Nonfiction | July 24, 2012
Ostrander at the Door
He stood six-foot two in socked feet, six-three in boots, and his hair was the color of rotting straw. His father was a former Green Beret who referred to his combat tours as “paid vacation.” His older brother, James, was an off-the-shelf psycho. James got shot in the leg one night at Dandy Donuts, drove himself to the hospital, had a doctor remove the bullet from his thigh and inject him with penicillin, drove back to Dandy’s, beat the man who shot him into a coma, then started in on the night-shift workers who’d watched it happen. So now the father was in prison for trafficking meth and the brother on his way for aggravated battery. Connolly Ostrander was fourteen at the time. He dropped out of high school and became a man.
The full text of this essay is not currently available online.
If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.
Want to read more?Subscribe Today
SEE THE ISSUE
May 17 2022
Facing it Sally Crossley “there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;” —T. S. Eliot The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
May 16 2022
Oranges Robin Reif We called it the Buffet of Dead Food: flaccid bacon, eggs—hard-boiled and cold—and toast so tough it scratched the roofs of our mouths. Still, the meal had
Jan 07 2022
Cover Up I did not begin my time in Jerusalem with the desire to be dangerous. I arrived in that most intoxicating, infuriating, enervating, derelict, and sad of cities with