Taft

by Ann Patchett Narrated by J.D. Jackson

Overview

A New York Times Notable Book

“As resonant as a blues song. . . . Expect miracles when you read Ann Patchett's fiction.”-New York Times Book Review

An ex-jazz drummer wants nothing more than to be a good father in this moving family novel by the New York Times best-selling author of The Dutch House.

When John Nickel's lover takes away his son, Nickel is left only with his Beale Street bar in Memphis. He hires a young waitress named Fay Taft, who brings with her a desperate, dangerous brother, Carl, and the possibility of new intimacy. Nickel finds himself consumed with Fay and Carl's dead father-Taft-obsessing over and reconstructing the life of a man he never met.

A stunning artistic achievement, Taft confirms Ann Patchett's standing as one of the most gifted writers of her generation and reminds us of our deepest instincts to protect the people we love.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

As resonant as a blues song. . . . Expect miracles when you read Ann Patchett’s fiction."
— New York Times Book Review

"A moving emblem of fatherhood's rarely explored passion." — Los Angeles Times

"Absorbing. . . Strikingly original." — Kirkus Reviews

"Patchett writes with remarkable conviction and attention to telling details." — Mirabella

Product Details

BN ID:	2940170006762
Publisher:	HarperCollins
Publication date:	09/10/2019
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

I had such a wave of sickness come over me that I thought I was going to throw up, but by the time I walked into the bathroom it had calmed some and I poured myself a glass of water from the tap and went back to the bed. Four in the morning. I held my eyes open to keep from seeing the part where he was falling.

Then for no reason at all I thought of that girl Fay. I didn't know where she lived. I didn't have her phone number so I could call her and tell her that she couldn't have the job, if I was to decide not to give it to her. I couldn't call to find out if she was okay if I was to go in tomorrow and not find her. It wasn't that I wanted to think about her, but by seeing her face I could make myself not see Franklin's, so I thought about her. I could barely fix her in my mind, the thin skin on her temples, the red that the cold put on her cheeks. I couldn't remember the color of her eyes or if her straight hair that wasn't blond or brown was cut into bangs the way so many girls her age like to wear their hair these days. I wondered where in the east she came from. I wondered who was looking out for her. Who made her that ugly hat. I remembered how careful she was when it came time for her to cross the street and it made me feel comforted. Someone taught her what to watch for. But then, they didn't teach her well enough if she was wandering down to Beale looking for work in bars. There was no watching them every minute, Marion. We can't be everywhere. What are you going to do but teach them to look?

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