Down There by the Train - Hardcover

Sterns, Kate

 
9780609610152: Down There by the Train

Inhaltsangabe

Recent parolee Levon Hawke makes his way across a frozen lake to an island where he has been offered a job, only to arrive at the wrong end of the island, where he finds a ruined house occupied by a grieving Obdulia Limb.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Kate Sterns was born in Toronto in 1961 and grew up in Kingston, Ontario. Her first novel, <i>Thinking About Magritte</i>, was published to acclaim in 1992. She lives in Montreal.<br><br><br><i>From the Trade Paperback edition.</i>

Aus dem Klappentext

Levon Hawke is a kind, gentle fellow who has been in prison for a hapless and almost comical misunderstanding. The first thing he does upon being paroled is head to his old friend Sweeney’s diner. There Hawke considers his cousin Simon Tibeault’s job offer to work in his bakery on a small nearby island with a suspect history. Lulled by Sweeney’s stories and the comfort of the diner, Hawke misses the only ferry. But, provisioned with doughnuts and Sweeney’s map, he sets out anyway across the frozen part of the lake, alone and in failing light.<br><br>A ruined house, deep in a dark forest, is the first thing he sees after stumbling ashore on the wrong end of the island. It is the glimmer of light beneath the door that brings him closer. Behind the door, he meets tall, redheaded Obdulia Limb, grieving for her mother, ten years dead. <br><br>Drawn in by Obdulia’s overbearing father and her octogenarian femme fatale of a stepmother, Hawke tries to resist their scheme to involve him in a comic yet gruesome conspiracy to cure Obdulia of her grief. But love has other plans for him.<br><br>Packed with magic, comic misunderstandings, and metaphorical brilliance, <b>Down There by the Train</b> is a witty and wistful gothic romance by a writer of exceptional talent.

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An old-fashioned Coca-Cola sign hung above the door, creaking in the breeze. Red plastic letters that could be removed or scrambled to make new words were slotted into ledges, like a child's learn-to-read toy. The first line said Sweeney's Diner. Reputable since 1955. Underneath that was an advertisement for the $2.99 breakfast. Served all day. And then: Go d eats here.
He blinked twice, speculating as to whether Sweeney had succumbed in his old age to an uncharacteristic bout of religious fervour. Levon's aunt, Anna-Lee, had switched from the Anglican church to the Pentecostal after her divorce (More action! she claimed), and now spoke in tongues. Without stopping, his father grumbled.
Levon soon identified the problem: there was a gap between the o and the d. A letter had slipped in its mooring and sailed off on the wind. A missing, what, consonant? Gord eats here. No, of course not. A vowel, then. An o. That was it. The sign should have read Good eats here. God was meant to be good. How scandalized Anna Lee would be at the notion that He was a mere typo: an error. An absence. Levon guffawed. Religion, Harvey's great discovery, grief - that's all boiled down to in the end: a red o. A bloody circle with nothing at the centre of it.
To occupy his time while waiting for Sweeney's to open, Levon decided to search for the letter. First, he looked about at his feet but saw no telltale splash of red.
He'd have to seek it further afield.
The snow on the pavement was worn down and grubby as an old bar of soap. Ice, partially thawed, then frozen again, felt nubbly on the soles of his shoes. He trod accidentally on a patch of smoother ice and his feet shot forward while his upper body jerked back, as if a rug had been yanked out from under him. His arms windmilled in an undignified effort to right himself. He would have to watch his step. His shoes were prison-issue after all, designed to stick only to the straight and narrow.

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