{"product_id":"swimming-between-worlds-isbn-9780425282731","title":"Swimming Between Worlds","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the critically acclaimed writer of \u003ci\u003eA Different Sun\u003c\/i\u003e, a Southern coming-of-age novel that sets three very different young people against the tumultuous years of the American civil rights movement...\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTacker Hart left his home in North Carolina as a local high school football hero, but returns in disgrace after being fired from a prestigious architectural assignment in West Africa. Yet the culture and people he grew to admire have left their mark on him. Adrift, he manages his father's grocery store and becomes reacquainted with a girl he barely knew growing up. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKate Monroe's parents have died, leaving her the family home and the right connections in her Southern town. But a trove of disturbing letters sends her searching for the truth behind the comfortable life she's been bequeathed.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOn the same morning but at different moments, Tacker and Kate encounter a young African-American, Gaines Townson, and their stories converge with his. As Winston-Salem is pulled into the tumultuous 1960s, these three Americans find themselves at the center of the civil rights struggle, coming to terms with the legacies of their pasts as they search for an ennobling future.\u003cb\u003ePraise for\u003ci\u003e Swimming Between Worlds\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A perceptive and powerful story told with generosity and grace. The struggle of its deftly-drawn young characters to navigate the monumental changes—cultural and personal—that the civil rights movement brought to the South is rich and compelling.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Charles Frazier\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \"A smart and tender tale. I was left with admiration for Orr's exquisite prose along with an awareness of one simple truth: sometimes it takes living in another culture to better understand your own. A beautiful book.”—Diane Chamberlain, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Stolen Marriage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “An original and important novel certain to take its place in American literature on race. The narrative unfolds with urgency and power, in graceful prose rich in sensuous detail. [Orr’s] finest work to date.”—Angela Davis-Gardner, author of \u003ci\u003ePlum Wine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A blistering story told by a gifted writer. From the moment I began this compelling novel, it followed me around; the riveting plot and real-life characters would not let me go.”—Anna Jean Mayhew, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Dry Grass of August\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Orr brings the South and Nigeria together in a manner that illuminates the richness and privations of both cultures. As ever, her writing is lush and sensuous. This poignant and triumphant story shows two Americans emerging in a complex time from their own sorrow and displacement to take on political unrest and the turmoils of love.”—Peggy Payne, author of \u003ci\u003eSister India\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A touching love story....[and an] intelligently written and vivid evocation of a civil rights struggle that has heartbreaking relevance to the here and now. You will experience in these pages the physical and emotional bravery of the men and women who dared to push the boundaries of what was seemingly immutable.”—Eleanor Morse, author of \u003ci\u003eWhite Dog Fell from the Sky\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Poignant and agonizing, the novel captures the South the moment before the gun went off, prefiguring our current national trauma around race and society.”—Fenton Johnson, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Man Who Loved Birds\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A captivating narrative about race, sex, nationality, generations and romance, Orr’s expansive new novel fulfills the promise of her debut tour de force, \u003ci\u003eA Different Sun\u003c\/i\u003e.  Her keen sense of historical impact and geographical detail keeps us reading and hoping for a sequel.”—Valerie Miner, author of \u003ci\u003eTraveling with Spirits\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A novel of great humanity…Conceived with compassion and rendered with grace, it scores a triumph for its author and a blessing for her readers.\"—\u003ci\u003eRichmond Times-Dispatch\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The novel comprises the depth and breath of Orr's most exquisite and carefully wrought prose.\"--\u003ci\u003eSouthern Literary Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A thoughtful read touching on social as well as personal issues.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The catalyst for the biggest cry I’ve ever had reading a book. No French ending here. Sad, but with a brilliant resolution…. [I] found myself rejoicing at story’s end—with tears streaming down my face.”—\u003ci\u003eSmoky Mountain News\u003c\/i\u003e    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Orr offers beautifully wrought lesson about America’s troubled race relations and what it means to follow one’s conscience.”—\u003ci\u003eGreensboro News \u0026amp; Record\u003c\/i\u003e    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Orr has crafted an intelligent book that both challenges and entertains\"—\u003ci\u003eThe News \u0026amp; Observer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Set indeed in two worlds, these lives blend, merge and diverge in a sea of wonderful prose and pure storytelling infused with all the right elements marking a fine Southern novel.”—\u003ci\u003eMountain Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eElaine Neil Orr\u003c\/b\u003e is professor of English at North Carolina State University in Raleigh, where she teaches world literature and creative writing. She also serves on the faculty of the low-residency MFA in Writing program at Spalding University in Louisville. Author of \u003ci\u003eA Different Sun\u003c\/i\u003e, two scholarly books, and the memoir \u003ci\u003eGods of Noonday: A White Girl's African Life\u003c\/i\u003e, she has been a featured speaker and writer-in-residence at numerous universities and conferences and is a frequent fellow at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. She grew up in Nigeria.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e July 1959\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tacker Hart came home from Nigeria to discover a town he almost      knew. The Winston-Salem of his youth was branded by Ardmore      Methodist, Reynolds High, and shopping at Davis Department Store      on Fourth Street, his youth green with creeks and football fields,      turning white in winter with sledding and the Sears Christmas      display. And then there was the depot of his father's store,      Hart's Grocery, near the intersection of First Street and      Hawthorne, right where Peters Creek ran. The grocery existed out      of time, smelling of onions and floor wax, blooming with color in      fruit displays and on cereal boxes, and sanctified by the      community of regulars who stopped by for a special on ham hocks or      conversation with Tacker's father or the full week's shopping and      a drink from the Coca-Cola machine. Everyone was welcome, or so      Tacker had thought.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Almost two years later and the air still carried the high, sweet      smell of tobacco, but there was an expressway through town that      nipped at the heels of West End, the neighborhood where he'd grown      up, and that occasionally-where an elevated section curved near      Hawthorne-threw a car over the guardrails and passengers to their      deaths. Thruway Shopping Center had grown up in his absence like a      film set temporarily installed, only it wasn't temporary. Tacker's      mother drove out there almost every day. Wake Forest College was      the new boast of the city, which was fair enough, though Tacker      had no investment in it, having studied architecture at State      College in Raleigh, flourishing in the competitive atmosphere of      design studios housed on a huge courtyard on the north side of      campus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e More changed than Winston-Salem was Tacker. He had left home a      minor American hero and returned disgraced. The thought of his      violent dismissal from an international assignment with the      Clintok Corporation hollowed his chest even now, four months after      his return.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When Tacker first got home in March, he stayed up late and slept      until midmorning. On and off in the night, he woke to a perception      of malignant doom, a feeling in his chest like a container filling      with terror. There was no escape as the vessel filled, the      sensation taking over his entire chest-filling and filling-until      he thought it would explode, and then just as the container of his      heart was about to burst, it did not. The terror held, containing      him rather than he it. He wondered if he was having a heart      attack. He would sleep and awaken and the episode would recur, as      if he were coming out of nightmare into nightmare. During the day      his face felt heavy. He marveled at a blooming red crepe myrtle      across the street that appeared at midday to burn like fire, and      yet it seemed to him that the inner light of things had dimmed.      Perhaps it was merely the contrast with the tropics that he      sensed, but Tacker suspected the dimness had more to do with what      he had learned. The world was not just and neither God nor any      teacher or coach or sponsor was going to save him. Occasionally he      felt angry instead of depressed, overcome by righteous      indignation. He'd done nothing wrong. But the fire flickered out      pretty quickly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There wasn't anything he wanted to do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After dinner one evening in July, his father spoke up. \"Get your      architectural license. I can make a connection for you.\" They were      in the family den. Tacker stood by the mantel, gazing at a picture      he had sent from Nigeria, the country of his assignment. He had      gone to help design the prototype for a high school to be      replicated throughout the country and to establish American      goodwill in an African nation on its way to independence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I don't want to do architecture right now,\" he said. In the      photograph, he was posed with his Nigerian teammates, ten in all,      graduates of Nigeria's first university, in front of a banana tree      grove. His hair was below his ears because he hadn't found a      barber. Tacker was the tallest, his arms saddled around his best      friend, Samuel Lapido's, shoulders, a smile on his face. A local      photographer had taken the picture and sold it to Tacker for a      shilling. Tacker marveled that his clothes, and not just his skin,      were so much lighter than the others', his figure ghosted. He      turned to his parents, neither of whom was looking at him. His      father wore a look of pained disapproval.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They were in a quagmire and Tacker had put them there, but he was      too sunk to pull anyone out. Even with his father kindly opening a      door, he could not walk through it. He left the house for a walk      around the block but walked much farther than that, all the way to      the tobacco warehouses at the end of Trade Street, where he lay      back on an overflowing bag of tobacco leaves, half intoxicated by      the scent, and looked up at the stars. Why couldn't he feel proud?      He'd stood up for what he'd believed, hadn't he? But Tacker was      accustomed to triumph. An inglorious sacking left a man wholly      alone. When he got home after midnight, the lights in the den were      out but his mother had waited up for him. She picked up just where      he thought he had escaped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What are you going to do?\" she said, peering through her new      wing-tipped glasses. When Tacker was a boy his mother had worn      nylon dresses with pearl buttons all the way down the front and      he'd thought she was the most beautiful person in the world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I don't know.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You have been home all spring and half the summer. People are      beginning to wonder what's wrong.\" She rose from her seat. \"You      have to move out and get a job. This is too hard on us.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Maybe I could work at Hart's.\" Tacker rubbed the back of his      neck. \"Maybe I could manage the store.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I don't know about that.\" His mother's lips wrenched to one side      of her face. \"You haven't demonstrated very responsible behavior      lately. What happened to you over there?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tacker looked at her. \"I learned that there's a world outside this      town,\" he said. \"That we're not the be-all, end-all of the      universe.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Who's we?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"This country, the way we live.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"How do we live?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Superficially.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Well, Mr. Universe, I'll leave the question of your employment to      your father. I don't much like being called superficial. I gave      birth to you, in case you've forgotten that particular tidbit.\"      She smacked the door open on her way out of the room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The next morning, Tacker got up early. He had nowhere but his      parentsÕ house to go, no car, no job, but he had a few hundred      dollars saved. He walked to a diner at the corner, picked up the      Winston-Salem Journal, went in and ordered breakfast and coffee,      opened the paper, and scanned the classifieds for houses to rent.      His finger stopped at a house on West End Boulevard. His parents      had moved to the newer Buena Vista neighborhood while he was in      college and his dad had opened a second grocery, sleeker and more      hermetic than the old HartÕs. Tacker had eaten half of his      breakfast and drunk three cups of coffee when he folded the paper      and started walking to the old neighborhood, with the intention of      reclaiming his territory. He passed Hanes Park, where he had      joyfully suffered four hot summers practicing with the varsity      football team, learning how to escape gravity. He had played wide      receiver, but this morning he cocked his arm like a quarterback      and sent the phantom ball soaring to his younger self on the      field, airborne to haul the leather in and press it to his heart.      If working at HartÕs as a teenager had instilled in Tacker a sense      of democracy (ÒMeet every customer with respect,Ó his father had      said, though now Tacker could see that not everyone was actually      included), football had taught him fair play, a concept also      apparently defunct.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e West End was notoriously hilly, and Tacker angled up a side      street. The rental house occupied the corner of West End Boulevard      and Jarvis Street, an old foursquare, a style popular at the turn      of the century, two storied, perfectly square, a mere five blocks      from the original Hart's. This one was upright, stately, and      composed, and the porch seemed to invite him in. He could see into      the spacious sitting room and an adjoining dining room. Another      room opened to the right, a music room or library with built-ins.      In the backyard, he found a separate wired garage, a perfect place      for the motorcycle he dreamed of buying. He'd lusted for one since      the days of riding a Schwinn New World as a kid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tacker headed to the nearest service station, dropped a dime in      the phone, and called the number in the paper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Hello. Calloway here.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm calling about the foursquare,\" Tacker said, giving his name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You and your wife?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Just me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I had in mind renting to a family. It's big for one person.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Did his voice betray his bungled last year? No one knew but his      parents, yet Tacker suspected everyone could see through him. But      on the phone?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Might be better if we met,\" Calloway said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The man's office sat right where Summit Street wheeled down to      converge with West End and Reynolda near the old Daniel Boone      marker. Tacker took a seat across from Calloway, who had a      washed-out look and round shoulders.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's actually my mother's house,\" he said. \"Tied up in a trust.      So you understand why I'm particular about it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Of course. It's a great house.\" Tacker felt more confident.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What did you say your name was?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Tacker Hart.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"The football player?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Once upon a time.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"So you can catch a ball. How about minor repairs? Can you keep up      a yard?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm pretty handy,\" Tacker said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Thirty-five a month?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Midmorning, Tacker was in the basement of his parents' house,      digging through boxes of college leftovers. He found towels and a      few old dishes and kitchen essentials, all of which he stuffed      into a laundry basket and hauled up to his room. His mind sped.      The cloth he'd brought home from Nigeria-he could see the girl      he'd bought it from, under an umbrella, her entire inventory      consisting of two bars of soap, one pack of cigarettes, and four      yards of indigo-dyed cloth. It could be a curtain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A week later, on a hot August morning when his mother was out      shopping and his father was at work, Tacker wrote a thank-you note      and scribbled his new address at the bottom, walked to the bus      stop with his suitcase and duffel bag, and waited. It seemed      riotously funny that at age twenty-five he was running away from      home, but the back side of funny was a welcome feeling of honor.      He figured himself a pilgrim out to slay the dragon of his      failure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He spent his first night on the floor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The next morning he scouted out a secondhand store full up with      dressers recently cycled out of Baptist Hospital. They were metal      and light. Of the two mattresses he could choose from, he took the      one that came from someone's guest room, or so he was told. He      picked up the metal dresser, carried it onto a bus, and put it in      the house. The mattress was a bigger challenge, especially      considering the hills he was going to encounter. For a fee of two      dollars, a kid at the store offered to help him walk it to the      foursquare twelve blocks away. Tacker didn't relish another night      on the floor. At noon and ninety degrees they started out, trying      to hold the mattress under their arms. But they kept losing hold      of it. Tacker thought of the men he'd seen in Nigeria, pedaling      bicycles, balancing mattresses on their heads, uphill and down.      How had they done that?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Let's try it on our heads,\" he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They jousted to get the mattress up and the weight distributed,      and off they went. When they met folks on the sidewalk, they were      forced to stop or tuck into an alley. Halfway to the foursquare,      the kid backed up, not looking where he was stepping, and fell      into a ditch. The mattress toppled, landing in the grass with a      muffled thud.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I think I twisted my ankle.\" The kid stood and tried to put      weight on it. \"God Almighty,\" he yelled, slackening back to the      ground.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'll run back to the store and get someone to come pick you up,\"      Tacker said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The kid looked like he was going to cry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'll pay you anyway.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The kid wiped at his eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Fifteen minutes later Tacker was alone with his mattress, feeling      fortunate to be on a side street. But it was a pitiful fortune,      almost sublimely tragic. He used to be good at everything-in that      other life when he won high school football games and picked up      scholastic and civic awards, then excelled in college, finding      himself in his senior year recommended by the department head,      Professor Cabera, a dapper Argentinian with a vision that      transcended North Carolina, for a choice international assignment      with the Clintok Corporation. It had come to him like a perfectly      thrown pass, a brilliant opportunity to further his career, though      once he got to Nigeria he had found himself much more interested      in the place itself, its cacophonous yet serene atmosphere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He pulled a tall blade of grass from its green sheath and put it      in his mouth. A rumble of thunder and a dark cloud encroached in      the western sky. Tacker hauled the mattress up and stood it next      to a tree. His arm span was just wide enough to match the width of      the mattress and grab hold of the sides. He put his head in the      middle of the bed and tried to hoist it, but he was too close to      the tree. He tried again, and this time he managed to get it up,      but the thing slipped from his grasp and slid down his back.      Across the street, two women his mother's age stopped to watch. He      tried again. The thing wobbled and Tacker had to shift it a little      and brace his legs to keep it on his head. When he thought he had      it, he took a step. Another. Five steps. He was back on the      sidewalk. But the mattress hung in the front and he couldn't see      very far ahead. Not only that, it kept snagging on nearby      branches. He went slowly. A breeze came and it felt good, but then      there was another rumble of thunder. He couldn't turn his head.      There was no way but forward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Turning onto First Street with a mattress on his head, Tacker's      vision of himself as heroic pilgrim was pretty well fried. First      was precipitously steep and the sidewalk way too narrow. A car      horn blared and a DeSoto Firedome glided past, its finlike fenders      bright in the sun. Finally he got to West End; only one more      block. He swung out right into the center of the street. At the      foursquare, he stepped up onto the porch, slid the mattress off      his shoulder, and stood it against the front windows, slipping      down beside it.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300733538533,"sku":"NP9780425282731","price":22.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780425282731.jpg?v=1767737680","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/swimming-between-worlds-isbn-9780425282731","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}