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Zusatztext “Engaging. . . . Cary creates characters with such full-bodied life that their predicaments remain vivid.” — The New York Times Book Review Informationen zum Autor Lorene Cary is the author of If Sons, Then Heirs , Pride , and Black Ice , which was a 1992 American Library Association Notable Book. Cary currently lectures in creative writing at the University of Pennsylvania. She founded Art Sanctuary, a model non-profit lecture and performance series. She lives in Philadelphia with her husband and two daughters. Klappentext “An absorbing and moving tale” ( Publishers Weekly )—a uniquely American story of the consequences of past decisions on present realities through the narrative of a Black family in Philadelphia rediscovering their roots in South Carolina. After World War II, the Needham family moved north to Philadelphia from South Carolina, leaving behind the tragic injustice surrounding the violent death of their patriarch, King. His devoted widow, Selma, remains on the old home place. Over the years, she raises King’s children, including his great-grandson, Rayne, who is now burdened with the responsibility of bringing the family together, saving the family land, and mending the rift with his mother. If Sons, Then Heirs is a tour de force that explores the power of family secrets, bonds, and love. Rayne and the other characters face challenges big and small that mirror the experiences of families everywhere. But in the masterful storytelling of Lorene Cary, their voices are so distinct and unique that they will live in the minds of readers long after the last page is read. Leseprobe CHAPTER 1 Jewell Thompson nosed her sedan into the narrow Philadelphia street. She had directions on the seat next to her, and also the letter. In her mind, a voice from the past, her grandmother’s, shouted: “We home!” which was ridiculous, since she’d never been on this street, or even in this section of the city, before. Outside her noisy mind, rows of identical two-story brick houses squatted beside Cobbs Creek Park, muffled by heavy fog and a cold, early-spring, early-Sunday-morning quiet. She had to drive cautiously. No more than four or five inches separated her driver’s side from the curb or her passenger’s side from the parked cars, whose owners had carefully folded in their side-view mirrors. She slowed nearly to a stop when she saw house numbers that matched the return address on the letter. They were gold and white, painted onto a glossy black brick face. Prim white sills and lintels, like shirt cuffs, shone through the drizzle, and white lines traced the mortar. When she’d left her house, Jewell had told her husband that she might, depending on the way things looked, knock on the door. Now, presented with the reality of this shiny black cookie jar of a building on the misty working-class West Philadelphia street, she doubted she’d have the courage. In front of the house grew a large sycamore that had buckled the sidewalk. At the level of the second floor, mottled limbs reached out over the street and twinkled with tiny white Christmas lights. An extension cord connected them to the second-floor window. She couldn’t quite see, but it looked as if they’d drilled a hole in the storm-window trim for the cord, so as not to have to leave the window open. Jewell smiled to herself. Clever. She imagined that the lights made the little street feel inviting at night. A parking space under the tree beckoned, but it seemed too close and obvious, so she let her car roll forward one car length to the stop sign. Some bright, false part of herself congratulated her on the trip: There, done. Now I can go home. Instead, she sat motionless at the stop sign. She did not even notice the large red pickup truck behind her, until the driver touched his horn. In her rearview mirror, she cou...
