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All the World Beside

E-BookEPUBePub WasserzeichenE-Book
Englisch
Grove Press UKerschienen am04.07.2024Main
To the outside world, Reverend Nathaniel Whitfield and his family stand as godly pillars of their small-town community in Puritan New England. One disciple, Dr Arthur Lyman, discovers in the minister's words a love so captivating it transcends language. As the bond between the two men grows more and more passionate, their wives and children must contend with a tangled web of secrets, lies and judgments that threatens to destroy them in this world and the next. Set during the turbulent historical upheavals that shaped America, All the World Beside reveals the very human lives just beneath the surface of dogmatic belief.

Garrard Conley is the New York Times bestselling author of the memoir Boy Erased, as well as the creator and co-producer of the podcast UnErased: The History of Conversion Therapy in America. His work has been published by the New York Times, Oxford American, Time and Virginia Quarterly Review, among others. Conley is a graduate of Brooklyn College's MFA program, where he was a Truman Capote Fellow specializing in fiction. He is an assistant professor of creative writing at Kennesaw State University.mehr
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Produkt

KlappentextTo the outside world, Reverend Nathaniel Whitfield and his family stand as godly pillars of their small-town community in Puritan New England. One disciple, Dr Arthur Lyman, discovers in the minister's words a love so captivating it transcends language. As the bond between the two men grows more and more passionate, their wives and children must contend with a tangled web of secrets, lies and judgments that threatens to destroy them in this world and the next. Set during the turbulent historical upheavals that shaped America, All the World Beside reveals the very human lives just beneath the surface of dogmatic belief.

Garrard Conley is the New York Times bestselling author of the memoir Boy Erased, as well as the creator and co-producer of the podcast UnErased: The History of Conversion Therapy in America. His work has been published by the New York Times, Oxford American, Time and Virginia Quarterly Review, among others. Conley is a graduate of Brooklyn College's MFA program, where he was a Truman Capote Fellow specializing in fiction. He is an assistant professor of creative writing at Kennesaw State University.
Details
Weitere ISBN/GTIN9781804710852
ProduktartE-Book
EinbandartE-Book
FormatEPUB
Format HinweisePub Wasserzeichen
FormatE101
Erscheinungsjahr2024
Erscheinungsdatum04.07.2024
AuflageMain
SpracheEnglisch
Dateigrösse2096 Kbytes
Artikel-Nr.15235268
Rubriken
Genre9201

Inhalt/Kritik

Leseprobe

2.
Summer

In the first few weeks of summer, Catherine says to Sarah: More ashes. Move your hand like this and scrub. You are too easy with it. Vinegar won´t hurt your soft hands. Scouring paper will do the trick before long, and you´ll be grateful since fire won´t bother you then. This is called rosemary, not Thee-of-Little-Hands. Rosemary is a girl´s name. You steep it here, in this. Months. Many months.

Sarah´s knees burn from the work, heat bathing her hair in sweat. Drops scatter upon fresh-polished wood, mocking her progress. From the kitchen window she can see the garden and its milk-green light teasing her, asking her to step into the yard where, not many months ago, she had seen her father crane his neck to the band of stars, and say, Shall we go, Ezekiel? She lowers her eyes.

Since she began learning from her mother, her body aches every night, her back feels older than her age, knots crawl up her shoulders into her neck, so each night she must spend an hour digging at the hot cords. And each night, after she has tended to her neck, she prays a new prayer: Lord, help Mother to be strong, help Ezekiel to be strong, help Father to be strong . . . but when she reaches her own name, she cannot utter the words. She does not know how to be strong, not in this way, not after what she has seen. She cannot look at anyone the same way again. In the square when she greets Deborah Inverness or Goody Munn or any of the other women, she imagines them joining her father and brother and the Dark Man in the forest clearing at night, their faces altered by flame, by the surrender she had witnessed in her father´s face. Sin has always seemed distant, impossible, something only those outside of Cana could fall prey to. Now she knows this is a lie. Sin lives in her own home.

Her mother sits behind her on an old stool that wobbles each time she crosses her legs. Sarah cannot tolerate the sight of such childish disorder, as though her mother has suddenly forgotten herself. She tries to hide her irritation. Only recently she had wanted to learn everything from this woman, to take up her duties in this house as a grown woman would. Now she feels as though her mother has betrayed her, for she must have known something of the reverend´s secret life. Sarah has been played a trick on, coddled so she would never understand the truth of this world. A woman must hide all effort, but must she also hide all sin? Is this but another duty Sarah must learn? If only Abigail were here to help guide her through this maze.

After Sarah has cleaned the kitchen floor, she begins making a humble pie. This is her favorite moment of the day, for she is a natural cook. As she beats at the clove and mace, the sheep´s heart a glistening ruby at her elbow, her hands move by instinct, ease. Afternoon sunlight inches its way across the room to her, and though it is hot, she welcomes the change, the way she can glimpse her progress anew in each surface´s reflection. The house will never be clean, but for a moment she will know she has done right. If she can keep this house clean, she may prevent the evil from crossing their threshold, from sneaking into her chamber and stealing what remains of Ezekiel´s soul.

More wobbling behind her. She glances over her shoulder to find Ezekiel climbing onto her mother´s lap, latching himself to her breast. Ezekiel´s hair has grown to a fine shade of chestnut, his cheeks red and full. He is fat and healthy, with greedy, searching hands that cannot get enough of life. He presses into her mother´s pale skin, marking her. As Sarah continues watching, it is as though a transparent curtain has been peeled back to reveal another scene behind this one: Ezekiel closes his eyes, suckling, his fingers pressing deeper into Catherine´s flesh, and Sarah cannot but think of an incubus waiting for the perfect moment to corrupt her mother. She returns to the sheep´s heart, the swell of angry red. She must banish the vision from her mind. He is an innocent child; there is no proof he signed his name in the Devil´s Book. It is entirely possible she has imagined it all despite the mud on her feet. The Devil has been known to play such tricks, turning family against family. This vision might be no more real than the animals she sees entering her room at night. If she can forget this feeling, she may save herself from the snares of the pit. She may return to seeing her mother as a wise woman. She may even be able to sit through one of her father´s sermons without the odd sensation that someone else is watching him with such intensity that no one else´s gaze may rival it. She may convince herself that those intent eyes do not belong to Arthur Lyman, whom, when once she turned to follow the source of her discomfort, she discovered with head uplifted and eyes wetted.

Sarah, remember to melt the butter first, her mother says. I´ve told you not to rush it. Your father does not return until much later. Much later these days. He avoids us. He avoids the sight of his son, which pains him for reasons I cannot comprehend. Take the edges up, just so. You must cover it all. Do not be afraid to cover it all.

I will cover it, Sarah says, biting her lip, trying not to imagine her father at the Lyman house without them, living some other life with this man.

Does he speak to you? Her mother´s voice is soft now. When he comes to your chamber at night, does he tell you why? Sometimes I wake up, Sarah, and he is not there. I know he must be walking the child to calm him or else tending to his duties as night watchman. That is why, I suppose, isn´t it, Sarah? Now we place it-we place it-here, ah, yes, that´s done now, only a little leak, now we will see if he keeps it down.

Sarah wants to ask more, but she knows she must wait. Her mother will tell her what is on her mind if she will only pretend to be uninterested. She picks Ezekiel up and tugs his arms round her neck. She wipes his mouth with the edge of her sleeve. He gurgles up at her, half frown, half smile. She runs her fingers through his hair, aging him comically with flour. He falls upon her breast, and for a moment she imagines having a child of her own, watching him age through the years. How strange it would be, perhaps even wondrous. Yet even as she kisses his cheeks, smiling into his soft skin, she feels this is not for her; God has other plans for her life. It seems to her now that her lifelong duty is to watch over her brother, and no one else; he is far too delicate a creature for this hard world.

Has he told you, Daughter? her mother says, joining Sarah at the worktable. She is livelier, more awake than she has been in days. Sarah has tried to ignore the long afternoon naps, the promises that she would be only a few minutes when, in reality, she is always more than an hour. Has he told you our story? The real story, not the one he tells the flock. It was not always like this, coming home so late in the evening. No, not always. Before you were born-even when you were born-he was a different man. You should know this, Sarah, now you´re becoming a woman. Men possess the power to change. Women cannot change, not truly; they have no such luxury. Come, help me with the bedpans while we let that rest.

Sarah follows her mother to her parents´ chamber. Each bounce up the stairs draws a happy sigh from Ezekiel. Once in the chamber, Sarah is surprised to find the curtains still drawn, this darkness her mother has permitted during the day. Even the air smells stale, cramped, not unlike a sickroom.

Hold it level or you´ll spill it, her mother says, pointing to the space beneath the bed. Sarah passes Ezekiel to Catherine, then gropes beneath the bed, fingers searching cautiously for the bedpan. She wonders how long it will take her mother to tell the story of who her father was. She cannot imagine any story will explain the reverend to her, yet she must know more. She must be patient. Her investigation must not reveal too much, for then she can be sure her mother will not tell her the truth.

The things you don´t see, her mother says, almost as though answering her thoughts. Did you even know I did this for you every day? Did you think some faery swept into your room? Now hold it steady, child, and we shall carry it to the garden. But first you must read it aloud.

Sarah has never taken notice of the words written along the sides of the pot, symbols that had always seemed mere decoration. Her father has insisted she learn how to read; all of the girls in Cana learn alongside the boys. Cana is a place of equality, he preaches. No servants or slaves, and no making slaves of women, but an equal division of labor for all. Her mother has told her these truths are not always realities in Cana; the men often fall short. Sarah is beginning to understand just how far from the ideal they have fallen. Still, she does recognize these symbols. If she sounds them out . . .

You-s-s-s-s me well and k-k-

Keep.

Keep me k-k-k-line.

Clean.

Clean. And I will not tell w-h-hu-

What.

What I ha-ve su-su-

Seen. Now together: Use me well and keep me clean . . .

Use me well and keep me clean . . .

And I will not tell what I have seen.

And I will not tell what I have seen.

Sarah follows her mother...
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Autor

Garrard Conley is the New York Times bestselling author of the memoir Boy Erased, as well as the creator and co-producer of the podcast UnErased: The History of Conversion Therapy in America. His work has been published by the New York Times, Oxford American, Time and Virginia Quarterly Review, among others. Conley is a graduate of Brooklyn College's MFA program, where he was a Truman Capote Fellow specializing in fiction. He is an assistant professor of creative writing at Kennesaw State University.