{"product_id":"long-black-veil-isbn-9780451496331","title":"Long Black Veil","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e’s Best Books of 2017\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor fans of Donna Tartt and Megan Abbott, a novel about a woman whose family and identity are threatened by the secrets of her past, f\u003cb\u003erom the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eShe's Not There\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn a warm August night in 1980, six college students sneak into the dilapidated ruins of Philadelphia’s Eastern State Penitentiary, looking for a thrill. With a pianist, a painter and a teacher among them, the friends are full of potential. But it’s not long before they realize they are locked in—and not alone. When the friends get lost and separated, the terrifying night ends in tragedy, and the unexpected, far-reaching consequences reverberate through the survivors’ lives. As they go their separate ways, trying to move on, it becomes clear that their dark night in the prison has changed them all. Decades later, new evidence is found, and the dogged detective investigating the cold case charges one of them—celebrity chef Jon Casey— with murder. Only Casey’s old friend Judith Carrigan can testify to his innocence. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Judith is protecting long-held secrets of her own – secrets that, if brought to light, could destroy her career as a travel writer and tear her away from her fireman husband and teenage son. If she chooses to help Casey, she risks losing the life she has fought to build and the woman she has struggled to become. In any life that contains a “before” and an “after,” how is it possible to live one life, not two?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWeaving deftly between 1980 and the present day, and told in an unforgettable voice, \u003ci\u003eLong Black Veil\u003c\/i\u003e is an intensely atmospheric thriller that explores the meaning of identity, loyalty, and love. Readers will hail this as Boylan’s triumphant return to fiction.\u003cb\u003ePraise for\u003ci\u003e Long Black Veil\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eFinalist for the 2018 LAMBDA Literary Awards\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An existential whodunit about living with all your selves...To the author, the prison is more than a powerful setting, it's also a powerful symbol for the closeted life she once led.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e Marilyn Stasio,\u003ci\u003e New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Jennifer FinneyBoylan’s atmospheric thriller \u003ci\u003eLong Black Veil \u003c\/i\u003efollows a travel writer tangled up in a cold case that has come back to haunt her decades later.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Time \u003c\/i\u003emagazine, Pick of the Month\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Long Black Veil\u003c\/i\u003e is … character-driven like literary fiction; it deals with somber themes like murder and shifting identity, but it's suffused with comic moments; it features an ensemble cast yet extends Boylan's exploration of the deepest recesses of trans experience.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e— Vice\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Boylan’s \u003ci\u003eLong Black Veil\u003c\/i\u003e is more than just an engrossing whodunit. It is a highly charged work of imagination, and a thriller with fully formed characters, grappling with truth and identity.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e— National Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Absolutely fantastic... A virtuosic mix of family drama, mystery and thriller… \u003ci\u003eLong Black Veil \u003c\/i\u003eis simply magnificent; it is masterfully written and thrilling, and full of complex characters…a pure literary delight.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e— Bookreporter\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Boylan’s gifts are all on full display, much to our benefit. Relationships are dynamic and rich; the portrayal of Judith’s journey is particularly powerful for a multitude of reasons.  The narrative is laden with twists and a kinetic pacing. The words are funny and poignant and borderline addictive. And there’s a thoughtfulness throughout…. that lingers in a most effective manner…. Boylan’s latest is fast-paced and concise and exquisitely-written—a beautiful and captivating stampede.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e— Maine Edge\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Both a murder mystery and a contemplation of what it means to be true to yourself even when extreme measures seem necessary... It is a tale that is equal parts thrilling, scary, funny and touching, and not many authors can hit all those marks successfully in one piece of work.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— The Oklahoman\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A darkly suspenseful, fast-paced and nuanced character-driven novel with gothic undertones, \u003ci\u003eLong Black Veil\u003c\/i\u003e explores gender and identity, the loyalty of friends and family, and the price demanded by the present for the long-held secrets of the past.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e— ShelfAwareness\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] madcap thriller full of hidden identities…And embedded in the whodunit is a heartwarming midlife love story, in which hard-won candor, tenacity, and a generous sense of humor are the most saving of graces.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e— Publishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Boylan, who has reaped praise in recent years with memoirs exploring her transgender experience, doesn’t miss a storytelling beat in her first novel as she blends atmospheric elements of a Shirley Jackson–like haunting, a secret-laden murder tale featuring an ensemble cast, and an eye-opening glimpse of the complex choices transgender people face. This crime debut is certain to attract a genre-blurring following, but recommendations to fans of Erin Kelly’s \u003ci\u003eThe Poison Tree\u003c\/i\u003e and Donna Tartt’s \u003ci\u003eThe Secret History\u003c\/i\u003e are sure bets.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e— \u003ci\u003eBooklist, \u003c\/i\u003estarred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Boylan’s twisty and entertaining thriller takes a hard look at questions of identity, love, and trust. Recommended for fans of Megan Abbott and Donna Tartt.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003e Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is a nifty little setup for a thriller, and Boylan uses the murder mystery as a frame for interrogating our ideas about identity in ways that are both thoughtful and darkly comic. A trans woman, Boylan is best known as a memoirist and an activist, and the trans character in this novel adds a layer of intrigue and complexity…. Boylan is skilled at creating intriguing, three-dimensional characters; even those characters who prove to be inconsequential emerge as real, unique individuals…. It’s hard to stop reading as these well-crafted characters confront middle age while confronting the defining event of their youth.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e— \u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This is Jennifer Finney Boylan's best book.  It's one of the most eloquent pleas for empathy and moral imagination I've ever encountered.”\u003cb\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e— RICHARD RUSSO, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of \u003ci\u003eNobody’s Fool \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"In the tradition of Donna Tartt, Jennifer Finney Boylan has crafted a thriller that's intellectual, existential, and compulsively readable.  If change is the only constant in life, how much can a person reinvent himself and still be the same?  Long after the last page is turned, you will be thinking about the nature of identity, the pull of the past, and whether you can ever outrun the person you used to be.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e– JODI PICOULT, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eSmall Great Things\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eLeaving Time\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e“Jennifer Finney Boylan rewards her fans with a riveting whodunit. The plot shapeshifts along with the unforgettable characters--including a woman whose family could be dismantled by her long-buried secrets. All this is rendered in Jenny's signature hilarious, wise and wise-assed prose. Bravo, Boylan, bring us another one!”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e– MARY KARR, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eLiar’s Club\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eLit\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eCherry\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eJENNIFER FINNEY BOYLAN\u003c\/b\u003e, author of fourteen books, is the inaugural Anna Quindlen Writer in Residence at Barnard College of Columbia University in the City of New York and is Special Advisor to the president of Colby College in Maine. She has been a contributor to the Op-Ed page of the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e since 2007; in 2013 she became Contributing Opinion Writer for the page. Jenny also serves on the Board of Trustees of the Kinsey Institute for Research on Sex, Gender, and Reproduction. She is the national co-chair of the Board of Directors of GLAAD, the media advocacy group for LGBT people worldwide, and serves as a consultant to several television series. A novelist, memoirist, and short-story writer, she is also a nationally known advocate for civil rights. Jenny has appeared on the \u003ci\u003eOprah Winfrey Show\u003c\/i\u003e on four occasions; \u003ci\u003eLive with Larry King\u003c\/i\u003e twice; the \u003ci\u003eToday\u003c\/i\u003e show; the \u003ci\u003eBarbara Walters Special\u003c\/i\u003e; and NPR's \u003ci\u003eMarketplace\u003c\/i\u003e and\u003ci\u003e Talk of the Nation\u003c\/i\u003e. She has also been the subject of documentaries on CBS News' \u003ci\u003e48 Hours\u003c\/i\u003e and The History Channel. She lives in New York City and in Belgrade Lakes, Maine, with her wife, Deedie, and her two sons, Zach and Sean.***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof*** \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCopyright © 2017 Jennifer Finney Boylan\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePhiladelphia, Pennsylvania\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAugust 1980\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis was a long time ago, before my first death, and none of us now are the people we were then. Instead we are ghosts: two of us dead, a third unrecognizable, a fourth suspected of murder. It would be easy enough at this hour to have contempt for those young selves, to focus instead on how much cleverer we have become here in the green pastures of the twenty-first century. But over the years I have come to believe that people are usually more deserving of forgiveness than judgment. This is not only because it’s an act of grace; it’s also because most men and women aren’t afforded the luxury of dying more than once.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eUnlike some people I could mention.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was Rachel who got us out of our beds that hot August morning, even though our heads were still throbbing from the wedding the night before. But Rachel was a woman on a mission, and she’d decided she was going to take Quentin to see \u003ci\u003eThe Large Bathers \u003c\/i\u003eby Cézanne, or perish in the attempt. She was all about the Impressionists then. Before they graduated, when she was in her Renaissance phase, she’d taken a crack at painting Quentin’s portrait in the manner of Leonardo da Vinci’s \u003ci\u003eJohn the Baptist, \u003c\/i\u003ebut instead of being flattered, he got all sore about it. \u003ci\u003eThat’s what you think I look like? \u003c\/i\u003ehe said, hurt that she did not see him the way he saw himself. But \u003ci\u003ehello. \u003c\/i\u003eOf course he looked exactly like that.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLater, it had been Tripper’s idea to walk from the Philadelphia Museum of Art to Eastern State Penitentiary. It wasn’t far. He’d been a history major at Wesleyan, and he’d always wanted to check out the medieval-looking ruins. The prison had opened in 1829, and closed only eight years before, in 1972. Since then it just sat there in the heart of Philly, all boarded up, while the city tried to figure out what to do with it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMaisie looked at the sketchy neighborhood into which they had strayed. \"Do we \u003ci\u003ehave \u003c\/i\u003eto do this?\" she said. She had long blond hair and a mole in the middle of her left cheek.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"When the prison was built this was all green fields,\" Tripper said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHis nickname contained no small degree of irony, given that he was the most conservative of the group and the only trips he had any intention of taking were ones to the Grand Caymans. At birth he'd been chris­tened Tobin Owen Pennypacker III, though, and his father (Tobin Owen Pennypacker Jr.) had taken to calling him Triple for short. Over time, \"Triple\" had inevitably morphed to \"Tripper.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"It's \u003ci\u003enot \u003c\/i\u003ea very good neighborhood,\" noted Maisie.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Will ye not fuck yourself,\" inquired Wailer. It was a rhetorical question.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA bottle smashed in an alley behind one of the row houses to their right. \"Sorry,\" said Maisie. \"I just don't like the idea of getting mugged.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Hey man, nobody's mugged you \u003ci\u003eso \u003c\/i\u003efar,\" said Casey. He was a gen­erously obese young man wearing a striped engineer's hat upon his head. The groom.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"But it's early yet,\" suggested Wailer. She was wearing black fin­gernail polish. The bride.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"No, we should keep going,\" said Rachel. She had a big head of bushy black hair, but even at twenty-two there were streaks of gray. \"Quentin has got his heart set on the prison now.\" In her painting, Quentin had pointed with one hand toward the heavens. The other hovered over his heart. It was some likeness.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was August of 1980. Carter was still president, Reagan an un­likely joke. There were hostages in Iran, fifty-two blindfolded souls. The Bicentennial, with its tall ships and fireworks, was a recent mem­ory. John Lennon was alive. Now and again there'd be a story in the news about how the Beatles were going to come together once more, perhaps in order to raise cash for some charity. Everyone figured it would happen, sooner or later. Why shouldn't they?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey were six in all, plus Krystal and the boy. Quentin and Casey and Tripper had known each other since high school, out at Devon Boys' Latin on the Main Line. Later, the three of them went to Wes­leyan, which is where they'd met Rachel and Wailer. They'd only graduated three months before, June first. Plans for the future were sketchy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe day was hot and sticky. Their clothes stuck to their bodies.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOn the street ahead, Rachel saw Quentin talking to Herr Krys­tal, his former teacher, and now his friend. The two of them had been yammering away in German all morning. It had kind of wrecked their visit to the Cezannes, in fact. All Rachel had wanted was to look upon \u003ci\u003eThe Large Bathers \u003c\/i\u003ewith Quentin, to have him see what she saw. But Quentin had hardly paid \u003ci\u003eThe Large Bathers \u003c\/i\u003eany mind at all. Instead he just yakked away with Krystal in a language that sucked the beauty directly from the air. It was worse than the Black Speech in Tolkien. \u003ci\u003eAsh. na'{_g gimbatu!, \u003c\/i\u003esuggested Hitler.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBenny, Maisie's little brother, tightened his grip on her hand. The ten-year-old had a buzz cut and enormous glasses that were always on the verge of falling off of his face.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"I'm afraid of the garble,\" he said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Well, get used to it, Benny,\" said Tripper. There was a gold anchor embroidered on the breast pocket of his blue sport coat. \"That's what the world is! Garble and gibberish.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe boy looked at him fearfully. He and Maisie had grown up in a ruined Main Line mansion, a place called the Bagatelle, out in Vil­ lanova. After the exploits of their father, \"Lucky\" Lenfest, it was the only asset the family had left, a haunted house with a listing Victorian tower, leaking ceilings, an attic full of crap. The heart of the mansion was an elaborate spiral staircase, carved from cherry, with a pipe organ in its center. Maisie was the only one of them who hadn't been at Wes­ leyan. She'd gone to Conestoga High, out in Berwyn, and dated Trip­ per- a scandal, given Tripper's natural predilection for debutantes.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe'd wound up at the Berklee College of Music in Boston, studying organ and harpsichord.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt the wedding the night before, Wailer had come down the cherry staircase of the Bagatelle in her bridal gown as Maisie played \"A Whiter Shade of Pale\" on the organ. Casey stood at the bottom of the steps, best man Quentin at his side, watching the bride descend. As she drew near him, tears of joy had spilled over Casey's eyelashes and rolled down his cheeks. Wailer's parents had not come to the wedding, being dead.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA half a block ahead of them, Quentin and Herr Krystal started singing. It was the Marlene Dietrich song from \u003ci\u003eThe Blue Angel. \u003c\/i\u003eQuen­tin had gotten Rachel to watch \u003ci\u003eThe Blue Angel \u003c\/i\u003ewith him one night, in the same way that she had perhaps tried to get him to look at \u003ci\u003eThe Large Bathers. \u003c\/i\u003eThe film had seemed to demonstrate some verity of the world , in Quentin's eyes. But all that Rachel could see was a bunch of proto­ Nazis, intent on breaking one another's hearts.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Man,\" said Casey. \"It's just like old times, the two of them, makin' sauerkraut. It's like we're in the Time Tunnell\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Jonny hand meyer pocketknife, will you?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"What?\" said Casey. He reached into his pocket, but his knife was gone. \"Wait, no! It's gone!\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBenny held up the jackknife. It bore the initials]. \u003ci\u003eC. \u003c\/i\u003e\"I played a trick on you,\" he said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Benny,\" said Maisie. \"What did we say about the stealing?\" Benny wasn't moved. Casey took the knife and handed it to his bride.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"You're a criminal, little dude.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBenny pushed his glasses up his nose and smiled, satisfied.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eKrystal and Quentin laughed at something in the Black Speech. Herr Krystal's hand was placed gently on Quentin's back. \u003ci\u003e\"Wunderbar.l Wunderbar.l\" \u003c\/i\u003eKrystal shouted.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Bloody hell,\" muttered Wailer.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSince graduation three months earlier, Quentin had been living in his high school bedroom. He'd majored in modern foreign languages at Wesleyan, and was supposedly immersed in a project translating Walt Whitman into German. It didn't sound like he'd gotten very far though. He was going to call it \u003ci\u003eDie Whitman Anthologie, \u003c\/i\u003ewhich, as Tripper liked to point out, translated, sadly, as \u003ci\u003eThe Whitman Sampler. \u003c\/i\u003eRachel worried about Quentin, who'd seemed to have the greatest promise of their group, but since graduation the young man's boat had appeared to become hopelessly lodged upon the rocks.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"I want a kitty, can I have one?\" said Benny.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"What?\" said Maisie. She wasn't certain whether he was serious. Sometimes her little brother had sudden whims. \"Do you think you're old enough?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"It's a lot of responsibility, taking care of a cat,\" added Tripper. With his forefingers the boy picked at the cuticles of this thumbs.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere was a small wound on each thumb where he'd made himself bleed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eQuentin and Krystal stopped singing and stood still. Slowly, the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eothers came up behind them. There they were: the eight of them, gath­ ered together like the members of an a cappella group. Before them rose the high walls of old, abandoned Eastern State Penitentiary. There were arrow-slit windows, turrets at the corners. A central guard tower, covered with rust, looked down upon the ruins.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTripper raised an eyebrow. He hadn't expected it to be quite so gruesome. Quentin pointed excitedly. \"The entrance is around the side.\" \"Entrance?\" said Casey.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"We don't have to go in,\" said Quentin. \"Just look.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHerr Krystal nodded. \"Hermann Hesse said that the eyes of oth­ers are our prisons, their thoughts our cages.\" He was tall and thin and infirm, like a human who had somehow come down with Dutch elm disease. Even though he wasn't the boys' teacher anymore, Krystal acted a lot of the time like he was still taking attendance.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"I need me fuckin' snorkel,\" said Wailer. \"It's got so bloody deep.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey walked up the block toward the prison's old stone gates. As they walked, Maisie imagined the Rosalyn Tureck version of the Gold­ berg Variations in her head, which she preferred to the Glenn Gould, on account of the groaning. Over the years, the Bach had been the music she turned to in an emergency, producing in her a calm in the face of chaos. But staring up at the towers of the old penitentiary, the Bach wasn't much help. There were some things that music was no match for, and a horrible abandoned prison was one of them.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey reached the gates. Clouds gathered in the sky above them.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBenny looked fearfully toward his sister.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e\"Maisie,\" \u003c\/i\u003ehe said, his voice trembling.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere was a creak as Quentin pressed forward on the iron door. Gently, it swung open.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFor a moment they all stood there in silence, looking at the long\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estone room just beyond. There was light at its far end, where a small set of stairs led out into the old prison yard. Twenty pairs of eyes peered back at them.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e\"Miao,\" \u003c\/i\u003esaid the creatures.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 2\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCold River, Maine\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSeptember 2015\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe house was dark. “Gollum,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe waddled over and looked up at me with his sad, bulbous eyes. His tail thumped once against the tile floor.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Good boy,” I said, and kneeled down to hug him. He groaned piteously.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Come on,” I said, “let’s go up.” I left my suitcase at the bottom of the stairs. The old black lab—eleven years old now—followed me up the steps, then doddered over to our bed. Jake wasn’t in it, off at a fire I figured. Gollum jumped in, as if it were the last action he would commit upon this Earth. The dog glanced at me with his rheumy, grateful eyes, then lay his head down on my husband’s pillow and moaned. \u003ci\u003eGollum, Gollum.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA pair of loons called to each other out on the lake, the bird-world equivalent of a married couple’s late-night argument—the male laugh- ing, the female responding with a melancholy \u003ci\u003ehoo\u003c\/i\u003e. It wasn’t hard to translate: \u003ci\u003eI’m here, I’m here, are you listening, I’m here! \u003c\/i\u003eAnd the reply, \u003ci\u003eYeah, I know where you are.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI crossed the hallway to the room where our son, Falcon, lay in his bed fully dressed, arms spread like a man on the cross. His mouth was open. I stood in his doorway. It wouldn’t be long now before he graduated, another nine months, and then Jake and I would be alone in the big house. On his desk Falcon’s schoolbooks were piled high. His French horn lay by the foot of the bed, the case open, a music stand over by the window.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOnce, he'd been a two-year-old, lying in a crib in a room not un­ like this one. Back then I feared that the slightest breeze might carry him off. There had been days when I'd stood by the crib, my heart filled with equal measures wonder and fear. The sunlight had slanted through the window and reflected off of the pumpkin pine floorboards, filling his room with golden light.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBack in my bedroom, I put on a green cotton nightie with a silk­ screen of a baleen whale on it, and got into bed next to Collum. Now deep into his dotage, the black lab's face was mostly gray. I turned off the light and lay there for a moment, wondering if my mind was going to be able to slow down. I'd woken that morning in a hotel room in Manhattan, after two days of researching a story on Hart Island, the Potters Field of New York. I don't know why I thought the Hart Island story was going to go anywhere: it wasn't exactly the kind of story magazines use to fill what they call the blue pages-photos of Caribbean oceans, models luxuriating in infinity pools. Some of the things I'd seen on Hart Island were going to be hard to forget: prison­ers in orange jumpsuits, coffins in a long trench, white guards with ma­ chine guns trained on black men. Even the landscape was gruesome: the summer sun shining down on the deteriorating buildings of the abandoned hospital for the insane. I'd stood for a while in front of a collapsed structure filled with rusted gears and steam engines. There was a rusted sign: THE DYNAMO ROOM.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI'd begun the day in the Algonquin, had breakfast down in the lobby, and looked over my notes, trying to figure out the hook for the story. A cat crawled around my ankles and then hopped up on the couch. Steam rose from my coffee cup.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLater, I made my way to LaGuardia. It was there, as I waited to be X-rayed by security, that I saw the headline on the front of the \u003ci\u003ePost, \u003c\/i\u003eand the photograph of the unearthed corpse. A sophomore from Penn named Shannon Savage had found it, an intern on an archeology proj­ect at Eastern State Penitentiary, and she'd been digging around in one of the rooms in Cell Block 5. The skull had rolled out of the wall and stopped at her feet. She'd picked up the skull for a moment and held it Yorick-style, not believing it was real.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe photo in the \u003ci\u003ePost \u003c\/i\u003ewas grisly, a close-up of the skull. It didn't look like the person I had known.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOf course, we'd always assumed that the day had ended in murder. So no, it wasn't exactly a surprise. But it had taken all these years for the corpse to turn up, and it was still shocking. Standing there in the line at LaGuardia, I felt all the hairs on my arm stand up. This was it. It was all going to get churned up again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA TSA agent yanked me out offline and said, \u003ci\u003eYou've been selected for\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eextra screening, ma'am.\u003c\/i\u003eI know these things are random, but it was hard not to take it personally, the suggestion that \u003ci\u003ethere's something about you that's not quite right.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePeople had been telling me this for years. I remember when I first got my passport, my mother had looked at my photograph and said, \"It looks in this photo like you have a secret.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI'd laughed it off, but Mom wouldn't let it go. \"Is there something\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyou want to tell me? You know I will always love you, no matter what.\" She said this in the way people always say this, pledging their unconditional love before knowing what the actual conditions are.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI thought about my mother, wondered whether she was dead or alive.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe TSA agent encircled my body with an electronic hoop, a de­ vice that squelched and squealed at my joints and organs. The man was wearing a name tag that said NABOKOV, like the novelist. I couldn't remember what his theories were. I thought of the line from \u003ci\u003ePale Fire: Was he in Sherlock Holmes, the follow whose \/ Tracks pointed back when he reversed his shoes?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen the guard said, \"Okay. You can go, ma'am.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI'd stood there for a moment in relief. Seriously? I thought. I can just be on my way? It seemed so unlikely that the thing I had been hop­ing for was the thing I had been given.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNow, safely home, I lay in bed for another hour listening to the loons calling to each other. I thought about the friends of my youth: Tripper and Casey, Wailer and Rachel, Maisie and Quentin. I wondered what the world would have been like, if that door in the old prison had never creaked open, and those creatures had never gazed upon us? Even now I could see those cold eyes glowing in the dark, asking the questions to which, all these years later, I still had no answer. \u003ci\u003eWhat is this world? What is this life?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA loon cried in the dark night. \u003ci\u003eI know where you are.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Crown","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304494026981,"sku":"NP9780451496331","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780451496331.jpg?v=1767731697","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/long-black-veil-isbn-9780451496331","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}