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286 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1987
Hugh stares out through the window…“All I ever wanted,” he says, suddenly afraid of his own generalization, “was to make sure…that you were all right. You know: safe.”
“That’s sweet,” she says. “But it won’t ever work. Not for me. It hasn’t ever worked. Besides, there’s no safety in safety. .. You and I Hugh—we’ve been divorced, haven’t we? Can brothers and sisters get divorces from each other? I think they can, and I think we got one.” She gives her brother a kiss on the cheek, then goes upstairs.
His father looks Hugh in the eyes. “Listen to me,” he says. “Everything on earth is what it is and something else. Everything gives off a signal. Most people never hear any of it. Their ears are closed. You have to listen with your whole body, everything in your soul, to even this old, ugly drop-forged hammer”—he holds it up—“and to this wood. And everyone you know. And all objects, everywhere. You can break your soul, trying to hear. But some people have a talent. Your mother does. She’s better at hearing the world than I am. It’s like music, but it isn’t music, it’s an overtone. Dorsey hears it. It’s an order. Do you know what I mean?”
Hugh says he does, but he doesn’t and he’s angry again because his father has included everyone in the family in this lucky group of listeners except his own son, Hugh himself, dull, reliable, strong, and deaf.”