{"product_id":"the-queen-of-tuesday-isbn-9780812982572","title":"The Queen of Tuesday","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eLucille Ball, Hollywood’s first true media mogul, stars in this “bold” (\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e), “boisterous novel” (\u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e) with a thrilling love story at its heart—from the award-winning, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eChang \u0026amp; Eng\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eHalf a Life\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eWASHINGTON POST\u003c\/i\u003e BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR • “A gorgeous, Technicolor take on America in the middle of the twentieth century.”—Colson Whitehead, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Nickel Boys\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis indelible romance begins with a daring conceit—that the author’s grandfather may have had an affair with Lucille Ball. Strauss offers a fresh view of a celebrity America loved more than any other. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLucille Ball—the most powerful woman in the history of Hollywood—was part of America’s first high-profile interracial marriage. She owned more movie sets than did any movie studio. She more or less single-handedly created the modern TV business. And yet Lucille’s off-camera life was in disarray. While acting out a happy marriage for millions, she suffered in private. Her partner couldn’t stay faithful. She struggled to balance her fame with the demands of being a mother, a creative genius, an entrepreneur, and, most of all, a symbol.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Queen of Tuesday\u003c\/i\u003e—Strauss’s follow-up to \u003ci\u003eHalf a Life\u003c\/i\u003e, winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award—mixes fact and fiction, memoir and novel, to imagine the provocative story of a woman we thought we knew.“A delight.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The best book yet by one of our best writers.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Millions\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“‘Half memoir and half make-believe,’ this boisterous novel relates an imagined affair between Lucille Ball . . . and the author’s grandfather. . . . A touching account of the sacrifices that Lucille makes to preserve her ‘most genuine’ relationship: the one ‘between her and the public.’”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“An impossibly daring premise for a novel—an act of almost Lucy-level audaciousness! . . . exceptionally well told . . . [Darin] Strauss conjures up those heady days . . . with such vibrancy it’s impossible not to hope that everything might work out after all. . . . Brilliant.”\u003cb\u003e—Ron Charles,\u003ci\u003e The Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“As in Strauss’s other books, the movement here is perpetual and multidirectional; it never stops. . . . The author asserts himself, here as elsewhere in his books, through his rigorously playful approach to language. . . . [\u003ci\u003eThe Queen of Tuesday\u003c\/i\u003e] reads like a dream painted in bold and fearsome strokes.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\"Timeless . . . Strauss’ ingenious and bittersweet fourth novel, \u003ci\u003eThe Queen of Tuesday\u003c\/i\u003e, seems genuinely to lament a love affair that never happened. It’d be the perfect ’50s screen romance! But Strauss knows what time we’re living in.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Los Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e“A rollicking read.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Newsday\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Anything Darin Strauss writes is magic. I have been his fan since the beginning of time, and I will be his fan until the sun explodes.”\u003cb\u003e—Elizabeth Gilbert, author of \u003ci\u003eEat, Pray, Love\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A great read!”\u003cb\u003e—Jenny Offill, author of \u003ci\u003eWeather\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eThe Queen of Tuesday\u003c\/i\u003e is a beautiful cinematic story. In a gorgeous imagined history of a not long ago world, the novelist Strauss allows us to remember our deeply held wishes to invent our lives and memories for our privately held loves. Like \u003ci\u003eThe Great Gatsby\u003c\/i\u003e, Strauss reminds us here that ghosts unseen who remain deeply felt renew our heart’s most passionate yearnings and ambitions.”\u003cb\u003e—Min Jin Lee, author of \u003ci\u003ePachinko\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e“A home run!”\u003cb\u003e—Gary Shteyngart, author of \u003ci\u003eLake Success\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Darin Strauss has resurrected a lost world—the grand movie that never aired, the truncated epic of what might have been between Lucille Ball and his grandfather. Part elegy, part mystery, part speculative memoir, here is a love story unlike any you’ve read before—spiked with Hollywood scandal and the secrets families keep across generations. Strauss is a beautiful and funny and piercing writer, and this book is a gift.”\u003cb\u003e—Karen Russell, author of\u003ci\u003e Orange World and Other Stories\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Wonderful!”\u003cb\u003e—Andrew Sean Greer, author of \u003ci\u003eLess\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eDarin Strauss\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of the bestselling novels \u003ci\u003eChang and Eng, The Real McCoy\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eMore Than It Hurts You\u003c\/i\u003e; the memoir \u003ci\u003eHalf a Life\u003c\/i\u003e, winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award; and a bestselling comic-book series, Olivia Twist. These have been \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003eNotable Books and\u003ci\u003e Newsweek, Los Angeles Times, San Francisco Chronicle, Chicago Tribune,\u003c\/i\u003e and NPR best books of the year, among other honors. The recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, an American Library Association award, and numerous additional prizes, Strauss has been translated into fourteen languages and published in nineteen countries. He is the clinical professor of fiction in the graduate writing program at New York University.\u003cb\u003eNightfall, the Beach at Coney Island\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA cloud lifts, and look—­here’s Manhattan, tiara-­bright and brash, American initiative written in glitter. It’s 1949. Hundreds of cars are driving from the city to the sea. Cadillacs and Packards and wood-­bodied Fords. Snaking along Stillwell Ave, they stretch a tail for miles under a Warner Bros. sky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePeople are coming in the tangerine twilight to view a collapse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHey, that’s your favorite celebrity over there. On the boardwalk, her white shoes scuffed black with sand. (If she’s not famous now, just wait.) She’s striding—­confidenting—­right into this party. And into the elation of this party. Banners promise or warn A Night You’ll Remember. Walking beside the actress, her husband raises his fist. She isn’t really sure he’s joking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEarlier, she’d been angry enough to throw a glass; he’d smashed her compact. Your typical knock-­down-­drag-­out. Her husband’s not quite famous yet, either.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd the actress certainly will remember this night. There’s a boy in suede gloves who’s botching it, failing to reach her. The gloves are lemon-­colored: it’s a bright-­colored time. Tonight, the actress will drop into trouble and watch the sparks in their upward flight. And her husband’s fists will be used in earnest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor now, the husband mopes. “It’s no good you keep insulting me,” he says, his accent having its way with the words. “I have to know this ‘torch’ expression. Can you explain ‘carry a torch’?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe says, “Just a habit men have of walking around on fire.” You recognize her—­a woman who’s learned the score. “Burning yourself, getting singed, like that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother banner: A Party for the Ages—­Elizabeth Trump \u0026amp; Son.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe actress feels chilly. That’s Coney Island in April for you. She’s also frustratingly unseen. The actress has bumped through life knowing what it is to be ignored, even by quote “loved ones.” At tonight’s party, she wants to be noticed by the husband she loves. But also, especially, by men she doesn’t.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFirst she has to push her way to the boldface names at the water. It surprises her, a little, how the confident can darken a big, open beach.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePartygoers have thronged to the tide line and the first pleats of brown sand. It’s like a religious ceremony where the theologics have been erased. These people are here to worship themselves. That’s only natural. Americans in this little breather from history stand pretty much alone on a cindered map. Every house needs a Westinghouse. The ad style is peppy, with pep and sincerity intertwined. Relax in casual slax. Make a date with Rocket 8. Across the country: fresh purchases and attitudes, fresh beliefs. Plus, it’s been sunny all year and the perfect song is always playing, at just the right volume.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe actress and her husband start down the sand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn this moment, there is no city but New York City. The long Atlantic keeps pulse at the shore here. It’s glamorous. The air’s strung with laughs and the rattle of sequins, popping flashbulbs. But the actress has a problem now. Her last-­chance break is simply not happening.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe doesn’t consider taking her husband’s hand. Nor has he offered it. “On important nights, you louse things up,” he says. “Many times I just do not get you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hey, that’s my line. You always make me come get you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe—­or the woman she has trained herself to be—­is a bit excessive when not the center of attention. The high, provoking brows; bright hair pinned and lifted off the neck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t snap your cap, sweetie,” the actress continues. “When I accuse you for real, you’ll know.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe kid wearing lemon-­suede gloves has to run over and tell the actress about the destruction that’s coming. It’s his actual job tonight. But will the kid reach her? His path across the boardwalk is choked by tuxedoed waiters and linen tabletops. The actress even from this distance is a woman of sedan curves, fantastic. Legs he’d want to die between. The kid’s driven by intensities he had no idea were in him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Good luck,” the actress tells her husband. “So remember, the plan is—­ Hey, wait a second.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe husband piles ahead; he pretends not to hear. All around, partygoing women contemplate the beach, shoes in hand. And the actress is alone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is a party with a political purpose. As is the custom at such parties—­the shifts of bigwigs and schemes—­the biggest and most important have together made their own scrum. The actress watches her husband jostle toward these fancy people, and she—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe feels somebody’s stare. On her mouth, neckline, her throat. She moves a protective hand over the dimple in her collarbone. And keeps it there. Fingers on two hard dots.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s the kid with the lemon-­suede gloves: “Miss Puente!” He comes straight up. “Martha Puente, right?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe stops walking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You know, the world’s never seen a destruction party before, miss.” The kid gleams with the importance of any teen given a duty. He recites his statement: “Ready, Martha—­may I call you Martha?— ­er, ready to destroy the world?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe kid, and with good reason, keeps calling her Martha Puente. Martha Puente is not her name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe knows what’s what tonight. The man hosting this party wants to get something obliterated. The actress is here to get something made.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe isn’t Martha Puente, any more than she’s Diane Belmont or Montana Hearn. With those names, she’d been trying to catch something she’d almost found.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe kid’s saying, “I mean, destroy metaphorically. It’s gonna be a hoot. Because . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat a time to be left alone here. She’s just schlepped back from Hollywood. Nightmarish trip! Los Angeles: a shuffle of faces and studio commands. Instructions about eyebrows, diction, about posture. Also about not falling for nice ethnics. She had been run through a showbiz machine that existed, far as she could tell, to conventionalize the neck length of swans for better sale to a nation of ducklings. (She’d sat through studio reprimands with parted lips and just listened.) But MGM terminated her contract last month. She’d failed as a movie star.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Miss Puente?” The kid’s scratching at a puberty cluster on his cheek.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe actress gives her smile of special elegance anyway. (Her beauty can still draw a gasp when she smiles, when she pouts.) But after twenty bit-­part years, although still kind of young, she’s also probably washed up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother bad break: It looks as if her husband is holding back to chat with Nanette Fabray, of all people. Goddamn him. Nanette Fa-­bare-­ass?! Now?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut hang on a sec.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInstead of quitting and slinking back upstate—­where the cold Chautauqua always springs tears from her face—after silently admitting, It’s over, I’ll never achieve, and also my husband’s talking to a harlot not ten yards from me, instead she surprises herself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A hoot?” she says. She often surprises herself. “Kid, parties are for single women and cheating men. When you die, you’ll regret the things you did when you could’ve been home relaxing. Nice gloves. The name’s not Martha Puente.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd her brazen right eyebrow rises just a little.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The name,” she says on this April night two years, six months, and four days before her triumph, “is Lucille Ball.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e. . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaybe it’s just an innocent little chat there across the beach with Lucille’s husband and Nanette Fabray?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLooking over, she doesn’t notice that the kid with the gloves’s face has gone red. She’d done a few wartime “Martha Puente” spreads for \u003ci\u003eYank\u003c\/i\u003e magazine, the Army publication. (The G.I.s had had fun with the centerfold, with the word Yank itself, General Ike’s hairy-­palms-­and-­blindness campaign.) The kid’s standing here smitten, having kept that photo under his mattress all through junior high.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe doesn’t know what to do. Say something to her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It was only that . . .” He hunts around his brain for a suave line. “It was I could see right off you’re uh . . .” (Being an adolescent means running this kind of vain scavenger hunt every day.) “I guess I don’t know what you mean. You’re not Martha Puente?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLucille brought her hand to his shoulder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kid, I’m in show business.” She smiles right at him. “I don’t mean a thing.”A Washington Post Best Book of the Year","brand":"Random House Trade Paperbacks","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304658358501,"sku":"NP9780812982572","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780812982572.jpg?v=1767741127","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-queen-of-tuesday-isbn-9780812982572","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}