The Angry Woman Suite
by
Lee Fullbright
This is a work of historical fiction. Other than the widely known actual events, people, and locales herein, all names, characters, incidents, and places are used fictitiously, or are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to living persons or current events is entirely coincidental.
The Angry Woman Suite
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Copyright © 2012 Eileen C. Fullbright. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Front cover designed by Laurie Fuller
Published by Telemachus Press, LLC
http://www.telemachuspress.com
Visit the author website:
http://leefullbright.com
ISBN# 978-1-937698-52-2 (eBook)
ISBN# 978-1-937698-53-9 (paperback)
Version 2012.11.29
MOONLIGHT SERENADE
Music by GLENN MILLER Lyrics by MITCHELL PARISH
Copyright © 1939 (Renewed) EMI ROBBINS CATALOG, INC.
Exclusive Print Rights Controlled and Administered by
ALFRED MUSIC PUBLISHING CO., INC.
All Rights Reserved.
Used by Permission.
For DDF, for everything.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
The Narrators
ELYSE
Sacramento 1955
FRANCIS
Pennsylvania 1933
AIDAN
Pennsylvania 1933
ELYSE
Sacramento 1955
FRANCIS
Pennsylvania 1934–1943
ELYSE
Sacramento 1955
AIDAN
Pennsylvania 1900–1916
ELYSE
Sacramento 1955
AIDAN
Pennsylvania 1916–1917
ELYSE
Sacramento 1955
FRANCIS
On the Road1943–1945
AIDAN
Pennsylvania 1917–1919
FRANCIS
On the Road1945
ELYSE
Sacramento 1955
FRANCIS
1945
AIDAN
Pennsylvania 1919–1928
ELYSE
San Diego 1958–1965
AIDAN
1965
ELYSE
1967
AIDAN
FRANCIS
Praise for The Angry Woman Suite
“In a skillful move by Fullbright, secrets are revealed through the viewpoints of three different people, adding layers of eloquent complexity to a story as powerful as it is troubling. A superb debut that exposes the consequences of the choices we make and legacy’s sometimes excruciating embrace.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“I read The Angry Woman Suite from cover to cover twice (yes, it is that good), and I’m still in awe of what I have found.”
—Sean Keefer, author of The Trust
“There is something fascinating in labyrinthine plot twists, which is what we have here, and I must applaud Fullbright for her keen and magical ability to pull it off with such aplomb.”
—Norm Goldman, Montreal Books Examiner
“Totally stellar work. Francis Grayson embodies brilliance and sorrow in a seamless mixture of the character you love to hate … impeccably researched and written.”
—Rebecca Boucher, My Life With Boys and Books
“A very human story, The Angry Woman Suite is a fine read focusing on the long lasting dysfunction of family.”
—Midwest Book Review
“With a touch of Margaret Atwood-y Blind Assassin-type mystery and history and alternating first person narration (with jumps in chronology), The Angry Woman Suite is emotional when it needs to be and matter-of-fact at the proper times, too. There is violence, there is abuse … there’s also art, music, and beauty—all parts of real life. I guess the difference is that most of us are unable to share that ugliness and that beauty in the eloquent way that Fullbright does.”
—Denise du Vernay, adjunct professor of English at St. Xavier University in Chicago and co-author of The Simpsons in the Classroom: Embiggening the Learning Experience with the Wisdom of Springfield
“A plot so intricate that only a master of the craft could pull it off. A book to get completely lost in.”
—Kathy Jambor, Literary R&R
“The Angry Woman Suite features a wide array of diverse characters, which Fullbright depicts magnificently … a complex and emotional tale, The Angry Woman Suite is an engrossing read filled with dark twists and heartbreaking moments.”
—IndieReader
“The Angry Woman Suite is quite a ride … very cleverly written … an outstanding novel.”
—Joana James, Readers Favorite
“Fullbright has woven a tapestry of plot and subplot, creating a book that will keep you flipping pages long past midnight.”
—Cheri Roman, The Brass Rag
“The Angry Woman Suite portrays women, from Bean to Elizabeth, with a poignancy tough to find anywhere but in literary genius. The twisted plot, and twining of families throughout the novel kept me reading, though I can’t tell you if it was because of the mystery, or Fullbright’s ability to plunge the reader deep into the psyche of her characters.”
—Naomi Leadbeater, Naimeless
“Seductive and mesmerizing … will keep readers engrossed until its poignant conclusion.”
—American Chronicles
“Elegantly written … immensely satisfying.”
—Wryte Stuff
“The Angry Woman Suite is a brilliant, complex, complicated story about talented, complicated people … a story to remember.”
—Readers Favorite
Acknowledgments
While writing stories is a solitary pursuit, a storyteller is not always solitary. I owe enormous debts of gratitude to the many, many people who held me up and seemingly never tired of stories about the story.
A special thanks to my brother, Brian Ellsworth, truly a man for all seasons, for the hand holding, and everything computer and everything trumpet. When Brian spoke of music, I listened and took notes, but I am not a musician; therefore, any trumpet or other music- related missteps are mine alone.
In 1994 I traveled from San Diego to a wedding in Pennsylvania, and made an impromptu stop at the Chadds Ford house where George Washington plotted his infamous Battle of the Brandywine. While sitting on the front steps of that stone house and wandering the lush grounds and old battlefield, something took hold within my imagination: the beginnings of a novel about 20th century characters also struggling for autonomy. I knew on that day that one of my characters would be a woma
n looking back on her life, and that her journey to autonomy would be interwoven with another character’s similar journey, and analogously with Washington’s fight for freedom at Chadds Ford.
I started researching and writing when I returned home to San Diego, and soon knew another town, in addition to Chadds Ford and West Chester, was required for the progression of this story—which is another way of saying that the town of East Chester is a figment of my imagination, as is Grayson House, and that I assume full responsibility for historical liberties taken to move this work of fiction forward.
A huge thank you to artist Laurie Fuller for the wonderful front cover design.
And to Geri Wilson, who listened to potential plot twists for eons, and never once complained.
Michaela Allen’s stories about New York’s music scene in the 1940’s were invaluable.
Thanks also to my wonderful critique group, the most talented, insightful writers in San Diego: my friends, Marion Kahn, Shelley Marquez, Julia Adame, and Chynne Strommen.
A brave Pam Swanson volunteered to read an all over the place first draft of The Angry Woman Suite, and I’m grateful.
Thank you to Joanne Brownstein, literary agent, for the chance and the title.
And to Kendyl Peterson, editor extraordinaire of all things English and German—as with music and history, any missteps with the German language are mine alone.
To Telemachus Press, and eagle-eyed editor Karen Lieberman.
To all my parents, and to Colleen, for making this story possible in the first place.
And, of course, to DDF, who hung the moon in my sky.
And to Baby Rae, star of my blog, and Taylor, who keeps that moon polished—and to Christe, my hope for the future, who brings it all together and always makes me proud.
The Angry Woman Suite
The Narrators
Resentment and Freedom: Elyse Bowden Grayson, born 1950
Elyse’s circle:
Wilheim Lange (Papa): grandfather
Bean Bowden Grayson: sister
Rose Bowden: paternal aunt
Diana Bowden Grayson: mother
Francis Grayson: stepfather; music prodigy
Aidan Madsen: mentor
Fame and Intemperance: Francis Grayson, born 1928
Francis’ circle:
Lear Grayson: grandfather
Elizabeth Grayson: grandmother
Magdalene Grayson: mother
Stella Grayson: aunt
Lothian Grayson: aunt
Aidan Madsen: mentor; historian; musician
Diana Bowden Grayson: wife
Elena Fitzgerald: lover; singer
Buster Carlyle: friend; musician
Isolation and Reparation: Aidan Madsen, born 1880
Aidan’s circle:
Lear Grayson: business associate; Francis’ maternal grandfather
Magdalene Grayson: Lear’s daughter; Aidan’s love interest; Francis’ mother
Lothian and Stella Grayson: Lear’s daughters
Francis Grayson: Lear’s grandson; Aidan’s second prodigy
Matthew Waterston: artist; friend; business associate
Sahar Witherspoon Waterston: Matthew’s wife
Jamie Witherspoon Waterston: Matthew and Sahar’s son; Aidan’s first prodigy
ELYSE
Sacramento 1955
It is said that love is comfort, and that comfort comes from recognition of the beloved. Papa was the first to tell me this, and if it’s even a little bit true, then I took my comfort for granted, not realizing that one can’t truly appreciate the beloved until one yearns for the comfort to be returned. Even now, when I can’t sleep at night, when I can’t slow the speeding of my heart, when I can’t stop the replaying of what-if’s in my head, I take myself back to that place where cabbage roses dance on walls and my beloved reigns supreme; where I am queen of his heart and he is my comfort, and then and only then do I feel safe.
You’d think it would be enough, being able to conjure up at least a measure of my old, first love. Yet for a long while it wasn’t. Because I was incapable of stanching the nagging questions about my second, almost greater love. Questioning why Francis hadn’t seen the truth of it like Papa had; that the streak I’d struggled with hadn’t been born of badness; that badness wasn’t an intrinsic part of me like my eyes being blue.
But Francis, unfortunately, hadn’t been able to see through things the way Papa had, and that was because Francis had rarely felt safe. You could see it in the way Francis’ eyes got doubtful taking in a room, and the way he was always biting down on his lower lip. The way it looked as if he was always trying to keep himself from crying.
My mother worked days at the PX at Mather, the Air Force base outside Sacramento, and my grandmother and Aunt Rose worked night shifts and slept during the day. That meant it was my grandfather—everybody called him Papa—many years older than my grandmother, and retired, who took care of me. And Bean, too. But my sister Bean, who’d been christened Beatrice Nadine, and called Bea for about two seconds after she was born and then Bean forever after, was still a baby back in the mid-1950's, two years old to my five, and not of much use yet, so it was Papa who was everything: he was my first love. My comfort. He was my playmate and teacher, quick with stories about the little people, quicker to laugh, and even quicker at games, particularly chess and pinochle. He was logical and strategic, and played from the center, something he believed made all the difference in the world, and he was also extremely patient and good-natured. A gentle man, an industrious man, the hardest-working man I’d ever know, he was the one who kept our house going, doing all the cooking and cleaning and lining every inch of dead space—walls, ceilings, cabinets, shelves, trash cans, lampshades, even jars—with pale green paper stamped with those lovely yellow cabbage roses.
Almost better than anything else, though, Papa had known what made people tick. Figuring people out, especially the “dense and complicated” ones, was Papa’s favorite game, ranking even higher than chess and pinochle. And that was because Papa liked stretching a natural talent he had for seeing right through people’s skins, straight onto their pretensions and delusions. For instance, he’d always known me better than I’d known myself, and he’d always been able to see right through Francis. Papa had always known what made Francis tick.
I was proud of my grandfather—and not just because Papa had x-ray vision, looking through people right and left. But also because Papa didn’t look like the grandfathers in my picture books: he wasn’t short, fat, or bald. My grandfather was tall and slim, with muscular arms and shoulders, and lots of blond hair like mine. He told me it was because he’d grown up on a farm that he was so strong, and that after coming to America he’d been in the U.S. cavalry, which helped keep him strong, stationed in San Diego, where he’d hunted down a terribly wicked person called Pancho Villa, outside Arizona. This was during the time of the Great War, and Papa’s heavily accented voice always went solemn when talking about this war in Europe. That’s because it was a huge sorrow he hadn’t been able to go on account of having been born in Germany, where his better-marksmen cousins still lived. Meaning it would’ve been stupider than shit for him to go all the way back to Europe just to get his ass shot off by family, when, Papa said, “I’ve got Familie here willing to shoot my ass off.”
And that’s what I mean. Anyone with a half a brain could see the logic to Papa’s thinking.
My mother and Aunt Rose had many friends, and on the nights that Aunt Rose didn’t have to work, and she and my mother didn’t go out nightclubbing, our little house was filled with strangers and cigarette smoke and jokes I didn’t get; and although I liked it best when it was just family home together, I took Mother and Aunt Rose’s guests in grudging stride, tagging them as dense and complicated subjects for Papa to practice looking straight through. For example, Mother’s friend Ron Leroy was full of shit, talking like he had the world on a string, when anyone with the smarts of a hat rack could see he didn’t know hi
s butt hole from a gopher hole. I giggled nervously when Papa whispered that one in my ear, afraid Mother might overhear. Mother didn’t like nasty talk, and saying “shit,” not to mention “butt hole,” was nasty talk in her book. That nervous laughter, Papa said, smiling. Always watch for that nervous laughter and shifty eyes, checking to see if anyone else is believing their shit. Shifty eyes are a sure, dead giveaway, check.
Betty Harris, Papa whispered next, was dating a wino, and even though she tried kidding herself, she knew, deep down, he was a drunk, but she certainly didn’t want anyone else knowing what she knew. What she wanted was everyone to see her date as a good-time Charlie, meaning no harm. Besides, everyone knew nothing disgusted Betty more than an insensitive scene-stealer. She said so often enough. And Betty was a good judge of character. She said that almost as often as she said Charlie was a man from the right side of the tracks.
Never believe anything anyone says about him or herself was what Papa had to say about Betty Harris. Because when people are talking about themselves they’re generally telling you who and what they wish they were, or what they think you want to hear, not diddly about themselves at all. And, really, they can’t tell you diddly, Papa said, because most people really do not know squat about themselves. People like Betty were ostriches, in for a lifetime of hiding things from themselves, check.
Merv Allen, though, was a prince of a fellow, a real listener, a good game player. He didn’t tell you diddly, which was just fine, because Merv Allen knew diddly squat didn’t count much for winning at games. Merv Allen wanted to beat the game and he would, Papa predicted, because Merv knew that defining the adversary, keeping things to yourself, and letting go of pre-conceived ideas always revealed the weak link, the upper hand, the checkmate.
“Tell everyone you can see right through them,” I’d beg Papa. “It’ll be such a hoot!”
“Ah, Elyse, mein Liebling,” my grandfather would always answer the same way, “you are again not paying attention. I will tell you one more time: I am right only with myself. You must understand I win only in my own mind. Siehst du? When you are right with yourself, it is not necessary to tell the whole world what you think you know.”
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