Recommended Reading

SHELF UNBOUND’S RECOMMENDED READING

Take a bite from your next favorite book.

A Maiden So Bewitching. BY COLM HERRON

“I wanted to explain to you about my parents. None of the two of them wanted me. Momma was expecting a girl – expecting in the sense of expectation I should add – and Pappa didn’t want a child of any description. So I grew up feeling very unwelcome indeed. Therefore you won’t be surprised to be told that their deaths had little impact on me....”

“Momma died not long after Henry and I tied the knot. I’m not sure of the date but I know we buried her on a Friday. I remember this because I had bacon, two fried eggs, black pudding, white pudding, three Denny’s pork sausages and fried bread when we got back home from the funeral and Henrietta told me that that was a mortal sin because it was a day of abstinence and this meant I shouldn’t be eating meat. I wasn’t on very good terms with her that

particular day because in bed the night before when we’d got finished and we were lying there looking up at the ceiling I turned to her and said “Was that OK?” and she said back to me “To tell you the truth Alexis I’d far rather have had a cup of tea and a piece of toast.” So when she started going on about the mortal sin thing I said “Do you really mean to say if I died now I’d go to hell for all eternity just for eating a fry? What’s the big deal about a Friday anyway?” and she said “Jesus was crucified on a Friday.”

And I said “And?”

And she said “Because Jesus was crucified for our salvation on a Friday.”

And I said “And?”

And she said “Because we should do penance for that.”

And I said “For what? Sure I didn’t crucify him.”

And she said “Ah, but you did.”

And I said “I wasn’t even there. I’ve got an alibi. I swear. I was in Dirty Nelly’s along with Johnny Pat McGroin’s brother Grip. But tell me this now Henry. What sort of a religion is it anyway that stitches you up for something that happened two thousand years ago?’

Shelter. BY ERICA R. STINSON

“Gabriel never actually heard the woman say a word to the other employee as they were unfairly judged from afar, but Anne had easily read their lips as the manager pondered on whether or not to ask them to leave the store if they were not buying anything. Typical shopping-while-black behavior from staff in shops located in predominately white areas. Anne signed to him what was going on and then she proceeded to slowly walk up and down every single aisle, picking up and examining every other item as she went. Of course, the manager immediately had security follow them throughout the store, but if they wanted to do it then that was their problem. Gabriel hadn’t been raised to steal and his mother, another Anne-Marie which is where their daughter got her name, made it clear to them all that

she would not be paying any visits to the jailhouse. Period. After their father died, Mama made sure they all stayed on the straight and narrow. Toed the line. Anne knew better than to provoke people, but sometimes she just couldn’t help herself. Gabriel could laugh about it now, but at the time he hadn’t wanted the manager to call the police which was something that was happening to black folks everywhere these days while doing harmless things. That girl was a trip! And she was also Ruth Warner’s daughter through and through. His Ruthie never put up with any nonsense either, and he knew that’s where Anne had gotten most of her spunk from. Right now, she was curled up on the couch watching one of her

television shows. Gabriel watched his daughter eat, her deep brown eyes moving back and forth rapidly as she read the closed-captioned sentences on whatever holiday show was now on. He did the dishes and then sat at the kitchen table with his laptop to research the company that he had the interview with.... A change was definitely in order and for once Gabriel was really starting to feel as if things would be okay.” �

Float Plan. BY ROB HIAASEN

The masked algebra teacher was drunk to the point of embalmment, as the blood orange machine dented his lap. Will Larkin bought the chainsaw online (“Choose the Best Chainsaw for You!”) and strummed its greasy fangs with his left index finger.

A prick, ouch. He squeezed his finger to make blood, a drib. He drank again from a pitcher of mojitos infused with enough Myers’s dark rum to stoke a beach bonfire. Raising his pollen mask before each gust of drinking, the fall allergy sufferer knew he needed a posse of mojitos when the time came to act.

Nursing his first injury involving lawn machinery, Will left the back deck of his rental townhouse and went inside for a Band-Aid, the baby ones. He hoped his wife left him that much when she moved out this morning,

hoped Terri at least left him Band-Aids and the biblical “Complete Cartoons of The New Yorker.” She left both – plus six coffee mugs from a fruitful litter of coffee mug parents. Baby bandaged, Will returned to his deck and mojitos. He needed an accomplice, but his network consisted of one dog, two friends, two parents, and Terri. He didn’t know any new people.

He waited for the recessed light of dusk. A redshouldered hawk snagged a chickadee off their backyard A-framed feeder – a puff of dusty gray feathers parachuted to the ground. Will patted his Poulan 14-inch chainsaw. In time, partner, all in good time.

• • •

Last Sunday, omens. Will forgot to put on his

watch, a major breach in his morning routine. And when he reached for his off-white, un-lettered coffee mug, he sideswiped the cupboard’s corner and decapitated the ceramic handle. Will picked up the severed handle, light as a bird wing. Then, his Briggs & Stratton lawn mower that had never let him down wouldn’t start. Will pulled and pulled the starter rope until the handle snapped out of his grasp and whipped his hand. �

The Witness Tree. BY AMY PENDINO

“You go to the funeral?” the one they called Bud asked.

“Nah, sent Barbara. It was her day to work the Guild, so she was there anyhow.” He took a quick sip. “She said not many came, other than the usual. Said it was a quick deal, over in less than half an hour.”

Dani turned and watched Jacob place his cup back on the Formica- topped table with a flourish. He cleared his throat and picked up the threads of a conversation she’d overhead earlier but had not understood. “So, I’m planning to take that tree down this week. Old Swenson was the last one left, you know, so it’ll be safe now—”

“Isn’t that tree supposed to have a curse on it?” Dani recognized her own voice as the one that interrupted.

Almost without being aware of it, she’d transitioned from her stool to the step that separated the counter seats from the dining area below.

Jacob’s blackbird eyes turned and bored into her scarlet face. “What’s your name again?”

“Uh, it’s Dani,” she gulped. “Dani Holden.” An older man at the round table coughed into his hanky. Dani felt her heart drop to hide down near the floor.

“Dani, sure it is.” Jacob’s voice held no warmth. “You’re renting that lot off of 8, aren’t you?”

She nodded and told herself to be brave.

Jacob sat himself up to his full height, still an inch or two lower than the hat brims and shoulders of those

around him. “You never farmed before, is that right?” Silence formed a barrier around his pack. Donna, carafe in hand, was a deer on the side of his high beams.

The roses drained from Dani’s cheeks, but she kept her eyes fixed on Jacob’s and tried not to blink. “Well, I—”

An Accidental Corpse. BY HELLEN A. HARRISON

“Damn, this road is dark,” observed Fitz. The night was clear, but with hardly any moon. “It’s black as your hat out there. Once you get away from the bar’s lights, there’s nothing. Not even house lights, all the good Christians must be in bed. I’m glad both headlights are working, and we know where we’re going.”

They turned right off Fort Pond Road and headed south on Fireplace Road, passing Pollock’s house and Ashawagh Hall, with no lights on at either place.

“When I mentioned to Mr. Bayley that we were driving to Springs for dinner, he told me to watch out for deer on the road after dark,” said Nita. “They can do a lot of damage to a car, he said.”

“Keep your eyes peeled, then,” Fitz replied. “Can’t be too careful, and there’s no

rush to get back. TJ is sound asleep.”

As they passed the Gardiner Avenue intersection and headed toward the road’s major curve, they saw headlights approaching, well to their left but coming up fast. “Looks like he’s not worried about hitting a deer,” said Fitz.

Suddenly the oncoming car veered sharply into their lane, cut across in front of them, careened into the woods on their right and flipped end over end.

His heart in his mouth, Fitz slammed on the brakes as Nita braced herself against the dashboard and TJ rolled off the backseat and onto the floor behind her. As they came to a stop, their lights showed the other car lying upside down among the trees, its horn blaring. It

was a green convertible, an Oldsmobile Rocket 88.

“Jesus Christ,” blurted Fitz. “That’s Pollock’s car!”

Fitz pulled off the road, and he and Nita jumped out. TJ, wide awake now, followed them. The body of a woman lay by the roadside, and as they approached they could hear her moaning. �

The Orchard Lover. BY CHRISTIANNA MCCAUSLAND

Sleepwalking although awake, Alden walked until she found a place in the orchard where she could sit with her back against a tree trunk and still see the rising moon through the tree branches. It was too hot to wear her hair loose, but now she pulled it down and over one shoulder where it rippled in a russet curve. “Like the mane of a wild horse,” was what Charlie Payne had said the summer he was Alden’s lover.

“Have you ever seen the mustangs, Alden?” he questioned her one night as he stroked her long hair.

“You can hear them before you see them, because their hoofs are so loud, so loud it’s like, well, like thunder and you just want to throw yourself into that crazy, loud herd and get carried away. Do you know that feeling?”

When he looked at her then, she knew he was there with her but not. He was far away on a western plain with an excited glimmer in his eye that she imagined was the same one would see in one of those free roaming horses just living to protect its wildness.

“You’d love it out there Alden,” he said, returning them both to the orchard. He buried his head in her hair. “I’ll take you there someday. You’ll see. You’ll see the ancestors to your pretty mane of hair.”

It had gotten dark. She looked at the moon, high in the sky, at how it beamed through the leaf canopy and made shadowy fish on the grass whose schools moved in a breeze so delicate it was imperceptible. And yet, there was heat lightning, too, small explosive bursts of blue and

orange light. The world was dynamic and contrary, and she thought, if only I could catch this little bit of world in my hand and slow it down for a moment, I could see if from every angle and understand it and then I would be free. But her palms were empty and warm.

Gina in the Floating World. BY BELLE BRETT

“Miss Falwell?” Mr. Matsumoto asked with just a hint of an accent. He held out his hand to me, and I stood up to shake it. As I did so, he looked me up and down, not in a lascivious way, but as though he were buying a horse at market.

He ordered a cup of coffee and cut to the chase. He explained that working conditions were “outstanding” and that my hours would be 8 p.m. to 2 a.m. every night but Sunday. The pay was 7000 yen a night plus bonuses. Less than $200 a week. I wasn’t sure whether that would cover my living expenses or not.

“You got something else to wear?” he asked. “Just a long skirt.” “Not a problem. We have a couple of dresses at the Club fit you nice.”

I opened my mouth to thank him, but he kept speaking. “Now your name. I

don’t like it. Dee Dee sounds like baby talk.”

“How about Dorothy?” I suggested reluctantly.

“Doloti?” He laughed, showing two gold teeth. “That’s how all my Japanese customers will say your name.” His brow wrinkled in thought. “Let’s call you Gina, like my favorite actress, Gina Lollobrigida, born on your country’s Independence Day. Easy to say. In Japanese, Gina means ‘silvery.’ Okeydoke?”

I hadn’t even agreed to the job yet, and Mr. Matsumoto was already managing my life and hanging my name.

Again, he stared at me, narrowing his eyes. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three. Almost twenty-four.”

“Say you’re twenty. Japanese like young ladies. Makes them feel young, too.

You start tonight.”

Four people who’d been sitting near me strolled past. One wore a Chicago Cubs baseball cap, except Chicago was spelled “Chickago.” She turned, caught my eye, and said something to her friends. As the headed toward the door, I heard their laughter.

I shifted in my seat. “I need to think about your kind offer.” �