Suzanne Beecher

Dear Reader,

Every other month I feature a Penguin Classics title for you to sample. Classics are timeless books. Many people feel each one depicts powerful life situations and lessons, that they deserve a special place on the bookshelf and in our hearts.

This month's Penguin Classics is "Metamorphosis" by Ovid, a sensuous and witty poem, in an accessible translation by David Raeburn

(Notes from the publisher)

In "Metamorphoses," Ovid brings together a dazzling array of mythological tales, ingeniously linked by the idea of transformation—often as a result of love or lust—where men and women find themselves magically changed into new and sometimes extraordinary beings. Beginning with the creation of the world and ending with the deification of Augustus, Ovid interweaves many of the best-known myths and legends of ancient Greece and Rome, including Daedalus and Icarus, Pyramus and Thisbe, Pygmalion, Perseus and Andromeda, and the fall of Troy. 

Erudite but light-hearted, dramatic and yet playful, "Metamorphoses" has influenced writers and artists throughout the centuries from Shakespeare and Titian to Picasso and Ted Hughes.

Start reading this month's Penguin Classic and enter to win your own copy.  

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@firstlookbookclub.com

P. S. This week we're giving away 10 copies of the book Jackal: A Novel by Erin E. Adams. Click here to enter for your chance to win. 

(continued from Monday)

Alice shoved it back into her pocket and then remembered the swimming cap incident. She had never seen her mother cry until that lady from the state talked to her. Alice didn't like seeing her mother cry. Her mother asked her to wear the bandana like a necklace, but Alice had a better idea. She flipped the stiff fabric up and wrapped it around her head, like a crown.

"Alice," someone called. The voice was soft, she couldn't be sure who it was, but it was coming from the trees. She took a step toward the woods. A chill passed through her. Her mom was right. It wasn't as warm as she thought. Freshly crowned, Alice put on her favorite jacket, turned up its fluffy collar, and ran into the woods after her friends.

The streetlights came on. Night fell.

Her friends made their way home. Alice didn't.

Before Tanisha could call them, the police knocked on her door. They sent a female officer because the department thought this needed a woman's touch. In reality, none of the men on the force was up for the task. When Tanisha answered, the officer spoke with a heavy sense of duty.

"Ma'am, do you recognize this?" she asked. The officer held up a plastic bag.

Tanisha shook her head. "No. Wait." She leaned in to get a closer look. The officer tried to pull the bag back, but it was too late. Tanisha could smell it. The plastic couldn't contain the sharp metallic tang of blood. The evidence bag slid over the fabric— whatever it was, was soaked. The bag moved in the officer's hand and a shearling collar shifted into view. Tanisha reached out and grabbed it to get a closer look. The cold slickness of the bag did not match the warmth that the liquid inside once contained. While the officer stepped back, she could not stop the realization building in Tanisha. Though the denim jacket was stained with blood and mud, the collar shone through.

Tanisha's life stopped. Time continued, but she was forever divided: There would always be before this moment and after it. With each passing second, the pain of the present robbed the past of its luster. Tanisha, like any mother would, tried to do the impossible. She saw time marching forward, and she wanted to turn it back. But like the heavy bag in her hands, time slid out of her grip. The weight of the jacket brought her to her knees.

Tanisha had wanted Alice to be seen so she wouldn't become a hunter's prey. She'd had that title long before she reached my eyes.

You can't stop a mother from seeing the good in her child, even in their most abject state. After hours of questions and paperwork. After her husband broke down and put himself back together. After they walked down the long hallway to the morgue. When they showed her Alice, all Tanisha saw was her daughter's serene face. She didn't look at the hole in her chest. She didn't ask about the innocence taken. She didn't seek out Alice's missing organ, her heart. Instead, Tanisha chose to see what little serenity Alice had left.

Walker Tragedy Ruled an Accident

March 13, 1986

JOHNSTOWN, PA—Alice Walker's tragic death has been ruled accidental after months of investigation. The medical examiner's office released this statement: "After a thorough investigation, we have concluded that Walker got lost and succumbed to the elements. Injuries previously considered to be foul play have been deemed animal activity. We take this time to remind parents to ensure their children's safety when hiking and playing in the woods. Children should be under adult supervision at all times. Our thoughts and prayers are with the Walker family tonight. We hope this answer offers them some solace." Walker's parents could not be reached for comment.

THE HEART

ONE

June 17, 2017

Welcome to Johnstown: Home of the World's Steepest Vehicular Inclined Plane'.

All of that, every single word, is emblazoned on a massive billboard visible about a mile outside of town. Because of the angle of the train's approach, the Inclined Plane is the first and only landmark I see. It means I've reached my final destination. The journey here has been rife with spotty cell service, dotted with tiny towns and abandoned industries consumed by thick forests. Yes. After fourteen years away, I, Liz Rocher, am returning to Johnstown, Pennsylvania. The rust belt.

Home.

I take another gulp of my train wine. The cheap varietal burns my palate. 'Varietal. Palate. Who do you think you are?' There it is. Judgment. One of the many things I ran from when I left.

The train slows. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. With my thick natural hair and dark skin, my Appalachian origins are unexpected'.' I buzzed all my hair off a little over three months ago. It's finally settled into its new length. Returning home with no hair means no protection. That's why this trek required a trip to Harlem to get a decent wig. Her name is Valerie. On the box, she looked like a pop star. On me, she looks like a PTA mom. Between the wig and my rumpled business casual, I look like a mockery of what I've become: a "city girl."

'You'll never be rid of that backwoods, small-town stink.' There it is again. My therapist, a tall white woman who gives me names for my feelings, would call that voice my anxiety. The tightness in my chest is my imposter syndrome. The occasional inability to catch my breath is a perfectionist tendency. Neat little notes in her records. My next sip of wine becomes a full gulp, finishing off the split.

"This stop is Johnstown, Pennsylvania."

I gather my things. My phone lights up with a notification from the office. Sales never sleeps. I've taken the weekend off, but I have work to do. I always have work to do. If I don't, I ask for more. The first time I did, my then-boss laughed and asked, "Trouble at home?" Implying that I didn't have ambition, I had misplaced avoidance. I smiled back at him with all my teeth. In two years, I had his job and an engagement ring on my finger.

(continued on Wednesday)

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