The Thunder of Giants, page 26
A moment’s breath. “It’s open,” said Elionor.
As she pushed on the bathroom door, a pestilential stench fell upon her as if carried on a wayward breeze. Her mother, angular and gaunt, was knelt by the claw-foot tub, thin arms deep in a pool of soapy water. A washboard was propped against the faucet. A pile of clothes, dark and rank, lay piled by her knees.
Elionor still hadn’t moved, so Andorra came to her and, hating the way the light made her great shadow fall over her mother’s face, knelt by the claw-foot tub. The smell from the clothes brought sharp tears. She held her gaze. Mother and daughter were not quite eye to eye—but it was close enough.
“They think you’re coming tomorrow,” said Elionor. “They’re at the movies.”
“Good,” said Andorra. “One reunion at a time.”
Picking up one of her mother’s soiled skirts, Andorra placed it in the water, and together they worked to wash the shit away.
EPILOGUE
The Giant’s House
ANNA’S GIANT HOUSE had fallen into the hands of a family who maintained it throughout the Great Depression. At one point they decided to tear it down, but the morning before the wreckers began their work, two men burst into town with the astonishing claim that the ghost of Anna Swan had been seen towering over her grave.
The first man was the groundskeeper, who was known for his tall tales. But the second was Mr. Baum, the owner of the giant house and a respected member of the community. He had been paying his respects to a friend when he looked toward the immense monument the Captain had erected all those years before. There, Mr. Baum had spotted an enormous figure towering over Anna’s grave, one whose silhouette could easily be seen against the sky. It was clearly a woman, said Mr. Baum, and she must have been nine feet tall—as tall, legend had it, as Anna herself. Both Mr. Baum and the groundskeeper had observed this startling specter without daring to approach. Then snow began to fall, and the men took shelter. When they looked toward the cemetery again, the thing that might have been the ghost of Anna Swan had disappeared.
A group agreed to investigate the grave. The sun was already setting when they reached the top of the hill and found the grave deserted. Yet coming out of the ground in front of the monument was a single flower. The monument had saved it from being buried completely by the storm, and its position made it seem as if it was sprouting out of the snow. The flower was so rare that none of them would have known it if not for one woman, who was an amateur botanist.
“It’s called a pheasant’s-eye,” she said. “I think it may be poison.”
So there they were with the hint of a ghostly visit and a poisonous flower that had grown during a blizzard. Who could blame Mr. Baum for delaying the demolition of Anna Swan’s house? He put it off for a year and then another, until at last he knew the time had come. As a precaution, he returned to the cemetery and waited for Anna Swan’s ghost. But her grave remained forlorn, and, giving up, he returned home to tell the wreckers it was safe to proceed. And so another piece of Anna Swan was erased from the earth. The house was carted away in bits and pieces, leaving Anna to be remembered through sales pitches, newspapers, distorted memories, showmen’s hyperbole, half a dozen lies, and, hopefully, a tiny handful of truth.
AFTERWORD
NO WRITER IS AN ISLAND—although we may float away from time to time. I am indebted to an innumerable number of librarians and archivists who helped guide me through my research. Even my magnificent copyeditors helped point the way whenever I got lost in history’s web. Their work was faultless. Any errors of history are entirely mine—and may be completely intentional. Needless to say, this is historical fiction, and, while many of the characters and events are real, liberties have been taken. I love history; but I guess I love novels more.
In every case, Anna’s measurements conform with what was reported in the press. A good historian would take into account a reporter’s tendency toward hyperbole; a good writer will always ignore it. Hyperbole, after all, is where most fiction lives.
Anna Swan’s many siblings don’t get mentioned in this book, but that’s my fault, not theirs. Maggie, John, Mary, George, Eliza, James, Christina, David, Janet, and Margaret Swan were no doubt fascinating people; they probably deserve books of their own.
Some of the research indicates that Anna suffered from “consumption” for many years before her death. One should always be wary about any diagnosis that stems from nineteenth-century medical knowledge. This was the era when they tried to cure “female hysteria” with vibrators; it was also the time when sadness and grief were considered a disease.
A lot of delightful historical details were cut in order to keep the novel down to a reasonable length. There were conjoined twins at Anna’s wedding; after retiring to Seville, Anna and the Captain played host to their many friends from the circus, including the diminutive Tom Thumb. Why did I dismiss these things but keep the story of Anna’s pet monkey? I guess some facts are too much fun to ever dismiss.
Special thanks to:
Dale Swan, the great-grandnephew of Anna Swan and the curator of the Anna Swan Museum in Tatamagouche, Nova Scotia.
The Canada Council for the Arts, for providing me with financial support during the writing of this book.
My various editors, namely Kate Ottaviano, Nichole Argyres, and Laura Chasen, for their insightful editorial advice and for spending all those nights and weekends with Anna and Andorra (and with me, I suppose).
My stalwart agent, Wendy Schmalz, who kept pushing this book even as the rejection letters piled up.
A word on those rejection letters: I am grateful to everyone who wrote them. Many of the remarks found in those letters guided me toward the version of the novel that now exists. A stopped clock is right twice a day; a rejection letter is right just about as often.
My mother and Andorra’s mother share the same name. My father loves baseball, which plays a key role in my novel’s plot. My future biographer will probably make much of this; cynics, meanwhile, will call it a wild coincidence. Which is the truth? You know, I really don’t remember. But I think I’d better thank my parents, just in case.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Joel Fishbane is a novelist, playwright, sous-chef, actor, trivia host, amateur boxer, occasional clarinet player, and general man about town. His various plays, short stories, articles, critiques, and literary musings have been published, performed, honored, and otherwise applauded in Canada, the United States, and Europe. He lives in Toronto and almost always wears a hat.
For more information, visit www.joelfishbane.com. Or sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Prologue: The Real Thing
PART ONE: Birth
1. The Stone That Swallowed a Stone
2. A Shame Before God
3. Opening Day
PART TWO: Discovery
4. The Ambassador of Goodwill
5. The Not-So-Little Girl
6. A Clean Slate
PART THREE: Love
7. The Top of the World
8. The Empty Mountain
9. “It’s Like Staring at the Moon”
10. A Girl Like Her
11. The Hostile Witness
12. The Monster’s Bride
PART FOUR: Marriage
13. No Rank or Profession
14. A Spanish Reunion
15. The Adventures of Elionor Nicholas
PART FIVE: Death
16. A Second Shame
17. The Perfect Event
PART SIX: Afterlife
18. Rutherford the Hero
19. Homecoming
Epilogue: The Giant’s House
Afterword
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE THUNDER OF GIANTS. Copyright © 2015 by Joel Fishbane. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Ervin Serrano
Cover photographs: woman by Richard Jenkins Photography; curtains by Stockphoto.com
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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-05084-7 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-5180-1 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466851801
First Edition: April 2015
Joel Fishbane, The Thunder of Giants
