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192 pages, Paperback
First published August 1, 2010
On the other side of the bachelor’s hill, families were enjoying the day. Children swung between their parents’ hands. Fathers decked out in kind and modest sweaters. Men on the other side of the great divide, men who had made it, men who had seen the beacon and plunged and who had made it. And now they idled justly in their summer sweaters, and there were children who worried about them and women who worried about them, and who, behind closed doors, comforted them as if they were boys.
When he was a boy, Ben and his mother had watched the failed bachelors being marched down the street at the end of each summer, on their way to the factories, to the work crews in the park, to the river’s edge, to the prison. The men in gray smocks shuffled past, and boys and girls threw apples at their feet, and rowdy men jumped down into their yards and shouted, “Throw out the trash! Throw out the trash!” until their wives cajoled them back up onto the porch, and Ben’s mother rested her hands lightly on his shoulders, and said, “This is our shame.”