Sh*tshow E-Book

Richard Russo

• Herausgeber: Allen & Unwin
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 52

Beschreibung

David and Ellie didn't realise how much they had missed their friends, two other couples who had moved out of their modest neighbourhood in a desert city for the comforts of the suburbs, until the day of Donald Trump's election. Separated also from their daughter who lived hours away in California, they were in a funk. But, when Ellie discovers a repellent offering floating in the small Jacuzzi in their backyard, David is blindsided. Little does he know this is but the first in a chain of grisly events that will play out in their lives with devastating consequences. In this darkly humorous, incisive and absorbing political parable, written with the remarkable humanity he's beloved for, Pulitzer Prize-winner Richard Russo probes how deeply, yet imperceptibly, fissures can form amongst friends, neighbours and families. An ebook short.

Leseprobe

Richard Russo

Richard Russo is the author of nine novels, most recently Chances Are and Everybody’s Fool, two collections of stories, and the memoir On Helwig Street. In 2002 he received the Pulitzer Prize for Empire Falls, which, like Nobody’s Fool, was adapted to film in a multiple-award-winning HBO miniseries; in 2016 he was given the Indie Champion Award by the American Booksellers Association; and in 2017 he received France’s Grand Prix de Littérature Américaine. He lives in Portland, Maine.

Also by Richard Russo

Mohawk

The Risk Pool

Nobody’s Fool

Straight Man

Empire Falls

The Whore’s Child

Bridge of Sighs

That Old Cape Magic

Interventions

On Helwig Street

Everybody’s Fool

Trajectory

The Destiny Thief

Chances Are

Sh*tshow

Richard Russo

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First published in the United States of America in 2019 by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

This edition published in Great Britain in 2020 by Allen & Unwin by arrangement with KERB Productions, Inc.

Copyright © Richard Russo, 2019

The moral right of Richard Russo to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright holders. The publishers will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.

Allen & Unwin

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A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.

E-book ISBN 978 1 76087 431 5

Still stunned and feeling the need for companionship the morning after the election, Ellie and I invited our old friends the Schuulmans and the Millers over for drinks and dinner that evening. We’d been neighbors and good friends back when we all worked at the university. Roughly the same age, we’d been hired, tenured, and promoted on the same clock, and we’d bought our houses here in the Sam Hughes District around the same time, so when it came time to retire, we did that in lockstep as well. I guess Ellie and I just took for granted that things would continue—us empty nesters taking turns hosting one another for spur-of-the-moment get-togethers on our back patios, aging comfortably, we hoped, with so many of life’s challenges safely in our rearview mirrors, its latter ones on the horizon, sure, but still at a relatively safe distance.

So we were pretty surprised when both the Schuulmans and the Millers cashed out, buying new homes in the foothills north and west of the city, a full forty-five minutes away. Though there was no reason it should, their defection had felt like a betrayal. Not long after they were settled, though, we were invited out to see their new digs, and we had to admit that they offered great views of the city below, as well as cooler summer evenings. Why not join us? they wanted to know. Get away from the sweltering valley. Leave the traffic and congestion behind. We could afford to, right? That last question, to be honest, was more than a little annoying. After all, ours was still a good in-town neighborhood, close to the university and convenient to most of what we wanted, or at least what we’d wanted when we were younger and raising families. Sure, crime was modestly on the rise, gang graffiti (if that’s even what it was) had been spray-painted onto the shoulder-high adobe walls that surrounded our properties, but come on. The foothills were a crime-free zone? It wasn’t like we in the District were living in some sort of urban hellhole. Why should we be treated like objects of pity?

Strange, then, that it should be the Schuulmans and the Millers we’d thought of when things headed south on election night. That morning, though, when I called with the invitation, both Nathan and Clay sounded more pleased than surprised, and I was happy to learn that last night they’d thought of us, too, and wished we were all together like we’d been for so long.

Best to keep things simple was the idea. Ellie made pasta and green salads, and I bought steaks for the grill. We debated about whether to eat indoors or out. I favored the latter because it’d be like old times, but Ellie wasn’t so sure. After all, it was early November, and while mid-afternoon temperatures still got up into the high seventies, the desert cooled quickly after the sun went down, and temperatures could dip sharply. “Let’s at least start out on the patio,” I said. “If it gets too chilly, we either can put on sweaters or move inside.”

Ellie, her post-election funk more profound than my own, gave in with a heavy sigh, went over to the sliding patio door, and stared out into the backyard. Joining her there, I put my arms around her waist and kissed the top of her head. “What’s the matter?” I asked, trying to sound more puzzled than concerned. She’d been ill that summer and hadn’t, it seemed to me, bounced all the way back.

She shrugged. “Nothing. Everything.”

“I know.”

“I wish the kids lived closer.”

They’d both called last night when it became clear how the election was going to go, Sebastian all the way from Paris. “You should sell the house and come to California,” our daughter, Alison, said, not for the first time. “It’s still America here.”

I was outside pouring charcoal into the metal tower when I heard a car pull up and Ellie called, “David? They’re here.”

Which? I thought, heading back inside. The Schuulmans or the Millers?