Would You Shut Up, Please

by Lewis Nordan

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

“If you call yourself a serious reader but still haven’t discovered Lewis Nordan, shame on you.” —The Seattle Times

Lewis Nordan’s cult following began in 1991 when Algonquin published his first novel, Music of the Swamp. His second novel, Wolf Whistle, was inspired by one of the nation’s most volatile and notorious racial incidents. Nordan was fifteen years old at the time, and living in Mississippi, just down the road from where young Emmet Till was murdered for daring to whistle at a white woman. Wolf Whistle was hailed by Randall Kenan in The Nation as “an immense and wall-shattering display of talent.” It was Nordan’s most acclaimed work and winner of the Southern Book Award. He published four more books with Algonquin, including Lightning Song, The Sharpshooter Blues, Sugar Among the Freaks, and a memoir, Boy with Loaded Gun. His fictional works, all set in the American South, have the ability to break your heart and keep you laughing at the same time. The Los Angeles Times review got it exactly right: “Lordy, Lordy, can Lewis Nordan write!Horrible things happen, and horribly funny things, too, in the Delta town of Arrow Catcher, Miss.”

When Lewis Nordan died in 2012, he was working on a collection of stories. This story, Would You Shut Up, Please, is the tale of a man who investigates a disturbance at his elderly neighbors’ home and discovers more about their lives than he cares to know.

Algonquin is committed to keeping all of Lewis Nordan’s remarkable work available in print and as e-books, to ensure that new generations of readers will continue to discover his wild imagination, his boundless talent, and his singular voice. We hope you’ll enjoy Would You Shut Up, Please and will want to read more from this legendary storyteller.

Release date: June 1, 2014

Publisher: Algonquin Books

Print pages: 48

Sample

ONE MORNING, AFTER Annie had left for work, I heard a rifle shot just outside the window of the room where I was sitting. That’s what it sounded like to me anyway. I used to be familiar with guns when I was a boy down South. So, yeah, it sounded like a rifle to me. I slipped from my chair immediately, onto the floor, and waited for whatever would happen next. I lay there and listened. The little plum-colored room where I crouched, the library we called it, was comforting and cozy with its book-lined walls and good rugs. There was a cocoon-like quality that held me there most days, even when I probably should have been working at the computer. In fact except for the firestorm of grief and regret that constantly threatened to unhinge me, comfort was mainly what I felt these days. My marriage was back on track; I was able to work again.

I lay there and listened. The book I had been reading was lying on the floor beside me. I heard nothing, no voices, no car speeding away. What I imagined I might hear came mostly from TV shows. I didn’t have any other experience with this sort of thing. The neighbo. . .