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Overview
It is 1950 and October Brown is a twenty-three-year-old first-year teacher thanking her lucky stars that she found a room in the best boardinghouse for Negro women teachers in Wyandotte County, Kansas. During an affair with an unhappily married handyman, October becomes pregnant.
With job in jeopardy and her reputation in tatters, October goes back to Ohio to be with her family: her older sister, Vergie, and her aunts who raised the sisters after their mother was killed by their father. After giving birth, she gives the child to Vergie and her husband to raise as their own, then returns to Kansas City to rebuild her life. But something is missing—and, apparently too late, October realizes what she has done . . .
The Midwest, the flourishing of modern jazz, and the culture of segregation form a compelling historical backdrop for this timeless and universal tale of one person’s battle to understand and master her own desires, and to embrace the responsibilities and promise of mature adulthood. In October Suite, Clair “has skillfully brought lyricism and word-play to her first novel, a family saga filled with secrets, redemption, and rivalry, as two sisters try to reclaim bonds forged in early childhood tragedy” (Library Journal).
“Maxine Clair deserves our admiration for this beautifully written and humane novel.” —The Washington Post
“A beautifully imagined novel that pulses with all the colors and sounds of the lives we live.” —Marita Golden, author of The Wide Circumference of Love
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781572844841 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Agate |
| Publication date: | 11/24/2020 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 352 |
| Sales rank: | 902,707 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
In the Midwest, October comes in when the pale coverlet of sky lifts away, exposing an eternity of deep and certain blue. The sun no longer stares, merely glances and makes long shadows much like the uneven fading of green from trees just before the lesser pigments fire-light the whole outdoors. The air cools to crisp, carries sound farther. Last pears ripen and fall, ferment on the ground; the aroma of their wine mixes with the pungency of leaf smoke from nowhere and everywhere. At nightfall, the wing-song shrill of crickets announces that this season has a natural pathos to it, the brief and flaming brilliance of everything at the climax of life moving toward death.
October Brown had named herself for all of that. Unwittingly at first. When she began occasionally calling herself October, she was only ten years old. Others said it was ridiculous, said she was nobody trying to be somebody. But she made convincing noises about given names, how you could give one to yourself, how it could be more like you than your real name. She never dared say she hated the name that her father had saddled on her, never said the new name had anything to do with the memory of her mother, who had lost her life. Instead she had mentioned all the strange names of people they knew, like Daybreak Honor, and a classmate’s aunt, Fourteen. The pastor of their church had named his daughter Dainty. Usually that fact had made people stop and consider.
Then when she was girl-turned-grown-seventeen, struck by her own strangeness and by the whole idea of seasons, she had put it on like a coat and fastened it around her. October was her name.
Midmorning, on a flaming day inthat season—a Saturday—October sat in the upstairs kitchenette at Pemberton House, sewing on her black iron Singer. It was 1950. She was twenty-three, and thanking her lucky stars for a room in the best house for Negro women teachers in Wyandotte County. Situated in the middle of the block on Oceola Avenue, the two-story white clapboard set the standard for decent, with its deep front yard and arborlike pear trees, its clipped hedges and the painted wicker chairs on the porch.
From her window she could look down on the backyard and see Mrs. Pemberton’s precious marigolds bunched along the back fence, and in front of them, a few wilting tomato plants and short rows of collards that waited to be tenderized by the first frost in Mr. Pemberton’s garden.
A few months before, on the very same June day that Cora had pushed her to take advantage of the vacancy coming up at Pemberton House, October Brown had knocked on the door, hoping. Word was that you had to know somebody. For her cadet-teacher year at Stowe School, she had lived with the Reverend Jackson and his wife. Not so bad, but farther away and further down the scale of nice. Mr. Pemberton, in undershirt and suspenders, had opened the door, but his wife, Lydia Pemberton—gold hoops sparkling, crown of silvery braids—had invited her in.
“We don’t take nothin but schoolteachers,” Mrs. Pemberton had said. When October explained that indeed, she was a teacher, Mrs. Pemberton had looked her up and down.
“Whereabouts?”
And October had told her about her cadet year at Stowe, her room at the Jacksons’ place, mentioned Chillicothe, Ohio, where she had grown up, and—because Mrs. Pemberton had seemed unmoved and uninterested so far—spoken of her two aunts who had raised her and her sister Vergie with good home training.
“Y’all are getting younger every year. You know any of the other girls here?” Mrs. Pemberton had asked.
October explained that Cora Joycelyn Jones had been her lead teacher at Stowe, that they had become good friends. The mention of an es- tablished connection to a recognized good citizen had finally satisfied Mrs. Pemberton.
“Follow me,” she said, and led October on a two-story tour of hardwood floors and high ceilings, French Provincial sitting room (smoke blue), damask drapes and lace sheers, mahogany dining table that could comfortably seat twelve, at least, two buffets, china closets, curio cabinets full of whatnots. Upstairs, all the women’s rooms—Mrs. Pemberton did tap lightly before she charged in—had highly polished mahogany or oak beds, tables, desks, quilts or chenille bedspreads, no-nails-allowed papered walls. Photographs, though, on desks, and floor lamps and wing chairs, stuffed chairs, venetian blinds and valances. Then she showed her the kitchenette, a larger bedroom with a two-burner and a tiny icebox and “you see the sun goes down right outside that window right there.”
And as they went back down the stairs, Mrs. Pemberton told her in no uncertain terms that she and Mr. Pemberton operated a decent house, that nobody under their roof smoked or drank, and that no men were allowed upstairs, but that the women could “have company” in the sitting room downstairs. Yes, October understood.
Yes, she was lucky to have her kitchenette.
Since daybreak of that October Saturday, she had been up sewing, fiddling with the buttons on the lightweight wool suit that she planned to wear to the first Du Bois Club meeting that afternoon. She had nearly finished reinforcing the zipper when she felt the loud thump of something entirely too heavy against the back of the house.
She wrapped herself more tightly in her housecoat and went to the window. Without raising the shade higher, she could see a man—muscular, youngish—in the yard below, struggling to shift a ladder closer to her window.
She had seen him before. One morning, weeks earlier, she had been waiting on the porch for her ride to school with Cora, and she had been nervous about the ride. Cora was her friend, had been her mentor. Still, these were October’s first days on her own in the classroom, and Cora was sure to ask about the supplies that October had forgotten to order. In the presence of Cora’s boyfriend—he was driving them to school that day—she would feel even dumber. Too bad she had already said yes to the ride, or she would have skipped it.
And too, at the dinner table the night before, Albertine Scott—one of the other teachers—had offered to turn October’s hair under with a straightening comb, a sure putdown, since it was obvious that October had taken pride in what a little Hair Rep and water could do. Seasoned teachers were like that, though—ready to tap cadets on the shoulder and point out the least little misstep in or out of the classroom. In the name of caution, they could brew terror with stories of cadets who dared dream that they would swim through their first stand-alone year but couldn’t even float, and went on to become elevator operators. Seasoned teachers would do that. Except for Cora. October had suffered nothing like that from Cora. Woman-after-my-own-heart. Sisterfriend.
And so, thus preoccupied on the porch that morning as she waited for her ride, October had let her eyes wander in the shadows of the arborly front yard. And saw, suddenly, a man out there, dappled by sunplay through the leaves, a hidden picture in a trees-and-grass puzzle, dark arms in a pale undershirt, bib overalls faded blue, his thumbs hooked into the straps. A man turning to go, a mystery vanishing, just somebody taking a break from his work on the Pembertons’ half-finished retaining wall out near the street.
She wondered if he’d been there in the yard all along, watching her. She didn’t look directly at him, but observed that he had perched himself on top of a mound of fieldstones and begun eating something that the wind carried as hickory smoke. He had flung his hand as if to say hi, being friendly, she thought, and she flung her hand, too. But then she saw the swarm of gnats and realized her mistake. He was swatting flies.
Later, when she walked with Cora and Ed to Ed’s car, Ed had stopped to admire the man’s handiwork, but the man’s faded-blue back was turned, busy, and he didn’t even look up. He had a fresh haircut. Neat around the edges. His undershirt had seen a lot of washings.
This was the same man. Looking down from her window, she saw that at the moment he was focused on the bottom rungs. Impulsively, just as his head tilted up, she stepped back out of sight and pulled her window shade all the way down.
A few minutes went by, and she could hear the ladder scraping the house, approaching her window. Then a knock on the window. She got up from the sewing machine again and let up the shade. Head and shoulders right there on the other side of the glass and screen, there he was. Edges of very white teeth showed in a round face the color of pecans and just as shiny. A face not particularly piqued, either. And so it was a little surprising when he did a quick twirl with a screwdriver and yelled through the glass, “You didn’t have to pull down the shade—I don’t go around peeping in windows.”
Though she understood and felt a little guilty, she palmed the air and hunched her shoulders as if to say, I don’t know what you’re talking about. He did a little up-up motion with his thumb, she hurried to raise the window.
His mouth looked like it wanted to smile. “You don’t have to worry, I’m just putting up storm windows,” he said. “Can you give me a hand and unhook your screen?”
“Sure,” she said, and undid the four metal hook-and-eyes that held in the screen.
He pulled the screen out, tossed it like a saucer to the ground. “Stay right there for a minute, do you mind?”
Back down the ladder he went, then climbed slowly up again, lugging a heavy storm window in one hand. This time he stood higher on the ladder so that they were nearly face to face.
“Mr. Pemberton’s got too many windows,” he said and chuckled a little, held on to the wood-frame window, looked right at her too long. She didn’t know whether to smile or frown. What was he looking at? But anyway there was his easy, fleshy mouth to focus on, maybe.
Automatically her hands went to smooth her hair and at the same time cover the white splash of vitiligo on her cheek. But then her thoughts caught up. This was her room. He really had no business up here, and she didn’t have to look like she was dressed for school.
He wore a rag of a shirt with rolled sleeves and no buttons, no collar, so that he might as well have been bare from the waist up. Repositioning the large storm window, he was—for two seconds—a three-dimensional man in a window. Focused on his task now, he bit his bottom lip with those white teeth and hoisted the window into position. Her eyes caught on the patch of fine hairs that parted just below his navel where his dark pants rode loosely on his hips. He was short, muscular in a smooth, curvy way.
“When I slide this into the frame, you hook the top and bottom, okay?” he said.
He slid in the storm window and tapped it solidly with his hands. She hooked all four of the hooks.
“Thanks,” he said through the glass. “You’re handy to have around.” And he disappeared down the ladder, whistling something he probably made up.
October finished the zipper, pressed the suit, took a bath in the hall bathroom, dripped her way back, fighting the impulse to whistle. Whistling woman, cackling hen, always come to no good end. She laid the suit on the bed and congratulated herself. The Vogue Pattern Company wouldn’t know hers from the one in the picture: nutmeg with a straight skirt, kick pleats, a cropped jacket; double-breasted, with covered buttons and self-belt with the special pewter buckle she had retrieved from one of her aunt Maude’s throwaways.
Noon came and she put it on, set off the collar with a white rayon blouse. She saw herself on her way to the Du Bois Club meeting, com- ing down to the front room and encountering tall skinny Albertine. Or, better yet, walking across the lawn of the YWCA, right past proper Mary Esther and the others dressed in their serious-and-dedicated blouses and reasonable-navy or practical-beige skirts, their correct nylons and low pumps. And she smiled at the mirror, glad not to see a schoolmarm standing there.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
Reading Group Guide
1. October legally changes her name when she is seventeen. She views her name change as a way of separating herself from her father and bringing herself closer to her mother. Do you think that names have as much significance as October attributes to them? Should October have heeded Aunt Frances’s wishes and not changed her name?
2. The spirit of Carrie Cooper Brown--October and Vergie's dead mother--hovers over the novel, occasionally speaking directly to the reader, and adding another dimension to the story. At one point she makes an observation about grace and her daughters being open to it. What does it mean to be open to grace? Is October a religious woman? A spiritual woman? In what ways does October seem open to grace? How does it does it unfold in her life?
3. At another point Carrie marvels at the fact that October, her youngest daughter, has honored her memory in such a permanent way. But Carrie is not alone in her appreciation for being remembered. Do you find the desire to be remembered elsewhere in the story, and what, if anything, does this motif contribute to the story?
4. After seeing October’s apathetic behavior, Vergie fantasizes about having David as her own child. Do Vergie and Gene act in David’s best interest when they tell October that they will only take him on the condition that he becomes their son? Is Vergie acting selfishly, or does she truly worry that October cannot care for her child? Do you think that Gene influences Vergie’s decision, and if so, how?
5. After Vergie and Gene tell October the terms on which they will take David, it takes October only a few minutes to give them an answer. Why do you thinkOctober agrees to their terms so quickly?
6. October and Vergie have spent their entire lives trying not to think about their father. Yet, when October realizes that Leon’s friend Foots might be her father, she feels compelled to meet him. Is this a sudden change of heart? If so, why? Are Vergie and October wrong to honor him with a visit? Do you think they forgive their father their father for their mother’s death after they meet him?
7. James Wilson pursues October and then leaves her as soon as he finds out that she’s pregnant. He works extra jobs to earn the money for her to have an abortion. Does James have the right to expect October to take his money and have an abortion? Is October wrong to allow James to think that she had the abortion? Should James be told of David’s existence? If yes, should he meet his son?
8. Aunt Maude and Aunt Frances spend decades shielding Vergie and October from the truth about their father’s whereabouts. Why do Maude and Frances do this? As the girls grew up, should they have been told that their father was probably alive? Why do you think that Maude and Frances never allow October and Vergie to discuss their mother’s death?
9. Wyandotte County enforces a rule that prevents African American female teachers from getting married. Why would the schools enforce such a rule? What does this say about the way African American sexuality was viewed, if anything?
10. When October buys her house, she specifically chooses a two-bedroom so that David can have a room there. Is October overstepping her bounds as “aunt” by decorating a room just for David? Is October realistic to think that one day David might come to live with her for good? Do you think it would be more difficult for October to have an empty room waiting for David, or to not have an extra room at all?
11. When Vergie and Gene finally bring David to visit October, he has serious learning problems. Vergie has known this for many years, but she never consulted October, who is a teacher. Why does Vergie wait so long to ask her sister about David’s academic problems? While it wasn’t classified as such during the period the book takes place, David’s learning problems would now be considered dyslexia. Do you think that David would have such severe problems if October had been able to intervene earlier? Will David be able to surmount his learning problems?
12. Vergie tells October that she needs to have children of her own, and then she will get over David. Do you think that October would be able to forget that David is her biological son? Does Vergie tell this to October because she believes it, or because she is afraid that October will always think of David as her son?
13. When October first meets Leon on the way to Cora and Ed’s wedding, she finds him boring and self-obsessed. It takes several meetings over the course of many years for October to even consider Leon as more than a friend. Why do you think it takes so long for October and Leon to begin their relationship? Do you think that their relationship is stronger because of all of their previous encounters? Is it true that the best romantic relationships stem from friendship?
14. At a time when many of the jazz greats were making their mark, Leon, too, writes a composition for his love. October Suite he calls it. How does the idea of a musical suite fit October's life? How does the idea of a suite fit the novel overall?
