{"product_id":"the-bright-forever-isbn-9780307209863","title":"The Bright Forever","description":"\u003cb\u003ePULITZER PRIZE FINALIST • A “cleanly written [and] artful . . . page-turner” (\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e) about a nine-year-old girl’s disappearance and the lasting impact it has on her close-knit community\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Compelling . . . both harrowing and deeply felt.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Daily News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn an evening like any other, nine-year-old Katie Mackey, daughter of the most affluent family in a small town on the plains of Indiana, sets out on her bicycle to return some library books.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis simple act is at the heart of \u003ci\u003eThe Bright Forever\u003c\/i\u003e, a suspenseful, moving novel about the choices people make that change their lives forever. Playing fact, speculation, and contradiction off one another as the details unfold, Lee Martin creates a fast-paced story that’s as gripping as it is richly human. His beautiful, clear-eyed, spartan prose builds to an extremely nuanced portrayal of the complicated give and take among people struggling to maintain their humanity in the shadow of loss.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMemorable for its perceptions and power, \u003ci\u003eThe Bright Forever \u003c\/i\u003eis a captivating and emotional tale about the human need to know even the hardest truths.“With what consummate skill Lee Martin conjures up a small town in the grip of tragedy and how deftly he explores the way in which a casual remark, a brief kiss, a white lie can have the most terrible consequences. The Bright Forever is a remarkable and almost unbearably suspenseful novel.” —Margot Livesey, author of Banishing Verona and Eva Moves the Furniture\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lee Martin’s The Bright Forever goes deep into the mystery of being alive on this earth. Written in the clearest prose, working back and forth over its complex story, and told in the dark, desperate, vivid voices of its various speakers, it holds you spellbound to the end, to its final, sad revelations.” —Kent Haruf, author of Eventide and Plainsong\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Like Winesburg, Ohio, The Bright Forever captures, in alternating voices, the individual acts of desperation that lead to a community’s sorrow. And, like Sherwood Anderson, Lee Martin is not happy to let guilt reside singularly or simply. This is a morally complex quilt, a page-turner that also insists on the reader’s participation in moral contemplation.” —Antonya Nelson, author of Female Trouble and Talking in Bed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I read The Bright Forever in one sitting. I couldn’t put it down. Part Mystic River, part Winesburg, Ohio, this harrowing and beautiful book is one of the most powerful novels I’ve read in years and heralds the breakout of a remarkable talent.” —Bret Lott, author of A Song I Knew by Heart and Jewel  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The Bright Forever will get under your skin with its exquisite psychology and fine-tuned suspense. Lee Martin has created a world of aching beauty and terrible loss.” —Jean Thompson, author of City Boy and Wide Blue Yonder\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The Bright Forever is ravishing. . . . Lee Martin’s characters, dear readers, are us—riven and bedeviled, our souls gone grainy and rank, our hearts busted and beating heavily for love. We have Martin to thank for having the moral courage—yes, an old-fashioned but rare virtue—to tell it to us plain.” —Lee K. Abbott, author of Living After Midnight\u003cb\u003eLee Martin \u003c\/b\u003eis the author of the Pulitzer Prize finalist \u003ci\u003eThe Bright Forever\u003c\/i\u003e, the novel \u003ci\u003eQuakertown\u003c\/i\u003e, the story collection \u003ci\u003eThe Least You Need to Know\u003c\/i\u003e, and the memoirs \u003ci\u003eFrom Our House\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eTurning Bones\u003c\/i\u003e. He has won the Mary McCarthy Prize in Short Fiction, a Lawrence Foundation Award, the Glenna Luschei Prize, and a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. Martin lives in Columbus, Ohio, where he directs the creative writing program at The Ohio State University.\u003cb\u003eMr. Dees\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the night it happened—July 5—the sun didn't set until 8:33. I  went back later and checked the weather cartoon on the \u003ci\u003eEvening  Register's\u003c\/i\u003e front page: a smiling face on a fiercely bright sun. I  checked because it was the heart of summer, and I couldn't stop  thinking about that long light and all the people who were out in it;  I'd seen them sitting on porches, drinking Pepsis and listening to  WTHO's Top Fifty Countdown on transistor radios. I knew they were  getting a laugh out of \u003ci\u003ePeanuts\u003c\/i\u003e or \u003ci\u003eHi and Lois\u003c\/i\u003e in the newspaper,  thrilling to the adventures of Steve Canyon. Cars were driving along  High Street—Trans-Ams and GTOs, Mustangs and Road Runners, Chargers  and Barracudas. Some of them were on their way to the drive-in  theater east of town—a twin bill, \u003ci\u003eSummer of '42\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eBless the Beasts  and Children\u003c\/i\u003e. Others went downtown. Teenage boys were ducking into  the Rexall or the new Super Foodliner to pick up a pack of Marlboros  or Kools. Couples were strolling around the courthouse square,  lollygagging after supper at the Coach House or a steak and a cold  beer at the Top Hat Inn. They were window-shopping, the ladies  admiring the new knee-high boots at Bogan's Shoe Store, high school  girls looking at the first wire-rim glasses at Blank's Optical, the  flared-leg pantsuits at Helene's Dress Shop, the friendship bracelets  and engagement sets at Lett's Jewelry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEnough time and opportunity, and yet no one could stop what was going  to happen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe were just an itty-bitty town in Indiana, on the flat plain beyond  the rolling hills of the Hoosier National Forest—a glassworks town  near the White River, which twisted and turned to the southwest  before emptying into the Wabash and running down to the Ohio. That  day, a Wednesday, the temperature had gotten up to ninety-three and  the humidity had settled in and left everyone limp with trying. The  air held in the smell of heat from the furnaces at the glassworks,  the dead fish stink from the river, the sounds of people's living:  ice cubes clinking in glasses, car mufflers rattling, screen doors  creaking, mothers calling children to come in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the evening, when the breeze picked up enough to stir the leaves  on the courthouse lawn's giant oaks and dusk started to fall, the air  cooled just enough to make us forget how hot and unforgiving the day  had been. After the hours spent working at the glassworks or the  stone quarry or the gravel pit, people were glad to be moving about  at their own pace, taking their time, letting the coming dark and the  rustle of air convince them that soon there might be rain and then  the heat would break. I was content to sit at the kitchen table,  noodling around with the story problems I planned to use the next day  with my summer students, one of whom was Katie Mackey.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLater, there would be a few folks who would step up and say they had  something maybe the police ought to know. Their names would be in the  newspapers—papers as far away as St. Louis and Chicago—and on the  Terre Haute and Indianapolis television stations, people who would be  in the notebooks of all the magazine writers who'd  come—slick-talking out-of-towners with questions. Newshounds from  \u003ci\u003eInside Detective,\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003ePolice Gazette\u003c\/i\u003e. They'd want to know how to find  so-and-so.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI've never been able to tell this story and my part in it until now,  but listen, I'll say it true: a man can live with something like this  only so long before he has to make it known. My name is Henry Dees,  and I was a teacher then—a teacher of mathematics and a summer tutor  for the children like Katie who needed such a thing. I'm an old man  now, and even though more than thirty years have gone by, I still  remember that summer and its secrets, and the way the heat was and  how the light stretched on into evening like it would never leave. If  you want to listen, you'll have to trust me. Or close the book; go  back to your lives. I warn you: this is a story as hard to hear as it  is for me to tell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eGilley\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe were eating supper. That's what I remember, the four of us sitting  at the table: Mom and Dad and me and Katie. It was just a night like  that, a summer night, and pretty soon Katie would finish her lemon  sherbet and ask to be excused and then run up the street to find her  friend Renee Cherry. That's what would have happened. I've known it  all these years. Renee and Katie would have made up, said they were  sorry about the quarrel they'd had that morning, and played until  dark, when Mom would have called my sister in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut before any of that could happen, I said, \"Katie didn't take back  her library books.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was still mad at her because sometime that afternoon she had gone  into my room and listened to my Carole King album, \u003ci\u003eTapestry\u003c\/i\u003e, and left  a scratch on the \"It's Too Late\" track so it stuck on the  chorus—\"Too late, too late, too late\"—`and I wanted to pay her back.  I wanted to see her get in Dutch with Dad, who had warned her about  keeping library books past the due date. \"Good golly, Little Miss  Katie,\" he'd told her at breakfast. \"If you're not careful, you'll be  living a life of crime.\" We knew we were a family that people  noticed, envied even, for our wealth and my father's influence in our  town. Our family had owned Mackey Glass for years, and my father  always told us we had to be careful not to screw up, not to give  anyone a reason to think less of us. \"If the police come looking for  you,\" he said to Katie, \"I'll tell them we tried our best to bring  you up right, but you wouldn't listen. Now, I mean it, Katie. Take  those books back today.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut she didn't. She and Renee spent all morning on the front porch.  They were there when I was getting ready for work. I was seventeen  that summer, and I was a clerk and stock boy at the J. C. Penney  store downtown. I was standing in front of my dresser mirror,  knotting my necktie, and I could hear Katie and Renee in the porch  swing. The chains creaked as the swing moved back and forth. Katie  and Renee were playing their favorite game—It's Gotta Go—where they  made choices between things that they dearly loved. Pepsi or Coke,  spaghetti or macaroni, Little Dot or Little Lulu, puppies or kittens,  Barbie or Skipper, \"You Can't Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd\" or  \"Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh,\" Christmas or your birthday. Making a  choice was heartbreaking and took hours. Often they'd end up bawling.  They'd hug each other and agree that it was necessary. If it wasn't  hard, it wouldn't matter. It proved how much they really loved the  things they said they'd let go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRenee's mother, Margot, claimed to have ESP. The sixth sense, she  called it. A sign in front of her house said, \u003ci\u003ewill tell you your  entire life without asking a single question\u003c\/i\u003e. I'd gone to her earlier  that summer. Just for a kick. She held my hands, turned them over,  and traced the lines in my palms. \"You will be chosen,\" she told me.  \"Soon a light will find you. Don't look away.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the porch, Katie and Renee were trying to decide between \u003ci\u003eThe  Partridge Family \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Brady Bunch\u003c\/i\u003e: one of them had to go. Katie  said that Keith Partridge was dreamier than Greg Brady, but she'd  much rather be friends with Marcia than with Laurie Partridge. Marcia  was just so cute, and her hair was perfect; Laurie was too skinny,  and Katie was fairly certain that she didn't really know how to play  that electric piano. Renee, who usually took her cues from Katie,  said yes, that was true, but who wouldn't choose Peter Brady over  Danny Partridge?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Maybe I wouldn't,\" Katie said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe swing's chains stopped creaking; someone, maybe Renee, dragged  her feet over the porch floor. \"You can't mean that,\" she said, and  she sounded very serious, like a grown-up. \"You've got to be kidding.  Danny instead of Peter? No way. Danny isn't nice.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI finished knotting my tie and went over to look out the window. A  robin was parading around the lawn. The grass, still wet from the  sprinkler, sparkled in the sunlight. The petunias in my mother's  flower bed smelled sweet; their pink and red and white petals ruffled  in the breeze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I think he's funny,\" Katie said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He's not funny,\" said Renee. \"He's retarded.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What about me?\" Katie was getting worked up, the way she did  sometimes. She could be a drama queen, in love with the spotlight.  The day before, she'd worn sunglasses and posed on the stone bench in  our backyard so I could take her picture with my Polaroid camera. I  knew her eyes were wide open now as she faced Renee, and her cheeks  were filled with air. When she got like that, I told her she looked  like Porky Pig. \"I'm funny,\" she said to Renee. \"I always make you  laugh when I do my Donald Duck voice. Isn't that funny?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No, it's retarded.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're the retarded one,\" Katie said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor a good while neither of them said anything. The only sound was  the wind through the trees. Then Renee said, \"Maybe I should just go  home now.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKatie agreed. \"Maybe you should.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Do you want me to go?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"If that's what you want.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"All right. I guess you want me to go.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo Renee left, and Katie ran into the house bawling, and she never  got around to taking her books back to the library. She ruined my new  record instead, and even though I wanted to feel sorry for her  because she'd had that fight with Renee, I couldn't, and I said what  I did, and Dad blew his top.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Katie.\" He leaned across the table and shook a finger at her. \"What  did I tell you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe jumped up from her chair. \"I'm going to take them back right  now.\" She was wearing a pair of orange shorts and a black T-shirt.  Her brown hair, lightened from the sun, was combed off her forehead  and pinned with gold barrettes. \"The library's open until seven  o'clock. I've got plenty of time.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe never even stopped to put on sandals. They were right there at  the back door, but she didn't put them on. I thought about stopping  her. I thought about saying, \"Katie, your sandals.\" But I didn't. She  was barefoot, and she swung open the screen door. She threw her  library books into her bicycle basket and I watched her stand up on  the pedals until she reached the top of the hill. Then she sat down  and bent over her handlebars, and her long hair flew out behind her,  and I watched her until she was gone.","brand":"Crown","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301521248485,"sku":"NP9780307209863","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307209863.jpg?v=1767738537","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-bright-forever-isbn-9780307209863","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}