So Much a Part of You
- eBook
- Paperback
- Audiobook
- Hardcover
- Book info
- Sample
- Media
- Author updates
- Lists
Synopsis
Two young women who've dated the same man navigate love, destiny, loss, and choice in this powerful debut.
Anna Riley and Anne Cavanaugh have had a lover in common, but it's not until a pivotal moment in one of their lives that their paths unforgettably converge. "Beautiful and connected in unexpected ways...." (Jodi Angel), the linked stories in So Much a Part of You "read like whispered secrets." (Scott Nadelson)
Peter Herring was the center of Anne's universe in college, and now, a few years later, he's become the center of Anna's, and merely a minor player in his ex-girlfriend's world. That is, until Peter and Anna are invited into Anne's parents' home to visit with her dying mother, and he finds himself drawn back into her orbit. Years later, when her own mother is dying, Anna will find herself yearning to reach out to Anne, with whom she had shared such a brief but intimate bond, and find solace in that moment from long ago.
Perspective evolves with time, and so with time, what Peter means to each woman-as lover, as friend, as connection to the past-also evolves. Through exploring Anne's and Anna's ties to Peter and unfolding the narratives of the people who weave meaningfully in and out of their lives, Polly Dugan reveals the power of family secrets, the ripple effects of her characters' emotional choices, and how poignantly their intertwined relationships shape who they are and how they love.
Possessing that rare ability to write the sweep of emotion with tenderness, Polly Dugan invites readers to witness the moments that define her characters-the moments that come back full circle to comfort or haunt them, or both. So Much a Part of You will break your heart and still have you asking for more.
Release date: June 10, 2014
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Print pages: 240
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Reader buzz
Author updates
So Much a Part of You
Polly Dugan
His father, Jack, is a drunk who has futilely negotiated for better jobs and higher wages than are available until he has alienated every possible employer and has ceded the family’s earning power to his wife. Frances Riley takes on two jobs and makes just enough to sustain the family. Although the Rileys are never warm, they are never hungry. Jack is a sports fan who listens to the Yankees with his beer on Sundays while his family attends mass, but John isn’t the least interested in joining his father, who sits rapt by the radio. You can’t hit or throw or really even run for shit anyway, Jack often says to his son, on those spindle shanks, for Christ’s sake.
Instead, John loves to take apart and reassemble clocks—he did three in a week once. He does it because he wants to see how the clocks work, because he’s good at it, and, secretly, because doing it fills him with a private, foreign sensation of pride—which the church warns against. According to Father Flynn, pride is a sin, far worse than something like not knowing how to build a clock, but for John the reverse is true. He wants to disassemble and reconstruct more complex things too: a radio; someday a car engine. But his vanity and the comfort that accompanies it are tenuous. Mostly he feels the omnipresent shame of not being, and not wanting to be, an athlete.
Unlike John, his sister, Claire, who is three years older, is always playing games and is always out of the house. Roller-skating, bike riding, and climbing trees keep her and her long legs away from home all day during the summer, from first to last light and into the autumn’s abbreviated days. Even the fleeting winter hours of sun keep her outside more than in.
The afternoon of Claire’s fourteenth birthday, John watched their father stand behind her while she sat at the dining room table writing a thank-you note. Jack slipped his right hand down Claire’s blouse and cupped her left breast.
“That seems about right,” Jack said. He extracted his hand and walked out of the room.
For the next ten minutes—John saw the time pass on the breakfront’s clock—Claire stared at the wall across the room from where she sat before she resumed her writing. Ever since that day, she spends less time at home and more of it away.
A father will do such a thing to his daughter, John concluded after what he saw, but not to his son. His father doesn’t touch him. Even when John is punished, the belt does all the work. He is anxious anticipating the strap, but once his father starts, he doesn’t flinch.
The Rileys have one bathroom, and it seems to John that whenever he needs to use it, sometimes badly, Claire is already locked inside. When John tries the knob, she scolds back, “I’m in here. You can wait.”
“I have to go,” John says. “Hurry up.”
“When I finish,” Claire says. “I’m not finished.”
If he can, he waits, but if he can’t hold it, he’ll go outside, knowing if his parents found out, they’d punish him. When he has to sit on the toilet, he’ll threaten Claire with getting their mother, and she’ll either ignore him or shout from the other side of the door, “You’re a pansy,” and John will do the best he can.
But one day John, desperate, shouted back, “And you’re a useless bitch.” His father had called his mother that one night at dinner because of the roast. He’d been to the pub early and had come home in a foul mood.
“This meat is like cowhide,” he’d said. “Goddamn, you’re a useless bitch.”
His mother had continued eating—they all did—as though he hadn’t uttered such a thing.
Claire opened the door and stared at John. “What did you say?” she said. She was four inches taller than he by then and looked down at him when she spoke.
“You heard me,” John said. “You’re a useless bitch.”
Claire shoved him hard with both hands, and John, not expecting it, hit the wall on the other side of the narrow hallway.
“You know what?” John said, recovering and standing up straight. “You’re stupid, too. Hit me again if you want. You’ll still be stupid and you’ll still be a useless bitch.”
Claire walked away, but before she did, she said, “And you’re still a pansy.”
Because of Claire’s monopolizing of the bathroom, and how she tortures him with it, John has no shortage of anger for his sister, but one night when his parents fought in the living room, his anger softened, and he’s tried to remember that feeling when he thinks she is being simply hateful.
It was close to ten o’clock, and John was reading in bed. He heard the front door slam and then the collisions against the floor and living room walls. He got up and looked across the hall into Claire’s room. It was empty.
He crept downstairs and stood at the bottom of the stairwell. When he peered around the corner into the kitchen he saw Claire crouched under the table. Her knees were tucked up against her chest, and her arms were wrapped around her legs. The only light in the room came from the small lamp over the sink. John listened to his parents in the living room and watched his sister listen, too.
“Pick yourself up,” his mother said. “Stand up.”
“You hopeless bitch,” his father said. “Get out of my face. Get away from me.”
“You’re worthless,” his mother said. Her voice was cold and even. “Disgusting. I said stand up. Get out. I don’t want to see you again until you’re not falling down.”
“This is my goddamn house,” his father said. “You fucking bitch.”
“This is my house!” his mother shouted. “Get out.” John heard the door open, more noises, the door close, then quiet.
After it was over, John could see Claire’s body shaking, but she didn’t make a sound. He had heard and seen enough and went back to his room.
The next morning, after he was dressed, he knocked on Claire’s door.
“What?” she said.
“It’s me,” John said. “Can I come in?”
“Go ahead.”
When he walked into her room, which he rarely entered—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been inside—he was surprised to find her sitting on her made-up bed, reading.
“What do you want?” She closed the book.
“I saw you last night,” John said. “Don’t hide like that. You’ll be in trouble if they find you.”
Claire raised her chin. “They haven’t found me yet. I listen all the time. They’ve never found me. I wish they would.”
“Claire.”
“Worry about yourself,” she said.
John delivers his papers every afternoon, and Jerry accompanies him. Jerry’s arrival followed the death of the Rileys’ three unfortunate previous dogs, all named Patty—one male and two females—who were hit and killed by cars before they turned two. Finally, Frances announced that their next dog should have a new name, in the hope of turning their canine luck around. And so, Jerry, a six-year-old terrier mix, has so far survived living with the Rileys, with his luckier name and smirky face.
John’s best friend, Tim, one of the seven Murphy children, lives across the street and three houses down. John could get to the Murphys’ with his eyes closed, his body knows the walk so well. Tim plays catch with his father some afternoons while John watches or reads. Every time, Tim asks, Want to join? and John says, No, thanks, as if it’s the first time Tim’s invited him. Tim will say, Okay, suit yourself, and plays with his dad. John’s reliance on Tim’s quiet, enduring acceptance of his routine refusals is the reason Tim is his friend.
When Tim and his dad throw the ball back and forth, Mr. Murphy will say, Almost, bud! or That was close, son, and The last one was tricky and got away from you, Timmy when Tim misses the ball, but most of the time he catches it. When he does, Mr. Murphy says, That’s an out, no doubt! or Got it, sport! and You’ve got an arm on you, all right! when Tim throws the ball back to him.
When John sits on the Murphys’ porch and reads, Tim’s sister, Kathleen—the only girl in the family—often appears and sits next to him with her own book. Kathleen is thirteen and a grade ahead of John and Tim. The Murphys call Tim and Kathleen their Irish twins. John couldn’t figure out what it meant, so he finally asked Tim.
“Kathleen was still a baby when I was born,” Tim said. “She wasn’t even one yet. There were other babies that were never born; they died inside my mother.” Although John didn’t want to know about other babies who were never born, and he certainly hadn’t asked, Tim was not in the least reluctant to share this sad detail of his family.
For the first several weeks after Kathleen joined John, she was reading books by Agatha Christie. Then she started Gone with the Wind. She and John don’t usually talk, but one day John had a book about sundials he’d gotten from the library, and Kathleen shut hers and leaned over his.
“What are those?” she said.
“Sundials,” said John. “Clocks for people in ancient times.”
They looked at the diagrams as John turned the pages.
“How did they tell time at night?” Kathleen said.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Tim says you like clocks. How come you like clocks so much?”
Kathleen’s curiosity confused John, but her questions made his face hot.
“I’m interested in time, I guess,” he said. “Don’t you think it’s interesting? The idea of it?”
“I never really thought about it,” she said. “Tim doesn’t read as much as you. None of my brothers does. I don’t know any boy who reads as much as you.”
“What’s your book about?” He wanted to get out from under her attention.
“So many things,” Kathleen said. “The Civil War, a great plantation, Scarlett O’Hara’s fight for her home. I think after I finish it I’m going to read it again.”
“Why would you do that?” said John. “You’ve already read it.”
“Gosh, same as you with your dumb clocks,” Kathleen said. She opened her book and slid away from him. “Because I think it’s interesting.”
“Sorry,” John said. “I didn’t mean anything; I was just asking.”
“You’ve never read the same book twice?” she said.
“No. When I finish one I start a new one.”
“Well, maybe you should,” Kathleen said. “You can miss things the first time.”
“Yeah,” said John. “I guess.”
They went back to reading, and John was afraid maybe she would stop sitting with him after what he’d said, but the next time he was at the Murphys’ watching Tim and his dad, she joined him again. She still had Gone with the Wind, and John wondered, but didn’t ask, if it was her first or second time reading it.
Tim has a paper route, too. The boys each have a portion of the town, and their respective routes start at the intersection of a figure eight and fan out, John going in one direction, Tim in the other. Their routes take them through different neighborhoods, and when they’re finished the boys reunite at the same place they started. They compete with each other to see who can finish faster. Although John tosses his papers underhand from the bottom stair of people’s porches while Tim throws his overhand from the sidewalk, they are usually fifty-fifty, but when it’s collection day, John is always done first because Tim talks to people longer than he does. The routes are uneventful, and John is often bored. In the frigid winter and soggy spring, he is resentful. On collection days, he stops to throw a stick for Jerry in the field they cross midroute, knowing he will finish before Tim no matter what.
John’s route takes him over the railroad tracks. The tracks don’t overly worry him, because he is a careful boy, but ever since a teenager was electrocuted by the third rail walking the tracks two summers ago, he is painfully aware how close the lethal charge is—so close that he could touch it if he wanted to. It reminds him of the observation decks at Niagara Falls that he’s seen pictures of. People could so easily launch themselves over the falls. The proximity of possibility plays on his anxiety. They could if they wanted to. He calms himself every time he crosses the tracks with the knowledge that he is better protected from the third rail since the boy died: after the tragedy, a wooden platform was installed that covers the electricity so it can do its job while people—especially those who are careless—are safe from harm.
One rainy April day, he has to deliver not only his route but Tim’s as well. Tim has gotten very sick overnight, and his mother, Mary, has asked Frances if John can do Tim’s papers. He just saw Tim the previous afternoon; Kathleen, too.
“Can you deliver his, too?” his mother asks him. “It’s twice as much.”
“Sure,” he says. “I’m fast, and I’ll start earlier.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it!” his father shouts from across the room. His father’s comments often make his palms sweat, but today he is more worried about Tim than he is about Jack.
“Are you feeling well enough?” His mother feels his forehead. “Dear God, Mary is terrified. Influenza is taking over in Europe. People are dying.”
“Those goddamn people don’t wash!” rants his father.
“Jack,” his mother says. “That’ll do.”
“Yes, Mother,” his father snaps back.
“I’m fine,” John says. He wants to ask his mother, Do you think Tim is going to die? But he can’t manage to utter such a thing.
John and Jerry head out to the slick streets with two full bags. They’ll do Tim’s route first. Once he’s delivering his own, John figures, he’ll be tired, but can rely on habit and routine. By afternoon the rain has stopped, but the downpour has left oily puddles, and children splash and bike through them. He passes Claire perched in a tree down the street, reading a book and dangling her legs. She doesn’t look up, and John doesn’t call out to her.
He wishes he could visit Tim, but the Murphys have shut themselves up in their home to contain the illness. He wonders: if Tim does die, will the loss be easier for his family to bear because of all the children they would have left? Or is the tragedy the same no matter if you start out with seven or with two?
Tim’s route feels longer than his own, and John wonders if his is easier or if Tim’s seems tougher because it’s unfamiliar. One woman wants to pay him, although it’s not collection day, which is always Thursday. Today is Tuesday.
“Young man, I didn’t pay last week. I owe,” she says, beseeching him.
“I’m not your regular paperboy. He’s sick,” John says. “I’m just delivering for him today; I’m not collecting. I’m awful sorry about that. You can pay him when he’s back.” He hurries to the next house, the woman’s voice echoing behind him.
He finishes Tim’s route and starts his almost an hour later than he normally would. Jerry never lifts his nose from the ground and pees on every surface he can. The scents of the new blocks have put the dog into an olfactory frenzy, with each bush, lawn, and shrub more compelling than the last, and John nags the dog to stay with him.
“Come on, you raggedy whelp,” he scolds. “Goddamn it, but you’re an ugly bastard. I’m not waiting for you.” John is forbidden to swear, but he and Tim do it to show off and see how it feels. “Christ, you bloody sod, quit licking your balls and hurry up.” John would never leave Jerry behind, and his bravado sounds hollow to him even as he keeps up the stream of abuse. Jerry always catches up, and John knows he will.
By the time he is halfway finished with his own route and they’ve gotten to the field, it’s twenty minutes until supper and Jerry has blissfully followed his nose to his heart’s content. John has been going as fast as he has ever delivered a route and decides to stop anyway and throw a stick. . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...