Seven Days and Seven Sins: A Novel in Short Stories - Hardcover
Like a modern-day Our Town, this unforgettable book explores the subtle tragedies and the hope for redemption tucked deep inside every house in a seemingly average suburban neighborhood.
Angela Mayfair is not your typical twelve-year-old. She is a Millennium Extrasensory Evolution Kid, and she can see through walls. She notices the dark shadow of pain lurking in one neighbor’s pantry and can sense the paralyzing anger keeping another neighbor awake at night. In this lyrical, heartbreaking, and whimsical slice-of-life by critically acclaimed novelist Pamela Ditchoff, Angela walks us through the homes on Lantern Hill, introducing a cast of fascinating characters whose lives intertwine in quiet, yet often profound, ways.
From Arnie the dwarf, a compassionate phone company guy who struggles to heal his emotionally damaged wife; to Cora, the postal service mail sorter whose unlikely sexual awakening is triggered by a delivery of exotic orchids; to Hank, Angela’s father’s lover, who channels his self-loathing into bulimia, each luminous character in this thoroughly engaging novel-in-stories teaches Angela a lesson in the human condition. Drawing on the classic nursery rhyme about the seven days of the week, as well as the seven deadly sins, Ditchoff frames each household beautifully in its own particular pathos.
Angela Mayfair is not your typical twelve-year-old. She is a Millennium Extrasensory Evolution Kid, and she can see through walls. She notices the dark shadow of pain lurking in one neighbor’s pantry and can sense the paralyzing anger keeping another neighbor awake at night. In this lyrical, heartbreaking, and whimsical slice-of-life by critically acclaimed novelist Pamela Ditchoff, Angela walks us through the homes on Lantern Hill, introducing a cast of fascinating characters whose lives intertwine in quiet, yet often profound, ways.
From Arnie the dwarf, a compassionate phone company guy who struggles to heal his emotionally damaged wife; to Cora, the postal service mail sorter whose unlikely sexual awakening is triggered by a delivery of exotic orchids; to Hank, Angela’s father’s lover, who channels his self-loathing into bulimia, each luminous character in this thoroughly engaging novel-in-stories teaches Angela a lesson in the human condition. Drawing on the classic nursery rhyme about the seven days of the week, as well as the seven deadly sins, Ditchoff frames each household beautifully in its own particular pathos.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
PAMELA DITCHOFF lives in Michigan. This is her second novel.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Monday's Child Is Fair of Face
THE BLEND of circumstances occurs only in April: late afternoon, an hour or so after rain, sunlight nearly white, wet lime-green grass, hyacinth's purple knuckles clenched tight as fists, and no wind at all. Arnie Timmick's pager beeps, usually when he's up a pole repairing storm-damaged lines. The number displayed is his home phone, but he doesn't call his wife. He doesn't because minutes count, and if he is too late, Faye will lock the basement pantry door and stay inside all night.
Arnie drives straight home and finds Faye in the pantry, its small south window casting a light square on her back. She stands before the shelves, hands gripped in her hair, counting cans. Even though there may be only thirty, she counts the same cans over and over in a rush: "Two hundred and five, two hundred and six, two hundred and seven."
Arnie says "I'm here" and moves to a position where she can see him, peripherally because she won't take her eyes from the cans. Faye keeps counting until she reaches 522. Face blotched, breathing rapid, she turns to him, and he can barely stand the seconds before the click of recognition when she cries, "Arnie."
They go upstairs and he draws her a bath, sits on the commode and watches her soak, watches as she slides all the way under, as tiny bubbles rise from her nose. He marvels at the beauty of his wife (marvel is the actual word Arnie would use), because Faye is classically beautiful, like Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn. That he is a dwarf does not influence his perception. Faye loves him as best she can love, and although she's beautiful enough to be a movie star or a fashion model, she doesn't know it because when she looks in a mirror she sees a face without features.
ARNIE MET Faye three years ago. He was updating the phone system in a psychologists' group office when Faye walked into the reception area. She took his breath away. The dress that swayed about her ankles was pale gray, and she wore no jewelry. Her black hair was braided away from her face, away from her dark blue eyes, and her skin looked as if she had never spent a day in the sun. The full effect made Arnie recall an enameled tin cup from which he drank milk as a child.
Every person that passed through the area stared at Faye. The guy sitting across from her made no pretense of gawking. A pharmaceutical rep was eyeballing her while chatting up the receptionist who cut her eyes in Faye's direction whenever the rep turned his head. Faye was the embodiment of everything that had been out of reach to Arnold Timmick, and he intended to keep her at arm's length. Arnie's history with beautiful girls was generally confined to being the target of mean-spirited remarks. He hated their haughty, self-confident conceit.
However, Faye grew edgy under this scrutiny, biting the inside of her lip, jiggling her foot, checking the wall clock. Arnie thought if she had wings, she'd fly to the ceiling light and bang against it over and over again.
After patching in the final extension, he lifted the receiver and saw that Faye was watching him. Her eyes held his with a silent plea, a reflection of his own past desperation, and Arnie decided to take action.
Impulse is the first thing taunted out of you when you're different, and Arnie was not inclined to act impulsively. He would like to say he acted with dignity--not the antiquated sentiment used to describe the physically or emotionally maimed who stoically shuffle through life without a whimper of discontent, but dignity as a measure of worth, repute, and honor. There's honor in a man willing to risk his pride to take the heat off someone else.
Arnie would not tell you that as he closed his toolbox an image came to mind of the last time he acted impulsively. When Jay Brandstatter wrestled Peter Alexander, the skinny kid who refused to shower after gym, to the locker room floor, Arnie kicked Jay square center in his bulging calf muscle. As Peter grabbed his clothes and ran, Jay stuffed Arnie into a locker and padlocked the door. Two hours passed before Miss Richards, the AV lab instructor, concerned when Arnie didn't show for class, harangued Coach Brownley into checking the locker room.
In the psychologists' office, Faye stopped fidgeting as Arnie walked toward her. Through years of practice, he could gauge a reaction in seconds; if the face didn't give way, the body would. Faye's shoulders dropped slightly and her pupils widened. Arnie hopped up on the chair next to hers, hooked his thumbs around his suspenders and began whistling, "Whistle While You Work." Then he glared at the man seated across from Faye and snapped, "What the hell are you lookin' at?"
The man scrambled out the door, the receptionist shuffled papers on her desk, the rep snapped his briefcase shut and said he would drop by later.
Faye's laughter came from her throat, lips closed, chin raised, eyes shut. Arnie saw the sound flutter in the clavicle basin of her neck. She took a handkerchief from her purse and pressed it to her forehead. Then she said, "I can't stand this place another minute. Would you care to walk me home? My apartment's only three blocks away. I'll fix a lunch. My name is Faye Holliwell."
For a tall woman, she had a girlish voice. From the way she drew out her a's, Arnie guessed her roots were Southern. He shifted his eyes to the floor, aware that his answer would be a private crucible. Whatever he said, whatever action he took, he might regret it for years to come, depending on her reaction. The easiest thing would be to give her "the look," the expressionless stare that levels unwanted pity, and walk away.
It would be the safest thing to do; at age thirty-one, Arnie was finally able to lie down at night with a sense of contentment. He no longer dreamt of waking and finding his clothes too small. He had a good job, a house on Lantern Hill Lane in a quiet, safe neighborhood, friends he could watch a game with on the big screen at Trapper's, and enough in the bank to make life easy. And though Arnie had been born with his mother's romantic nature, he'd resigned himself to settle for occasional passion in motel rooms after the bars closed with women who were either drunk, depressed, overly curious, or strange and silent.
Faye did not deserve "the look," and Arnie knew this the moment he saw her. "I have another job in half an hour," he said. "Thanks for the offer, though. Name's Arnie Timmick."
Faye's hand trembled slightly as she extended it, and her fingers were cool in Arnie's hand. "You know, if a bottle of Jack Daniel's could speak, I'll bet it would sound like you," she said.
Arnie smiled; this was one he hadn't heard before. During his teens, he had cultivated a bass voice because as much as he loved his father, he did not want to sound like him. His father's voice reminded Arnie of a small, yappy dog.
When a man exited one of the offices, the receptionist said, "The doctor will see you in five minutes, Faye."
Faye stood abruptly; her handkerchief fluttered to the floor and she was through the door before Arnie could jump down from his chair. The cloth was white and smelled like lily-of-the-valley. Arnie grabbed his toolbox and headed for the elevators.
He caught up with her on the sidewalk out front. She stood with her back to the street, facing the building's reflective glass panels. Arnie was close enough to see the downward turn of her mouth mirrored in the glass.
"You dropped this," he said, holding up the handkerchief.
Faye turned slowly and took the cloth. She shaded her eyes with her left hand. "It is much too bright today."
"That's my company van," Arnie said, pointing to a vehicle with michigan bell painted on the side. "Would you like a lift home?"
Arnie opened the door, and as Faye climbed in, a breeze caught her skirt, exposing legs long and white as a field of snow. Walking to the driver's side, he imagined Faye watching him climb the three, custom-built steps, sitting in the seat twice as high as the passenger's, placing his feet on the raised pedals. But she kept her gaze on the street until Arnie started the van and asked: "Where to?"
"Two blocks down Capitol, left on Madison, number 592."
Arnie parked in the drive of a narrow, two-story house, one of those turn-of-the-century downtown buildings renovated for the influx of yuppies during the eighties.
"I can't thank you enough. It's been one of those crazy mornings," Faye said. "How about coming inside for a cold drink?"
Arnie ran his hands along his thighs; it was unusually warm for April, but his sweat was not due to the weather. He wanted her out of the van, out of sight. "Sorry, I'm running late."
Faye cocked her head and sighed. "You think maybe I'm crazy because I was in Dr. K's office, some kind of psycho with bodies of phone company employees buried in my backyard."
"No, I thought you might have dwarfs buried in your backyard." This was a test, a roundabout way of getting rid of her, and Arnie expected her to mumble a quick good-bye and hurry inside.
"I do--six of them: Happy, Grumpy, Sleepy, Sneezy, Doc, and Bashful. That would make you Dopey."
Arnie laughed and shook his head. "Truth is, I have eight calls this afternoon. Maybe another time."
"Saturday night, six o'clock sound okay, Arnie?"
STANDING IN Faye's foyer, watching her bend and slip the back strap of a sandal over her heel, Arnie felt his stomach compress. Why did I come? What's she up to? Why would a woman with her looks be interested in me?
She wore red pedal pushers and a cropped T-shirt. Chris Isaak played from the stereo. Arnie wished he had brought something; he'd considered bringing flowers, but he didn't want to give the wrong impression.
"Dinne...
THE BLEND of circumstances occurs only in April: late afternoon, an hour or so after rain, sunlight nearly white, wet lime-green grass, hyacinth's purple knuckles clenched tight as fists, and no wind at all. Arnie Timmick's pager beeps, usually when he's up a pole repairing storm-damaged lines. The number displayed is his home phone, but he doesn't call his wife. He doesn't because minutes count, and if he is too late, Faye will lock the basement pantry door and stay inside all night.
Arnie drives straight home and finds Faye in the pantry, its small south window casting a light square on her back. She stands before the shelves, hands gripped in her hair, counting cans. Even though there may be only thirty, she counts the same cans over and over in a rush: "Two hundred and five, two hundred and six, two hundred and seven."
Arnie says "I'm here" and moves to a position where she can see him, peripherally because she won't take her eyes from the cans. Faye keeps counting until she reaches 522. Face blotched, breathing rapid, she turns to him, and he can barely stand the seconds before the click of recognition when she cries, "Arnie."
They go upstairs and he draws her a bath, sits on the commode and watches her soak, watches as she slides all the way under, as tiny bubbles rise from her nose. He marvels at the beauty of his wife (marvel is the actual word Arnie would use), because Faye is classically beautiful, like Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn. That he is a dwarf does not influence his perception. Faye loves him as best she can love, and although she's beautiful enough to be a movie star or a fashion model, she doesn't know it because when she looks in a mirror she sees a face without features.
ARNIE MET Faye three years ago. He was updating the phone system in a psychologists' group office when Faye walked into the reception area. She took his breath away. The dress that swayed about her ankles was pale gray, and she wore no jewelry. Her black hair was braided away from her face, away from her dark blue eyes, and her skin looked as if she had never spent a day in the sun. The full effect made Arnie recall an enameled tin cup from which he drank milk as a child.
Every person that passed through the area stared at Faye. The guy sitting across from her made no pretense of gawking. A pharmaceutical rep was eyeballing her while chatting up the receptionist who cut her eyes in Faye's direction whenever the rep turned his head. Faye was the embodiment of everything that had been out of reach to Arnold Timmick, and he intended to keep her at arm's length. Arnie's history with beautiful girls was generally confined to being the target of mean-spirited remarks. He hated their haughty, self-confident conceit.
However, Faye grew edgy under this scrutiny, biting the inside of her lip, jiggling her foot, checking the wall clock. Arnie thought if she had wings, she'd fly to the ceiling light and bang against it over and over again.
After patching in the final extension, he lifted the receiver and saw that Faye was watching him. Her eyes held his with a silent plea, a reflection of his own past desperation, and Arnie decided to take action.
Impulse is the first thing taunted out of you when you're different, and Arnie was not inclined to act impulsively. He would like to say he acted with dignity--not the antiquated sentiment used to describe the physically or emotionally maimed who stoically shuffle through life without a whimper of discontent, but dignity as a measure of worth, repute, and honor. There's honor in a man willing to risk his pride to take the heat off someone else.
Arnie would not tell you that as he closed his toolbox an image came to mind of the last time he acted impulsively. When Jay Brandstatter wrestled Peter Alexander, the skinny kid who refused to shower after gym, to the locker room floor, Arnie kicked Jay square center in his bulging calf muscle. As Peter grabbed his clothes and ran, Jay stuffed Arnie into a locker and padlocked the door. Two hours passed before Miss Richards, the AV lab instructor, concerned when Arnie didn't show for class, harangued Coach Brownley into checking the locker room.
In the psychologists' office, Faye stopped fidgeting as Arnie walked toward her. Through years of practice, he could gauge a reaction in seconds; if the face didn't give way, the body would. Faye's shoulders dropped slightly and her pupils widened. Arnie hopped up on the chair next to hers, hooked his thumbs around his suspenders and began whistling, "Whistle While You Work." Then he glared at the man seated across from Faye and snapped, "What the hell are you lookin' at?"
The man scrambled out the door, the receptionist shuffled papers on her desk, the rep snapped his briefcase shut and said he would drop by later.
Faye's laughter came from her throat, lips closed, chin raised, eyes shut. Arnie saw the sound flutter in the clavicle basin of her neck. She took a handkerchief from her purse and pressed it to her forehead. Then she said, "I can't stand this place another minute. Would you care to walk me home? My apartment's only three blocks away. I'll fix a lunch. My name is Faye Holliwell."
For a tall woman, she had a girlish voice. From the way she drew out her a's, Arnie guessed her roots were Southern. He shifted his eyes to the floor, aware that his answer would be a private crucible. Whatever he said, whatever action he took, he might regret it for years to come, depending on her reaction. The easiest thing would be to give her "the look," the expressionless stare that levels unwanted pity, and walk away.
It would be the safest thing to do; at age thirty-one, Arnie was finally able to lie down at night with a sense of contentment. He no longer dreamt of waking and finding his clothes too small. He had a good job, a house on Lantern Hill Lane in a quiet, safe neighborhood, friends he could watch a game with on the big screen at Trapper's, and enough in the bank to make life easy. And though Arnie had been born with his mother's romantic nature, he'd resigned himself to settle for occasional passion in motel rooms after the bars closed with women who were either drunk, depressed, overly curious, or strange and silent.
Faye did not deserve "the look," and Arnie knew this the moment he saw her. "I have another job in half an hour," he said. "Thanks for the offer, though. Name's Arnie Timmick."
Faye's hand trembled slightly as she extended it, and her fingers were cool in Arnie's hand. "You know, if a bottle of Jack Daniel's could speak, I'll bet it would sound like you," she said.
Arnie smiled; this was one he hadn't heard before. During his teens, he had cultivated a bass voice because as much as he loved his father, he did not want to sound like him. His father's voice reminded Arnie of a small, yappy dog.
When a man exited one of the offices, the receptionist said, "The doctor will see you in five minutes, Faye."
Faye stood abruptly; her handkerchief fluttered to the floor and she was through the door before Arnie could jump down from his chair. The cloth was white and smelled like lily-of-the-valley. Arnie grabbed his toolbox and headed for the elevators.
He caught up with her on the sidewalk out front. She stood with her back to the street, facing the building's reflective glass panels. Arnie was close enough to see the downward turn of her mouth mirrored in the glass.
"You dropped this," he said, holding up the handkerchief.
Faye turned slowly and took the cloth. She shaded her eyes with her left hand. "It is much too bright today."
"That's my company van," Arnie said, pointing to a vehicle with michigan bell painted on the side. "Would you like a lift home?"
Arnie opened the door, and as Faye climbed in, a breeze caught her skirt, exposing legs long and white as a field of snow. Walking to the driver's side, he imagined Faye watching him climb the three, custom-built steps, sitting in the seat twice as high as the passenger's, placing his feet on the raised pedals. But she kept her gaze on the street until Arnie started the van and asked: "Where to?"
"Two blocks down Capitol, left on Madison, number 592."
Arnie parked in the drive of a narrow, two-story house, one of those turn-of-the-century downtown buildings renovated for the influx of yuppies during the eighties.
"I can't thank you enough. It's been one of those crazy mornings," Faye said. "How about coming inside for a cold drink?"
Arnie ran his hands along his thighs; it was unusually warm for April, but his sweat was not due to the weather. He wanted her out of the van, out of sight. "Sorry, I'm running late."
Faye cocked her head and sighed. "You think maybe I'm crazy because I was in Dr. K's office, some kind of psycho with bodies of phone company employees buried in my backyard."
"No, I thought you might have dwarfs buried in your backyard." This was a test, a roundabout way of getting rid of her, and Arnie expected her to mumble a quick good-bye and hurry inside.
"I do--six of them: Happy, Grumpy, Sleepy, Sneezy, Doc, and Bashful. That would make you Dopey."
Arnie laughed and shook his head. "Truth is, I have eight calls this afternoon. Maybe another time."
"Saturday night, six o'clock sound okay, Arnie?"
STANDING IN Faye's foyer, watching her bend and slip the back strap of a sandal over her heel, Arnie felt his stomach compress. Why did I come? What's she up to? Why would a woman with her looks be interested in me?
She wore red pedal pushers and a cropped T-shirt. Chris Isaak played from the stereo. Arnie wished he had brought something; he'd considered bringing flowers, but he didn't want to give the wrong impression.
"Dinne...
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherShaye Areheart Books
- Publication date2003
- ISBN 10 0609609793
- ISBN 13 9780609609798
- BindingHardcover
- Edition number1
- Number of pages240
- Rating
Top Search Results from the AbeBooks Marketplace
Stock Image
Seven Days and Seven Sins : A Novel in Short Stories
Published by
Crown Publishing Group, The
(2003)
ISBN 10: 0609609793
ISBN 13: 9780609609798
Used
Hardcover
First Edition
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Condition: Good. 1st Edition. Used book that is in clean, average condition without any missing pages. Seller Inventory # 2394401-20
Buy Used
US$ 4.00
Convert currency
Stock Image
Seven Days and Seven Sins: A Novel in Short Stories
Published by
Shaye Areheart Books
(2003)
ISBN 10: 0609609793
ISBN 13: 9780609609798
Used
Hardcover
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Condition: Very Good. Very Good condition. Very Good dust jacket. A copy that may have a few cosmetic defects. May also contain a few markings such as an owner's name, short gifter's inscription or light stamp. Seller Inventory # T05N-00657
Buy Used
US$ 5.69
Convert currency
Stock Image
Seven Days and Seven Sins: A Novel in Short Stories
Published by
Shaye Areheart Books
(2003)
ISBN 10: 0609609793
ISBN 13: 9780609609798
Used
Hardcover
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Condition: Good. Good condition. Very Good dust jacket. A copy that has been read but remains intact. May contain markings such as bookplates, stamps, limited notes and highlighting, or a few light stains. Bundled media such as CDs, DVDs, floppy disks or access codes may not be included. Seller Inventory # C12C-00501
Buy Used
US$ 5.69
Convert currency
Stock Image
Seven Days and Seven Sins: A Novel in Short Stories
Published by
Shaye Areheart Books
(2003)
ISBN 10: 0609609793
ISBN 13: 9780609609798
Used
Hardcover
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description hardcover. Condition: Very Good. Connecting readers with great books since 1972! Used books may not include companion materials, and may have some shelf wear or limited writing. We ship orders daily and Customer Service is our top priority!. Seller Inventory # S_388557083
Buy Used
US$ 5.00
Convert currency
Stock Image
Seven Days and Seven Sins: A Novel in Short Stories
Published by
Crown Pub, New York, New York, U.S.A.
(2003)
ISBN 10: 0609609793
ISBN 13: 9780609609798
Used
Hardcover
First Edition
Signed
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Hardcover. Condition: Near Fine. Dust Jacket Condition: Near Fine. 1st Edition. Tiny light green mark on bottom edge, otherwise fine. Signed and enscribed by the author. Signed by Author(s). Seller Inventory # 1284
Buy Used
US$ 10.00
Convert currency
Stock Image
Seven Days and Seven Sins: A Novel in Short Stories
Published by
Shaye Areheart Books
(2003)
ISBN 10: 0609609793
ISBN 13: 9780609609798
Used
Hardcover
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Condition: Good. SHIPS FROM USA. Used books have different signs of use and do not include supplemental materials such as CDs, Dvds, Access Codes, charts or any other extra material. All used books might have various degrees of writing, highliting and wear and tear and possibly be an ex-library with the usual stickers and stamps. Dust Jackets are not guaranteed and when still present, they will have various degrees of tear and damage. All images are Stock Photos, not of the actual item. book. Seller Inventory # 5-0609609793-G
Buy Used
US$ 15.97
Convert currency
Stock Image
Seven Days and Seven Sins: A Novel in Short Stories
Published by
Shaye Areheart Books
(2003)
ISBN 10: 0609609793
ISBN 13: 9780609609798
Used
Hardcover
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Condition: Good. SHIPS FROM USA. Used books have different signs of use and do not include supplemental materials such as CDs, Dvds, Access Codes, charts or any other extra material. All used books might have various degrees of writing, highliting and wear and tear and possibly be an ex-library with the usual stickers and stamps. Dust Jackets are not guaranteed and when still present, they will have various degrees of tear and damage. All images are Stock Photos, not of the actual item. book. Seller Inventory # 11-0609609793-G
Buy Used
US$ 15.97
Convert currency
Stock Image
Seven Days and Seven Sins: A Novel in Short Stories
Published by
Shaye Areheart Books
(2003)
ISBN 10: 0609609793
ISBN 13: 9780609609798
Used
Hardcover
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Hardcover. Condition: Like New. Publisher: Shaye Areheart, NYC., 2003. First Edition, First Printing. FINE hardcover book in FINE dust-jacket. As New. Unread. Remainder marked. NOT price-clipped. NOT faded. NOT a book club edition. NOT an ex-library copy. All of our books with dust-jackets are shipped in fresh, archival-safe mylar protective sleeves. Seller Inventory # SKU1016463
Buy Used
US$ 22.00
Convert currency
Stock Image
Seven Days and Seven Sins: A Novel in Short Stories
Published by
Shaye Areheart Books
(2003)
ISBN 10: 0609609793
ISBN 13: 9780609609798
Used
Hardcover
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Hardcover. Condition: As New. Prompt shipment, with tracking. we ship in CLEAN SECURE BOXES NEW BOXES Near fine in near fine dust jacket. First edition. Seller Inventory # ware309mg064
Buy Used
US$ 32.00
Convert currency