Ready for a little fun this Friday? Try to guess the title of the book from the opening lines. Leave your guesses in the comments or cheat a little and follow the links to get the answer.
This is it, he thought, as he clicked on his left blinker. The end of the road.
The sign for the bridge had snuck up on him. He had done this drive before, but not at 2 a.m., and he had never been much of a night driver. There had been a little traffic leaving the city, but now there was almost none. Every time a car passed him on the left he wondered who the driver was and why they were on the road this late. He wondered if they were thinking the same about him.
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My father, James Witherspoon, is a bigamist. He was already married ten years when he first clamped eyes on my mother. In 1968, she was working at the gift-wrap counter Davison's downtown when my father asked her to wrap the carving knife he had bought his wife for their wedding anniversary. Mother said she knew something wasn't right between a man and a woman when the gift was a blade. I said that maybe it means there was a kind of trust between them. I love my mother, but we tend to see things a little bit differently The point is that James's marriage was never hidden from us. James is what I call him. His other daughter, Chaurisse, the one who grew up in the house with him, calls him Daddy, even now.
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The George Washington Bridge had never been anything but strong and beautiful, its arches monumental, cables thin and high. Kate watched them spindling like ribs past the car window as her husband drove eastbound across the span. It was a testimony to optimism, a suspension bridge, each far-fetched plate, truss, and girder an act of faith against gravity and good sense.
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The Wayland Inn was behind the slums, on the west end of Knoxville. It was a place that had festered since the War, buzzing with flies that bred in the clogged severs, stinking of dirty river water brought in on the afternoon breeze. A place attracted those who thrived in the shadows. People you had to seek to find.
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When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim's warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.
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The flashing lights of the ambulance, police cars, and fire department vehicles danced before Darcy's eyes in a kaleidoscope of colors, distracting her from the questions she was supposed to be answering.
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You just know it's going to be a bad day when you're stuck at a red light and Death pulls up behind you in a station wagon.
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All our attempts at subterfuge had been in vain.
With ice in my heart, I watched him prepare to defend me. His intense concentration betrayed no hint of doubt, though he was outnumbered. I knew that we could expect no help - at this moment, his family was fighting for their lives as surely as he was for ours.
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You could say that my father was a watchmaker by trade, but that would be like saying the Nijinsky liked to dance. Fixing watches was not only his livelihood but his life. This skill had saved him when he had been imprisoned at the death camp of Dachau, during the Second World War, and he continued to fix watches until the day he died. Simon Taitz was nothing less than a restorer of time. And I was his daughter, born to continue in his life work - restoration and repair.
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At the beginning of my daughter's princess party, right before Cinderella is scheduled to arrive, my sister Sylvia announces, apropos of nothing, that she is going blind.
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How did you do?
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