Langan A Better World

1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-83541-033-2
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 464 Seiten

From the author of Good Neighbours, described by Gillian Flynn as 'wildly entertaining'. An absorbing and astute satirical thriller about a family's odyssey into an exclusive enclave for the wealthy that might not be as ideal as it seems. As the outside world literally falls apart, Linda and Russell Farmer-Bowen and their teenage twins are offered the chance to relocate to Plymouth Valley, a walled-off company town with clean air, pantries that never go empty, and blue-ribbon schools. The family jumps at the opportunity. They'd be crazy not to take it. This might be their last chance at survival. But fitting in takes work. And the strange residents fervently adhere to a group of customs and beliefs called Hollow... but what exactly is Hollow? Finally, thanks to Linda's medical skills they begin to find acceptance, and everything seems fine. Sure, Russell starts hyperventilating through a paper bag in the middle of the night, and the kids have drifted like bridgeless islands, but at least they'll survive. But something isn't right. The more Linda learns, the more frightened she becomes. Should the Farmer-Bowens be fighting to stay, or fighting to get out?

Sarah Langan grew up on Long Island, in a town called Garden City, but not on a crescent bordering a park. She got her MFA in creative writing from Columbia University, and also received her Master's in Environmental Health Science/Toxicology from New York University. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and daughters. She's received three Bram-Stoker awards, and her work has often been included in best-of-the year lists and anthologies. She's a founding board member of the Shirley Jackson Awards, and works in both film and prose.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Langan, Sarah

Leseproben

Door Number Two

(Competitive Sports)

It was a crisp morning in mid-September. The sun was bright, the clouds few: a perfect day for a soccer game.

Linda and Russell headed out early to get team snacks for the Rocs’ first game. Lust’s Bakery had been open all night and the food smelled like caramelized sugar and yeast. After great deliberation, they picked two dozen yeast-raised donuts plus a thermos of hot tea for the spectators and fresh fruit for the kids.

“Is this good enough?” Russell asked.

Linda shrugged. “I mean, they’re donuts and they’re fresh.”

“What more could anybody want?” he gamely finished.

They came home to find Hip studying a scissor kick instructional on one of the PV-issue devices they’d all been assigned while Josie popped headers against the caladrius shelter. Typical Josie, she poked at things to get reactions. The bird was a miserable creature that they’d sarcastically named Sunny. Sunny spent her time in the back corner of her shelter, a twin set of beady eyes in the dark. If you tried to tempt her out with a dried worm treat, she lunged.

Hello, Sunny! You’re in SUCH Sunny spirits!

While they’d been out, the PV Beautification Society had delivered a package. These came every Saturday, neatly bundled in brown grocery paper tied with Omnium string. Inside: a bouquet of fresh wildflowers.

“Should we try it this time?” Russell asked. The altar was a three-quarter oval carved into the plaster at the stairway’s landing with a Geiger counter mounted inside it, which was supposed to sound in the event of ambient radiation. This seemed to Linda like overkill. If a nuke drops or a reactor melts down, you’re probably not going to be caught off guard by the ambient radiation.

The pamphlets had made very clear that altar offerings were optional. They were supposed to be a fun tradition that fostered a common sense of purpose. But who were they for? Sunny? The gods protecting them from nuclear war? Was it for the people of PV? Did they, in a roundabout way, worship themselves?

“No?” Russell asked.

She plopped the flowers into the vase on the mahogany secretary that came with the house. No altar today. “I’ll get there. But not yet.”

PV could be very confusing. They’d been told that their orientation pamphlets covered every aspect of PV life, but she still wasn’t clear on this town’s rules. For instance: a Beltane King was being crowned next week, but what did that mean? What happened at a crowning? Was there a bureaucratic aspect to a Beltane King’s position?

Last month, they’d had a nuclear drill, the whole town descending designated stairways and entering through the Labyrinth to the inner sanctum. The Civic Association had even gathered the caladrius (Sunny included) and penned them in the underground stockyard. The Farmer-Bowens had played cards for two hours, then gone home with everybody else. But in the event of an actual emergency, were they supposed to pack bags? When did the inner shelter lock? If you were out of town when the alarms sounded, were you shut out for good?

She wasn’t complaining. Life in PV was a step up. Linda hardly ever coughed anymore and because of that, her energy had doubled. The food was great. Hip’s appetite had turned ravenous in the face of so much fresh food. He’d grown two inches. Josie’s acne had healed. Russell, her worrier, hadn’t put any weight back on, but he’d stopped losing it. Everything here was wonderful. They had only one problem. She’d come to understand, through many thwarted efforts, and especially since the kids’ school and her hospital shift had started, that no one here seemed to like them or want to be their friend.

Plymouth Valley killed with kindness. Lots of handshakes in stores, at school drop-off, and at the ultramodern ER. Lots of cheerful hellos, peace signs, and prayer hands waved by pedestrians and drivers alike. Lots of: Don’t you just love it here? Isn’t Plymouth Valley the best thing that’s ever happened to you? But it was a hard, impenetrable kindness that had no tangible outcome. Linda could spend half an hour talking to some nurse or parent or shopkeeper and think: We’re friends! They’re so great! We’re going to hang out all the time!

But even when she managed to trade texts with these new acquaintances, their exchanges never led to actionable plans. No one had time to come to the Farmer-Bowen house for dinner. No one could be bothered to answer Linda’s more practical questions about how one might build equity in a town that didn’t cut paychecks. They certainly didn’t offer insights into which employees got approved for golden tickets and could stay for good. Check the pamphlets! they’d sometimes say. Everything you need to know is in the pamphlets!

This was not true. The pamphlets were cute. They contained bullet points and bird drawings and stock photos of multicultural people. They did not offer sound financial advice.

Hoping to get a better lay of the land, she’d called the PV Beautification Society, the Civic Association, and the PV Parent Association, asking to join. Very politely, they’d told her they weren’t entertaining new members until after the Winter Festival in January. Due to lack of interest, there weren’t any religious services, so she had no way of making friends at choir practice or at juice and cookie socials, either. At a loss, she asked the admins at the high school and the nurses and docs at her hospital what they did for fun, and could she please join them. Their response was awkward bewilderment, followed by: I don’t do anything! I’m so busy!

So busy!

Russell hadn’t complained about it—complaint wasn’t his nature—but she knew he was having a hard time, now that the dust had settled. Sure, they were friendly. But the level of engagement stopped there. From what Hip and Josie had told her, the kids at PV High were just like their parents. They smiled and exchanged niceties but wouldn’t share study notes or save seats. “We eat at this empty table behind this big beam,” Josie explained. “That way it’s less humiliating that we’re by ourselves.”

She’d called Zach Greene last week, leaving what she’d thought was an innocuous message: Hi, Zach! she’d said. I’m so sorry to bother you, but you told me to call if anything came up. My family is having a devil of a time making friends! I’m wondering if we could talk about the culture here and what’s expected. I want to make sure we’re not offending anyone.

Two days later Zach texted: Hi, Linda! Remember, these things take time. I’ve scheduled you for an appointment at my office in the Quality of Life Building on Main Street. My earliest is October 18 at 2pm. We can discuss your failure to adjust then!

She’d looked at the device, thinking: Failure to adjust? Really, Zach? It’s like that?

This is temporary, she repeatedly told the twins when she found them sitting at the kitchen table, bored. She was determined. They just had to keep trying. Life in this perfect town had to work! So, as they headed to this first soccer game of the season, she slapped on a happy face, even as she thought: If one more of these phony residents flashes a peace sign at me, Imma projectile-vomit directly into their dumb mouth.

*   *   *

They left a half hour early for the soccer field. Russell and Linda unpacked on the lowest bleacher. Josie took pity on Hip and helped him right his uniform (he’d fastened his shin guards outside his socks), then worked on scissor kicks with him. “You got it!” she said, though he clearly hadn’t gotten it.

Linda wore old jeans and a sweatshirt. Russell went local in a high-end, bright blue-and-green Omnium tracksuit. “You look hot, hot stuff. It’s all good. We did good,” she said, surveying the donuts, which had retained their interior heat.

“Is this the right place?” he asked.

It was five minutes before the game. But no one except the Farmer-Bowens had arrived. Linda checked the team schedule, checked the location. Made sure they were a match for the third time. She started to text Coach Farah.

“Don’t,” Russell said.

“Why not?”

He shrugged. She knew why, even if she couldn’t articulate it in words. She got this feeling, when she was talking to people around here, that she would be tolerated for just so long, and as soon as she caused problems by asking a complicated question or needing something, the conversation would be done.

“We’ll feel like assholes if it’s the wrong field,” she said. “She’s the coach. It’s literally her job to tell us where the game is at.”

He sighed, which she understood meant okay. She pressed SEND.

Two minutes before start time, the gate opened. Both teams (the Rocs and their opponents, the Gryphons) and all their support spectators pushed through and filled the field in a friendly, coordinated pack.

The Gryphons headed for the opposite side of the field, the Rocs for the...