“This is not a novel about prejudice or race relations or brotherhood, or anything too simple. It is about parents and children, young people and older people, about love and failure, loss and discovery, coming to terms with our self and others. Edgar Allan . . . is a work of Art.” Its value has not been diminished over time, and readers throughout the world contact the author regularly to discuss their reactions to it. A straight-through read, it is full of anxiety, excitement, suspense, and finally, understanding.
“This is not a novel about prejudice or race relations or brotherhood, or anything too simple. It is about parents and children, young people and older people, about love and failure, loss and discovery, coming to terms with our self and others. Edgar Allan . . . is a work of Art.” Its value has not been diminished over time, and readers throughout the world contact the author regularly to discuss their reactions to it. A straight-through read, it is full of anxiety, excitement, suspense, and finally, understanding.
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Overview
“This is not a novel about prejudice or race relations or brotherhood, or anything too simple. It is about parents and children, young people and older people, about love and failure, loss and discovery, coming to terms with our self and others. Edgar Allan . . . is a work of Art.” Its value has not been diminished over time, and readers throughout the world contact the author regularly to discuss their reactions to it. A straight-through read, it is full of anxiety, excitement, suspense, and finally, understanding.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504032858 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Distribution |
| Publication date: | 03/22/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 84 |
| Lexile: | 660L (what's this?) |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Edgar Allan
A Novel
By John Neufeld
S. G. Phillips
Copyright © 2013 John NeufeldAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3285-8
CHAPTER 1
This is a story about my father, and about God. Neither is very easy to understand.
My father, the Reverend Robert Fickett, is a very tall, very straight man, who looks like what King Charles II must have looked like when he grew older and stopped tearing around the countryside of old England. You can tell he's had a lot of fun by the lines around his eyes.
Father has a sense of humor, but he can be serious when he has to be. And he can scare you sometimes if you're listening to him during the sermon.
He and I used to do a lot of walking together, and he would do most of the talking. Father would say that each man is made of small parts that fit together to make a "whole" man. A "whole man," Father said, could not divide his life into parts that were lived differently.
What this means, I guess, for me, is that going to school, playing around, doing chores, and everything else I do is part of the same thing. For Father, it would be his church and his family and his life that have all to be lived in the same way.
When Father talked like this, I mostly listened. It would have been easier if he had told me to be honest, or thrifty, or kind. But Father thought he should treat each of us as though we were as old as he, which meant that he talked to us as though we could all understand him. Sometimes he would leave things out for us to figure out later; sometimes he would use words that made you want to go look up every other one in the dictionary.
About God I can't say too much. No one can, I guess. But He's important in our family, and not just because Father is a minister.
My mother, who is tall, too, and gray, likes to say that God is everywhere, and you can only hope to understand Him by seeing where He is and where He isn't. She thinks that where He isn't is often more interesting, and tells us more about Him and His ways, than where He is.
Actually, my mother isn't any easier to understand than my father.
It was last summer when all this began. There were seven of us Ficketts then, including my parents. First, there was my older sister, Mary Nell. We call her M.N. unless we're mad at her. She was fourteen then, and impossible. I didn't like her much, but maybe I was being too rough. I've been told I'm a harsh judge sometimes.
She had a problem, Mary Nell. She didn't like being a minister's daughter. She could be mean about it, too. I suppose it's because she felt her life had been ruined or something. I never felt that way.
My name is Michael, plain and simple, and I'm twelve now. I'm the only child in our family without a middle name.
The reason I never felt the same way M.N. did is that, while being a minister's kid isn't always fun, it does mean you get to do things pretty much on your own. You have to, because other kids never let you forget who you are, or what you're supposed to be. I mean, to them you're something very goody-goody. You can spend a lot of time trying to prove you're not.
So, I spend a lot of my time alone. That doesn't mean I'm a hermit. I just don't always care for other kids, is all. The only way I could ever be part of a gang would be by proving I'm really O.K. (which I really am) and to do the kinds of things I've been told not to. I guess I never feel that mean towards my father.
I mean, take the way kids sometimes steal things. Nothing very big or anything, but just taking little things from shops for the fun of trying to get away with it.
Once, I think when I was ten, I went into a stationery store with some guys in my class. One of them started talking to the old man behind the counter, and asked him for something. Envelopes, I think. Anyway, when the man bent down beneath the counter to get what we had asked for, four hands shot up and grabbed everything they could get a grip on. It was sort of funny.
So I smiled and watched. But I didn't take anything.
Now, you wouldn't think that not taking something would be the worst thing that ever happened. But to these guys it was. I might as well not even have been there, they said, if I wasn't going to be part of them. I said I was, and they said how could I be when I couldn't stop thinking dumb thoughts about right and wrong? After all, they should have known, me being a minister's kid and everything.
I told my father about this. He said that sometimes it takes more courage to say "no" than to say "yes." I thought about that a while, and then forgot about it. I was maybe ten, then.
So what I do a lot now, instead of not stealing, is read. I'm sort of a nut on history. English history. I know some things I'll never even be able to remember. This is mostly because I'll probably never need to remember them.
After me comes Sally Ann, who is, now, nearly six. Sally Ann stands for "Seven a.m.," which is when she was born. "M.N.," Mary Nell, means "midnight." My mother thought of all this.
I have hopes for Sally Ann. She's smart and patient, and sort of scary about everything. She sees more of things than I do, and if she could, she'd probably write all this down a lot better than I will. Because, though I try to remember as much as I can, there were a lot of other things going on in my life besides just this one thing, and I know I'll forget some of them. Sally Ann never would.
Which is to say, I sometimes think Sally Ann does have eyes in the back of her head, and I envy her. Anyway, she's my favorite. Tiny, and bright-eyed, and funny because she doesn't yet know how she looks to other people.
Next to last was Stephen Paul. Naturally, that's "Seven p.m." He's almost four now.
There's not much to be said for Stephen. It's too early. So far, though, he's O.K., and he doesn't give anyone except Sally Ann any trouble. And that's only because she insists on trying to teach him things. I don't think Stephen cares a lot about learning.
Last came Edgar Allan. "E.A." for Early Afternoon. He was the youngest and was sort of, well, cute. He was black.
CHAPTER 2It doesn't say much, the word "cute." But that's all you could say about him when we got him. He was.
The funny thing was we didn't know he was coming. Of course, it was last summer then, so maybe if he arrived today we would be smarter. I'm not certain.
We had heard some talk. Or really, what we heard was parts of talks between my parents. Our house, which is fairly big, has a study for Father off the living room, and that's where he and Mother have their serious talks. Because the study is so close to where we sometimes are, we can often hear what they're saying.
Mary Nell heard it first. She came to me, and we tried to guess what the few things she had overheard could mean. (M.N. probably eavesdropped. She was like that.)
We didn't have much to go on. "It would be good for the other children," was one sentence she heard, but that could have meant almost anything. "The most important thing we could do," was another bit, just as puzzling.
"It won't be easy, especially later," my mother had said. "A probation period" meant nothing to M.N. or to me. "We'll cross those bridges when we get to them," Father said once. To which Mother replied, "I think we ought to cross them now." M.N. and I were very confused.
"Not just for us, but for the community and the church," was the last thing M.N. had caught, from Father. And then we heard nothing until dinner one night a few weeks later.
It was right after Stephen Paul's third birthday, and he was sitting at the table in a regular chair for the first time. It was a sort of graduation dinner, and Stephen's high chair was in the corner to remind him, I guess, that he was now "grown up." Sally Ann had been coaching him all day on his table manners, but Stephen sat at the table playing with his food and looking around and ignoring all Sally Ann's instructions. I suspect Stephen had been over-rehearsed.
"We're going to have a newcomer here at dinner soon," Mother said.
"Oh?" said M.N., not paying much attention. "Who?"
"Your new brother," answered my mother.
M.N. heard this. So did we all, S.A. and me. We just stared at her.
"But Mother!" M.N. said. "You couldn't have been ... all this time without our knowing ... I mean ...!"
"M.N., what your mother means is that we are thinking of adopting a little boy," Father said quickly. "We thought you might want to know in advance."
"Having another child doesn't mean any less attention for you children, or less love, you know," Mother said to Sally Ann. "It just means that we have so much, your father and I, that we thought we could surely spare some for one more child."
There was a pause, and then M.N. jumped right in. "Well," she said, "I think it's just marvey. It's so much easier this way, isn't it, Mother?"
My mother laughed. "In some ways."
"Four seems like a pretty good family," I said. No one paid any attention.
"How old is he?" S.A. wanted to know. "Will I be able to play with him?"
"He's younger than you are, dear," answered Mother. "He would be younger, even, than Stephen."
"Good," S.A. said. "Then I can take care of him, too."
"There is one thing," Mother started to say, "that I think you ought to —"
But Father interrupted. "Yes," he said. "We wondered if you by chance had any preferences ... like the color of his eyes, or hair or skin, or shoe size. Details like that."
"Just as long as he can learn things," S.A. said.
"It's rather more serious than that," Mother began again. "We have told the adoption agency that we would be glad to have a child who was ... different. A little boy who might be Chinese, or Negro, or Mexican. Someone who might need help and a family like ours more than other children."
"You mean you don't actually know what you're getting?" M.N. asked suddenly.
"Well," Father said, "we think we do. But we're not certain, really, are we, dear?"
"No," Mother said. "We're just hoping."
"But when he gets here," Father said, "and while he will be living with us, he won't really be ours for nearly a year."
"Why is that?" I asked. "Whose idea is that?"
"It's the way an adoption agency works," Father explained. "They want to be sure their children are happy in their new homes, and so they put everyone on a sort of test. At the end of the test, if all goes well, then they are happy enough to lose their children because they know the children themselves are happy."
"That's reasonable," M.N. said sharply. "You never know. You could make a mistake."
"Yes, that's true," admitted Father. "So we all have to be extra careful and on our best behavior for a while. I know you won't disappoint your mother or me."
"I won't," S.A. said.
"When he arrives, your new brother," said Mother, "if anything occurs to you, or you want to talk about him, please just promise you'll come to your father or me first. Try not to upset him. He'll be too young to understand, of course, but some children learn to hear well before they learn to speak. None of us would want to say anything that might make him unhappy."
"I don't see how we could," M.N. said. "After all, he's only a child."
My father smiled. "Yes, that's true. He's only a child."
"I just hope he can learn things," Sally Ann said to Mother as they both began to clear the table.
CHAPTER 3Edgar Allan arrived about two weeks later, right on schedule: Early in the Afternoon. And he was cute.
Sally Ann went out of her head for him right from the start. Here was another pupil, nearly three years old, with enormous brown eyes in a clean, dark, shiny face, with the sort of giggle that made you giggle back.
When I walked in, Edgar Allan, Stephen, and S.A. were all on the floor, on hands and knees, "learning." S.A. was "reading" to them from a picture book.
I think I just stood there a minute. I was surprised. That was all. Just surprised. Maybe I never really expected exactly what we got.
The first thing I noticed, after I stopped being surprised, was that Edgar Allan and Stephen gave S.A. the same amount of attention and interest as far as learning things went. That means, not a lot. They were too busy with other things, like just crawling around.
"Well?" my father said to me.
"Well!" I said back, and though I don't know why, I smiled.
He smiled, too, and nodded. "I thought so," he said.
"What?"
"That you wouldn't say anything right away."
"I don't know what to say," I answered. "I like to think first, sometimes."
I turned back and passed the three children on the floor, sort of sinking into a chair at the end of the room so I could watch them.
E.A. was so cute you wouldn't believe it. I think he was the cutest kid I ever saw in my life. Much more than Stephen Paul ever was, for example. He looked just like any other little kid you've ever seen.
You couldn't tell much else about Edgar Allan. He was a little slow, I guess, in learning how to talk, and you never knew whether he was listening to you or not. He certainly didn't give you much to work with.
So I just sat there a while, watching. And I was still there when M.N. came home.
She walked in the door, turned towards where the noise was rising every minute, and stepped into the room.
She stood there. Her mouth opened. Her face reddened. And then she walked out. Just like that.
"Mary Nell!" called my mother. But M.N. didn't answer. She ran up the stairs to her room, and we didn't see her until dinner.
CHAPTER 4Dinner wasn't much fun, for four of us. M.N. wouldn't say a word. She wouldn't look at Edgar Allan, who had Stephen's old high chair now. And she ate hardly anything on her plate.
Mother tried to get her to talk about what she'd done during the day. And Father tried to help. But M.N. just sat there.
I wasn't sure what to do, so I didn't do anything. I watched M.N. part of the time, and Sally Ann, who was diligently teaching E.A. the difference between a fork and a spoon, part of the time, and wondered, sort of.
When dinner was over, though, Mary Nell finally spoke.
"You asked us, Mother, to talk to you and father first about him. Well, I want to. Tonight."
M.N.'s voice seemed very old to me suddenly.
"All right, Mary Nell," said Mother. "We'll meet you in the study as soon as we put everyone to bed."
"Fine," said M.N., and pushed her chair away from the table. Without even offering to help clear, she left the room.
I looked at Father.
"Michael," he said, "I've tried to teach you all to think first and speak later. I thought M.N. had never learned that lesson as well as you. But I was wrong."
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"Listen to Mary Nell," said Father. "Listen, and try to help."
"I don't think it's help she wants to talk about," I said.
"No, I don't think so, either," said Father.
CHAPTER 5As it turned out, it wasn't Father at all Mary Nell wanted to talk to. What made the whole thing a woman's problem I don't know, but Father was ushered out, not very politely, and could only turn towards the study door as it was closed in his face to say, "We'll be in here if you need us."
He was very quiet as he joined me in front of the television set.
We sat there a moment, and then we both realized the same thing at the same time. We could hear everything Mary Nell and Mother said anyway, right through the noise of the set. I was sort of glad, I admit, but I don't think Father was.
So, in between Coral Canyon, which isn't my favorite show anyway, we had Mother and Mary Nell.
"I just don't see how you could do it," M.N. was saying. "A Chinese, or a Mexican, or anything else. But not this! Without even asking us, Mother!"
"Mary Nell, your father and I don't have to ask you children about everything. Some things we do because we know and feel they are right and best for the family. If we're wrong, then we have ourselves to blame. If we're right, we try very hard not to say I told you so."
"Marvey! Just marvey! That's worked before. But this is different, for Pete's sake! This is different. At least you could have told us as soon as you knew. I mean, really told us, Michael and me. We're certainly old enough to be told."
I gave M.N. five mental points for that. I agreed.
"What would you have said, M.N.?" asked Mother.
"Well, I don't know. Something. At least we would have known exactly what to expect."
"Why is that so important? Should your feelings be any different?"
"That's not the point, Mother," said M.N. rather sharply. "We would have had time to think, and to make up our minds what our feelings were going to be."
"Sally Ann and Stephen had no more warning than you, dear. Their feelings seem to be just as real as yours, and rather nicer."
"You think I'm prejudiced, is that all?" M.N. asked, pretty close to tears. (I could tell, even through the door.)
"What would you say you were, M.N.?"
"Well, honest, anyway! Have you or Father even once stopped to think what will happen when he grows up? Can you imagine the look on my friends' faces when I introduce him as my brother? Don't you know what they're going to think to themselves, about you?"
It was quiet then, for a moment. I think Mother was a little surprised. I know I was. But M.N. went on fast. Once she has the advantage, she never loses it.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Edgar Allan by John Neufeld. Copyright © 2013 John Neufeld. Excerpted by permission of S. G. Phillips.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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