May We Be Forgiven: A Novel
A. M. Homes
Language: English
Pages: 496
ISBN: 014750970X
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
“A big American story with big American themes” (Elle) from the author of the New York Times–bestselling memoir The Mistress’s Daughter
In this vivid, transfixing new novel, A. M. Homes presents a darkly comic look at twenty-first-century domestic life and the possibility of personal transformation. Harold Silver has spent a lifetime watching his more successful younger brother, George, acquire a covetable wife, two kids, and a beautiful home in the suburbs of New York City. When George’s murderous temper results in a shocking act of violence, both men are hurled into entirely new lives. May We Be Forgiven digs deeply into the near biblical intensity of fraternal relationships, our need to make sense of things, and our craving for connection. It is an unnerving tale of unexpected intimacies and of how one deeply fractured family might begin to put itself back together.
Dads Are the Original Hipsters
Your Legacy: The Greatest Gift
Requiem for a Nun (Sin and Salvation Series, Book 7)
A soon as I push the button, I think of George, who always had the television on. I look at the woman. “There’s a reason your mother said not to talk to strangers,” I say. “Can we change the channel?” she asks. I’m thinking she means change the subject. “Sure,” I say, pretending to push a button on my stomach—bing, channel changed. “Are you hungry?” “No, I mean really, can we change the channel? I need to, like, clear my head. Can we put on something different, like not Headline News but a
reporting it—some people feel like it’s not taken seriously unless it’s reported; others would rather die than have to keep talking about it.” “Maybe it’s all a big false alarm,” I suggest. “Maybe Ashley got a crush on the head of the school and it was more of a mother thing, a platonic emotional affair. I doubt much happened of a truly sexual nature—I don’t think Ashley even knows about that ‘stuff.’” “What planet are you on?” Cheryl asks. “These kids are sharp; they’re not going to let on
elaborate system of Post-its and flags that seems entirely undecipherable, over to the kitchen table. I sit. Sweat trickles down my back even though I am not warm. My heart beats faster and faster, the world is coming to an end, the house is about to explode. I hurry to the medicine cabinet and take the pill marked “As Needed for Anxiety.” I am taking George’s medication, thinking of George. I have to get out of the house. It’s cold in the house, bitterly cold. As quick as I can, I gather my
looks like a root canal is in his future. He does want to see you sooner rather than later, so let’s reschedule for tomorrow—noon.” “I’ll be there,” I say. Office hour. It has to stop. Whatever it is I am doing or thinking I am doing with these “ladies who lunch,” it needs to end. Today I got off easy; next time, it could be far worse. I check my date book. Tomorrow I’m scheduled to meet a woman—the only thing I can remember about her is that in our chat exchanges she made repeated references
start that.” He sputters a little longer and then, snorting and snuffling, he stops. “Are you going to tell Mom?” “Your wife is having brain surgery and you’re worried I’m going to tell your mother?” “Are you?” “What do you think?” He doesn’t answer. “When did you last see Mom?” I ask. “A few weeks ago.” “A few weeks?” “Maybe a month?” “How many months?” “I don’t fucking know. Are you telling her?” “Why would I? Half the time she doesn’t even know who she is. How about this: if she