Retrospective
3.5/5
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About this ebook
In Girl Trouble, acclaimed writer Holly Goddard Jones examines small-town Southerners aching to be good, even as they live in doubt about what goodness is.
A high school basketball coach learns that his star player is pregnant--with his child. A lonely woman reflects on her failed marriage and the single act of violence, years buried, that brought about its destruction. In these eight beautifully written, achingly poignant, and occasionally heartbreaking stories, the fine line between right and wrong, good and bad, love and violence is walked over and over again.
In "Good Girl," a depressed widower is forced to decide between the love of a good woman and the love of his own deeply flawed son. In another part of town and another time, thirteen-year-old Ellen, the central figure of "Theory of Realty," is discovering the menaces of being "at that age": too old for the dolls of her girlhood, too young to understand the weaknesses of the adults who surround her. The linked stories "Parts" and "Proof of God" offer distinct but equally correct versions of a brutal crime--one from the perspective of the victim's mother, one from the killer's.
Written with extraordinary empathy and maturity, and with the breadth and complexity of a novel, Jones's stories shed light on the darkness of the human condition.
Holly Goddard Jones
Holly Goddard Jones's stories have appeared in New Stories from the South, Best American Mystery Stories, and various literary journals. She is an assistant professor at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro and the winner of a Rona Jaffe Foundation Writers' Award.
Read more from Holly Goddard Jones
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Reviews for Retrospective
14 ratings1 review
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5A new novel by A. B. Yehoshua is more than just a new book on the shelf. It is a literary event. After all, Yehoshua is one of the leading writers in Israel, often mentioned as one of “three tenors”, along with Amos Oz and David Grossman.“חסד ספרדי” (“Spanish Kindness”) is the story of Yair Mozes, a veteran film director who is invited to a retrospective of his movies in Santiago de Compostela in Spain. He travels there with Ruth, his companion and the lead actress in many of his movies.In their hotel room hangs a painting of a bare-chested man, with his hands tied behind his back, sucking from a woman’s breast. Mozes is unaware of the Caritas Romana tradition: the story of the daughter who secretly breastfed her incarcerated father to save him from starvation. He is intrigued by the painting because it reminds him of a scene that his one-time screenwriter, Trigano, wanted to shoot in one of their earlier movies. That scene was never shot as Ruth shied away from it at the last moment. That episode caused a break between Mozes and Trigano, who have not spoken to each other in decades.The scene depicted in the painting continues to haunt Mozes upon his return to Israel, and he seeks to reconcile with Trigano after all these years. This attempt at reconciliation is initially rejected by Trigano but the rapprochement between the two is inevitable. The Caritas Romana plays a role in this process and turns into a “Spanish kindness”, with the two travelling back to Spain to reconstruct the scene in the painting.In this novel Yehoshua proves that his imaginative writing power has not deserted him in old age (unlike Mozes, who tries but is incapable of shooting new movies). This novel is a enjoyable treat.
Book preview
Retrospective - Holly Goddard Jones
Retrospective
a story from Girl Trouble
Holly Goddard Jones
logo.jpgFor Brandon and my father:
two good men
Women are never virgins. Purity is a negative state and therefore contrary to nature.
—William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury
• Contents •
Retrospective
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
• Retrospective •
1.
Libby learned of her ex-husband’s move back to the old homeplace the way such information was usually gathered in Roma, Kentucky: through contact with a barely tolerated acquaintance, in Super Wal-Mart, at the unhappy convergence of circumstance and Frozen Foods. Nita Greene, who was supposedly kin to Libby through her mother’s side and several generations back, blocked Libby’s path with her shopping cart, leaned in conspiratorially, and whispered, You know about Stephen and that woman, don’t you?
before Libby had time to realize she’d been cornered. Libby was holding a bag of broccoli florets, and she dropped them into her shopping cart almost guiltily.
I’m sorry?
Stephen,
Nita repeated, face flushed with—yes, Libby was sure of it—the pleasure of knowing that she had gotten to her first. He and his new wife’s building out on his people’s property, where the two of you had that farmhouse. Bonnie Brentwood told me that the frame went up over the weekend.
That a fact,
Libby said, leaning on her cart a little.
Sure enough,
Nita said. Now she smiled sympathetically. I know it’s strange, hon, but I figured you ought to hear it from a friend before the gossip mill starts running.
Libby couldn’t look at her. That’s good of you.
Anytime,
Nita said, and in another moment Libby was alone. The whole conversation had transpired so quickly that she couldn’t be rightly sure it had happened, excepting the physical evidence: the lingering smell of Nita’s lavender bouquet, her own white-knuckle grip on the blue plastic handle of her shopping cart.
Stephen was building on the homeplace.
She drove home from Wal-Mart in a daze of memory and vague bad feeling. It was the way she’d felt in the first year after her mother died: cleaning house, preparing dinner, going through the motions of a day, and realizing again—and again—that her mother was gone. That sense of reverberating loss. When she parked her car and unloaded her groceries, making that frustrating second trip to get all of the bags inside, she went to her bedroom and lay down on the bed, stunned. This, she believed, was Stephen’s final act of betrayal, and also somehow the worst.
She forced herself up and into the kitchen after an hour spent staring at the ceiling, then prepared the meal she’d been looking forward to all day: a nicely marbled filet, sliced thick and cooked rare; a side of home fries. She ate with the familiar mix of emotions that accompanied such an indulgence—deep satisfaction, guilt, distraction—in a manner that had also grown familiar to her through years and practice: seated on a bar stool at her kitchen island, pulled up close to a 10-inch black-and-white television. Libby wasn’t any good at being single; her loneliness dismayed and embarrassed her. She was a woman who had defined her worth through her abilities to please others, and eating by herself was a ritual of the most painful sort. But she’d eaten often in the kitchen as a young mother, retreating to its smells and heat as a reprieve from the demands of her sons, and taking her meals here was a comfort. It made her situation seem temporary—a matter of choice. On television, the six p.m. entertainment news program was doing a feature on Oscar Fashions,
and Libby learned that dark nail polish was back in vogue—but only if the nails were worn short and neat—and that, if the Golden Globes were any indication, the hair trend would be soft, romantic, and artfully disheveled. Libby’s own hair, at fifty, was a yellow-brown that wanted to be gray, that could be perceived as gray if the lighting were bad. She wore it most days pinned back, half up and half down, with a Goody barrette. She kept a spray of thick bangs to hide her high forehead.
After eating, she went down to the basement with a flashlight and a sweater, hunkered awkwardly beside the Rubbermaid tub where she’d been storing the photos and mementos from her other life, and spent two hours sorting, stopping every now and then—too often—to fix her waning flashlight beam on some picture, particularly those with the old farmhouse in the background. Seeing it again this way, a blurry impression behind the smiling faces of Stephen and the boys and even herself, gave Libby a chill. She had spent the five most difficult years of her life in that two-bedroom shack—the first years of her marriage to Stephen—and she had spent the worst afternoon of her life there, too. She’d sworn never to go back. But here she was, wading into these memories again, hating Stephen all the more because his image, his smile, made her ache for him as much as for her old and better self. She threw all of the