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This is the insightful, troubling tale of the coming of age of a privileged young Southern woman during the turbulent Civil Rights era.
In Montgomery, Alabama, Martin Luther King Jr. has organized a bus boycott. In Tuscaloosa, outrage surrounds the entrance of the state university's first black student. But at little Randolph University, sweltering in the summer heat, life remains dreamily the same. At Kappa House, the sorority sisters talk of who has pinned whom, and whether they can sneak past their housemother so they can party at an out-of-town bar. Even among this privileged group, pretty, popular Kappa sister Maggie Deloach is unquestionably one of the elite...until she commits a single act of defiance and courage that forever alters the way others think of her, and how Maggie thinks of herself.
- Sales Rank: #743211 in Books
- Brand: Siddons, Anne Rivers
- Published on: 2007-07-03
- Released on: 2007-07-03
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.25" h x 1.00" w x 5.31" l, .73 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 384 pages
Review
"Marvelously detailed."
-- "The New York Times"
"Anne Rivers Siddons...delivers the goods -- the whole fabulous package -- with every book she writes."
-- Pat Conroy, bestselling author of "The Prince of Tides"
About the Author
Anne Rivers Siddons was born in a small railroad town just south of Atlanta, where her family has lived for six generations. She attended Auburn University and later joined the staff of Atlanta magazine. Her first novel, Heartbreak Hotel, a story of her college days at Auburn, was later made into a movie called Heart of Dixie, starring Ally Sheedy. Since then she has written fifteen more novels, many of which have been bestsellers. Recently, a movie version of her later novel The House Next Door was aired on LifeTime Network. Ms. Siddons now divides her time between Atlanta and Brooklin, Maine.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
The making of Maggie Deloach was a process as indigenous to her part of the South as the making of cotton textiles in the fortress-bricked mills that crouched over the muddy, fast-moving rivers of the Georgia and Alabama plateau country. But it was a process far more narrowly applied. In the cities of the South -- in Atlanta and Birmingham and Charlotte and Mobile and Charleston -- there were perhaps a hundred Maggies flowering in any given year, girls planted, tended, and grown like prize roses, to be cut and massed and shown at debutant balls and cotillions in their eighteenth year. Unlike roses, they did not die after the showing; instead, they moved gently into colleges and universities and Junior League chapters, and were then pressed between the leaves of substantial marriages to be dried and preserved.
In the smaller towns, there were always perhaps three or four current Maggies. And in the smallest, like Lytton, there was only a Maggie. Nevertheless, the technique of creation varied only in small details and circumstances. It was a process of rules, subtle, shaded, iron bylaws that were tacitly drafted in burned and torn households sometime during the Reconstruction by frail, reeling gentlewomen throughout the exploded South, laws for the shaping of new women who would be, forever after, impervious to casual, impersonal chaos. The formula lasted, with only those modifications that were a nod to the times, through a world war and a depression and another world war, and its end product, the young women of a certain caste of the South, were, on the main, as uniformly bright, hard, shining, and true as bullets from identical molds. There was no reason to think that The Rules would fail to hold, certainly no omens of mechanical malfunction, when the life of Maggie Deloach began.
And so it was that Maggie's making began far earlier than the April night of her conception in the mahogany bed with pineapple finials that stood in a high-ceilinged bedroom of the house that had belonged to four generations of Deloaches. Comer Deloach, just out of the University of Georgia law school, had brought Frances Hamilton there as a bride of twenty, a tall, unworldly, drooping farm girl fresh from a north Georgia female academy. For the first four years of their marriage, Frances and Comer had shared the house with Comer's mother, a still-pretty woman of such relentless Christian charity that she had driven Comer's father, a stout, flushed dentist, to increasingly frequent all-night fox and possum hunts with what she called his Cronies, in Lytton's surrounding pine woods. On one of those nights of drinking sour mash and following the baying speckled hounds, Big Comer had stumbled into an abandoned well on the deserted old Macintosh homeplace, covered only by tangled kudzu vines, and had broken his neck. By the time the fuddled Cronies had summoned old Dr. Clayton and the Lytton constabulary, with flashlights and ropes, Comer was dead.
For two years after his death, Elvira Deloach had lived comfortably alone on insurance and the considerable rentals from Deloach properties, largely in the black section of Lytton called Lightning, and had dispensed her charity to the less fortunate of Lytton and its environs via the funnel of the First Methodist Church of Lytton. And when Comer and Frances moved into the old Deloach place on Coleman Street, she leveled it at the young couple; chiefly at Frances, since Comer's proud new association with an Atlanta law firm meant an hour's train ride to the city, nine hours in the firm's library, and another chuffing hour's ride home. Frances Hamilton Deloach, conventional and biddable from her curly crown to her long, narrow feet, soon learned to fear, loathe, and obey her mother-in-law, and to ferment with tightly capped resentment even while she sat smiling with Elvira's missionary circle in the cool afternoon cave of her living room, studying Elvira's endless tracts and sewing awkwardly for the newly-come-to-Jesus in darkest Africa. Always, when as the junior member of the circle she was dispatched to the cavernous kitchen to bring in the tray of coconut cake and iced tea, prepared by muttering Theopal, she would hear the bee-drone of conversation drop to the level of a sweetly malignant litany, and she knew Elvira was sighing to a breath-held circle of Christian ladies about her daughter-in-law's ineptitude at the kitchen range and the lacy iron Singer sewing machine, her lack of initiative in the Work of the Church, and her inferior Hamilton antecedents. ("She tries, I suppose, but everybody knows they sharecropped until the twenties, at least, and the Good Lord only knows where they got money enough to send that child to Brenau. Jess MacLaren told me for a fact that there's no Hamilton money in his bank. Blood tells.")
By the time Maggie was conceived, Frances Deloach was unalterably a cowed and silently angry woman, but a confirmed standard-bearer of The Rules. They had, after all, gotten her off a sharecropper's red acres and into a lawyer's house.
Maggie's conception was accomplished in dead silence under cover of a spring thunderstorm and with the barest possible minimum of bedspring squeaking. Sanctified joy under her own roof was something Elvira Deloach effectively discouraged by calling softly to her son, through their connecting bedroom doors, that she thought she'd heard an intruding animal in the chicken coop, or that she'd heard an odd noise, almost like a moan; was Comer or Frances feeling ill? Or that she was "feeling her bad old stomach again" and would he please bring her a glass of Sal Hepatica, as she'd left her glasses on the sun porch again, silly woman that she was. She varied the timing of her nocturnal requests; a mutely furious Frances and a resigned Comer could not predict them. She died of a stroke -- quite possibly an undissipated clot of Christian charity -- before Frances's pregnancy was obvious even to her stiletto-sharp, tilted, cola-brown eyes. Frances Deloach was shocked and frightened when Maggie's baby eyes lost their unfocused blue and those same eyes stared at her from Maggie's small face.
From that moment on, as if to exorcise the ghost of old Elvira that, from time to time, looked at her out of those eyes, Frances drilled Maggie, tended her, groomed her, cherished her. Toward what, she could not have said, specifically. The Best for Maggie, she and Comer agreed when they discussed their child. Marriage ultimately, of course, a good one, but that was only a part of The Best. Safety, Frances meant, absolute, insular safety from the pain of an Elvira and all other pains ethereal and corporeal. But she did not know that this was what she meant.
There was never any doubt in the minds of Frances and Comer Deloach that the love they lavished on Maggie was honest love, nor was there in Maggie's mind, and Maggie still does not doubt it. Fierce, fathomless love is seldom wise love, but as Maggie told her therapist only a year ago, it is infinitely better than no love or cool, constructed affection.
Maggie was taken early and often to doctors, dentists, piano and art and dancing teachers, the better children's ready-to-wear departments, always in Atlanta. Sunday school and church services never began without Maggie Deloach, in that year's blue or burgundy velvet coat, leggings and bonnet to match. Piano and dancing recitals were never without her plodding, competent small fingers and feet and her grave face. Maggie was, for all her cadet training, a quiet child whose reticence looked sometimes like an oddly lovely sullenness, and sometimes was.
Maggie had the only Shetland pony in Lytton, and the only professional permanent wave given to a child.
She went, with only a few minor lapses, from Gerber babyhood into winsome toddlerhood into exemplary prepuberty. She was a bright child, and an increasingly and disturbingly pretty one. "Storm cuttin' up behind them eyes," Carrie would say, and a small surf of unease would wash over Frances. Maggie read early, and this made Frances inexplicably uneasy, also. Comer was charmed and amused when his small daughter ignored the carefully chosen books from Lytton's branch of the Carnegie Library and buried herself in his leather-bound volumes of Shakespeare, Arthur Conan Doyle, and Walt Whitman. De Maupassant was regularly taken away from her.
"Comer, I don't mind her reading when she's resting or the weather's bad, but she's always got her nose in a book. She reads under the covers with a flashlight. She told me the other night that Harry Hotspur plays in the sandbox with her and she talks to him, and I've seen her out there, right by herself, talking to nobody for hours. Comer, it's just not right for a child to lose touch with... with... real things like that." Frances Deloach talked mainly in italics; it was always one of her greatest charms for her husband, and kept her a girl to him always.
"Let her read," he said. "She's smart as a whip, and it isn't trash she's reading, Frannie."
And so reading remained one of Maggie's small and constant rebellions.
Maggie spelled impeccably, and wrote small poems about her dogs and her pony on Blue Horse school tablets. She drew with an early and mechanical facility, though little imagination, an endless succession of rearing horses with flowing manes. And she had playmates, the handful of children her age who lived in Lytton proper. Most of Lytton's young lived on outlying farms and helped with the chores at an age when Maggie was still not allowed to cross the street, and Maggie knew little of their existence, except to see them in overalls and bare feet, spilling out of pickup trucks and going into Lytton's feed and hardware and grocery stores with their parents on Saturday afternoons. It was not that Frances and Comer Deloach considered them inferior to Maggie; indeed, Frances was fond of saying that her own childhood on a farm had been healthful and happy in the extreme. It was only that they had so little in common with her. This was true. Maggie would have found little to say to ...
Most helpful customer reviews
18 of 18 people found the following review helpful.
A delightful journey back to the 50's..
By Barbara McArthur
Oh yes, some would say that this story and its characters are "trite and cliched", but, folks, if you grew up in the south in the 50's and 60's you cannot help but recognize yourself - or gain a brilliant glimpse of a southern girl and all that was expected of her. The last thing your parents wanted was for you to, Heaven forbid, have any thoughts of your own - especially if they were in opposition to the standards of the time. Those were the days when you cared what your parents thought of you and you bore bitter consequences if you were a disappointment. It took a lot of courage to venture away from the norm. Ann Rivers Siddons paints vivid pictures of the small town and college settings and the workings of an evolving young mind in that era.
As an avid fan of Mrs. Siddons, I received a flash from Amazon that her new book, "Off Season" is coming out August 13th, so, in preparation for that and because it seems like an eternity since her last book came out, I immediately went down the list of her books to see if there was anything I had not read. Heartbreak Hotel was the only one - and I enjoyed it thoroughly. If this was Siddons' debut novel, she was off to a great start back in 1976 - and she's only gotten better with each novel. After reading Heartbreak Hotel, I will now chomp at the bit until "Off Season" emerges in August.
15 of 16 people found the following review helpful.
May be set in 50's, but coming-of-age story is timeless
By A Customer
My daughter and I enjoyed this book very much. I read it first, and passed it on. I could see so many similarities with the experiences and feelings my daughter was relating to me during her first year in college. Maggie may be a young woman of the 1950's, but the issues and events she has to cope with are as real for today's young women. I especially loved the "historical" details of the life of the 1950's young woman - it took me back to those days - and it all rang so true. Catherine Paull
9 of 10 people found the following review helpful.
Very emotional, absolutely wonderful
By A Customer
This story takes place at Randolph University, which is Auburn University in Auburn, Alabama. I live in Auburn and it is very emotional to read this book and realize that things like this did happen here. This is the one book that opened my eyes to what racial integration was really like. Some of the passages are so powerful that I had to reread them to get the full impact. Maggie is forced to make decisions that will change her life forever and before this book I could not comprehend the extremes of emotion that people were going through. Anyone remotely interested in the South or integration should read this book.
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