When The Ghosts of Faithful won First-Runner-up for Poets & Writers Magazine’s Maureen Egen Award, it was a novel in progress. Now it is finished and will be my seventh published novel, due out next month.
Here’s what Victor La Valle, author, Professor at Columbia, and Judge of the contest had to say about it: “Faithful suggests a broad canvas–a well-rendered local; a promising war of equals in the characters, a clear desire to address/tackle the issues larger than the back and forth, and a clear understanding on the author’s part about pacing and clarity. Also, I thought the father’s chapter was really funny!”
About the completed novel:
Izzy Collier runs the Food Bank in a town called Faithful, on the banks of the Suwannee River. She is the least amicable of two daughters in a frustrating family; all, keeping secrets of betrayal. Her parents are at odds with both daughters, and with each other. Her sister, always Izzy’s competition, is an unstable former beauty queen, the wife of a philanderer, and the mother of four. Now, their ninety-four year-old grandmother sees her dead husband’s ghost, accompanied by a strange little girl. At the same time, Izzy’s husband, a defense lawyer, is being forced by his boss to effect the acquittal of a teenager accused of the rape and murder of a child. When Izzy starts to see her deceased grandfather and the little girl, too, she questions her sanity. What if the little girl ghost is the murdered child? But then, why would she be with Izzy’s grandfather? Are the ghosts after revenge, justice, or something greater?
Prologue
The River and Carroll O’Murphy
When I was dying, my wife kissed my forehead as the moonlight dwindled. There were tears in her eyes, and I knew the tears were for both of us when she said to me, “Carroll O’Murphy, I will never forgive you.” And I said to her, “Well, I will never rest in peace until you do.”
And so regrets flash before my eyes, just as I’d heard they would. Through a window, the days of my life wash over me like the river coursing beyond the pane. The minutes, the days, the years, whisper to me in a breeze that rises and falls, rippling like the wings of an angel, or the soiled pages of a baby’s book, turned by its mother’s trembling hand.
As a young man, the river and I, its faithful rider, traveled as one. Always, it was a persona greater than I, a much older, yet stern friend who called me to task, for our way south was a hard one, a way of mystery, and sometimes heartlessness.
From the Okefenokee Swamp in Georgia, across the Florida panhandle with its auburn knees of prehistoric cypress, the river and I fingered like mist through the wild woods until we grew darker and darker. Below multi-colored canopies, we skirted the trunks of Live Oaks, their blackened roots rising like fences to stop us. We did not stop. We pushed forward until an escaping ray of light fell upon us and swirled in lemon-colored shapes like the billowing dress of a little girl dancing; a promise that we would find our destination.
The river and I knew what we wanted. Other fickle rivers and riders surged into us, troubled us, and attempted to shift us from our course. We swallowed them. We reached the steadfastness of the Gulf. There, the river rushed ahead, changing itself from drab to crystal green, cobalt, and purple. And I remained behind to live my own destiny.
This was during the Great Depression of the 1930’s, when the few who settled here weren’t able to find a dime. Except the river had given me confidence, taught me courage, and enough cunning to conquer any dam that blocked my way.
So, I created a town and called it, Faithful, for the river’s loyalty. I discovered more riches than I could spend in a lifetime. And yet, I lost a lifetime of love.
The death of one’s child by his own hand will pulverize a man who has no angels to hold him.
Translating a World on the Edge 