In terms of relating to any specific character, to be honest, I relate to them all. While we have somewhat different worldviews, like Louise I try to be honest about acknowledging uncomfortable and painful truths about myself. And I really like living in a pretty environment, as does Louise. I’m a big cook, like Caroline, and I’ve always been drawn to religion, though I’ve never bought a cross to wear around my neck. And like Missy, I’ve had my heart broken (although not by my father), and I understand how we can create gods and ghosts out of those people who break our hearts, the way that Missy did with her daddy, Luke Meadows.
Art plays such a pivotal role in Bound South. What role does art play in your own life? Do you personally know, or collect the art of, anyone like Mr. Earl LeTrouve?
I have a distinct aesthetic sensibility—can’t say if it’s good or not—and I usually have an immediate response when I see a piece of art for the first time. Either I am instantly drawn in—as Louise was drawn to Earl’s egg tempera pieces—or I am left cold.
I have a very odd photo that I just adore. I bought it for my husband’s birthday, and he was nice enough to let me pretend that it was a gift for him and not really for me. The photo is huge—at least three feet long—and in it an old beat-up sofa is on fire. The fire is just raging. And in front of this burning sofa is a stuffed (but very real-looking) fox, whose hair is being blown by the gusts from the fire. When I first saw the fox I thought it was alive, but then I realized that all of the animals in this artist’s work are taxidermied. (The artist’s name is Jody Fausett.) Anyway, I looked at that photo and I just loved the statement of the fire, the intensity of it, the lack of ambiguity, the clearing away. And so I bought it and hung it in my dining room, justifying the central placement by saying that it’s a conversation piece.
My friend Susan Bridges runs an art gallery (named whitespace) out of the carriage house behind her home. Through her I have met some eccentric Southern artists, though none quite like Mr. LeTrouve.
Bound South does not shy away from either serious or controversial topics, including transgenderism, teen pregnancy, suicide, the treatment of prisoners at Abu Ghraib, sexual harassment, and even a mother’s own violent thoughts toward her daughter. Yet the book is laced with humor. How did you manage to write about such weighty topics and still write a funny book?
When I was growing up my father often said something to the effect “very few things in life constitute an emergency,” and I suppose that attitude got somewhat ingrained in me. (Although if you ever sit next to me on a plane you will experience a not-so-Zen girl. I am a panicky freak on planes.) Also, I’m not writing about war or genocide or imprisonment (though there have been funny books written about war). Anyway, while some experiences are inextricably difficult and sad, how we deal with them is often laced with humor. I am reminded of the time that my grandmother, who had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, started to sit and then froze halfway down because she couldn’t remember whether or not she was in the middle of standing up or sitting down. It was a horribly sad moment, and a harbinger of many more terrible moments to come, yet she and my mother started laughing hysterically because it was all so ridiculous and darkly comic. And it seems to me that that is how life is. There are ridiculous moments even in the middle of big and serious events.
Caroline, Missy, and—to a lesser extent—Louise all struggle with their religious beliefs. Does this reflect a struggle in your life with religion? Do you consider yourself a religious person?
I have a genuine desire for religious experience in my life, and I am quite envious of those who have it. And though I’m not always comfortable calling myself a Christian, I do—most of the time—believe in God and I do practice elements of the faith. And yet, I am fundamentally put off by any religion that claims its followers have backstage passes to the God show, as it seems most major religions do.
The times I feel most spiritually connected are during times of service (volunteering at the homeless shelter), times of meditation, and times spent in nature. I wish I had a more solid religious core, and yet I often feel that people who are very religious erect a certain boundary around themselves that no one can enter except those of their own faith. And that seems a shame.
Will you share with us the titles of some of your all-time favorite books and explain why you love those particular ones? Are there any books you’ve read lately that you are itching to recommend?
Oh yes! I just read The World to Come by Dara Horn and I absolutely loved it. The prose is gorgeous and smart, and the book is such a page-turner! I have also just recently discovered the novels of Gail Godwin, who started writing books around the time I was born and is still going at it. I admire her so much. To me she is an artist who has fully embraced her craft, someone who has stretched herself to her potential. I will forever love A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole, as it makes me laugh out loud every time I read it. And I love The Assistant by Bernard Malamud, in part because my husband bought it for me when we were first falling in love, but also because there is nothing clever or cynical about it, it’s just about human love and human failings. And, man, do I love Flannery O’ Connor’s short stories, though I think you really do need to understand her views on faith in order to understand them. Ellen Foster by Kaye Gibbons is important to me because Ellen’s moment of becoming fully human, when she realizes Starletta is as intrinsically valuable as she, made me stop reading, put the book down, and just let her epiphany wash over me like a baptism. And speaking of baptisms, there is a strange sort of cookbook, The Supper of the Lamb, by Episcopal priest Robert Farrar Capon that is truly odd and truly life-affirming.
You earned your MFA in creative writing from Hollins University. There is a lot of discussion among writers about the value and merit of these programs. Are you glad that you attended one? Do you think your time at Hollins helped you to become a better writer?
Absolutely. There is nothing like having two years during which your only real responsibility is to write. The danger with MFA programs, I think, is that you can start writing for your little bitty circle of readers and forget that there is a larger audience out there who might not have the same preferences as the small sample of people in your writing workshop. But all that means is that you learn to take criticism with a grain of salt, which isn’t a bad skill to develop if you want to be a professional writer.
Will you tell us anything about what you are working on now?
I am writing a story about a modern-day patched-together family who, through tragic circumstances, gets ripped apart. It is a comedy. (Just kidding! But it does have its funny moments.)
Enhance Your Book Club
Bound South highlights the friendship between Tiny and Louise, which has been in place since childhood. Bring in a picture of a childhood friend, or even have that friend join your book club and share memories of growing up.
Louise has a deep appreciation for art, especially art created by Southern eccentrics. Do a Google image search for art created by Southerners, particularly those who are untrained. You might want to start by looking at images of art created by Howard Finster, Thornton Dial, and Nellie Mae Rowe. Print out images of some of this art and bring it with you to your book club.
If you are hosting the club, consider serving (or asking others to bring) traditional Southern foods to your meeting. Some ideas for foods to serve are: cheese straws, ham biscuits, spiced pecans, celery sticks stuffed with pimiento cheese, and preacher cookies. Check out Scott Peacock’s The Gift of Southern Cooking for recipes. Or you can just order a case of MoonPies off the Internet and serve those! (You can order them from Southernconnoisseur.com.)
More from the Author
We Are All Good People…
A Place at the Table
A Soft Place to Land
Keep reading for a preview of
We Are All Good People Here
by
Susan Rebecca White
Chapter 1
&nb
sp; Belmont
Roanoke, Virginia, 1962
Daniella’s father steered the Dodge Pioneer up the serpentine drive of Belmont College, home to more than five hundred girls renowned for their Beauty and Brains, or at least that was what the boosterish tour guide who had shown Daniella around the previous spring had claimed. Just as the main quad came into view—a pleasing vista of faded brick buildings with white columns, the Blue Ridge Mountains serving as backdrop—they passed a gang of cheering students holding signs painted with the school colors of green and white: “We Love Our New Girls!” and “Honk If You’re a Monty!” and “Welcome to Heaven!”
Daniella’s father beeped his horn at the cheering girls, causing them to yell all the louder.
“How fun!” remarked Daniella’s mother, a woman who should have graduated from a school like this but had dropped out of Sweet Briar (only an hour’s drive away) after her second year, when she became pregnant with Daniella’s older brother, Benjamin, by the visiting history professor, the handsome, young, and Jewish Dr. Gold. The Golds parked in the visitors’ lot and, passing other pretty, fresh-faced girls carrying suitcases and pillows—many of whom were followed by their fathers, lugging trunks—they made their way to Monty House, the redbrick Colonial that was to be Daniella’s new home. There was a portico out front and a large Palladian window above the open front door. Waiting just inside was a stout woman who wore her silver hair in a bun at the nape of her neck. She introduced herself as Mrs. Shuler, Monty House’s dorm mother.
A faded Oriental rug, so thin in spots it was almost translucent, partially covered the dark wood floor of the entryway. Against the wall ticked a grandfather clock, and beside it hung an oil portrait of Georgina March, whose father founded the college. The whole place smelled of oranges, as if someone had polished all of the wooden surfaces with citrus oil. Mrs. Shuler noted that supper would be served at 6:00 p.m. in the dining hall and told Daniella that her room was on the second floor, the fourth on the right past the front staircase. Daniella’s roommate had already arrived. All Daniella knew about her was that her name was Evelyn Elliot Whalen, she went by “Eve,” and she was from Atlanta. Moments later, when Daniella walked through the open door of her new room, she was practically tackled by Eve, who flew through the air to envelop her in a hug. She smelled of roses—Joy perfume Daniella would soon learn and which she, too, would start wearing.
“You are Daniella, right?” Eve asked, no longer embracing her, but with both hands resting lightly on Daniella’s forearms, which were tan from tennis.
“Indeed, I am,” said Daniella, trying to sound breezy but feeling a little overwhelmed.
“Oh, I’m so excited to meet you! I don’t mean to be such a spaz, but I’ve been looking forward to this moment all summer! I thought I was going to room with Tate Pennington, but then she ended up going to Agnes Scott at the last minute to be near her boyfriend at Tech. And I was secretly so excited because that meant I would get to meet a whole new person!”
Daniella’s mother smiled brightly at her daughter.
“Well,” said Daniella. “I hope I don’t disappoint.”
Eve waved away that bit of blasphemy as if clearing the room of an unpleasant odor. She was taller than Daniella, at least five foot eight, and while she was far from overweight, her hips were curvy and her body was, if not large, present. She was not a girl who would ever fade into the background. She wore a kelly-green sleeveless shirtdress and a pair of Keds printed with watermelon halves. Her shoulder-length blond hair was teased and curled, so that it formed a bump on top, secured with a barrette, and flipped under at the ends. Daniella teased her brown hair, too, only first she straightened it using the comb attachment that fit on the end of the hose of her hair dryer. Left to its own devices it frizzed.
Eve had already set up her bed with a white eyelet spread and pink-and-green decorative pillows. On the far wall of the room, sitting on an antique coffee table, was a silver tea set on a silver tray. Eve noticed Daniella looking at it. “Grandmommy gave it to me. I guess there’s a tradition of girls hosting tea for each other?”
Eve conveyed this information with enough of a raised brow to let Daniella know that she recognized it was all a little silly. Daniella’s father stood off to the side, his lips pressed together in amusement. But Daniella’s mother was clearly delighted.
“Is that Strasbourg?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Eve.
“Daniella! Strasbourg is the pattern Mother Scott left you! Can you believe it? You two are a match made in heaven.”
“Oh, we’re going to have a ball!” gushed Eve.
• • •
After hugging her parents good-bye and watching them drive away, Daniella returned to Monty House to settle in. Eve was just finishing unpacking her trunk full of beautiful clothes. Daniella admired Eve’s Burberry trench coat (the same one Audrey Hepburn made famous in Breakfast at Tiffany’s) and the rainbow of cashmere twin sets Eve hung in her closet, along with a little fox fur stole Eve’s grandmother had given her to wear to formals on chilly evenings. Daniella had her own collection of cashmere twin sets, but she owned three, not ten, and it had never even occurred to her that someone might bring a fur to college.
That night after their dinner plates were cleared and scoops of vanilla ice cream were served, Daniella and Eve lingered in the dining hall talking, long after the other girls had left. At one point Eve walked to the kitchen where the cafeteria ladies were cleaning up, taking her and Daniella’s empty bowls of ice cream with her. Daniella assumed she was bussing their table, but instead Eve returned carrying a half-pint carton of milk, a can of Hershey’s syrup, and one of their old bowls, which now contained a heaping second serving of ice cream. Eve then proceeded to make a milk shake for the two of them, dumping ice cream, milk, and chocolate syrup into a water glass, then swirling the concoction furiously with a spoon. After she drained her half of the shake, Eve patted her own stomach, saying that she’d better watch out or she would turn into a fat pig.
“Don’t say that about yourself,” scolded Daniella. “You’re beautiful.” Eve looked at her, surprised.
“Aw,” she said, and looped her arm over Daniella’s shoulder, giving her a little sideways hug.
Later, after hanging the framed Audubon prints of hummingbirds that Eve had brought and organizing their desks, the two girls stayed up till 3:00 a.m. talking, long after their other hall mates, who had joined them for a spell, had wandered back to their rooms. As the night progressed, Daniella surprised herself by telling Eve the awful secret that she hadn’t shared with anyone: that she was almost certain her father was carrying on an affair with Dr. Spool, the new lady professor in the history department at George Mason, where her father taught. That past spring Daniella had surprised him by showing up at his office one afternoon after tennis practice. She had wanted to talk to him honestly, and without her mother around to interject, about whether she should go to Barnard or Belmont the following year. His door was closed, but the department secretary had assured her that he was in, so she knocked until he answered. When he finally opened the door, Dr. Spool had hurried out of his office, her blouse haphazardly tucked into her pencil skirt, her cheeks flushed.
Eve shared a shocking revelation of her own: Her mother’s best friend—Eve’s “Aunt Pooh”—had died in a plane crash that summer, a chartered plane filled with Atlantans returning from a European art tour. Upon takeoff in Paris, the plane had caught fire.
Eve blinked and her eyes pooled with tears. “You cannot imagine. So many of my parents’ friends died. It was just—it was biblical. Like a flood swept over Buckhead, wiping away so many good people.”
They continued to share the details of their private lives, Daniella telling Eve of the chronic nightmare she had been plagued with ever since she was nine years old, when Julius and Ethel Rosenberg were sent to the electric chair for being communist
spies, the Rosenberg children losing both of their parents in the course of a single day. In her nightmare it was her own parents who were dragged away by the police, all the while Daniella screaming that they were innocent, that she needed them, she needed her mom and her dad. “My father is Jewish,” Daniella explained. “And while I was raised Unitarian, the fact that the Rosenbergs were Jews haunted me, as if that were the real reason they were killed.”
When the subject turned to sex (both girls confirmed they were virgins), Daniella confessed that over the summer her high school boyfriend had unhooked her bra and cupped her breasts in his hands. Eve said that one summer when she was twelve she hid in her brother Charlie’s closet and watched him change into his swim trunks so that she could see what a penis looked like. He was sixteen, and she was fairly certain he knew that she was in there, watching, though neither of them ever said anything to the other about it.
Both girls had older brothers, but neither was particularly close to her sibling. Eve reflected on how differently she and her brother were raised, that when Charlie got in serious trouble her father would hit him with a belt, but that he never hit her. She said she always felt guilty when Charlie was punished, but she noticed, too, that as they grew older her father listened to Charlie more and more, treating him like a man, whereas she felt she would always be cast as the family’s “baby,” adored but never particularly respected.
Bound South Page 33