The Town Crazy

Suzzy Roche

Description

Compelling, bittersweet novel with memorable characters set in the 1960s in rural Pennsylvania, written by the legendary singer/songwriter/performer/author and founding member of the singing group The Roches

The Town Crazy, set in the sleepy town of Hanzloo, Pennsylvania, a suburban Catholic community in 1961, is a novel of passion, absurdity, innocence, and sorrow.

A single father moves into town with his young son, which arouses suspicion from the husbands and the interest of the wives, but at the same time one of the wives seems to be losing her mind, and no one knows what to do.

A contemporary, often humorous take on a bygone era, The Town Crazy also delves into the terror and cruelty of childhood, the dangerous loneliness of failing marriages, sexual repression and desire, and the intersection of art and religion, all culminating in a tragedy for which everyone in the town bears some responsibility.

Sujets

• Pennsylvanie
• Fiction
• Family Life
• Secrets
• General
• Pennsylvania
• Sexuality
• 1960s
• Historical fiction
• General officer
• Catholic Church
• Literature
• Pensilvania
• Años 1960

Informations

• Publié par: Gibson House Press
• Date de parution: 01 septembre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781948721233
• Langue: English

Extrait

G IBSON H OUSE P RESS
Flossmoor, Illinois
GibsonHousePress.com
2020 Suzzy Roche
All rights reserved. Published 2020.
ISBNs: 978-1-948721-12-7 (paper); 978-1-948721-23-3 (ebook)
LCCN: 2019953837
Cover and book design by Karen Sheets de Gracia.
Text is composed in the Odile and Antraste typefaces.
P RINTED IN THE U NITED S TATES OF A MERICA
24 23 22 21 20 1 2 3 4 5
This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992
(Permanence of Paper)

My imagination makes me human and makes me a fool; it gives me all the world, and exiles me from it.
U RSULA K. L E G UIN
Hanzloo, Pennsylvania, 1961
You are now entering Hanzloo
Where dreams come true
ONE
O N A MUGGY Sunday morning in late August, parishioners knelt in the pews of Immaculate Conception, fidgeting and fanning themselves with church leaflets, while Father Bruno lifted the host toward heaven and droned on in quiet prayer, Domine, non sum dignus : Lord, I am not worthy.
Jim O Brien, who for the past few months had skipped church, was taking his seven-year-old daughter, Alice, out for a drive. They didn t get far.
He turned his green Impala onto the Post Road, pulled into the empty A P parking lot, and shut off the engine. It was only ten thirty, and already the sun blazed in the sky. Despite the heat, Jim rolled up the car window when he spotted the stranger Luke Spoon over by the entrance to the grocery store. He d heard about Luke Spoon. He d moved here from New York City; some of the guys at Flapdogs had mentioned him the other day, and not in a good way.
Spoon was with his young son, and Jim watched them with interest.
That boy is Felix Spoon, said Alice. He s the one who peed on the floor during morning prayers last year.
Peed on the floor? Why? Jim squinted for a better look. I wonder what they re doing over there. Don t they know that stores are closed on Sunday?
The father and son were peering into the A P, cupping their hands around their eyes and pressing their faces against the window.
Weird, said Jim. Best to steer clear of those two.
Alice said nothing.
Soon Spoon and his kid wandered away from the store, hand in hand. They crossed the parking lot and disappeared down the road.
When they were out of sight, Jim got down to the business of this drive. A slender, fair-haired, soft-spoken man with a recently ballooning paunch the size of a basketball, Jim was the kind of father who preferred silence to conversation, but he knew something had to give. He had to give. He clenched his hands around the steering wheel.
Alice, we have to have a talk about Mom. Letting out a long, slow sigh, he chose his words carefully. Your mother has developed a problem.
Uh-huh, said Alice, her eyes widening. I know.
She has a sort of disease, a disease of the soul.
Jim looked over at his daughter, who sat poker-faced beside him in the front seat. Her orange pigtails were lopsided, one much bigger than the other, a leg of her shorts was stained with chocolate, and her shins were dotted with red mosquito bites.
Your mother is sick, he said, as if she hadn t heard him.
Alice didn t move a muscle. Is that why we don t go to church anymore?
Leaning his forearms on the wheel, Jim put his head down and wondered why everything had to be so hard. In no time, his shoulders heaved up and down, and he uttered a series of stifled cries that sounded more like sneezes. When he glanced sideways at his daughter, he saw that she was staring at the dashboard where the small plastic statue of Saint Francis, attached by a suction cup, sat atop a coiled spring.
Don t cry, Dad, she said.
I m sorry I m crying. But it s a relief. As he pulled himself together, Alice picked at a small scab on her knee.
Alice, honey, it s not your fault and I don t want you to worry about it. This happens sometimes.
I guess I figured, she said. You sleep in the cellar; she sleeps on the couch. Is the disease catching?
Jim put his hand on his forehead and closed his eyes. It s, well, I m having a hard time sleeping, worrying about her. She s sick, very sick.
Alice raised her eyebrows, and a ripple of fear crossed her eyes. Really? Is she could she die?
No, no, it s not that. Like I said, it s a disease of the soul. You know what a soul is, right?
It s invisible, said Alice.
That s the idea, he said.
How can something invisible get sick? asked Alice.
Jim had planned this conversation all week, and he d come up with the phrase disease of the soul himself, but he hadn t thought through the basic premise of a sick soul. He was struck by her logic and forced a smile. Good point, but yes, a soul can get sick, it really can. It s complicated, and human beings don t fully understand it, but the upshot is your mother might be not herself for a while. If I were you, I d act as if nothing is wrong, and really, don t feel like you have to tell people about it. It s our business. A family matter, okay?
He pointed his thumb up and winked, but he wasn t a winker, so what he was doing? Alice didn t seem to be buying it. The lengths he would go to for pretense baffled him. He wished he could weep; even those muffled sobs had felt good. Why should he be the only one in the world who never cried?
Remember, it doesn t mean she s a bad person, and hopefully she ll get better soon.
She s Mom, and I love her, said Alice in a feeble stab at loyalty, but then she added, I never thought there could be something really wrong with her.
Well, there s nothing really wrong with her, said Jim.
But you just said there was, said Alice, who was now blotting the blood from her scab with her elbow.
Yeah, but I don t know, Alice. It s like Mom s made of eggshells. Not tough like you and me.
I don t think we re tough, said Alice.
Jim wanted to reach over and take her hand, but he didn t do it. The poor kid.
Look, I m your father and I m tougher than you think. I m going to take care of us, he said. But truthfully, Jim O Brien didn t know what to do. His wife was a medicated mess.
Dad, said Alice, Everybody knows that Mom is sick. The kids on the block are calling her crazy. And who s going to take me to school next week? I always walk to school with Mom, but now it s like I m afraid of her, plus she hardly ever gets off the couch. She used to be great.
I know, said Jim, and in that moment his heart was gripped with longing for the wife he d thought he had. When they d gotten married, he felt like the luckiest man in the world. And years before that, when he first laid eyes on her at the high school talent show-her reddish curls around her shoulders and her soft, smart voice reciting a poem that he couldn t begin to comprehend-Jim knew then that she was it, the one he d love forever. They d moved to Hanzloo about six years ago, but a few years in, he started to notice changes in her, as if she were allergic to the town itself. He d watched her turn into her own ghost.
Alice s bottom lip began to quiver now. The kid could break into tears at the drop of a hat, and Jim didn t want that.
Hey. Second grade is a pretty big deal, he said. I bet you could walk with Clarisse McCarthy and her twins if Mom isn t quite ready by then. They re starting kindergarten this year, right?
No! said Alice. Not the twins!
Come on. You re bigger than they are; don t let them push you around. I told you before, Alice, you have to put some wind in your sails.
Puh, said Alice, blowing through her lips.
Jim folded. He was done with this conversation. As a last resort he said, Alice, do me a favor, I know you do the rosary sometimes, just add in a little something directly about Mom. You know, a little prayer.
What? said Alice, looking at him as if he had just suggested she cut herself up with scissors. Why should God listen to us? Mom said she doesn t believe in God. The car was airless, warm as an oven. Alice wiped the sweat off her upper lip with her finger.
Let s keep what Mom says between you and me. You see, that s what I m talking about, her soul is sick. Of course Mom believes in God. She s practically an angel herself. Just try to say an extra prayer that s personal from you. God cares.
How come you can t do it? God doesn t even know my name. There s too many people in the world.
I think he probably does know your name.
No. He probably remembers who you are, but since then too many people have been born.
Alice, it s stupid to argue about God. I m just saying, pray or don t, okay, or maybe just try. It might be good for you to talk to somebody about Mom anyway, and the best part is God is private. You know what I mean? Jim wondered what the hell he was talking about. He d actually rolled around to the same conclusion his wife had; there probably was no God. But you can t tell that to your kid.
Jim reached over and grabbed Alice s knee. We ll get through this, right?
Alice turned to him, and the look in her eyes spooked him. Seven years old and the map of sadness was already routed in her eyes.
TWO
S UMMERS IN H ANZLOO, Pennsylvania, could be long and boring, especially in the searing heat. This summer, eight days had crept past ninety degrees. Late on many afternoons, after the laundry was pinned to the line, rugs vacuumed, and the dishes steamed dry in the Westinghouse, a certain group of mothers looked forward to circling their lawn chairs in Clarisse McCarthy s driveway for a pitcher of whiskey sours, an hour or so before the men came home. They shooed their kids away across the lawn, kept an ear out for telephones that rarely rang, and shared puffs from one another s menthol cigarettes, flicki