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    The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry

    Gabrielle Zevin 9781616203214

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America America

by

America America Cover

 

 

Excerpt

From Chapter I

2006

When youve been involved in something like this, no matter how long ago it happened, no matter how long its been absent from the news, youre fated, nonetheless, to always search it out. To be on alert for it, somehow, every day of your life. For the small item at the back of the newspaper. For the stranger at the cocktail party or the unfamiliar letter in the mailbox. For the reckoning pause on the other end of the phone line. For the dreadful reappearance of something that, in all likelihood, is never going to return.

I wouldnt have thought, in fact, that I would be the one to bring it back now, after all this time. That I would be the one to finally try to explain it. What I know of it, at least, even if thats only a part. I can only guess at the other parts. But Ive been guessing at them for half my life now, and I think Ive made some sense of it.

Honestly I dont know what will come of this—who will find pain in what I say and who, in a certain manner, solace. It isnt only that Senator Henry Bonwiller is dead. His death was melancholy news up here, of course, but its not the only reason Ive set out to tell this. The other part is my children. Thats something Im certain of. We have three daughters, and one of them is just past the age I was when these events took place, and I must say I feel a certain relief that nothing similar has shadowed any of their days; but I also know that you never stop worrying that it will. After all, if children dont make you see things differently—first bringing them into the world and then watching them go out into it—then God help you.

The crowd at Senator Bonwillers funeral was even bigger than I expected. Probably six hundred people at the morning eulogy—more if you count the uninvited crowd on the sidewalk in front of St. Annes, standing under the shade of the sycamores and fanning themselves with their newspapers. And at least a thousand at the burial, which was open to the public that afternoon at St. Gabriels Cemetery, not too far away and not much cooler than in town. St. Gabriels is in Islington Township, and although no other famous men are buried there, Islington Township is where Senator Bonwiller was born and where he lived until ambition moved him along: I suppose it must have been his wish that he rest there in the end. Its also where his parents and brothers lie. His wife is buried a thousand miles away, in Savannah, Georgia, with her own parents, and there was no doubt some whispering about that fact. Henry Bonwiller was a complicated man, to say the least. I knew him to a certain degree. Not well enough to know what he would have felt about the grave arrangements, but more than well enough to know he would have been happy about the crowd.

It was a Saturday in late September. A heat wave had killed lawns all across the state, and the smell of rotting apples was drifting up from the meadow. The graveside service had just ended, and we were still crowded beneath the shade of the great bur oaks, whose grand trunks rise evenly across the cemetery lawn as if by agreement with one another. There seemed to have been agreements about other things, as well. The New York Times gave the news an above-the-fold headline on page one and a three-column jump in the obituaries, but their story only included a single paragraph on Anodyne Energy and not much more on Silverton Orchards. The Boston Globe ran an editorial from the right-hand front column, under “The Country Mourns,” and ended with “this is the close of a more beneficent era.” But it didnt do much more with either bit of history.

I didnt cover it for The Speaker-Sentinel, because I was at the funeral for my own reasons, but I helped one of our young staff members who did, the high school intern who arrived underdressed in her own ironic way and probably had no idea of half the personages she was looking at. Senator Bonwiller was eighty-nine when he died and hadnt been in the news for almost fifteen years, but the crowd included more than a dozen United States senators, two Supreme Court justices, the governors of New York and Connecticut, and enough lawyers and judges and state representatives to fill the county jail. I also saw what looked like an entire brigade of retired state police officers, decked out in their old satin-striped parade uniforms. But so many of them were leaning on canes or sitting in wheelchairs that you might have thought Henry Bonwiller had been a small-town slip-and-fall lawyer and not a man who, if certain chips of fate had fallen certain other ways, might once have been president of the United States.

The intern from The Speaker-Sentinel was named Trieste Millbury. Trieste and I have had our share of go-arounds since her arrival at the paper, and to tell you the truth I was wishing that afternoon that I worked at a bigger outfit—perhaps one where the publisher wouldnt find himself at a funeral with the intern. But thats the way The Speaker-Sentinel is: we like to send our own people on stories, even if the wire services have us bound and tied. Were the last of the local dailies not to have sold to McClatchy or Gannett or Murdoch, and though we recently stopped publishing on Sundays we still put out a very good morning edition the other six days of the week, a paper that we write ourselves and have for a hundred and ten years. Im proud of that.

Though I suspect that it, too, is coming to an end. Thats just the way it is up here in Carrol County. Its been ten years now since the hardware store had the name Delaney & Sons on it and the bakery had the name Cleary Brothers, and fifteen since the Starbucks in Carrol Center convinced the descendants of Dutch root farmers to speak Italian at the cash register. Senator Bonwiller was the one who lured IBM up here in the first place, and once IBM arrived it wasnt long before DuPont and Trane and then Siemens followed. And that was the beginning of the way things have turned out now, with our Crate & Barrel and our Lowes and the news of an Ikea opening by spring, all the way up here in what used to be lonely country. Plenty of people are grateful to Henry Bonwiller for that. And plenty are not.

Trieste Millburys parents, I think, are among the latter. She lives with them in the failed farmland ten miles to the north of us, in a trailer on the edge of a drained bog that was allowed to refill in the 1980s after the Wetlands Protection Bill went through—Senator Bonwillers doing, again. That part of the county isnt as sophisticated as some of the areas to the south, which are dotted now with horse farms and gentlemens estates and carriage houses painted historic red. But even so, there arent many other trailers where the Millburys live. Theyre educated people—Triestes father was once a chemist for DuPont—but Trieste, I believe, is the only one of them who goes to work in the morning.

Her job at the funeral was to help our reporter. The reporter was going to write the story, and Trieste was going to write the sidebar. Pick a subject, I told her when the committal was over, anything she wanted, and if she did it well I would run it Monday morning.

“I get a byline,” she said, “right, sir? Just checking.”

“If its good,” I said. “Yes, you do.”

The air must have been close to a hundred degrees, and we were making our way to the refreshments. My wife and my father had been at the service, too, but theyd already headed into the stone entrance-house to escape the heat. At the table, a caterer was tearing open the wrapped bottles of spring water, and Trieste took one for each of us.

“If what I write isnt good, sir,” she said, handing me one, “I wouldnt want the byline.”

“I suppose thats true.”

She smiled. “I can tell some of these men are famous,” she went on. “But I dont know who they are.”

“How can you tell theyre famous then?”

“By looking at them. Theyre bigger than ordinary mortals.”

I took a drink. “Powerful men are just like everybody else,” I said. “They put on their pants one leg at a time.”

She smiled again, a habit of hers and a useful quality in a reporter. “Is that something your father used to say, sir? I think I saw him at the service, didnt I?”

“It is, as a matter of fact.”

“My father says it, too.” She took a sip of water. “But my mother doesnt agree. She thinks powerful men have to put them on faster.”

“Trieste,” I said. “Senator Bonwiller was important in my life. Im going to want to spend some time alone here today.”

“I understand, sir. You see anybody in particular Im supposed to recognize?”

“How about the governor?” I answered, pointing into the crowd. “Thats a good start. And a whole lot of congressmen. But youre going to have to snoop around a bit on your own, Trieste. Find someone to ask. Thats one of the things reporters do. More reliable than how big the people look.”

“Got it. This water is nice and cold, sir, isnt it? Wakes you up.” She looked at me. “But I should leave you alone now, shouldnt I?”

“Thanks, Trieste. That would be nice.” “And by the way,” I said. “Look around. Everyone else is in a suit or a dark dress. This is a senators funeral.”

“I know,” she said, moving off toward the crowd, “but this way, at least you can spot me.”

All his life, Henry Bonwiller had made powerful friends and powerful enemies, and as I made my own way into the gathering I saw that this is what the mourners were composed of now: a mix of both equally, united not by their fondness for the man or by their loathing for him, so much as by the fact that they all must have shared strong memories of what the country had been in the Senators time, and also by the evident fact that life had now passed them all by. Ive already mentioned the canes and the wheelchairs. When I was a boy I once heard Senator Bonwiller say that he liked his enemies best because he never had to doubt their sincerity; but walking through the crowd I wanted to tell him that maybe in the end that had been a misjudgment, too. The men and women who fought him—the ones who tried to pull him down with their editorials and their letters and their cocktail party whispers—they were here right alongside the ones whod sent him Christmas gifts every year and checks every campaign, and they all looked equally affected by his passing. Somehow I sensed theyd all forgiven him. That theyd all forgiven themselves, too—now that the tumble was over.

But walking through the crowd I also saw that Trieste, whos been on earth not even as long as my youngest daughter, was exactly right: the men I recognized, the ones still in the thick of things, were just as she said—bigger than life. The senators and the governors, and even the members of the state House. There was something that still shone in them. Some light they cast that enlarged them for everyone around.

Dirk Bonwiller, the Senators son, was making his way through the crowd. Hed spoken the eulogy that morning at St. Annes, and it had only taken me a minute to realize that sometime soon he was going to run for office himself. As an orator he was as practiced as his old man—the same drawn pauses, the same basso whispers, the same poetic repetitions of the phrases—yet I must say that although the object of his eulogy had been the greatest liberal member of the United States Congress since Sam Rayburn and a defender of all the causes that poor people and working people and unions have ever embraced—I must say, you could easily have forgotten that he was also the speakers father. There were policy points in Dirk Bonwillers eulogy—three or four of them. Thats how that family is.

Dirk is a handsome man in the same way his father was, too, a body of stature and an oversized, deeply expressive face that looks already lit for TV. Even now, after the homily and the prayer and the symbolic spadeful of dirt on the grave, that singular visage was already doing its work as it moved above the dark-hatted thicket of mourners. I used to be able to pick out Henry Bonwiller the same way, the shimmering features passing above the crowd like a bishops miter above the congregation.

m tall myself, and when the Senators son passed near me I pressed my way close to him and said, “Fine speech this morning, Mr. Bonwiller. Your old man would have liked it.” I extended my hand above the crowd. “Corey Sifter—Im very sorry about whats happened.”

“Yes, I know, I know. Speaker-Sentinels a fine paper. Just about the last of em.”

“Your people have prepped you well.”

“Not at all. I know your work. Weve always appreciated your support.” He pulled down his glasses so that he could look over the lenses at me. “I hope we can continue to count on it.”

Then he was hurried along.

Not exactly funeral talk, I have to say—but smooth enough. Our House seat has been held by a Republican for three terms now, as the western half of the state has grown more conservative, but still, Dirk Bonwiller has got to have at least an even chance at it. And after that, who knows what hell do? He runs the Farmland Preservation Alliance in Albany, sits on the board of the Bronx Redevelopment Commission, and gave a main-stage address last year at the AFL-CIO convention in Rochester; he has a house up here and a brownstone in Brooklyn, too, and he vacations on Lake Ontario, near Sackets Harbor: its no feat to see that hed speak to all sides of the state Democratic Party when his time comes...

From the Hardcover edition.

Product Details

ISBN:
9780812979893
Author:
Canin, Ethan
Publisher:
Random House Trade
Author:
Turner, Frederick
Subject:
General
Subject:
Rich people
Subject:
United States Politics and government.
Subject:
General Fiction
Subject:
Literary
Subject:
Literature-A to Z
Edition Description:
Trade paper
Publication Date:
20090531
Binding:
TRADE PAPER
Grade Level:
General/trade
Language:
English
Pages:
496
Dimensions:
8 x 5.31 in

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Related Subjects

Fiction and Poetry » Literature » A to Z

America America Used Trade Paper
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Product details 496 pages Random House Trade - English 9780812979893 Reviews:
"Synopsis" by , From the bestselling author of "The Palace Thief" comes a stunning novel, set in a small town during the Nixon era and today, about America and family, politics and tragedy, and the impact of fate on a young man's life.
"Synopsis" by , At the twilight of his career, a faded newspaperman makes the find of a lifetime in a Chicago basement: diaries belonging to the infamous Judith Campbell Exner, one-time paramour to some of the most powerful men in America. When Frank Sinatra flew Judy to Hawaii for a weekend, she could hardly have imagined where it would lead her: straight to the White House and the waiting arms of Jack Kennedy. And then came the day that JFK and his brother Bobby sent her to Chicago, where she was to hand a black bag to the boss of bosses, Sam Giancana. As the reporter fashions Judys diary entries into a coherent story, he finds mob connections, rigged primaries, and assassination plotsand begins to see beyond the tabloid fare to a real woman, adrift and defenseless in a dangerous world where the fates of nations are at stake.

Who was Exner, after all? Just a gangsters moll? Or a bighearted woman who believed the sky-high promises of the New Frontierand paid the price?

"Synopsis" by , In the early 1970s, Corey Sifter, the son of working-class parents, becomes a yard boy on the grand estate of the powerful Metarey family. Soon, through the familys generosity, he is a student at a private boarding school and an aide to the great New York senator Henry Bonwiller, who is running for president. Before long, Corey finds himself involved with one of the Metarey daughters as well, and he begins to leave behind the world of his upbringing. As the Bonwiller campaign gains momentum, Corey finds himself caught up in a complex web of events in which loyalty, politics, sex, and gratitude conflict with morality, love, and the truth. Ethan Canins stunning novel is about America as it was and is, a remarkable exploration of how vanity, greatness, and tragedy combine to change history and fate.
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