A Brief History of the Flood - Hardcover

Harfenist, Jean

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0375413936 ISBN 13: 9780375413933

Publisher: Knopf, 2002

Synopsis

In Acorn Lake, Minnesota, Lillian Anderson has reached the end of childhood still believing her much-adored mother’s worldview that life is a floating-wedding-cake fantasy fueled by love—that’s it, just love. She believes it even while naming every new pet right away, because anything without a name is likely to get eaten. She believes it in spite of knowing she needs to head home when hunters are hiding behind duck blinds with their shotguns loaded and the safeties off.

But clearly, not everybody is playing by the same rules as her mother, Marion, a resolutely optimistic roller coaster of a woman, equal parts mom, little girl and sexual goddess. Especially not her father, Jack, an easily ignited alcoholic with a talent for making the entire family feel as if they’re living beneath a clenched fist. When Lillian isn’t tiptoeing around her parents, she’s learning about life—and sex—from her two brothers and Mitzy (“My sister is the kind of girl who thinks letting Buddy Franklin fuck her in the Hoffmans’ hayloft is the same thing as a date”), and from her father’s mistress, Betty Boop, who tells her, “Once you learn how to cook and sew, hordes of hungry men will show up on your doorstep dragging gunnysacks full of mending.”

In a family scratching its way down a small-town social ladder, Lillian barrels from childhood into her early twenties with no illusions about her future, biding her time and honing her shorthand. But as she’s struggling to get on her feet and get out, her family’s house—built long ago on landfill hauled in to cover the marsh—is literally going under.

This is the irresistible debut of a writer with a hypnotizing gift for place and voice, and a singular talent for capturing the best and worst of rural life; in eleven linked stories she delivers up a character with the grit and sheer exuberance needed to appreciate the best and overcome the worst. Rich in emotion and brimming with wit, A Brief History of the Flood speaks to the question of whether it is possible, or even desirable, to leave the most troubled of family histories behind, and offers clear-eyed evidence that familial love, in even the most inclement circumstances, finds purchase in us, and persists.

About this title

About the Author

Jean Harfenist’s short stories have appeared in Quarterly West, Nimrod, Wisconsin Review, Sonora Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, CrazyHorse and Prism International. She lives in Santa Barbara, California.

From the Back Cover

"Welcome to the world of fiction a new voice, frisky and funny and completely at home with the plainspoken truth that makes for human comedy. Jean Harfenist's writing is wonderfully fresh and direct. By the time you finish this collection of pungent stories, you'll feel as if you've made a smart new friend."
--Mark Childress

"A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE FLOOD is its own torrent of strength. The writing seems to come more from natural ability, love of language, and the wisdom of life experience--it is most rare these days--rigorously beautiful without an ounce of dangerous pretension. This is a book I'll put on my book club's list, tell bookstore owners about, and keep by the bed for the dark nights when I need a language booster shot. I have a feeling that the writer has many stories in her soul--she's such a hearty curiousity evident in this work--and I'll look forward to one day saying with the pride of the journey, 'Yep, I've read everything she's written.'"
--Kaye Gibbons

"Reading Jean Harfenist's stories is like finding a hot slot machine in a casino. One winner after another? In wild defiance of the odds? Who cares. Stay seated."
--Richard Russo

From the Inside Flap

In Acorn Lake, Minnesota, Lillian Anderson has reached the end of childhood still believing her much-adored mother’s worldview that life is a floating-wedding-cake fantasy fueled by love―that’s it, just love. She believes it even while naming every new pet right away, because anything without a name is likely to get eaten. She believes it in spite of knowing she needs to head home when hunters are hiding behind duck blinds with their shotguns loaded and the safeties off. <br><br>But clearly, not everybody is playing by the same rules as her mother, Marion, a resolutely optimistic roller coaster of a woman, equal parts mom, little girl and sexual goddess. Especially not her father, Jack, an easily ignited alcoholic with a talent for making the entire family feel as if they’re living beneath a clenched fist. When Lillian isn’t tiptoeing around her parents, she’s learning about life―and sex―from her two brothers and Mitzy (“My sister is the kind of girl who thinks letting Buddy Franklin fuck her in the Hoffmans’ hayloft is the same thing as a date”), and from her father’s mistress, Betty Boop, who tells her, “Once you learn how to cook and sew, hordes of hungry men will show up on your doorstep dragging gunnysacks full of mending.”<br><br>In a family scratching its way down a small-town social ladder, Lillian barrels from childhood into her early twenties with no illusions about her future, biding her time and honing her shorthand. But as she’s struggling to get on her feet and get out, her family’s house―built long ago on landfill hauled in to cover the marsh―is literally going under. <br><br>This is the irresistible debut of a writer with a hypnotizing gift for place and voice, and a singular talent for capturing the best and worst of rural life; in eleven linked stories she delivers up a character with the grit and sheer exuberance needed to appreciate the best and overcome the worst. Rich in emotion and brimming with wit, <i>A Brief History of the Flood</i> speaks to the question of whether it is possible, or even desirable, to leave the most troubled of family histories behind, and offers clear-eyed evidence that familial love, in even the most inclement circumstances, finds purchase in us, and persists.

Reviews

First timer Harfenist packs a big story into a short coming-of-age fiction peopled by broadly painted, eccentric characters. In 11 linked short stories set between 1959 and 1970, this jolting, highly colored narrative traces the life of Lillian Anderson from eight to 18. She and her sister and two brothers live in a perpetually flooded, rundown house in Acorn Lake, Minn. Their mother, a convincingly portrayed manic-depressive, is always up for wild projects, like turning the family's pontoon boat into a giant-size floating wedding cake; once the fun is over, she sinks into bed for days. Their father, an alcoholic, sits in his recliner drinking beer and eating pickles when he isn't tormenting their mother. Essentially bringing herself up, Lillian sculls through her hardscrabble life, losing her virginity at 14 to a teacher, shoplifting with her best friend, fighting her way to a secretarial job and a small studio in the Twin Cities. Throughout, Harfenist combines pared-down first-person storytelling with terrific character descriptions. Sounds place the reader at each scene and in Lillian's mind, like the noise a city boy makes when he "walks across the crushed gravel driveway in bare feet." The author's direct narrative style, though sometimes abrupt, gives Lillian's story a bright, three-dimensional quality. Readers looking for a fast, entertaining summer read with multidimensional characters will be pleased with this effort.
Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Die-hard novel readers leery of short stories will not be put off by Harfenist's first collection; these stories follow each other like chapters, leading readers deeper into the confusing world of Lillian Anderson, in 1960s Minnesota. Lillian is having a tough time growing up. Poverty, drugs, and alcohol dominate her family life, and she can't wait to get out and live her own life. We witness not only Lillian's memories of an idyllic childhood of living and playing on Acorn Lake but also the disruptive family life that begins to erode her love of the water. The usual themes for female coming-of-age stories are here, including food and weight issues, sexual yearnings versus sexual taboos, and makeup and clothes, but Harfenist's characters are real and their situations absorbing. Will Lillian's older brother come back from Vietnam? Will Lillian make it to adulthood without getting pregnant, landing in jail, or overdosing? Contrasting with her disruptive family life, Lillian's narrative voice is strong, honest, and straightforward. A solid debut from a talented writer. Michelle Kaske
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Floating

Mom says, "Now this is how it's supposed to be." She smiles her sparkly smile and looks around the breakfast table at all of us while the breeze off the lake comes through the screens and the red squirrels chitter in the oak trees. Our living and dining room are one big square with golden knotty-pine paneling and a high-beamed ceiling. Dad built it that way. Then he nailed deer heads and rifle racks to the walls and named it Jack's Hunting Lodge. But Mom put a sign out by the road with just our name next to a mallard hen: ANDERSON.

Randy always sits next to me. I kick his bare foot and nod at Dad who's jabbing his sliced bananas with his fork, click-click, click-click against the Melmac bowl. Randy raises his sun-bleached eyebrows at me, which means just let it go, but Mitzy jumps to her feet, points her skinny finger in Dad's face and says, "Mom says it sets her teeth on edge when you do that." I'll be eight this month, Mitzy's nearly ten and Randy's twelve. Mom looks at Dad. She's biting the tip of her tongue with her tiny white teeth. Dad pokes his bananas faster, like some mad guy knocking on our door, so she goes back to peeling her orange in one long strip using just her thumbnail. Without looking up, she laughs once, and says real loud, "Sure do love all of you."

Randy says, "Love you, Mom."

Mitzy says, "Love you."

I say, "Love you."

Dad rattles his coffee cup on the saucer for a refill, not saying a word even though we're all looking at him. When his upper lip flattens out, we stop looking. Then Mom stands up so fast her chair falls over backward. Her head's turning this way and that, when our black Lab, Happy, howls from the end of the dock with a sound that lifts the rest of us out of our chairs and sets us on our feet. Randy runs fastest, down the lawn. By the time I reach the end of the dock I have to squeeze between Mom and Dad and shove Mitzy aside to see Randy standing waist-high in the lake, holding Davey facedown over his shoulder like a sack of flour, pounding his back while Davey screams like he's being born again, but this time he's nearly two. Randy looks up at Mom and Dad, all huge eyes and big ears, wondering what he's supposed to do now.

When Davey gives a watery gasp it's as if Mom, Dad and Mitzy wake up and jump into the water. Davey's so slippery wet they almost drop him trying to flip him right side up. Then Mom has him tight against her chest. "My baby, my baby." Like My Baby is his real name. She's rubbing her cheek against his even though he threw up and now it's on both of them. Dad says, "For Chrissake, Marion," as if she's done something else wrong. "The kid'll be fine," he says. She looks at him like she can't remember who he is.

Davey is screaming again, shaking his little fists, when I realize I'm the only human being still standing on the dock with the dog. I jump in, hoping no one noticed. I can't stand babies, but I'm picking weeds off Davey now, shivering, just glad he's alive.

Later that morning the four of us kids and Happy are sitting on the floor of our pontoon boat, passing around a saucepan of chicken noodle soup Randy heated. The boat's a big red floating version of Davey's playpen--just a flat wooden deck with side railings, a steering column in the middle, and a little motor on the back. The whole thing sits on two giant aluminum floats called pontoons. We keep it tied to our dock. I let Happy lick soup from my hand, laughing when her tongue tickles my palm. She's a hero.

Davey stands up slowly, looking confused and kind of green from almost drowning. When the wake from a big inboard hits, his arms shoot up like he's surrendering, Randy snags him, hauls him onto his lap, and rearranges his fat baby legs to make him comfortable while we ride it out together, up and down, waiting for Mom.

Mom always says she wanted twelve kids, an even dozen to love her forever, but Dad put his foot down after I was born and it took her six years to sneak in Davey. She likes talking about the eight kids she never had as if they're off waiting somewhere--maybe in the toolshed back by the road. She points to her stomach and says her tubes are tied in knots so we're all she's ever going to have: Randy, Mitzy, me and Davey. And Happy.

Mitzy's sitting with her feet straight out, slapping the backs of her knees against the deck, drinking soup from the pan. She stops and says, "It was your fault, Lillian. You were supposed to watch the baby."

"No I wasn't," I lie. "Randy was."

"You're jealous because you're not the baby anymore."

I eyeball her. I always thought when I watched the baby, Mom was watching both of us, that it was a helping-out job like breaking eggs into the bowl when she bakes brownies.

Mitzy slaps my arm with the spoon, leaving a warm wet speck of noodle. I grab the spoon, fling it over her head into the lake. She shouts, "Goddamnit!" and kicks out at me like a thresher. "Mom's been sleeping too goddamned long."

As if it's up to me. I roll into a ball and cover my head. My sister's thin as a toothpick, but being mean makes her strong.

Randy says, "You don't have to swear, Mitzy."

"But moms shouldn't sleep so long," she says, covering us with spit the way she does every time she says something with an s in it, like her tongue's too thick or her lips are too big or her front teeth are too short. Something's wrong with her. She grabs the pan by its handle and sails it out over the lake, where it lands upright, does a couple of slow spins and sinks like the weeds pulled it under. "I'm waking her up."

Ten minutes later Mitzy walks back down the lawn toward us, eating from a tub of chocolate chip ice cream with a new and bigger spoon. Her short hair is already white-blond from the sun, just like Randy's and Davey's. In the winter their hair turns yellow. I'm the only redhead. Mitzy says, "Mom's got the bedroom door locked." She jumps onto the boat, folds herself down onto the deck without missing a bite. "I knocked, but she wouldn't even answer."

Randy asks, "Dad?"

"Must have gone into town."

. . .

By one o'clock we've stashed Davey in his playpen on the beach and we're bobbing around in inner tubes. I'm hanging by my armpits, kicking slow, licking the hot black rubber so I can watch the sun dry off the wet mark, when music explodes from the house. Two seconds later Mom's on the patio, dancing by herself in her yellow bikini, elbows in the air, fingers snapping. She was the Minnewashka High School Posture Queen. When Dad's in a good mood, he pats her fanny, tells her she's a looker and they kiss because they're in love.

We paddle toward her as fast as we can.

"See, Mitzy?" I say, kicking my tube onto the grass. "She just needed a nap."

"Shut up."

Mom leaps onto the pontoon boat, light as Tinkerbell, and swivels to face the three of us on the dock. She's perfect except for a scar like a crooked seam where her belly button was before she had Davey, and Dad made her get her tubes tied because she was already in the hospital. Her scar never tans.

"Kids, your mother has an idea," she says. "Mitzy? Drag that roll of chicken wire down here from the ditch across the road, and get all the white paint you can find. Chop-chop. Lillian? Sweetheart? Art supplies. Dry markers, glue. And my sewing kit. Randy, honey, get a bottle for Davey."

We ask what we're going to make, but she just points in the direction she wants us to go and we run off still wearing our wet swimsuits. All summer we get to hang them on the clothesline at night and put them right back on in the morning. We even wear them into town and run squealing through the freezer section of Gill's Grocery.

Later we're on the dock, painting, hammering and tying this to that, music so loud it's like the house is bending its knees, dancing to Louis Prima. Mom says, "Can't you feel that bass in your chest?" holding her breast like her heart's in there. Mitzy grabs herself with both hands where her breasts would be if she had any, turns to Randy, arches her back and slides her hands down her sides and over her hips. He gives her a fake smile, showing every tooth. I say, "Gross."

We sprint to the shed and the woodpile, finding things, then jump into the lake because it's eighty-five degrees and we're sweating like pigs. Having a blast. We race across the sizzling sand--Mom says it only burns if you think about it. She holds up a finger that means stop! We wiggle our fingers in the air and shake our bottoms while we sing the chorus: "So Chattanooga Choo-choo, won't you choo-choo me home? Whoooo-whoooo." That's the Andrews Sisters.

Mom says, "Drag two stools out onto the boat." We ask, "What's it going to be?" She shouts, "Screwdriver," holding her hand in the air for it. "Mommmmmm." We eat an entire package of Oreos. Mom shouts, "All the snow goose decoys!" Pepsi-Cola, Frosted Flakes. "You kids won't know what I'm creating until it's done." We feed ripple chips to the dog, cookie crumbs to the sunfish that live in the shadow of the dock.

I'm wrapping railings in white crepe paper, Randy and Mitzy are cutting cardboard hearts, when Dad appears on the lawn in his baggy black swim trunks, carrying a tall glass of tomato juice. We're hoping he's out of his mood. Otherwise he'll sit in a lawn chair all day shouting, "Marion, why can't you sit here with your husband for a while?" If Mom's awake, she's working on something.

Dad walks hard on the wooden dock, barefoot, heel-toe, thud-thud, pigeon-toed like Mitzy, and thin all over except for a potbelly like a bowling ball. He has a scar across his middle too, a giant frown where the doctors cut ou...

Edition details

• Publisher: Knopf
• Publication date: 2002
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0375413936
• ISBN 13: 9780375413933
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 224