Rockefeller Center archivist Roussel is well situated to explore the famous photograph “Lunch on a Beam” as a work of art, a work of commerce, and as strategic, impassioned propaganda. On September 20, 1932, a photo was taken of 11 ironworkers on an I-beam smoking, talking, and eating 850 feet above Rockefeller Center, with New York City spread out below. Also known as Lunch Atop a Skyscraper, the photo first ran in the New York Herald Tribune. Roussel feels it is “among the most famous photographs ever made.” The center was designed by a committee of architects and financed by John D. Rockefeller Jr. at 30 Rockefeller Plaza on Sixth Avenue. In the spring of 1930, during the Depression, buildings were purchased and torn down, providing work for thousands. In January 1932 construction of the RCA Building began. When the building had a topping-out ceremony in September 1932, many photos were taken, including the famous choreographed beam photo by, Roussel conjectures, photographer Charlie Ebbets. Rockefeller liked the idea of art and decoration in the center, especially sculptures and murals done by outstanding artists. It would reflect his own social and spiritual values. An exception was a mural by Diego Rivera, featuring Lenin, which was destroyed. The author describes dangerous jobs undertaken by workers, especially the ironworkers who molded 75,000 tons of structural steel. Some fell to their deaths. Roussell reveals that another photo was taken with the 11 men holding out their hats. She details her extensive research trying to identify the men, including insightful profiles of a number of mostly immigrant, Mohawk, and Kahnawake ironworkers and interviews with relatives who provide enticing information. Sadly, she notes, Black workers are missing from the story because unions did not admit them.

A man facing divorce in the American South suffers a tragedy when his son dies by suicide. Rocked by the death and the dissolution of his marriage, he decides to travel to exotic locales around the globe. It’s unclear what his name is, but some details suggest his character, especially memories of an old friend named Berry. The story grows weirder (possibly involving shape-shifters) as the protagonist travels further, both inwardly and outwardly. The man has a relative’s trunk containing a journal or some sort of travel writing describing the relative’s time in Istanbul (when it was still called Constantinople); in this relative’s story, the narrator finds some kind of solace. (A sample of the syntax: “When I begin to decipher what I found in the relation’s trunk, what slowly began to replace the child.”) It’s clear the man likes being a southerner (“What Southerner won’t dream of warm sun in December?”), and the text does include some brief moments of lucidity, but the overwhelming majority of the writing is inscrutable: “We no longer wore masks and our visitation relaxed, I glad the company, the weather making ME think of global ice-cream visita a porch what was a porch I knew she wanted to ask vista visits mister?” There may be something of a story somewhere in the book, but Singletary has cloaked it in so much incoherent blather that it is impossible to find. There’s certainly a great deal of energy in the writing, the frenzied and experimental formatting is unique, and there’s definitely no other book around quite like this one. Even so, reading this requires too much effort and offers little reward, and it is unkind to ask readers to attempt it.

In a small mountain town in Georgia, Harold Jeffers—best known among the drunks and delinquents as “Moogie the Shark”—makes a living loaning money to “deadbeat borrowers” who “wouldn’t be let in the back door of a bank.” Being the brains behind the operation, Moogie employs carefully selected muscle: young men with no past or future, willing to force borrowers to pay up by any means necessary. Moogie and his team abide by some simple rules (“If you follow them, you’ll be fine. If you don’t, well, I’m sure your parents will miss you, especially since they’ll never know where you went and why you didn’t say goodbye”): look out for one another and stay silent about what goes on, now and forever. When Bud Boyer, Moogie’s newest protégé, falls hard and fast for the police chief’s daughter, those rules are tested beyond any limit the team is prepared for. Rothman writes with bracing intention and conviction. His knowledge of the subject matter—the novel is half crime thriller, half legal drama—is thorough, and it is clear from the way each chapter seamlessly blends into the next that he knows exactly where each character, plot point, and storyline will eventually end up. The characters are both objectionable and lovable; with names like Moogie, Malone, Bud, and Biggers, they may initially sound like types from any generic mob drama, but they prove to be complex and captivating, and readers will likely find themselves rooting for them every step of the way as they pursue their questionable goals. The author has crafted a swift and seductive tale that will delight any fan of mobster stories.

The collection opens with “And Her Name Was Ralph,” a story about a person whose name and life subvert gender roles: By the age of 10, the titular protagonist is helping her farming family by operating plows and harvest machines. At 18, she meets a city boy named Alford—known as Six—and during their first conversation over a motorcycle, she decides she will marry him. At 20, during World War I, she feels rage at a recruitment sign that reads, “BE A MAN AND DO IT. UNITED STATES NAVY RECRUITING STATION.” She wants to enlist and becomes a worker at a munitions factory. Soon after Ralph and Six return home from their wartime activities, they wed. The one thing she can’t seem to subvert is her inability to conceive. One day, to Six’s shock, she comes home with a baby from the Salvation Army’s home for unwed mothers, bringing the child, Faye, into their lives without discussion. Years later, during World War II, Six prepares to enlist, with Ralph’s support, only to discover a painful sore beneath his tongue. He has cancer; three months later, he’s dead. The story continues to explore Ralph’s life beyond grief, but rather than leading to a sharp twist or discovery, the work chronicles Ralph’s acceptance of a life well lived. Eventually, she lies down, “satisfied with her thoughts,” and passes away in her sleep. That same straightforward clarity shapes the collection’s darker looks at humanity. “The Hero” opens with the line, “I killed someone then lied about it to everyone.” The unnamed narrator, an investigator, hunts a 19-year-old criminal, Darrell “Skatch” Mangrum, who’s participated in a wave of robberies of Virginia tourist shops. After a confrontation, the narrator mistakes a hairbrush for a gun and shoots Darrell. The guilt costs him his career—he drinks himself out of a job—and his marriage. He attempts to take his life after his ex-wife calls to say she’s getting remarried, and he survives a hospital stay. A later twist reframes the killing within larger events, and while the story nods toward redemption and acceptance at the end, the narrator pays a karmic cost.

In other stories, a divorced father reconnects with a woman from his study abroad years in Italy, and a workaholic doctor is consumed by a mysterious, years-long chemistry project hidden in his basement lab. The subjects have no connection aside from the universal truth that the characters are all bound by life itself. This universality creates depth, but it’s the crunchy prose that creates the satisfying tension (“I prefer the company of dogs over humans. I’m not saying dogs are perfect, but let’s face it, we humans have a long way to go”). The various narrators throughout the collection personalize each story with varieties of dry wittiness: “She reasoned her version of the truth was like taffy—it could be stretched and pulled in either direction, but it was still taffy in the end.” That logic characterizes the collection as a whole; it’s elastic, engaging, and honestly reckons with humanity’s flaws, distortions, and charm.

After five happy years of marriage, Eliza Talbot suddenly becomes a widow in her 30s. She’s coerced into therapy by Virginia, her annoyingly impeccable mother-in-law. Eliza becomes increasingly vexed by Virginia’s meddlesome antics, which include uninvited appearances at the cottage that Eliza shared with her deceased husband, Joseph, in the village of Dunsbury, England. She’s also irritated by Virginia’s self-appointed role as makeover coordinator for Joseph’s rose garden. The unsavory contributions of the Casserole Brigade, headed by nosy neighbor Mrs. Clark, intensify Eliza’s frustration—and complicate her digestion. Her therapist, Dr. Joyce, seems just as unhelpful when she advises her to write letters addressed to Joseph. But soon, Eliza writes: “Since you died, I have become a collector of platitudes.” She manages her animosity toward everyone in her life through an imagined connection with Hilda, a spider, and her actual friendship with Eleanor, a fellow support-group dropout. As Eliza’s “Dear Dead Husband” letters accumulate, she moves toward reconciliation with her high school best friend Caz and a possible romance with Eleanor’s adult son, David. Although the cause of Eliza’s sudden character growth toward the end of Young’s novel remains ambiguous, her achievement of emotional equilibrium is effectively foreshadowed in her letters’ evolving language: “No one wants witnesses when they’re gathering the sad, pathetic remains of their life off a heap on the floor. That is private.” Eliza’s pursuit of self-reliance as she struggles to evade Virginia and the Casserole Brigade makes for a rapid page-turner. While a few awkwardly coined polysyllabic words (platitudiest, fakeiarrhea, Halloweenafication) slacken the pace, the upbeat, humorous tone promises a satisfying conclusion.