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The Problem With Murmur Lee - Hardcover

Fowler, Connie May

 
9780385499811: The Problem With Murmur Lee
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0385499817 ISBN 13: 9780385499811
Verlag: Doubleday, 2005

Inhaltsangabe

When the great-great-granddaughter of a wealthy industrialist drowns, the woman's best friend returns to their island home to search for the truth, while a transsexual ex-marine strives to defend the late woman's reputation against local rumors.

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Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Connie May Fowler is the Irving Bacheller Professor of Creative Writing at Rollins College in Winter Park, Florida.

<p>CONNIE MAY FOWLER is an essayist, screenwriter, and novelist. Her novels include <i>Remembering Blue</i> and <i>Before Women Had Wings</i>, which received the Southern Book Critics Circle Award and was make into a successful “Oprah Winfrey Presents” movie for television. She founded the Connie May Fowler Women with Wings Foundation, a nonprofit dedicated to aiding women and children in need. She lives on Florida's northern gulf shore.</p>

Aus dem Klappentext

<p>At thirty-two, Oster Harp is a wealthy man, a captain of industry who has settled on an unnamed island with his young pregnant wife and an entourage of servants to tend his property and ensure that nothing disturbs his peace and quiet. Pacing the beach on the morning his wife gives birth, he catches sight of a rainbow and, struck by the magic of the moment, names both the island and his newborn daughter for the Greek goddess of the rainbow. But Iris is also the goddess who receives the souls of dying women, and in choosing the name, Oster unwittingly leaves a legacy that haunts the island and the Harp family for generations to come. <br><br>Murmur Lee, Oster’s great-great-granddaughter, has spent her entire life on Iris Haven. She has married and divorced, raised two daughters, and seems totally content with her surroundings and with the latest beau in her long series of conquests. When, just shy of her fortieth birthday, Murmur drowns in the Iris Haven River, her eclectic circle of friends is profoundly shaken by the mysteries surrounding her death. After years of self-exile in the North, Charlie Mudd, Murmur’s best friend, returns to find out what really happened on that fateful night and is forced to confront the ghosts of her own past. Edith Piaf, a former marine whose sex-change at the age of sixty-two Murmur supported with an unquestioning generosity of spirit, vows to defend Murmur’s reputation against the snide rumors arising in town. And Murmur's egotistic lover, William, finds himself unable to let go of the woman who enchanted and intrigued him. <br><br>With poignancy and humor, and a loving respect for her characters, Fowler weaves the voices of Murmur and her friends into a compelling narrative. Part family saga, part murder mystery, THE PROBLEM WITH MURMUR LEE is Fowler’s most rewarding and engrossing work to date.</p>

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

A Letter from
Murmur Lee Harp
to Charleston Rowena Mudd


July 21, 2001


Dear Charlee,

Here is the swan feather I promised. Be forewarned: This really works. An old celibate man in Jacksonville Beach clued me in. He blames the feather for his incessant faithfulness. By his own admission, he cheated on his wife with all the consistency of a serial killer until his wife threw the feather spell on him. He spent the first decade of his marriage as a philanderer and the last two as a model husband. In fact, he buried her three years ago and remains true. It's sad, really, that this works so well. I mean, the old guy is never going to get laid again in his life.

Anyway, you have to sew the feather into his pillowcase. You can't simply stick it in there. Do you know how to sew anymore? You've been up there so long, I suspect you've forgotten everything our mothers tried to teach us. I can see how that is both helpful and not. For instance, your mother, who was truly a dear woman—you know I loved her—was always insisting that you wear your hair short. That was wrongheaded. You're a knockout when you let those curls kiss your shoulders.

Also, when do I get to meet this Nigerian? Like I said in this morning's E-mail, you CANNOT marry until I have approved. I would give you the same courtesy. Bring him down here and let me meet him while the summer storms still rage. Don't let this get past you. I know you. Once school kicks in, you'll be too busy to even respond to E-mail. So book your flights and I'll pick you up, and you two can have the house all to yourselves.

We're having a bang-up summer, Charlee. Last evening, Dr. Z was still running around Hastings in his Roadmaster (I don't believe he has cleaned it out, only added to the pile of crap, since you left here however many years ago), treating the migrants, and I took the liberty, as is my wont and his pleasure, to sit on his dock and sip my beer and watch the end-of-day glory unfold and settle. I was glad I did, because last night's sunset turned out to be a rare breed of awesome. The magnolia leaves quivered in the waning light. The river glowed. The sky bloomed. The anvil clouds towering in the west over the hammock appeared to be lit from within. It was enough to make my heart break and put itself back together out of sheer joy: lilac, purple, orange, sage. This old world, I'm telling you, pulsed with the sun's last gasp—ba bap, ba bap, ba bap—and then both sea and sky took on a golden glaze.

Just when I was thinking life couldn't get any better, it did. A flock of terns rose from the river, spiraling up up up, a ribbon of black and white unfurling along a thermal. And then they disappeared. It was as if God had called them home.

What do you think of that? I'd really like to know. Also, if any of your professors would like to comment, I welcome their thoughts.

If the description of the sunset doesn't do it, then perhaps this will entice you home: The dragonflies are in peak form. And you know what they say . . . a bountiful season of dragonflies makes for a healthy uterus. Picture you and your beloved sitting on Z's dock—or my porch—quiet and beautiful and still—watching the dragons fly. Take right now, for instance. I'm on my back patio, writing this letter and am surrounded. They collide into one another—winged bumper cars—as they gorge on the mosquitoes, and with each collision, a faintly metallic whir strikes the air. I bet ants and cockroaches consider it to be a form of music, something akin to calypso.

So what do you think of my news about this guy I met? I mean, I'm a bit wary, yet ever so willing to throw every shred of caution to the wind.

My tendency toward behaving with abandon is fueled by my very real and reasonable desire for sex. I mean, it has been three months. I've done all sorts of spell casting. I even burned my pubes in a bird's nest. That should have brought me major boom-boom action. But no! I'm still walking about like a nun!

So for no other reason than carnal desire, I'm tempted to go forward with this. He's cute as hell. My pubes have grown back in. As good old Father Beaver used to say, "Perhaps this would make Jesus happy." I'll keep you posted. Love on the river should be very hot. I guess I ought to buy a new razor or get waxed. Or something.

I miss you, Charlee. Z misses you. Edith misses you. Lucinda misses you. The whole damn bunch of us do. So come visit before you get involved in all your books and God again. Besides, you know as well as I do, God isn't up there. She left Boston ages ago.

Love you lots,
Murmur

P.S. I forgot to tell you, that poor swan! And poor me! The spell doesn't work if you pick up a feather off the ground. You have to pluck it out of the poor bird's butt. You'd better be sure you really want this guy.


Murmur Lee Harp


The pearl-faced moon dipped behind a cloud, darkening the night, as I sped upriver to meet my lover. We'd had many such river trysts. In fact, it was how we'd met five months prior: he on his way to check his crab traps and me anchored in the Matanzas, listening to Gillian Welch softly wail on my boom box. But tonight, it was the Iris Haven River, not the Matanzas, and it was New Year's Eve—a time that made me melancholy, because who among us could live up to the expectations born of fresh beginnings?

My skiff bounced along the swift chop, and as I brought her into the channel, I could see that Billy was already there. He owned a twenty-four-foot Wellcraft Fisherman, and if the tide had been low, he wouldn't have been in this river, as it ran shallow. But the New Year and broad, waning moon had given us a high tide, which made the river doable. I eased back on the throttle, my skin and hair wet with salt spray, not believing that I'd been with Billy for nearly half a year. As I churned doggedly on, closing the gap between us, I reminded myself that I deserved this happiness. My life was like most people's: a series of challenges made bearable by the sanctified gifts of friends and strangers. I wasn't going to sabatoge things this time. I was going to love a man and allow him to love me back and simply accept that life could be this way. And if, on occasion, I needed to slip a pinch of cayenne into his coffee to keep him focused, or sweeten his table salt with a dusting of snipped egret feathers to make him want me more, well, I was up for that. Upon my approach, I heard John Lee Hooker on Billy's boom box: "One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer." What a fine way to bring in the New Year: with the blues.

I anchored off his leeward bow, and as I watched the line uncoil and disappear into the river, I yelled, "Hello!"

Billy poked his head out of the cabin, all smiles, his eyes polished by liquor. "Hey there." He stepped onto the deck and raised his Budweiser in greeting. Dressed in well-saddled jeans, a red cable-knit sweater, and a University of Florida baseball cap, he looked younger than his forty-five years. "What took you so long?" He shot me that gap-toothed Scots-Irish grin.

"I ran over to the hammock. Wanted to see if I could spot the owl we heard last night."

He didn't say anything. He just stared. I fiddled with my hair and felt myself blush. His gaze was direct and all about sex. Even though I was halfway through my third decade on this planet, I wobbled under the weight of his hazel eyes. I brought my slicker tighter about me. "Permission to come aboard, sir."

He held open his arms: a welcoming gesture. "Permission granted."

As he took my line in his big hands and pulled my skiff toward him, I felt light and happy, almost home.


It was cold on the river, even though we were...

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Verlag
Doubleday
Erscheinungsdatum
2005
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0385499817
ISBN 13 
9780385499811
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
209
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