt something unusual toward her that just wouldn't go away - like I would do anything to protect her and felt rage like never before when I though of her with someone else.
"Plus," I joked, "you drive me crazy. My grandpa always said you end up with the one that drives you the most crazy."
"But we're so different, Brian. What about that?"
"It's called complementing each other. Everything you're good at, I suck at and vice versa. This way we can learn from each other."
We talked then for a moment about making love, what it meant to her and how big of a deal it was in her mind. She said she felt something strong for me too, and that all her firsts would be with me in due time. Sweet! thought the teenage brain in my head.
I fell asleep for the second time staring at the cross on the back of her bedroom door. There must have been a thousand crosses in this foot-washing Baptist home of theirs. I dreamt of the two of us in church, sitting in the pew with a child on either side of us. The bored-to-death father was trying to set a good example by not falling asleep during the sermon but failed. The priest yelled something at me and Amanda started to cry, running out the back of the church in horror with a child under each arm.
Then I grabbed a banana from the collection plate and my head exploded. Dream over.
When morning came we continued to play house. Amanda's parents phoned at 8 a.m. to let her know they were still snowbound but would be heading for home soon. She assured them all was well and she had spent a tremendously boring evening alone on the couch, eating junk food and watching videos on MTV. While I impressed my mock wife by starting the tractor and blowing a path out of the yard for myself, she made us a hearty country style breakfast of eggs, bacon and blueberry bagels with cream cheese. When I had finished my work and stepped back inside, we sat down together just in time to watch her parents drive up. "Just stay calm," Amanda said, holding my hand. I had heard that same line from many a young girl in similar situations, and most of them had ended with me getting thrown out of a girl's bedroom late at night. Perhaps the most embarrassing being the time I had to hide under Allison Finch's bed only to be caught by her big brother who attempted to relocate my nose.
And in they came, eyeing me up and down as I munched on my bagel. A glob of cream cheese splattered my shirt as Mr. Rausche extended his hand. "I figured she wouldn't be able to get the tractor going," he said in a friendly tone. A big burly man with a long dark beard, he reminded me of Grizzly Adams from the television show I used to watch on Sunday mornings. His flannel shirt, missing the top button and stuffed in the pockets with pens and note pads, was tucked in neatly to his weathered blue jeans. It was interesting to watch farmers dress up because they were a lot like me. If the shirt was tucked in, it didn't matter what it looked like, you were ready to go anywhere.
"Must be a farm boy, then," he added, slapping me lightly on the shoulder.
"Haven't seen you around here, though."
"You're not Dick Andrews' boy, are you," her mother asked, squinting through thick glasses. "Gosh, you look alike but I'd swear he was taller."
Mrs. Rausche, with black hair identical to her daughter's, reminded me of the Weebles I used to play with. You'd hit them, but they were so round and fat they wouldn't stay down, just bounce right back up again. She must have been only around five feet tall, built round and plump like Amanda's little sister, who carried a Raggedy Ann doll and stared at me from behind her father's leg. Amanda, growing more and more nervous by the death grip she had now put on my left hand, explained the situation to them. This wonderful guy she had met by chance at the gas station a few weeks ago called her up this morning to talk, at which time she told him she was home alone and stuck in a blizzard. Chivalrous as he was, this great and handsome rescuer dug himself out of his own house in Arden, drove all the way out to the farm, started the tractor and blew out the driveway in hopes of impressing the parents and their daughter.
"And," Amanda added, lying good enough to make me proud, "he even helped me make breakfast for us when he was done. Pretty good, huh? Can I keep him?" With that she slid toward me, confident in her stretching of the truth. She put her arm around my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek, smiling at her parents. Amanda was amazing - she was beautiful, fun to be around, and she could lie a blue streak if need be. Too bad she wasn't all that good with details. Her old man's smile went away now as he moved to the toaster, ripped a bagel in half and shoved the slices inside. We all watched him eagerly as he moved slowly to the refrigerator, removed the butter and set it down, all the while seeming to digest what he had just heard.
"Yup, a real gentleman," he responded, glancing at his wife then at Amanda. The man selected a knife from the clean dishes in the sink, swirled it around in the butter. "Pretty talented, too."
"Wuh, why's that?" asked Mrs. Rausche, unsure if she should speak at this point. It was easy to tell now that the man wouldn't take any grief from anyone, especially his own family.
He glared at her, then at me. "Must have been hard to drive here with those eight inches of snow on your truck."

Catalogue Information