Short-listed for the Man Booker Prize
"It was a beautiful, breezy, yellow-and-green afternoon. . ." This is how Abby Whitshank always begins the story of how she fell in love with Red that day in July 1959. The Whitshanks are one of those families that radiate togetherness: an indefinable, enviable kind of specialness.
- Publisher: Penguin Random House Audio Publishing Gr
- Date: Feb 2015
From the cover
Late one July evening in 1994, Red and Abby Whitshank had a phone call from their son Denny. They were getting ready for bed at the time. Abby was standing at the bureau in her slip, drawing hairpins one by one from her scattery sand-colored topknot. Red, a dark, gaunt man in striped pajama bottoms and a white T‑shirt, had just sat down on the edge of the bed to take his socks off; so when the phone rang on the nightstand beside him, he was the one who answered. "Whitshank residence," he said.
And then, "Well, hey there."
Abby turned from the mirror, both arms still raised to her head.
"What's that," he said, without a question mark.
"Huh?" he said. "Oh, what the hell, Denny!"
Abby dropped her arms.
"Hello?" he said. "Wait. Hello? Hello?"
He was silent for a moment, and then he replaced the receiver.
"What?" Abby asked him.
"Says he's gay."
"Said he needed to tell me something: he's gay."
"And you hung up on him!"
"No, Abby. He hung up on me. All I said was 'What the hell,' and he hung up on me. Click! Just like that."
"Oh, Red, how could you?" Abby wailed. She spun away to reach for her bathrobe—a no-color chenille that had once been pink. She wrapped it around her and tied the sash tightly. "What possessed you to say that?" she asked him.
"I didn't mean anything by it! Somebody springs something on you, you're going to say 'What the hell,' right?"
Abby grabbed a handful of the hair that pouffed over her forehead.
"All I meant was," Red said, " 'What the hell next, Denny? What are you going to think up next to worry us with?' And he knew I meant that. Believe me, he knew. But now he can make this all my fault, my narrow-mindedness or fuddy-duddiness or whatever he wants to call it. He was glad I said that to him. You could tell by how fast he hung up on me; he'd been just hoping all along that I would say the wrong thing."
"All right," Abby said, turning practical. "Where was he calling from?"
"How would I know where he was calling from? He doesn't have a fixed address, hasn't been in touch all summer, already changed jobs twice that we know of and probably more that we don't know of . . . A nineteen-year-old boy and we have no idea what part of the planet he's on! You've got to wonder what's wrong, there."
"Did it sound like it was long distance? Could you hear that kind of rushing sound? Think. Could he have been right here in Baltimore?"
"I don't know, Abby."
She sat down next to him. The mattress slanted in her direction; she was a wide, solid woman. "We have to find him," she said. Then, "We should have that whatsit—caller ID." She leaned forward and gazed fiercely at the phone. "Oh, God, I want caller ID this instant!"
"What for? So you could phone him back and he could just let it ring?"
"He wouldn't do that. He would know it was me. He would answer, if he knew it was me."
She jumped up from the bed and started pacing back and forth, up and down the Persian runner that was worn nearly white in the middle from all the times she had paced it before. This was an attractive room, spacious and well designed, but it had the comfortably shabby air of a place whose inhabitants had long ago stopped seeing it.
"What did his voice sound like?" she asked. "Was he nervous? Was he upset?"
"He was fine."
"So you say. Had he been drinking, do you think?"
"I couldn't tell."
"Were other people with him?"
"I couldn't tell, Abby."
"Or maybe . . . one other person?"
He sent her a sharp...
". . .Tyler is as fleet and graceful as a skater, her prose as transparent as ice . . . We get swept up in the spin of conversations, the slipstream of consciousness, and the glide and dip of domestic life, then feel the sting of Tyler's quick and cutting insights into unjust assumptions about class, gender, age, and race . . . Tyler's long dedication to language and story [is] an artistic practice made perfect in this charming, funny, and shrewd novel of the paradoxes of self, family, and home." --Donna Seaman, Booklist (starred)
"Tyler show[s] once again that she's a gifted and engrossing storyteller." --Publishers Weekly
"It is wonderful to pick up a novel from a bonafide literary superstar. A Spool of Blue Thread is Anne Tyler's twentieth novel and it shows in every flawless sentence . . . A stunning novel about family life which just rings so true--it depicts the bonds and the tensions, the love and the exasperation beautifully . . . A terrific novel." - The Bookseller, UK (Book of the Month)