Requests and Dedications

by Elise Levine

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Set in the hip urban core of Toronto and in the city’s outlying areas, this is the story of an unlikely family – held together by love and longing, pain and regret – and what happens when the ties that bind them begin to unravel. There is Walker, a tender but rough-edged horse dealer trying to do the right thing; his fading lounge-singer girlfriend, Mimi; his sister, Joy, who cleans at the golf club nearby; and Joy’s teenage daughter, Tanis, self-sufficient, nervy, wise, locked in conflict with her mother, and ready to break away from the tangle of this makeshift family – and does, until a tragic event changes everything. Gritty, seductive, infused with wit and an undercover poignancy, this is an audacious and emotionally compelling novel by a writer who knows exactly where the heart lives and why it’s sometimes so hard to find it.

Release date: December 22, 2010

Publisher: Emblem Editions

Print pages: 328

Sample

First came the merry-­go-­round, smeary yellow on a damp afternoon, then a parade in which the morning sunshine spun a filigree of golden horses. Memories like sno-­cones, jewel-­toned cups of flavoured ice. A tall bunny in a tuxedo and top hat, a miracle carrot-­peeler. A woman in a floral-­print dress with full pleated skirt leaning over from the waist, head floating above in an aureole of pink cotton candy, the warmth of sugared breath. And once, at a schoolyard fair, a ride on a pony called Pickles. Look mom — no hands!

Now, on this November afternoon, my thirty-­seven-­year-­old arms deliciously overburdened with stuffed animals, tin belt buckles, plastic lampshades — having stormed the kiosks, driven by a nearly boundless love of sour-­cream fudge and guaranteed never-­to-­chip fingernail polish — it’s still me all right, the queen of par-­tay. No point making sense. You live your life and that’s that. It’s a credo that’s got me this far — I’ve only just begun to realize the good times ­can’t last forever.

What the?

Walker refuses to notice me, and my practised sneer goes to waste. Instead he keeps whistling, pursing his thin wormy lips, gazing into the rafters and down at the hay-­wisped concrete floor. He checks over his fleshy shoulders once or twice then shrugs, shaking his head as if to say, What can you do? His whistle is high and soft, a wooing sigh with little rolls and flutters, notes ascending then curling over the top like tiny waves, the scrolled song folding over on itself like the folds of his own decadently wrinkled skin. The horse beside him pays scant attention, flicking its bony head up and down, tapping the ground with its front hooves in boredom.

Must be losing it, Walker, the horse’s groom says.

Sitting on an overturned steel bucket next to the horse’s rump, he’s a gnomish man, short and wiry with an oversized head and an off-­centre mouth, a sneaky, ventriloquist’s voice. Impossible to guess his age. He raises his buggy eyebrows and winks at me, leering. I smile icily, just in case, though Walker ­doesn’t seem to notice.

The horse stiffens and spreads its back legs. When the pee comes Walker holds his hands palm out and looks upward. The groom scrambles forward onto his knees, upends his makeshift perch, rocks back onto his heels.

Crouching low to aim the bucket, he grudgingly shakes his head and squeaks, Still the best, my man.

Then off he trundles, taking the sample to the makeshift veterinarian’s office where it will be tested for illegal substances.

My guy — the official whistler at the Royal Winter Fair. He stands with his arms crossed over his massive belly, not quite looking at me.

Want something? he says.