{"product_id":"the-line-that-held-us-isbn-9780425280287","title":"The Line That Held Us","description":"\u003cb\u003eAn accidental death, and the cover-up that follows, sparks a dark series of events that reverberates through the lives of four people who will never be the same again.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Darl Moody went hunting after a monster buck, a kill that could make the difference between meat for the winter and an empty freezer, he never expected he'd accidentally shoot a man digging ginseng. Worse yet, he's killed a Brewer, a family notorious for vengeance and violence. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith nowhere to turn, Darl calls on the help of the only man he knows will answer, his best friend, Calvin Hooper. But when Dwayne Brewer comes looking for his missing brother and stumbles onto a blood trail leading straight back to Darl and Calvin--and to Calvin's girlfriend, Angie--a nightmare of revenge rips apart their world. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA story of friendship and family, \u003ci\u003eThe Line That Held Us \u003c\/i\u003eis a tale balanced between destruction and redemption, where the only hope is to hold on tight, clenching those you love.  From a writer whose stories are \"like a pull from a bottle of Appalachian moonshine: smooth and elegant with a punch in the gut that lingers a while after you're done\" (\u003ci\u003eGarden \u0026amp; Gun\u003c\/i\u003e), Joy's book is another masterwork of Southern noir.“Unflinching . . . Joy writes about rough-hewn men and women eking out a living in an economically depressed area, trying to avoid—but often affected by—violence and drugs that permeate the region. Their lives are tied to the land, its history and their families who established lives there decades ago.”—Associated Press\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eMore Praise for \u003ci\u003eThe Line That Held Us\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A suspenseful page-turner, complete with one of the absolutely killer endings that have become one of Joy’s signatures.”—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Exquisitely written, heart-wrenching . . . Joy’s descriptions are lyrical and lingering.”—\u003ci\u003eMilwaukee Journal-Sentinel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“David Joy’s novel brought me to my knees. Exquisitely written and heart-wrenching, it reminded me of Faulkner in its dark depiction of family loyalty — that “old fierce pull of blood.” . . . Joy’s descriptions are lyrical and lingering. . . . In the end, the line that holds Joy’s characters may be fraught and frayed, but its pull is fierce.”—Minneapolis \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eStar Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Joy has proved adept with southern noir in his first two novels, and he nails it again here, in the actions of characters who act as they must, for the sake of family and friendship, given their nature. This is fiction as beautiful and compelling as it is searing.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \"Poverty, class, violence, addiction, isolation: No one writes about the issues facing rural America as clearly, as fairly, or as well as David Joy. \u003ci\u003eThe Line That Held Us\u003c\/i\u003e plumbs the depths of friendship and family, uncovering truths that are stamped on the page with blistering realism.\"—Wiley Cash, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Last Ballad\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Weight of This World\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Bleakly beautiful. . . [a] gorgeously written but pitiless novel about a region blessed by nature but reduced to desolation and despair.”—Marilyn Stasio, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Darkly stunning Appalachian noir.”—\u003ci\u003eHuffington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Scenes unfold at a furious pace, yet contain such rich description that readers will do well to read slowly, savoring Joy's prose. . . .  Joy's work perfectly aligns with the author's self-described ‘Appalachian noir’ genre, as a sticky film of desperation and tragedy cloaks everything his characters touch. April, Aiden and Thad are hopelessly conflicted, dripping with history and heartache, yet they cling to unique dreams about what life could look like if they carried a bit less weight of the world upon their shoulders.”—Associated Press\u003cb\u003eDavid Joy\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Weight of This World, Where All Light Tends to Go\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe Line That Held Us\u003c\/i\u003e, an Edgar finalist for Best First Novel. His stories and creative nonfiction have appeared in a number of publications, and he is the author of the memoir \u003ci\u003eGrowing Gills: A Fly Fisherman's Journey.\u003c\/i\u003eOne\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Darl Moody didn't give a wet sack of shit what the state      considered poaching. Way he figured, anybody who'd whittle a rifle      season down to two weeks and not allot for a single doe day didn't      care whether a man starved to death. Meat in the freezer was meat      that didn't have to be bought and paid for, and that came to mean      a lot when the work petered off each winter. So even though it was      almost two months early, he was going hunting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The buck Darl'd seen crossing from the Buchanan farm into Coon      Coward's woods for the past two years had a rocking chair on his      head and a neck thick as a tree trunk. Coon wouldn't let a man set      foot on his land on account of the ginseng hidden there, but Coon      was out of town. The old man had gone to the flatland to bury his      sister and wouldn't be back for a week.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The cove was full of sign: rubs that stripped bark off maples and      birch, scrapes all over the ground where button bucks scratched      soil with something instinctual telling them to do so but lacking      any rhyme or reason. A mature buck knew exactly what he was doing      when he ripped at the ground like he was hoeing a line with his      hooves, but the young ones ran around wild. They'd scrape all over      the place, trying to add to a conversation they were too      inexperienced to understand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Darl locked his stand around a blackjack oak that grew twenty feet      high before the first limbs sprung off. He climbed to a strong      vantage and surveyed a saddle of land where early autumn cast      patches of the mountains gold in afternoon light. An unseasonable      cold snap following one of the driest summers the county had ever      seen brought on fall a month ahead of schedule. It was the last      week of September, but the ridgelines were already bare. Down in      the valley, the trees were in full color with reds and oranges      afire like embers, the acorns falling like raindrops. The nights      were starting to frost and within a few weeks the first few      breaths of winter would strip the mountains to their gray bones.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Darl sipped a pint of whiskey he had stashed in the cargo pocket      of his camouflage pants, took off his ball cap and slicked the      sweat from his forehead back through a widow's peak of thinning      hair shaved close. He scratched at the thick beard on his chin and      listened closely for any sign of movement, though just like the      past two evenings, he'd yet to see or hear a thing but squirrels.      Soon as the sun sank behind the western face, the woods dropped      into shadow and it wouldn't be long for nightfall. Still, he would      stay because there was no telling when that buck might show, and      in full dark, he would find his way out by headlamp.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Somewhere up the hillside, a stick cracked beneath a footstep, and      that sound came through his body like current. His heart raced and      his palms grew sweaty, his eyes wide and white. Dried leaves      rustled underfoot, and behind the scraggly limbs of a dead hemlock      he could see a slight shift of movement, but from such distance      and in such little light, what moved was impossible to discern.      Through the riflescope, he spotted something on four legs,      something gray-bodied and low to the ground. The 3-9x50mm      CenterPoint was useless in low light, but it was all Darl could      afford and so that was what he had.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sighting the scope out as far as it would extend, he played the      shot out in his mind. At two hundred yards, the animal filled a      little less than a quarter of the sight picture. He rolled the      bolt and pulled back only enough to check that a round was      chambered, then locked the bolt back and thumbed away the safety.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A boar hog rooted around the hillside for a meal. Each year those      pigs moved farther and farther north out of South Carolina, first      coming up from Walhalla ten years back and now overrunning farms      all across Jackson County. There was open season on hogs statewide      due to the damage they caused. A father and son out of Caswell      County were hunting private land between Brevard and Toxaway      earlier that year when the son spooked a whole passel of hogs out      of a laurel thicket, and the father drew down on a      seven-hundred-pound boar. That was right over the ridgeline into      Transylvania County. That pig weighed 580 pounds gutted, and they      took home more than 150 pounds of sausage alone. Do the math on      that at the grocery store.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e All his life there'd been a thoughtlessness that came on before      the kill. It was something hard to explain to anyone else, but      that feeling was on him now as he braced the rifle against the      trunk of the oak and tried to steady his aim, a mind whittled back      to instinct. A tangle of brush obstructed his view, but he knew      the Core-Lokt would tear through that just fine. He tried to get      the picture to open by sliding his cheek along the buttstock, but      the cheap scope offered little play. When the view was wide, he      toyed with the power ring to get the picture as clear as possible,      nothing ever coming fully into focus as he drew the crosshairs      over the front shoulders. He centered on his pulse then. Breathe      slowly. Count the breaths. Squeeze between heartbeats. On five,      pull the trigger. The sight wavered as he counted down. Three.      Two. Squeeze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The rifle punched against his shoulder and the report hammered      back in waves touching everything between here and there and      returning in fragments as it bounced around the mountains. He      checked downrange and the animal was felled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I got him,\" Darl said. His body tingled and his head was      swimming. Adrenaline coursed through him and left him breathless.      He was in disbelief. \"I fucking got him.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Darl sucked down the last of the whiskey in one slug, slung his      rifle over his shoulder, and climbed his way down with his      treestand. In less than an hour, the light would be gone. He knew      he had to hurry. There'd barely be enough time to field dress the      pig and get it out of the woods before dark. Maybe Calvin Hooper      would help him dress out the hog. Cal had a nice hoist for      dressing deer, and that sure beat the hell out of the makeshift      gambreling stick Darl had at the house. Whether you were scraping      hair or skinning him out, a pig was a whole lot easier with two      sets of hands working than one. Cal wouldn't want anything for the      trouble. Never had. As soon as Darl got that pig back to the      truck, he'd head to Calvin's. \"I fucking got him,\" he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A small branch of water ran at the bottom of the draw, and through      a thicket of laurel, the hillside steepened. Darl staggered      through the copse of trees and slowly climbed until he was near      the ledge where the pig had fallen. He tripped on a fishing line      strung between two dogwoods, a pair of tin cans with rocks inside      clanking loud in the limbs above him. Darl froze and looked      around. As his eyes focused, he saw rusted fishhooks hung eye      level from the trees, trotlines meant for poachers, and he brushed      them back one by one as if he were clawing his way through      spiderwebs. That's when he saw him. Not a pig but a man, flat on      his stomach. A brush-patterned shirt was darkened almost black      with blood, his pants the same grayish camouflage as his shirt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Darl stepped closer, knelt by the man's legs, and placed his hand      on the man's left calf. His body was warm, but there was no      movement, no sound of breath. In absolute shock, Darl crawled      forward and saw where the bullet had entered the man's rib cage.      He'd been quartered away, the hollowpoint opening as it cut      through him and exited behind his right shoulder, blowing the top      of his arm ragged. The man's left arm hung by his side, his hand      open, palm up, and Darl could see a few shriveled red berries      balanced at the tip of his fingers. He realized then that he was      kneeling in a thick patch of ginseng, mostly young, two-prong      plants, but some much, much older. The man had an open book bag on      the ground beside him with a tangle of thick, banded roots stuffed      inside, the thin runners off the main ginseng shoots snarled like      a muss of hair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Darl knew the man shouldn't have been there the same as him. This      was Coward land, and they were both trespassing; two poachers who      shouldn't have been there, but right there they were. There they      were, one of them gone from this world, and the other facing it in      its enormity. While he crouched there on hands and knees,      dumbstruck as a child, his mind washed between astonishment and      terror.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The man's face was turned and angled into the ground. His neck was      sunburned red and dotted with dark orange freckles, the back of      his hair thick and curled, a yellow blond the color of hay. Darl      stepped across the body, being careful not to get his boots in the      blood around him. The man wore a camouflage hat with hunter orange      lining the edge of the bill, the words caney fork general store      stitched across the front. The hat was knocked crooked on his head      and Darl grabbed the bill to try and turn the man's face out of      the dirt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As soon as he saw the dark purple birthmark covering the right      side of the man's face, Darl knew him. Carol Brewer, who everyone      called Sissy, lay stone-cold dead on the bracken-laced ground.      Darl had known Carol all his miserable life, a half-wit born to a      family that Jesus Christ couldn't have saved. Some people believed      Carol's daddy, Red, might've been the devil himself. There was a      meanness that coursed through him, a meanness that was as close to      pure evil as any God-fearing man had ever known. Carol was the      runt of the family and, by most accounts, the only one who ever      had a chance. Some thought if he'd been able to get out from under      the wings of his father and older brother, Dwayne, he might've      been all right, but things didn't work out that way, and Carol      wound up being as much trouble as the lot of them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Darl let go of the cap bill and Carol's head came to rest on the      ground. His eyes were closed with his mouth slightly opened. A      yellow jacket buzzed by Darl's ear and landed on Carol's lips. The      wasp started to crawl into his mouth but Darl swatted the bug      away, his fingers brushing Carol's face. He stomped the bee where      it hovered above the ground, then looked to the west to gauge what      light remained. Darl knew it wouldn't be long, though nightfall      didn't matter like it had minutes before. His thoughts were wild      with what would come, but he knew the darkness was a gift now and      he welcomed it. His mind raced as the night slowly closed around      him like cupped hands. He had until dawn to dig a grave.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Two\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dwayne Brewer goose-stepped down the beer aisle of the Franklin      Walmart wearing a latex chimp mask he'd found on the floor by the      Halloween decorations. The mask was hot and his breathing was      loud. The inside smelled of cheap molded rubber and he slicked the      nylon hair back through his fingers while he chuckled at a woman      who sneered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She wore pastel-colored scrubs and white tennis shoes, her      highlighted hair pulled back in a ponytail. Through the eye slits      of the mask, he saw a little girl, maybe six years old, with one      of her fingers hooked in the corner of her mouth, standing beside      the woman. Dwayne scratched under his armpit with one hand and      clawed at the back of his head with the other, hopping around      bowlegged like a monkey, and the child laughed. He pulled the mask      off and tossed it into the open cooler, his skin cold with sweat      as he ran his hand over his face and reached for a case of Bud      heavy. Tearing a ragged hole in the cardboard, he fished out a      beer and cracked the top.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Have a blessed day,\" he said with a wide smile, tilting the open      can toward the woman and nodding. She eyed him like the fiend he      was, her little girl hiding behind her leg, spellbound with      curiosity as the giant man before her swallowed half the can in      one tremendous gulp.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The thing about Walmart was that even a man like Dwayne Brewer      could go unnoticed. People pushed their buggies with dead-eyed      stares, everything sliding by in the periphery. Consumerism scaled      this large had a way of camouflaging class.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At the end of the aisle, he squeezed past a beefy gal in tiny      shorts who had a baby on each hip and three children running      circles around her. One of the kids reached out as he made his      next lap and knocked an endcap of Cool Ranch Doritos onto the      floor. The woman was in the middle of a conversation with someone      she knew, an older woman who had a toddler with her finger up her      nose riding in the buggy. The beefy gal kept saying over and over,      \"Lord no this ain't mine,\" shaking the child on her left hip, \"Me      and Clyde stopped after this one,\" shaking the one on her right,      \"This here's Sara's. You remember Sara, don't you? This is Sara's      little girl, Tammy. She's my niece.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Buggies were banging and lights were flashing and cash registers      were beeping and kids were wrestling a Halloween blow-up ghost      decoration that was meant to stand in a front yard and the sheer      madness of it was enough to send any sane person into a seizure,      but Dwayne didn't have a care in this world. He strutted right      through the middle of the chaos, smiling because it was Friday and      he had a wad of cash in his pocket from pawning five stolen      chainsaws and a flat-screen TV.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Black teddies and bloodred lingerie were rolled back to $9.87. He      finished that first beer standing by the floor rack running satin      through his fingers with his eyes closed, daydreaming about the      last woman he'd slept with. When he was finished, he crumpled the      can in his fist, balanced it in the cup of a beige-colored bra,      and opened another.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From where he stood, he could see straight down the shoe aisle      where a kid sat on a bench. The boy reminded Dwayne of his      brother. Shaggy, strawberry-blond hair covered his ears, and his      red skin was dotted with freckles. Aside from a thick pair of      Coke-bottle glasses, black military frames, he could've been a      spitting image of Sissy at thirteen or fourteen years old. The kid      wore a shabby shirt and grass-stained jeans that were muddied at      the knees. He was trying on a pair of gray-colored tennis shoes,      some off-brand jobs with Velcro straps. Out of nowhere two boys      came around the corner and loomed over him. A boy in tight jeans,      with hair that sliced at an angle across his eyes, snatched one of      the shoes out of the boy's hands, looked it over, shook his head,      and crowed.","brand":"G.P. 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