About the Author:
Bruce Bauman is the author of the novel And the Word Was. Among his awards are a COLA (City of Los Angeles) Fellowship in Literature, a Durfee Foundation grant, and a UNESCO/Aschberg Fellowship. His work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, Salon, BOMB, Bookforum, and numerous anthologies and literary magazines. Bauman is an instructor in the CalArts MFA Writing Program and Critical Studies Department and has been Senior Editor of Black Clock literary magazine since its inception in 2003. Born and raised in New York City, he lives in Los Angeles with his wife, the painter Suzan Woodruff.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
“Mr. Lively, if you or he won’t help me, I am going to die.”
Lively’s expression went dark as if the fuse to his emotional box had blown out. He uncrossed his legs and leaned back. “I’m leaving for Houston later tonight. It’s my granddaughter’s sweet sixteen tomorrow and I am not missing that. Family means something to me.” His slow Texas accent, laden with the air of gentility, unnerved Moses.
“If I can’t see him, I at least need to talk to him.”
Lively leaned forward, “May I be so bold as to ask you a favor?”
“Sure.”
“When you talk to your mother, Hannah, say hello for me.”
“So, you knew her?”
“We’d met when they were still married. Attractive woman.”
“So, you’ll help me?”
“I’ll try.” Using his cane he pushed himself up. They followed and all three turned toward the door.
* * *
Jay and Moses rode the elevator in silence, attempting to absorb what they’d just seen and heard. As they stepped gingerly outside and crossed the street, Jay squeezed his hand. Suspicious Lively had planted a bug on them, she whispered, “You’re a good man, no matter who your father is.” She half-grinned. “Or how distasteful his friends are...”
That night, Moses, listening to Jay’s steady breathing, fell in and out of the semi-alert state where dreams seem real and reality seems dream-like. At 6 a.m. he pushed himself out of bed, the maxim he often stressed to his students racing through his head: One person’s version of history is another person’s version of an incomplete truth.
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