Tag Archives: novel

I have sent the long, slow, tragic novel of my youth to a publisher in Chennai. Notion Press is a reputable place and was recommended by a friend in the city. Also it’s a more fun to have phone calls with “my” production manager in India than it would be to have the same conversations with a domestic publisher. Remembering Claire should be available in autumn. Meanwhile, here’s a clip from 50 pages in:

After a while, Jean looked up and turned to Claire. “I have something else to tell you about your father,” she said in a tone that tried to diminish what she was about say. She smoothed her skirt as she made herself ready. “I have debated whether to talk about this or not. Sybil and I finally decided that you really do want to know everything.” She took one of Claire’s hands.

“Jack was in some trouble before he died,” she said. “I don’t know the extent of it. I do know that he fell in with some bad folks. He was too much of a charmer for his own good, and he ended up charming the wrong people. I’m afraid that out of the back of his furniture store he ran a betting business.” She sighed at his lack of judgement. “And maybe some other things. He used to say it was just barbers running numbers on the side to make a little extra money. It was illegal, but I don’t suppose it ranks among the worst of crimes.

“Something happened, though. I don’t know what it was. But he came to see me one day and said things had gotten out of hand. I asked him what was wrong and told him I would do whatever I could to help him. He was our little brother, remember. That’s what he needed to hear. Our mother had passed. What I said to him calmed him down, but in the end he said it wouldn’t be safe for me to know what his trouble was. He would just have to lay low for a while.”

She sighed again and shifted her bulk on the sofa. She patted Claire’s hand absently and looked at the rug. “That was the last time I saw him. The accident happened a month later.” And there was a color in her voice before the word accident that was meant to present the possibility, but not the certainty, that Jack’s death might have been purposeful.

Sybil had sat down in the reclining chair and was watching the two of them. Jean had begun to weep and could say no more. Claire drew her legs up beneath her and looked into a corner, and I sat quietly, feeling Pres’s chest push against my ankles as he breathed. The light in the room was a rich golden brown. It was Sybil who broke the silence.

“Annette came to see us,” she said. “All we talked about was you, and we finally decided she would raise you. She did good.”

Then we sat in silence again. I expected it to stretch into long minutes, but soon Claire took a deep breath and said, “I knew there was something strange.”