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Overview
Everything was rolling along smoothly for Robert Elgin. He and his wife, Laura, had a loving marriage, and had taken enough "me" time before having kids – one girl, one boy. After doing the hippie, idealistic thing for awhile, he finally allowed his father in law to get him a job in labour negotiations where he could still fuel his power to the people energies by fighting on the common man's behalf.
When Robert becomes too good at his job and is recruited by the County Executive's office to conspire in some dirty negotiations that would allow for a run at Governor, the perfect life begins to crumble. And to make matters much, much worse, Robert learns his five year–old daughter has been molested by the local 12 year–old neighbour, and the crumbling becomes a full–scale slide.
While his wife becomes obsessed with grief counsellors, rape specialists, being saved by Jesus, and putting the twelve year old behind bars, Robert finds himself losing touch with his family and losing his grip on reality. When he learns of a secret, dirty fund the labour office has been skimming off the public, he takes the money and runs. And so begins Robert's life as a dead man.
Told from the end to the beginning, this Memento–style literary noir about one man's undoing is a fresh new style of fiction. Safe in Heaven Dead is a stunning book by a new voice in contemporary literature.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780060099114 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 03/30/2004 |
| Series: | Harper Perennial |
| Edition description: | Reprint |
| Pages: | 256 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.30(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.70(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Safe in Heaven Dead
By Samuel Ligon
HarperCollins
ISBN: 0060099100Chapter One
January 6
Robert Elgin died on the street, knocked down and run over by a Second Avenue bus while pursuing a woman he thought he could not live without. He'd been considering settling quietly in a small town in New England or the Southwest or someplace else - doing the dishes, mowing the lawn, shuttling his lost children to ballet and music lessons, attending adult education classes in anthropology and history at the local university, a comeback to the world of hardware stores and county fairs and voter registration and car repairs.
His last words were "Carla, wait! I'm not finished." She was across the street, walking away from him. He was thirty-nine years old, fifteen pounds overweight. He was running out of money.
One of his shoes, a black tasseled loafer, flew into the lap of an elderly woman in a wheelchair as she was rolled down the sidewalk by her nurse. The old woman picked up the shoe and held it away from herself, examining it, then handed it over her shoulder to the nurse, who dropped it into a wire mesh trash basket.
The cops hadn't arrived yet, the ambulance would be a meatwagon.
Traffic snarled, and the horns started blaring.
Chapter Two
September/October
He was staying in a small, pricey hotel in Murray Hill, fresh flowers all over the lobby, in the elevator, on tables outside the elevator, in arrangements littering his suite. He came on smooth and quiet at first - not that you ever can tell - opening the door and extending his hand: "Carla, is it?" he says, as if we hadn't talked on the phone twenty minutes ago, and I smile and tilt my head, look down, demure, a girlfriend being taken to the country club to meet the family. "What a lovely apartment," I say.
And right away, he's got nothing to say; he's stuck, looking down at the floor, not that this is so unusual. I take his hand and lead him to the couch, trying to weigh out how he wants to play it: straight to bed? confessions? mild humiliation? hoping it's straight to bed.
"How about a drink?" he says.
He places me on the couch and opens a bottle of wine in the kitchen area across the room. I smile wholesomely. They need to believe that you love your job.
He hands me my glass and sits in the armchair opposite the couch, then looks down, Mister Timid, which is fine by me, though that doesn't mean he won't turn into a sadist later. In which case I walk.
"Well," he says, behind a nervous laugh, "I thought we'd go out to dinner."
"I'd love to," I say. "Maybe dancing afterward."
"Great," he says. "I mean, we've got all night, right?"
"Pretty much," I say. It's obvious he's never done this before. Once the appointment starts you never discuss money or time; it's already been settled. He's waiting for something else from me. I feel like a streetwalker negotiating prices. "We've got all kinds of time," I say, looking at my watch. "Eight hours, I guess." Like I'm not sure.
He's still waiting.
"Teddy gave you the terms," I say, "right?"
He gives me a sharp look, the first sign that there's something burning inside.
"Uh-huh," he says, dragging out the sounds in his throat. "But let's not ruin it."
I play with my hair stupidly. "Are you kidding?" I say, crinkling up my forehead. "Nothing's going to be ruined. We're going to have a great time tonight." Or maybe you will, I think. Me? I've got a Faulkner seminar in the morning for which I am unprepared, the prof, Nabaum, an old fuck who hates my guts and will most likely be on my dissertation committee, who gave me a B on my first paper, subtitled "Or why biographers should be executed," who is completing the second of his planned three volumes on Edith Wharton, entitled Edith Wharton: A Life, who hates books, who hates teaching, who hates people, who is setting traps for me left and right, hoping I go up in flames. Nabaum.
The man across from me holds his face in his hands, thumbs at his earlobes, pinkies pulling at the corner of his eyes, and says, as if he's suddenly back in the room with me, "We'll meet at Gotham, over on Twelfth Street. How's that?"
"Good choice," I say, but I'm thinking, Meet? Aren't we already together?
"Are you sure?" he says. "Maybe you should choose."
"No," I say, wondering just how much of a pain in the ass this guy's going to be. Too passive can be as bad as too aggressive. "Gotham is very good - one of my favorite restaurants."
"Are you sure?" he says again.
"William," I say. "I really want you to have a good time tonight. You having a good time is what will make me happy."
He looks at the ceiling. "All right," he says. "But will you do me one favor?"
"Sure," I say, thinking, that's what you're paying me for.
"Call me Robert," he says.
"No problem."
He sighs, unsure, seems to be trying to decide something, then says, "And my last name's Elgin, not Oliver."
So it's confessions.
And then, before ushering me out, he gives the instructions: that I am to install myself at the bar at Gotham; that I am to say, if asked, that, yes, I have a reservation, under the name of Oliver, but to divulge this information to no one but the maître d'; that I am to sip my drink and - though he doesn't say this in so many words, I understand the fantasy - display my legs, my smile, my cleavage, and, most important, my conversational and flirting talents to any and all comers; and, of course, it also goes without saying that I am to be Elgin's prize.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Safe in Heaven Dead by Samuel Ligon
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.