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Setting Free The Kites - Softcover

George, Alex

 
9780735215665: Setting Free The Kites

Inhaltsangabe

From the author of the "lyrical and compelling" (USA Today) novel A Good American comes a powerful story of two friends and the unintended consequences of friendship, loss, and hope.

For Robert Carter, life in his coastal Maine hometown is comfortably predictable. But in 1976, on his first day of eighth grade, he meets Nathan Tilly, who changes everything. Nathan is confident, fearless, impetuous-and fascinated by kites and flying. Robert and Nathan's budding friendship is forged in the crucible of two family tragedies, and as the boys struggle to come to terms with loss, they take summer jobs at the local rundown amusement park. It's there that Nathan's boundless capacity for optimism threatens to overwhelm them both, and where they learn some harsh truths about family, desire, and revenge.

Unforgettable and heart-breaking, Setting Free the Kites is a poignant and moving exploration of the pain, joy, and glories of young friendship.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

The author of A Good American, Alex George is an Englishman who lives, works, and writes in the middle of America. He studied law at Oxford University and worked for eight years as a corporate lawyer in London and Paris before moving to the United States. He lives in Missouri with his family.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof

Copyright © 2017 Alex George

PROLOGUE

Haverford, Maine, 2015

Nathan Tilly gave me the story I'm going to tell, but it was the old paper mill that set my memories free.

I read the report in the Haverford Gazette the previous week. The mill has not been operational for more than fifty years, but now the land has been sold to a supermarket chain, and the old building is to be razed to make way for a customer parking lot. The news has prompted vigorous local debate. Some are angry that the city council has allowed part of our municipal heritage to be sold off. Others are excited at the prospect of fresh bagels. Such is progress.

For myself, I'm sorry to see the old place go. I want to pay my last respects, watch the thing go down.

The lower end of Bridge Street is lined with mud-encrusted pick-ups and vans. I have to double back and park on the other side of the river. It is a beautiful, fresh spring morning. The faintest of breezes is coming in off the ocean. As I walk across the bridge I can hear someone shouting instructions through a bullhorn.

Warning signs have been posted along the road, keeping the curious at bay. Authorized Personnel Only. Hard Hat Required. I keep my distance. A huge crane is parked in front of the old building, its arm stretched high into the sky. A wrecking ball hangs at the end of the crane's thick steel rope, fat and heavy with the threat of violence. The mill's giant wooden doors have been padlocked shut my entire life, but now they are opened wide, and early morning sunlight falls into the cathedral-like space where vast pulping machines once rumbled from dawn to dusk, the town's beating heart. Workmen in reflector vests walk in and out, murmuring into walkie-talkies. I guess they are checking all three floors for uninvited visitors before the walls start crashing down.

The mill's red brick chimney rises tall and straight into the sky. By lunchtime it will be gone.

At precisely nine o'clock there is a long, shrill blast from a whistle. A man climbs into the cabin of the crane and turns on the ignition. As the engine rumbles to life, the arm of the crane begins to move from side to side, and the wrecking ball starts to swing.

The old mill has been on the brink of demolition for years. Up and down this part of the southern Maine coast, from Biddeford to Brunswick, abandoned industrial buildings have been rescued and revivified, artfully repurposed for twenty-first century living. Those ancient spaces have been reborn as art galleries, office suites with double-height ceilings, and organic delicatessens selling squid ink pasta from Umbria and artisanal cheeses from Vermont. Everyone has been waiting for a similar metamorphosis to happen in Haverford. It hasn't been for want of trying: in 2004 a consortium of property speculators from away went crazy for the mill's exposed brickwork. An architect was commissioned to design a warren of luxury condominiums with reclaimed timber floors and glinting chrome appliances. But the town lacked the necessary real estate mojo to pull it off. No matter how pretty the artist's impressions in the brochure looked, nobody was buying. Not a single unit was sold, and the promised renovation never happened. The place has remained abandoned and deserted ever since.

The wrecking ball is swinging fiercely now, slicing through the air in ever more violent arcs. The crane operator begins to rotate the cabin, gradually turning it toward the old walls. I feel my body stiffen in anticipation of the first impact. When it comes, there is an infernal roar of collapsing brick, crushed wood, and splintering glass. That's when I feel a release within me, a quiet letting go. The crane operator edges the caterpillar tracks forward a few feet, and moments later another slab of wall disappears. A fog of atomized red brick hangs over the rubble. I watch for a

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