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Now available in paperback, comes a successful and beautifully-written novel about a decent North Carolina farmer haunted by errors and redeemed by faith. Painstakingly honest, Littlejohn is "a character as fully rounded in his quirks and imperfections, in his quiet determination and bravery, as any in recent fiction."--Washington Post. National reading tour.
me. One time, about 1925, Gruff tried to get me to come down to Atlanta with him. He was already managing a store down there and said it might be good for me to get away from home. I’m sure nobody would of cared all that much, but this is the only place I ever felt comfortable. Maybe if I had been able to read and write, it would of felt different, but I don’t think so. There was days, back then, when I wouldn’t say a word to a living soul. I could get up at 5:30, before Momma, cook my own
because he goes over and almost throws himself on all the stink and rot, and out of these bodies comes a little boy not more than ten years old. I reckon the Germans had give him up for dead. The rabbi, who had been with us all the way through France and Germany, is laughing and crying all at the same time, just overcome like the rest of us. And the little boy doesn’t do anything, doesn’t laugh or cry or even blink, just looks at us with the biggest, deadest eyes you ever saw. I wonder what
telling me something about the garden she had at her folks’ house, started going through her pocketbook kind of frantic. She put her right hand on my left arm, just above the elbow. I couldn’t believe how warm and nice it felt. It was the first time she’d ever touched me. “Mr. McCain,” she said, the edge of a smile showing, “I believe I have lost my car keys. I’m afraid I might have locked them in the car.” Her daddy’s Ford was parked right next to Lex’s Chevrolet. We was the last ones out of
what’s happening, because I’m looking up at the stars, and my face is all wet. Then I taste the blood. And my nose is starting to ache. I hear voices that sound like they’re beneath me. Winfrey asks Blue if he’s all right, and Blue doesn’t answer. They’re under me, somehow, and I can smell this smell like when the hose burst on Dad’s car on the way from the beach that time. Finally, I hear Blue moan, like he’s in a world of pain. It feels wet underneath me, and every time I move, Blue moans like
and my shame forever. The next morning, I woke up in the rocker with about three hours’ sleep, got dressed and headed for the fields. I shook Sara to wake her up so the baby wouldn’t be by herself when she woke up, but I was out the door before Sara could say anything to me, or even look at me. We worked all day plowing. It was one of them windy, nasty March days where the sand is always blowing in your face and it seems like it’s 40 degrees when it’s really 60. Every way I turned with that