After the War

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In a poignant final bow, Alice Adams' posthumously published last novel returns to the land of her birth and bears the supreme style and grace that earned her the reputation as one of the finest writers of her time.
After the War

Reviving the cast of her acclaimed novel A Southern Exposure, Alice Adams brings the American South to vivid life through the residents of the small town of Pinehill. When they moved here from the North, Cynthia and Harry Baird sought a simpler place in...

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After the War

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Overview

In a poignant final bow, Alice Adams' posthumously published last novel returns to the land of her birth and bears the supreme style and grace that earned her the reputation as one of the finest writers of her time.
After the War

Reviving the cast of her acclaimed novel A Southern Exposure, Alice Adams brings the American South to vivid life through the residents of the small town of Pinehill. When they moved here from the North, Cynthia and Harry Baird sought a simpler place in which to raise their daughter, Abigail. Now, with World War II raging, Harry off fighting it, and Cynthia's string of affairs showing no signs of abatement, Abigail is bound for college where she'll have to face the complexities of life head-on. And as Cynthia grows aware of the bigotry and anti-Semitism around her, Pinehill suddenly seems less the idyllic Southern town and more a reflection of the growing pains of the nation at large.

Evoking the internal and external worlds of Alice Adams' complex characters with the precision and pathos that watermark her body of work, After The War is a charming and passionate novel that captures both the essence of an era and the spirit of a beloved writer.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Reading this posthumous novel is a bittersweet experience. On the one hand, it's wonderful to be back in the Southern town of Pinehill, and to enjoy Adams's inimitable prose and her calm intimacy with the characters introduced in A Southern Exposure. On the other, it's a pity to realize that we'll never know what future lives Adams had planned for these vibrant individuals. WWII is raging as the novel opens in 1944; Yankee transplant Cynthia Baird is now "an actively unfaithful naval wife." Her husband, Harry, is stationed in London, and famed war correspondent Derek McFall is filling his bed--until Derek's roving eye takes him to another boudoir. The Bairds' daughter, Abigail, is off to Swarthmore, and her friend Melanctha Byrd will go to Radcliffe. Famous romantic poet Russ Byrd, Melanctha's father and once Cynthia's lover, is now married to luscious Deirdre, who will soon be on the loose to search for another partner. Implacably dignified Odessa, the black housekeeper, is worried about her husband, Horace, on duty in the Pacific. The usual large cast is augmented by the introduction of a New York Jewish couple with Hollywood ties, active members of the Communist Party, and their college-age children. Everybody is still lusting, drinking, filled with inchoate longings and awash with memories of past liaisons--but some are becoming aware of new social stresses: changing race relations, a freer sexual climate, the threat of communism. Adams's deep acquaintance with her milieu--Southern speech, cultural assumptions, casual bigotry and lush landscape--shines clear in events, dialogue and descriptive passages of almost palpable sensation. Her acuity with period details allows a smooth reference to the atomic bomb and the musical Oklahoma in the same sentence. There are innumerable funny scenes, two deaths, several fraying marriages and a few young romances, one of which culminates in a wedding. Adams knew the hard truths of human life: that people (especially those in the sway of sexual passion) often behave badly, but generally have good intentions; that hardship often prompts compassion in the most unlikely hearts; and that our time on life's stage is brief. Unfortunately, hers was too brief by far. (Sept.) FYI: Adams died in 1997. Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.|
Library Journal
In her final work, Adams reprises the lovable, imperfect, slightly dazed characters of A Southern Exposure, denizens of 1940s Pinehill, NC. As the Bairds continue to intrigue their neighbors with their Northern ways, Captain Harry returns from London to his "actively unfaithful Navy wife" and confesses his own overseas transgressions. Meanwhile, their sensible daughter Abigail balances med school with the wonders of sex with her Jewish boyfriend and her close friendship with Benny, a smart, handsome chum from Connecticut who just happens to be black. Teenaged Deirdre, impregnated by Russ Byrd, leaves the town to give birth and returns with her "brother" Graham. When Russ's wife, Sallyjane, dies, he marries Deirdre, acknowledges his paternity, impregnates Deirdre again, and names their baby...Sallyjane. And so it goes with Adams's large cast of characters. Racism, communism, homosexuality, infidelity, people living in sin, the end of the war, reconciliation--Adams is a genius at affectionately tweaking the stereotypes of a Southern gentility struggling mightily to understand the ways of the world. Readers will wish the characters well and look forward to more--which, sadly, is not to be, as Adams died last year. Highly recommended.--Beth E. Andersen, Ann Arbor Dist. Lib., MI Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.
Molly Haskell
Like a gardener who doesn't overwater the plants, or a benignly indifferent mother, she is attentive to each of her creations but gives each its head; she lets them all fly free of her control while appreciating their idiosyncrasies. Her mix of old-fashioned storytelling with a modern sense of the elusive perplexities of identity makes for an unusual combination, and one not easily replaced.
New York Times Book Review
New Yorker
...lovely, tender, and a little hokey, like that moment just before the birthday candles are blown out.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780743422222
  • Publisher: Washington Square Press
  • Publication date: 12/28/2001
  • Edition description: REPRINT
  • Pages: 320
  • Product dimensions: 5.32 (w) x 8.26 (h) x 0.82 (d)

Meet the Author

Alice Adams was born in Virginia and graduated from Radcliffe College. She was the recipient of an Award in Literature from the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters, and received grants from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Guggenheim Foundation. She lived in San Francisco until her death in 1999.
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Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

By mid-August, in the third summer of the Second World War, heavy and relentless heat had yellowed all the grass and almost all the flowers in the little college town of Pinehill, in the middle South. Cynthia Baird, an actively unfaithful Navy wife, contemplated the limp petals that lay beneath what had been a beautiful display of roses, massed blossoms of gold to pink to white -- although she was not thinking of roses, nor actually of the war, but rather of her lover, Derek McFall, the famous war correspondent. Derek, who was tall and blond and not in love with her, not at all. Cynthia thought too of her husband, Harry -- Captain Harry Baird, USN, now in London -- but less often than she thought of Derek; Harry and wartime London, as well as the war itself, were vague to Cynthia, as they were to most of the rest of that town. People there were more aware of the state of Cynthia's lawn and her flowers, of their own lawns and flowers, than of the terrible but distant war. If they had known about Derek and Cynthia, they would have given that some thought, and much talk, but so far they did not.

In the town's view Cynthia was still a transplanted Yankee, from Connecticut; over five years now but her Yankee ways and those of Harry were still remarked on, in Pinehill. And the trouble with the lawn and the flowers was that the Bairds were hardly there in Pinehill anymore, since Harry went up

to Washington to work for the Navy, and then was sent off to London. They actually lived in Washington -- Georgetown, of course; there was a rumor about Cynthia going to law school in Georgetown, but she gave that up, of course, when Harry went to London.Abigail, their daughter, came down to Pinehill more often than they did during the Georgetown days, but she did not do any gardening chores; she came to stay with her friend Melanctha Byrd, and they both went out with a lot of boys. Abigail had always been independent -- "a regular Yankee child, always does pretty much what she wants to, always has."

But now Cynthia lived mostly in Pinehill, and it was too bad that the garden looked so pathetic, especially today: Cynthia was having an important party that she said was for Abigail, and for Melanctha too. The girls were both going up North to college in just a few weeks, Abigail to Swarthmore, a Quaker place that had boys as well, and Melanctha to Radcliffe, the girls' part of Harvard.

What gardening got done at the Bairds' house these days was done by Odessa, the maid. Odessa actually lived at the Bairds', sort of, in the out back -- "real nice of Cynthia to take her in like that, but sort of Yankified, wouldn't you say?" In any case, Odessa had enough to do just keeping the house in shape, not to mention certain problems of her own: a wandering husband, Horace (too bad: Horace was a wonderful gardener, just terrific with flowers, but he'd been off somewhere all summer); a daughter in trouble at the defense plant -- Nellie, Odessa's only child, and no one knew just what kind of trouble, but they had their own ideas.

But the garden was nobody's fault, not Abigail's or Odessa's, but probably the Lord's. Or the war's, like everything else.

Odessa's husband, Horace, was actually in the Navy, in the Pacific Ocean. He was overage but he looked young, and he'd lied about his age, and Odessa saw no point in telling anyone (no one white) where he was, and she never had, not even Miz Baird, who had treated her good. But she sorely missed him, and all she got were little notes sometimes that Horace got some man there with him to write. She didn't even know just where he was, but sometimes on the radio she heard these Japanese-sounding names, Okinawa, Hirohito, and talk about boats and battles, and she was scared, just plumb dumb scared, and not a single thing she could do about it, and not a person to tell. And then Nellie: some white folks' crazy talk about a union over to the plant, which would end up getting her fired, Odessa knew. Some crazy students from over to Hilton. Every time the phone rings in the house, which is not too often these days with them all off somewheres, Odessa was mortally afraid of terrible news: Horace, or Nellie, or even Mr. Baird, off in the Navy too, though not with the same uniform at all that Horace wears.

Cynthia was not looking forward to her party. For one thing, it was planned as a by-the-pool party, and she might not hear the phone from the pool, and Derek might call; all day she has had a strong sense of the imminence of Derek. Odessa will be up at the house to answer some of the time, but there's all the food to bring out, and more glasses and fresh ice -- always something. Odessa could all too easily not hear the phone. Really smart of me, Cynthia thinks, to be waiting like a sixteen-year-old for a phone call --congratulations, dumbbell -- and a phone call from a man who doesn't even love you, he says. She frowns and tries to concentrate on what's to be done.

Sliced cold ham, a notch up from the usual cold fried chicken, and a cold green rice salad, two notches up from potato salad. Odessa's beaten biscuits, locally famous, and Odessa's fresh peach ice cream. Divine.

A nice lunch, the problem being that she doesn't really care for any of the guests -- except of course for the two girls of honor, her own dearest Abigail, who actually has been a considerable pain in the butt, of late, and dear Melanctha Byrd, who at times looks so unnervingly like Russ, and who seems unhappy, poor child. And no wonder, with those great big breasts almost weighing her down -- just like her mother, poor SallyJane. Does Melanctha drink too? Well, probably not yet. But she'll always have trouble buying clothes.

Cynthia herself, a former Vassar Daisy Chain girl, is tall and thin, is made for clothes -- as salesladies have often told her. And Abigail, an inch less tall and a tiny bit heavier than her mother, could wear almost anything if she cared to, but she does not; she does not give a fig about clothes, she wears any old thing and gets by with it because she is so young, and pretty, really (if she'd only do something about her hair).

But the person Cynthia surely does not want to see, who always makes her uncomfortable, is James Russell Lowell Byrd, father of Melanctha. Russ, who was once a famous poet and a playwright, now just writes screenplays, sometimes -- he was the true reason that Cynthia and Harry moved to Pinehill in the first place: Cynthia wanted to meet the poet, she loved his words. And a few years later it had happened, they had had the affair that she had always had in mind. Which had been terrific, in its way, but all that is left of it now is social embarrassment. Discomfort at seeing each other. Russ must feel it too, she is sure, along with guilt; it happened so soon after the death of SallyJane, his wife, mother of Melanctha -- poor SallyJane with the overlarge bosom, who drank too much and then died of the shock treatment they gave her for depression. Now Russ is married to Deirdre, who used to be the most beautiful girl in town, and who had a little boy with Russ before they were married, and now has a little baby girl, unaccountably named SallyJane. Cynthia sighs, and she thinks for the thousandth time, I will never understand the Southern mind, not in any way.

Cynthia does not want to see Russ, nor her supposed best friend, Dolly Bigelow (Dolly is just too idiotic, some of the time) -- nor Jimmy Hightower, another "dear friend," a former Oklahoma oilman who with Russ's help wrote one best-seller. The person she would actually like to see is Esther, Jimmy's wife, who is in New York now doing something with Jewish refugees.

She was glad, Cynthia was, that none of the grown-ups have chosen to wear their bathing suits. They're mostly too old and too fat, a lot of them. Dolly Bigelow is very plump, and her husband, Willard, too; Deirdre Byrd is truly fat (could she possibly be pregnant again? Russ has this crazy thing about birth control: SallyJane told several people that, and Cynthia had what you might call firsthand knowledge). Curiously, the men looked better than the women did: Russ looked really okay (all that time at Hollywood swimming pools, probably), and Jimmy Hightower's exactly the same as always. Cynthia thought then with a pang of guilt and longing of Harry, so trim and elegant in his Navy things -- and then of Derek, so very tall and thin, in his belted trench coat, with his pipe.

By mid-afternoon, no one had really drunk too much except Deirdre Byrd; she did not seem exactly tight, but Cynthia had observed her: lots and lots of gin-and-tonics, there in the waning sun, in the warm smell of grass and flowers and chlorine. Dolly Bigelow had also been aware of Deirdre's drinking, and Cynthia had observed Dolly watching Deirdre. Dolly and Cynthia viewed each other with equal parts of suspicion and affection.

Dolly suspected that a while back there was something going on between Cynthia and Russ Byrd, not long after SallyJane died. About the time that Dolly and Cynthia opened that little store, with some things that Odessa had made along with things by white ladies too, from out in the country. The store didn't work out too well, and probably if they'd've kept it, the war would've finished it anyway. But: Cynthia and Russ. How could a thing like that have come to any good? Lord knows Dolly was no prude, but she really didn't hold with married folk carrying on, you're supposed to keep the promises you made in church. Russ Byrd is a handsome man all right, but then so is Harry Baird, especially now in his naval uniform. How many handsome men does Cynthia need -- what is she, some kind of a nymphomaniac? Besides, Dolly never had what you might call evidence, just a hunch from their ways of looking at each other, of saying each other's name.

"This is just the best rice salad I have ever tasted," Dolly said to Cynthia. "You sure have taught Odessa a thing or two," and she smiled, very sweetly.

Cynthia suspected that as usual Dolly was wearing falsies inside her dress, and for what, for whom? Certainly not foggy Willard, her boring husband, who taught Greek and Latin at the local college; she doubted that Willard had had a sexual thought in his head or anywhere else for fifteen or sixteen years, which was how old their younger boy was. She smiled back at Dolly as she told her, "I made it myself, actually. But I'm sure Odessa could have done it better."

Cynthia believed that in some private and half-conscious way Dolly had it in for Odessa, and not just because Odessa was "colored" and Dolly was a Southern woman; it was more personal than that. As though Odessa was not really "Negro" enough for Dolly.

Unlike the lawns, the rest of the garden and the planting around the pool have done well. Flowering sweet-smelling privet thrived, and the lilac bushes that Cynthia, missing New England, insisted on. Next spring they will bountifully, beautifully bloom -- assuming that we're all here next spring, thought Cynthia, who was not at all sure what she meant. Nothing to do with the war, probably; she did not think that Hitler would win in Europe and then come over here with his Blackshirts and Storm Troopers and concentration camps. Although some people seemed to believe just that; Cynthia's friend Esther Hightower seemed to believe it. But Cynthia's sense of impermanence had more to do with the fragility of personal connections, specifically her own: with Harry, who was doing God-knows-what in London, and with Abigail, her very own and only daughter, always so independent, so intelligent. And now off to Swarthmore, so far away, difficult to get back from there, what with wartime transportation.

And then there was Derek, with whom anything at all could happen, or, just as possibly, nothing.

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First Chapter

Chapter One

By mid-August, in the third summer of the Second World War, heavy and relentless heat had yellowed all the grass and almost all the flowers in the little college town of Pinehill, in the middle South. Cynthia Baird, an actively unfaithful Navy wife, contemplated the limp petals that lay beneath what had been a beautiful display of roses, massed blossoms of gold to pink to white -- although she was not thinking of roses, nor actually of the war, but rather of her lover, Derek McFall, the famous war correspondent. Derek, who was tall and blond and not in love with her, not at all. Cynthia thought too of her husband, Harry -- Captain Harry Baird, USN, now in London -- but less often than she thought of Derek; Harry and wartime London, as well as the war itself, were vague to Cynthia, as they were to most of the rest of that town. People there were more aware of the state of Cynthia's lawn and her flowers, of their own lawns and flowers, than of the terrible but distant war. If they had known about Derek and Cynthia, they would have given that some thought, and much talk, but so far they did not.

In the town's view Cynthia was still a transplanted Yankee, from Connecticut; over five years now but her Yankee ways and those of Harry were still remarked on, in Pinehill. And the trouble with the lawn and the flowers was that the Bairds were hardly there in Pinehill anymore, since Harry went up

to Washington to work for the Navy, and then was sent off to London. They actually lived in Washington -- Georgetown, of course; there was a rumor about Cynthia going to law school in Georgetown, but she gave that up, of course, when Harry went to London. Abigail,their daughter, came down to Pinehill more often than they did during the Georgetown days, but she did not do any gardening chores; she came to stay with her friend Melanctha Byrd, and they both went out with a lot of boys. Abigail had always been independent -- "a regular Yankee child, always does pretty much what she wants to, always has."

But now Cynthia lived mostly in Pinehill, and it was too bad that the garden looked so pathetic, especially today: Cynthia was having an important party that she said was for Abigail, and for Melanctha too. The girls were both going up North to college in just a few weeks, Abigail to Swarthmore, a Quaker place that had boys as well, and Melanctha to Radcliffe, the girls' part of Harvard.

What gardening got done at the Bairds' house these days was done by Odessa, the maid. Odessa actually lived at the Bairds', sort of, in the out back -- "real nice of Cynthia to take her in like that, but sort of Yankified, wouldn't you say?" In any case, Odessa had enough to do just keeping the house in shape, not to mention certain problems of her own: a wandering husband, Horace (too bad: Horace was a wonderful gardener, just terrific with flowers, but he'd been off somewhere all summer); a daughter in trouble at the defense plant -- Nellie, Odessa's only child, and no one knew just what kind of trouble, but they had their own ideas.

But the garden was nobody's fault, not Abigail's or Odessa's, but probably the Lord's. Or the war's, like everything else.

Odessa's husband, Horace, was actually in the Navy, in the Pacific Ocean. He was overage but he looked young, and he'd lied about his age, and Odessa saw no point in telling anyone (no one white) where he was, and she never had, not even Miz Baird, who had treated her good. But she sorely missed him, and all she got were little notes sometimes that Horace got some man there with him to write. She didn't even know just where he was, but sometimes on the radio she heard these Japanese-sounding names, Okinawa, Hirohito, and talk about boats and battles, and she was scared, just plumb dumb scared, and not a single thing she could do about it, and not a person to tell. And then Nellie: some white folks' crazy talk about a union over to the plant, which would end up getting her fired, Odessa knew. Some crazy students from over to Hilton. Every time the phone rings in the house, which is not too often these days with them all off somewheres, Odessa was mortally afraid of terrible news: Horace, or Nellie, or even Mr. Baird, off in the Navy too, though not with the same uniform at all that Horace wears.

Cynthia was not looking forward to her party. For one thing, it was planned as a by-the-pool party, and she might not hear the phone from the pool, and Derek might call; all day she has had a strong sense of the imminence of Derek. Odessa will be up at the house to answer some of the time, but there's all the food to bring out, and more glasses and fresh ice -- always something. Odessa could all too easily not hear the phone. Really smart of me, Cynthia thinks, to be waiting like a sixteen-year-old for a phone call --congratulations, dumbbell -- and a phone call from a man who doesn't even love you, he says. She frowns and tries to concentrate on what's to be done.

Sliced cold ham, a notch up from the usual cold fried chicken, and a cold green rice salad, two notches up from potato salad. Odessa's beaten biscuits, locally famous, and Odessa's fresh peach ice cream. Divine.

A nice lunch, the problem being that she doesn't really care for any of the guests -- except of course for the two girls of honor, her own dearest Abigail, who actually has been a considerable pain in the butt, of late, and dear Melanctha Byrd, who at times looks so unnervingly like Russ, and who seems unhappy, poor child. And no wonder, with those great big breasts almost weighing her down -- just like her mother, poor SallyJane. Does Melanctha drink too? Well, probably not yet. But she'll always have trouble buying clothes.

Cynthia herself, a former Vassar Daisy Chain girl, is tall and thin, is made for clothes -- as salesladies have often told her. And Abigail, an inch less tall and a tiny bit heavier than her mother, could wear almost anything if she cared to, but she does not; she does not give a fig about clothes, she wears any old thing and gets by with it because she is so young, and pretty, really (if she'd only do something about her hair).


But the person Cynthia surely does not want to see, who always makes her uncomfortable, is James Russell Lowell Byrd, father of Melanctha. Russ, who was once a famous poet and a playwright, now just writes screenplays, sometimes -- he was the true reason that Cynthia and Harry moved to Pinehill in the first place: Cynthia wanted to meet the poet, she loved his words. And a few years later it had happened, they had had the affair that she had always had in mind. Which had been terrific, in its way, but all that is left of it now is social embarrassment. Discomfort at seeing each other. Russ must feel it too, she is sure, along with guilt; it happened so soon after the death of SallyJane, his wife, mother of Melanctha -- poor SallyJane with the overlarge bosom, who drank too much and then died of the shock treatment they gave her for depression. Now Russ is married to Deirdre, who used to be the most beautiful girl in town, and who had a little boy with Russ before they were married, and now has a little baby girl, unaccountably named SallyJane. Cynthia sighs, and she thinks for the thousandth time, I will never understand the Southern mind, not in any way.

Cynthia does not want to see Russ, nor her supposed best friend, Dolly Bigelow (Dolly is just too idiotic, some of the time) -- nor Jimmy Hightower, another "dear friend," a former Oklahoma oilman who with Russ's help wrote one best-seller. The person she would actually like to see is Esther, Jimmy's wife, who is in New York now doing something with Jewish refugees.

She was glad, Cynthia was, that none of the grown-ups have chosen to wear their bathing suits. They're mostly too old and too fat, a lot of them. Dolly Bigelow is very plump, and her husband, Willard, too; Deirdre Byrd is truly fat (could she possibly be pregnant again? Russ has this crazy thing about birth control: SallyJane told several people that, and Cynthia had what you might call firsthand knowledge). Curiously, the men looked better than the women did: Russ looked really okay (all that time at Hollywood swimming pools, probably), and Jimmy Hightower's exactly the same as always. Cynthia thought then with a pang of guilt and longing of Harry, so trim and elegant in his Navy things -- and then of Derek, so very tall and thin, in his belted trench coat, with his pipe.

By mid-afternoon, no one had really drunk too much except Deirdre Byrd; she did not seem exactly tight, but Cynthia had observed her: lots and lots of gin-and-tonics, there in the waning sun, in the warm smell of grass and flowers and chlorine. Dolly Bigelow had also been aware of Deirdre's drinking, and Cynthia had observed Dolly watching Deirdre. Dolly and Cynthia viewed each other with equal parts of suspicion and affection.

Dolly suspected that a while back there was something going on between Cynthia and Russ Byrd, not long after SallyJane died. About the time that Dolly and Cynthia opened that little store, with some things that Odessa had made along with things by white ladies too, from out in the country. The store didn't work out too well, and probably if they'd've kept it, the war would've finished it anyway. But: Cynthia and Russ. How could a thing like that have come to any good? Lord knows Dolly was no prude, but she really didn't hold with married folk carrying on, you're supposed to keep the promises you made in church. Russ Byrd is a handsome man all right, but then so is Harry Baird, especially now in his naval uniform. How many handsome men does Cynthia need -- what is she, some kind of a nymphomaniac? Besides, Dolly never had what you might call evidence, just a hunch from their ways of looking at each other, of saying each other's name.

"This is just the best rice salad I have ever tasted," Dolly said to Cynthia. "You sure have taught Odessa a thing or two," and she smiled, very sweetly.

Cynthia suspected that as usual Dolly was wearing falsies inside her dress, and for what, for whom? Certainly not foggy Willard, her boring husband, who taught Greek and Latin at the local college; she doubted that Willard had had a sexual thought in his head or anywhere else for fifteen or sixteen years, which was how old their younger boy was. She smiled back at Dolly as she told her, "I made it myself, actually. But I'm sure Odessa could have done it better."

Cynthia believed that in some private and half-conscious way Dolly had it in for Odessa, and not just because Odessa was "colored" and Dolly was a Southern woman; it was more personal than that. As though Odessa was not really "Negro" enough for Dolly.

Unlike the lawns, the rest of the garden and the planting around the pool have done well. Flowering sweet-smelling privet thrived, and the lilac bushes that Cynthia, missing New England, insisted on. Next spring they will bountifully, beautifully bloom -- assuming that we're all here next spring, thought Cynthia, who was not at all sure what she meant. Nothing to do with the war, probably; she did not think that Hitler would win in Europe and then come over here with his Blackshirts and Storm Troopers and concentration camps. Although some people seemed to believe just that; Cynthia's friend Esther Hightower seemed to believe it. But Cynthia's sense of impermanence had more to do with the fragility of personal connections, specifically her own: with Harry, who was doing God-knows-what in London, and with Abigail, her very own and only daughter, always so independent, so intelligent. And now off to Swarthmore, so far away, difficult to get back from there, what with wartime transportation.

And then there was Derek, with whom anything at all could happen, or, just as possibly, nothing.
"

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 26, 2012

    After DF 1

    (After the dark forest attcks thunderclan.) Brambecw padded to the Moonpool. Jayfeather sat down the the edge of the pool. Jayfeather heard fur brush stone as Brambleclaw layed down beside the water. "Drink the water." Jayfeather meowed to Brambleclaw. Brambleclaw lapped up the water. Jayfeather crouched down and walked in Brambleclaws dream. Before he did he thought 'I hope I see Hollyleaf.' Jayfeathers sister had died in the Dark Forest war. Jayfeather leaped into Brambleclaws dream. In the dream Jayfeather hid in the bushes. They were at the island were the Clans met at the full moon. Brambleclaw was standing in the clearing alone. Suddnly the stars above them started to swirl around. They seemed to loop to the ground. Once the reached the ground they dissappeared and in their place were cats. Yellowfang, Goldenflower, Hollyleaf, Feathertail, Bluestar, Whitestorm, Mousefur and Ferncloud. Last of all was Firestar. They crowded in a circle around Brambleclaw. More StarClan cats arrived. Once they were all there all the cats meowed as one. "Welcome Brambleclaw. Are you ready?" They meowed as on Jayfeather stared at the crowed searching them for familer faces. "Yes." Brambleclaw meowed. Jayfeather could tell he was trying not to sound weak. "I'm ready." Goldenflower came foreward. She was a pale ginger she cat with amber eyes like Brambleclaw. "Goldenflower!" Brambleclaw exclaimed. Goldenflower stayed silent. She touched her nose to his. "With this life i give you protection. Use it to protect your Clan as a mother protects her kits." She meowed. Brambleclaw closed his eyes and stiffened as th life flowed through him. Goldenflower padded back to the crowed and melted in. The next cat was Hollyleaf. Jayfeather forced himslef to stay where he was. "With this life i give you courage." She whispered. "Use it well in defense of your Clan." Brambleclaw stared at Hollyleaf. She touched her nose to his head. Brambleclaw stiffened again. As Hollyleaf padded back again he called,"Wait do you have a message?" But she ignored him. The third cat was Ashfur. "With this life i give you justice. Use it well to judge the actions of your Clanmates." He meowed. He pressed his nose to Brambleclaws head. This time brambleclaw seemed prepared for whatever he felt. The fourth was Ferncloud. "With this life i give you loyalty. Use it to guide your Clan in times of trouble." She touched her nose to his. Brambleclaw shook his pelt once the pain seemed to be gone. Another cat came foreward. Runningwind. The name flashed in Jayfeathers mind. "With this life i give you tireless energy. Use it to carry out the duties if a leader." Brambleclaw just closed his eyes. The sixth cat was Yellowfang. "With this life i give you mentoring. Use it to train the young cats of the Clan." She rasped as she touched her nose to his. Cinderpelt came foreward. "With this life i give you love. Use it well for the cats in your care." She whispered. The next cat with Feathertail. "With this lifei give you compassion. Use it for the elders of the Clan the sick and the ones weaker then you." Brambleclaw stiffened as thoigh unprepared. Firestar stepped foreward. "Welcome Brambleclaw. My apprenrice my warrior and my deputy. I always knew you would make a good leader." Brambleclaw bowed his head. "With this life i give you nobility. Use it well to lead your Clan." At this Jayfeather left the dream. (Next post in the second book.)

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