Mother Who Stayed

Zusatztext I love these stories. They read like a cycle of songsgorgeous, moving, and making sense, somehow, of the mad complexity of life. I don't ask for anything more in a book. Lynn Freed, author of The Servants' Quarters Informationen zum Autor Laura Furman was born in New York, and educated in New York City public schools and at Bennington College. Her first story appeared in The New Yorker in 1976, and since then her work has been published in many magazines, including Yale Review, Southwest Review, Ploughshares, American Scholar, Preservation, House & Garden, and other magazines. Her books include three collections of short stories , two novels, and a memoir. She is the recipient of fellowships from the New York State Council on the Arts, the Dobie Paisano Project, the Guggenheim Foundation, and the National Endowment for the Arts. She has received grants in residency at Yaddo in Saratoga Springs, N.Y., and in 2009 she was a visiting artist at the American Academy in Rome. She taught for many years in the Department of English at the University of Texas at Austin. Series editor of The PEN/O.Henry Prize Stories since 2002, Furman selects the twenty winning stories each year. She lives in Central Texas. Klappentext Furman presents nine meticulously crafted stories that contemplate and celebrate the domestic life of several generations of mothers and would-be mothers. Leseprobe The Eye The grape arbor was a square open to the sky with tangled vines for walls. There was no breeze, no sound but the sun crackling in midday fullness and the hum of bees at work. An hour had to pass before the girls were allowed to swim, so they lay in the grape arbor, waiting. When it was very hot, Rachel Cantor's mother had told her, the best thing was to lie still and let the heat leave your body, but Rachel had the beginning of a summer cold and to her ears the bees in the viney walls sounded dangerous. She asked, Where's Mom? Don't bother her, Betsey Ziegelman said. She's with my mom. They're talking, Katie Ziegelman said. They're always talking, said Leah, Rachel's older sister. Much later, when they were in their twenties, the Ziegelman sisters became famous for their politics. Betsey went underground and never emerged, and Katie wrote a book about her missing sister. Leah Cantor became a criminal defense attorney, though she had nothing to do with her childhood friend. The vines moved the tiniest bit from side to side. Rachel stood up; the sky shifted in a sickening way, and she touched her head. What's wrong now? To Leah, any complaint of her sister's was a trick to get attention. Rachel told her feet to move; through the prickly blades of grass, she felt the earth. With each step she listened for Leah or the Ziegelman girls to call her back. In between the arbor and the white house with dark shutters Rachel passed the garage with bays for six cars. Harris Ziegelman, Betsey and Katie's father, kept his 1936 cream-colored Buick convertible polished and in perfect shape. Once in a while he'd invite all the children for a ride, allowing them to fill the rumble seat. When they started down the long driveway, the children were free to stick their heads and arms outside the car. Eva Cantor was on the patio with Helen Ziegelman, saying, Everything turns out okay in the end. It's awful now, but to tell the truth She spotted Rachel standing with one foot on the slate patio and one on the lawn. Sweetie, she said. I thought you girls were resting after lunch. My head hurts. Eva opened her arms and said, Poor you. Poor Rachel's getting a summer cold. They're the worst, Mrs. Ziegelman said. Rachel lay down next to her mother on the chai...

“I love these stories. They read like a cycle of songs—gorgeous, moving, and making sense, somehow, of the mad complexity of life. I don’t ask for anything more in a book.”—Lynn Freed, author of The Servants’ Quarters

Autorentext

Laura Furman was born in New York, and educated in New York City public schools and at Bennington College. Her first story appeared in The New Yorker in 1976, and since then her work has been published in many magazines, including Yale Review, Southwest Review, Ploughshares, American Scholar, Preservation, House & Garden, and other magazines. Her books include three collections of short stories, two novels, and a memoir. She is the recipient of fellowships from the New York State Council on the Arts, the Dobie Paisano Project, the Guggenheim Foundation, and the National Endowment for the Arts. She has received grants in residency at Yaddo in Saratoga Springs, N.Y., and in 2009 she was a visiting artist at the American Academy in Rome. She taught for many years in the Department of English at the University of Texas at Austin. Series editor of The PEN/O.Henry Prize Stories since 2002, Furman selects the twenty winning stories each year. She lives in Central Texas.

Klappentext

Nine meticulously crafted stories that contemplate and celebrate the domestic life of several generations of mothers and would-be mothers.

Zusammenfassung
In nine strikingly perceptive stories set miles and decades apart, Laura Furman mines the intricate, elusive lives of mothers and daughters—and of women who long for someone to nurture. Meet Rachel, a young girl desperate for her mother’s unbridled attention, knowing that soon she’ll have to face the world alone; Marian, a celebrated novelist who betrays the one person willing to take care of her as she is dying—her unclaimed “daughter”; and Dinah, a childless widow uplifted by the abandoned, century-old diaries of Mary Ann, a mother of eleven.

The Mother Who Stayed is an homage to the timeless, primal bond between mother and child and a testament that the relationships we can’t define can be just as poignant, memorable, and inspiring as those determined by blood. Tender and insightful, Furman’s stories also bravely confront darker realities of separation and regret, death and infidelity—even murder. Her vividly imagined characters and chiseled prose close the gap between generations of women as they share their wisdom almost in chorus: Although our lives will end, we must cherish the sanctity of each day and say, as did Mary Ann ages ago, “I done what I could.”

Leseprobe
*The Eye*

The grape arbor was a square open to the sky with tangled vines for walls. There was no breeze, no sound but the sun crackling in midday fullness and the hum of bees at work. An hour had to pass before the girls were allowed to swim, so they lay in the grape arbor, waiting. When it was very hot, Rachel Cantor’s mother had told her, the best thing was to lie still and let the heat leave your body, but Rachel had the beginning of a summer cold and to her ears the bees in the viney walls sounded dangerous. She asked, “Where’s Mom?”

“Don’t bother her,” Betsey Ziegelman said. “She’s with my mom.”

“They’re talking,” Katie Ziegelman said.

“They’re always talking,” said Leah, Rachel’s older sister.

Much later, when they were in their twenties, the Ziegelman sisters became famous for their politics. Betsey went underground and never emerged, and Katie wrote a book about her missing sister. Leah Cantor became a criminal defense attorney, though she had nothing to do with her childhood friend.

The vines moved the tiniest bit from side to side.

Rachel stood up; the sky shifted in a sickening way, and she touched her head.

“What’s wrong now?” To Leah, any complaint of her sister’s was a trick to get attention.

Rachel told her feet to move; through the prickly blades of grass, she felt the earth. With each step she listened for Leah or the Ziegelman girls to…