From Library Journal
When 17-year-old Fay walks out on her abusive, dirt-poor backwoods family, she is taken in by Mississippi trooper Sam Harris and his wife, Amy. First a surrogate for a dead daughter, Fay is soon Sam's lover and becomes pregnant after Amy dies (in a car accident involving alcohol), but then, more or less in self-defense, she shoots and kills Sam's ex-lover while Sam is on patrol. She flees, again on foot, this time ending up with Aaron, a volatile, violent, and bulked-up bouncer and part-owner of a Biloxi strip joint. The magnetic Fay innocently draws (big) trouble in Brown's (Joe) hard-drinking, hard-drugging South; you just know a lot of people are going to die in this hard-to-put-down book but not exactly who, when, why, or at whose hands. It's like George Pelecanos (ethos) meets James Lee Burke (atmosphere), or Daniel Woodrell (characters) meets Anita Shreve (star-crossed passion). Just don't look for it on Oprah. Highly recommended.
-Robert E. Brown, Onondaga Cty. P.L., Syracuse, NY
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Brown follows his tragic Father and Son (1996) and the contemporary classic Joe (1992) with this sexy, violent, gripping tale of a naive 17-year-old who turns men's heads everywhere she goes but sends them to their bloody doom. Fay Jones wanders out of the sharecropping backcountry into Oxford, Mississippi, and is befriended by a discontented highway patrol officer, Sam Harris, who takes her home to his wife, Amy, who still grieves over her lost daughter. In a touching scene, Amy takes her drunken sorrow to the backroads, where she cruises in revery until a logging truck kills her. Fay and Sam become lovers and live a sandy, boozy, halcyon life on the water, until a fierce former lover of Sam's makes an appearance and tries to shoot Fay. Fay shoots her instead and flees, as Sam plunges into a spiral of suspicion and despair. Meanwhile, Fay takes up with a brutal pimp and drug dealer in Biloxi, who is destined for a bloody death as well when Sam tries to rescue Fay, but Fay moves on, still innocent despite the blood in her wake. Nobody does cop talk, strip clubs, and fishing better than Brown, and his novel is worth the price if only for Sam's heroic, wrenching performance at the wreck of a tanker truck. The agony of the driver and the futile, frantic work of firefighters, before everything blows sky high, are painfully authentic. This is awful, beautiful work from the King of White Trash. John Mort
From Kirkus Reviews
The search for love and family has seldom been portrayed with such harsh realism as in this almost literally stunning fourth novel by the highly acclaimed Mississippi author. Browns first substantial female protagonist, Fay Jones, is a 17-year-old virginal beauty who runs away from her mean and drunken father and impoverished family (migrant workers camped near Oxford, Mississippi) in a vividly detailed opening sequence that recalls the beginning of Faulkners classic Light in August. Fay is a complete innocent, can scarcely read, has never seen a movie or used a pay phone. State trooper Sam Harris finds her hitchhiking and brings her home, where his wife Amy (still grieving over the accidental death of their teenaged daughter) essentially adopts her. But a chain of bizarre coincidences ends this idyllic family relationship, and Fay is soon on the road again, now pregnant, and easy prey (as she moves south, to Biloxi) for a hard-bitten waitress who pushes her toward stripping, then for easygoing Aaron Forrest, who turns out to be an unstable drug dealer. The story builds terrific momentum as things continue to go hopelessly wrong for Fay. She leaves Aaron, attempting to return to Sam, and the three converge in a skillfully deployed and violent finale that confirms Browns close kinship both with crime novelist Jim Thompson and with that underrated master of literate southern melodrama, Erskine Caldwell. The novel is probably too long, and it goes egregiously over the top at least once (in depicting an airplane pilots fate). But its filled with spare, precise, musical, observantly detailed prose and hair-raising extended scenes (an account of the effort to rescue a gas-truck driver from a flaming wreck is a piece of action writing few contemporary authors could match). Fay herself is an intensely real character, and Brown (Father and Son, 1996, etc.) tells her lurid, sorrowful story magnificently. Close to a masterpiece. -- Copyright ©2000, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.
Review
"A new voice of the south." -- Time Magazine
"A work of grizzled beauty." -- USA Today
"Another powerhouse of a novel." -- Kansas City Review
...Brown is both unafraid and unashamed to tell a whopping good story while dazzling us with the beauty ... of his prose.... -- George P. Pelecanos
Brown is an energetic, if uninventive, storyteller and his touches of local color occur naturally rather than as devices announcing, "Welcome to Dixie." -- The New York Times Book Review, Albert Mobilio
From the Publisher
"Brown, a former firefighter in Oxford, has written several novels and short-story collections all dedicated to the proposition that folks born south of the Mason-Dixon line are biochemically altered by this accident of geography. It predisposes them to overheated lives of hunting, boozing and hopeless love and enrolls its male chroniclers, like Brown, Harry Crews and Barry Hannah, in Hemingway's 3-F club of fishing, fighting and fornicating."-Albert Mobilio, The New York Times Book Review "FAY is a shaggy, ambitious, wonderful book...Larry Brown's many strengths--his dead-on dialogue; his uncanny sense of place; his power in describing landscapes and making them seem new and mysterious; his spare, rawly poetic language; his achingly perfect details--are all in full force...Brown has heretofore written mostly about males, luckless good-old-boys driving around, drinking--a territory nobody knows better than Brown. In FAY, he boldly crosses into new territory and invents a girl every bit as real as his men....In a landscape populated by tough guys, Fay Jones is more than equipped to survive. In fact, with her walking Mississippi's hot, desolate highways, it's Larry Brown's men you worry about."-Minneapolis Star Tribune
"Charlie Parker, when asked why he liked country music, answered, 'Listen to the stories.' Like the best country music, FAY is a violent, heartbreaking tale that you don't realize is also a black comedy until it's over....[Brown] keeps us in the story with strong, simple prose that makes it all look easy."-salon.com
"Fay's adventure could become one of the best beach books of the summer...Whether you are already a member of the Larry Brown fan club or someone who doubts you will ever be, the strange and sad story of Sam and Fay is one no reader should miss this spring."-Anniston (AL) Star
"Larry Brown's Fay descends from the Mississippi hills like Sasquatch in a skirt and hits Highway 55 with her thumb in the wind...[Brown] sure knows how to start a conflagration with his wickedly explosive prose."-Flaunt
"As in his previous novel, FATHER AND SON, Brown doesn't blink at the brutal realities of life on the line between hope and despair. Told in lapidary, perfect prose, FAY limns the nervy psyche of a woman walking that line. In the book's gruesome, if melodramatic, finale, Brown ties all the threads of this big novel together, showing how many people a 17-year-old can bring down as she tries to keep herself from falling."-Time Out New York
"Take your time. Turn back the clock and settle in for true grit as only Larry Brown can wield it. And just wait for the next barrage of awards to start trickling down."-The Jackson (MS) Clarion-Ledger
From the Back Cover
NATIONAL FANFARE FOR LARRY BROWN "Gifted with brilliant descriptive ability, a perfect ear for dialogue, and an unflinching eye...stark, often funny...with a core as dark as a Delta midnight." -Entertainment Weekly
"He left the Oxford, Mississippi, fire department after his first novel was published. It paid off." -Men's Journal
"He is blunt and abrasive about subjects that tend to cause flinching. He tells stories in plain language." --The New Yorker
"Clear, simple and powerful." -Time Magazine
PRAISE FOR FATHER AND SON
"A powerful tale of love and betrayal, family ties and brutal revenge." -The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
"The model is Faulkner, but his influence has been absorbed and transcended." -The New York Times Book Review
"So vividly written it is almost cinematic." -The Orlando Sentinel
"It reads like a stud poker game of life, tension growing with the turning of each card." -The Dallas Morning News
"Cancel the competition for suspense thriller of the year. Larry Brown has already won it with Father and Son." -St. Louis Post-Dispatch
About the Author
Larry Brown was born in Lafayette County, Mississippi, where he lived all his life. At the age of thirty, a captain in the Oxford Fire Department, he decided to become a writer and worked toward that goal for seven years before publishing his first book, Facing the Music, a collection of stories, in 1988. With the publication of his first novel, Dirty Work, he quit the fire station in order to write full time. (The nonfiction book On Fire tells the story of his many years as a firefighter.) Between then and his untimely death in 2004, he published seven more books. He was awarded the Mississippi Institute of Arts and Letters award for fiction and was the first two-time winner of the Southern Book Award for Fiction, which he won in 1992 for Joe, and again in 1997 for Father and Son. He was the recipient of a Lila Wallace-Readers Digest Award and Mississippi's Governor's Award For Excellence in the Arts. The story "Big Bad Love" became the basis for a feature film, as did his novel Joe.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
She came down out of the hills that were growing black with night, and in the dusty road her feet found small broken stones that made her wince. Alone for the first time in the world and full dark coming quickly. House lights winked through the trees as she walked and swung her purse from her hand. She could hear cars passing down the asphalt but she was still a long way from that. More than once she stopped and looked back up into the ridges that stood behind her, thinking things over, but each time she shook her head and went on.
South seemed best. She had vague ideas about a coast. She knew it would be warmer in the winter and that one thing drove her in that direction more than anything else. She imagined groves of citrus trees and sunny days picking the fruit and a tiny house where she would have her own groceries and watch television whenever she wanted to. She imagined one solid place where she could stay and maybe she could somehow send for the others then. Or ride a bicycle up and down the flat land with the water always shining out there beyond the shore and birds soaring like in the pictures she had seen of places like that. She kept her head down as she walked and she listened to the night things that called in the ditches and out past the stands of cane and in the clumps of trees that rose from the river bottom.
Once she stopped to rest on a narrow bridge and sat down on a timber studded with nailheads. A creek ran over snapped pilings and faintly gleaming rocks below her. She was thirsty but she feared picking her way down the muddy bank and the snakes she could not see. She sat hugging her knees and watching the specks of stars in the sky above her. All of it so still and unmoving, the stars so bright. She turned her head to the singing woods again. To go back would not take long. She got up and went on down the road.
Cows watched her progress from a quiet pasture like cows made of stone. She was afraid of them but she walked on by them. She didn't have a watch but she knew she'd been walking for about an hour.
When she rounded the last curve there was another bridge and she stopped again to rest before reaching a place where somebody might pick her up. She sat down and crossed her legs inside the skirt and opened the clasp of her purse. She rummaged through the few things that were in there and found the two dollar bills and pulled them out, smoothed the wrinkles, looked at them. She folded them and folded them again and undid the top button of her blouse and slid them into the left cup of the raveling bra, tucked them snugly in there and buttoned her blouse. Then she pushed herself up from the tarred wood with its hardened drippings of black goo and walked across it and out into the dusty gravel again. The moon was coming out.
She was afraid of the dogs that barked from the yards and sometimes came to the ends of the driveways and bared their teeth, but none came after her. She walked past a building set well back from the road and saw a dark cross set into the wood high up near the gable. She stopped. There was a light somewhere inside, a yellow beam that shone through stained glass windows. She wondered if there might be a water tap in the yard or on the side of the house. She turned down a neat drive covered with pea gravel, brushing the strands of her hair back from her face with her fingers. There was a light on a pole at the back and she could see a low wire fence and outcroppings of polished stones inside it. A whirling dance of insects hung around the pole. The light hummed with a low, steady drone and it cast a gauzy veil over everything. Crickets sounded from the dark woods back there.
She went cautiously even though there were no cars in the parking lot. Her steps were loud to her in the gravel. The west wall lay in shadow and there was a brick border for flowers near the entrance. She walked closer and saw a coil of garden hose in the damp grass and saw where it ended, a faucet protruding from a corner of the foundation. She went over to it and turned it on.
The water was cool and sweet. She was standing there drinking from the end of the hose when she heard it growling and turned her head to see a speckled knot of hair and bones with its head hung low between its shoulder blades standing thirty feet away. It moved closer and an odd clanking moved with it. She knew better than to run, so she let the hose drop from her hand and faced it. The dog seemed propped on its legs and a bit of drool swung from its jaw. The canines were bared in a bloody muzzle and its eyes were sick. Another ragged growl escaped it and it seemed hard-pressed to draw each breath. The foot that was caught in the rusty trap was nearly severed and the dog tried to hold it aloft as it came toward her, half whining, maybe for help. She backed toward the front porch and stepped onto it. There was a decorative iron column on each corner, leaves and vines hammered and painted, cool beneath her hands. The dog came closer. She turned to the double doors, the dark wood and the heavy brass knob. The door on the left opened when she twisted the knob and she stepped quickly inside, slammed it and stood with her back against it. The dog whined once and then there was nothing but the slight rattle of metal against gravel as the chain and trap were dragged away. She listened for a while but she couldn't hear anything else. She stepped away from the door and put the strap of her purse up over her shoulder. She went forward reluctantly, uneasy in a stranger's home.
A room like none she'd ever been in. A carpeted hallway that only whispered beneath her tennis shoes and long polished benches of wood shining faintly in the half gloom. She walked slowly, touching the dark brown pine. The ceiling pointed upward with long beams and chubby babies dressed in flowing swatches of cloth danced on air amid fields of flowers in a long painting across the back of the room or gathered at the feet of Jesus in a robe with a beard and long hair, seated on a stone. The tips of her fingers touched small brass plaques at the ends of the rows. The walls were lined with windows like the ones in front, beaded chips of glass in blue and red and gold, and at the front there sat a table holding bowls of polished metal. A white lace tablecloth. There were other paintings of Jesus and people, children, were always gathered about him. In all the paintings he wore a look of sorrow. There was no sound in that vast room at all. She wondered if the dog had gone away. She hoped it had. She thought it might be best to stay in here for a while, give it time to go somewhere else.
The long benches were covered with soft material that felt good under her hand. A small stage was beyond the table and on it stood a dark wooden platform. She opened a little side gate with a click and then went up the two steps to stand in front of the rows and rows of benches facing her. A Bible lay open before her, bound in leather, the pages so thin. She riffled through them, let them slide from her fingers. Somebody had to stand up here and talk to all these people.
"It's a church for rich folks," she said. The sound of her voice reverberated in the room, echoed quietly off the walls. She stepped away from the book and went back down the steps, out through the gate, around the rail. There was a door set into the rear wall and she opened it and found herself in a kitchen. Only a dim light burned over a stove. Rows of long tables and metal folding chairs shoulder to shoulder.
There was a wall switch beside the door and she flipped it up. The lights in the ceiling flickered for a moment and then came on strong, a bright glare that showed dishes racked beside a sink and cans of coffee left on a counter and cabinets that lined the back side of the room. A white refrigerator.
She set her purse on the counter and opened the door to see milk in cartons, covered dishes with casseroles and fried chicken, sliced ham. The lights hummed in the ceiling.
She found a plate and a fork in one of the cabinets and a loaf of bread in a corner of the counter and heaped the plate with food and poured a glass of milk. She sat down at one of the long tables and began to eat. The chicken was dry but she didn't care. Crumbs fell to the table on each side of the plate. She wished she'd known of this place on those nights back in the woods when there was nothing to rock against her empty belly except for her knees, those times they'd waited for the old man to come in with something to eat and waited all night many nights and he never did.
After a while she got up and poured herself another glass of milk and rummaged through the cabinets again. There were some fresh doughnuts in a cardboard box. She got three of them and sat back down and ate them one by one and licked the icing from her fingers when she was done.
In her purse she found the mangled pack of cigarettes that her brother Gary had given her and she got one out, holding it between her fingers while she searched for the matches, that she found finally beneath tubes of cheap lipstick and plastic combs and hairbands, things she'd saved for years. She lit the cigarette and waved the match out and dropped it into her purse and then pulled out another chair to prop her feet on and stretched out, blowing smoke lazily at the ceiling, thumping the ashes into the chicken bones on her plate. There was only one more thing she could have asked for.
The instant coffee was in a drawer and she heated water in a pan, found sugar and stirred it into the swirling coffee and sat down again with the steaming cup in front of her. She had one more cigarette, but by then she felt she'd already been there too long. She put the dishes she'd taken food from back into the refrigerator and scraped the scraps into a trash can with a lid. She ran hot water into the sink and added detergent that was there and washed the plate and the glass and the cup and the spoon and the fork, put them back where they had been. Wiped the crumbs from the table with a paper towel. She put the chairs back in their places and put the pan away. When she was done, she got her purse and checked one last time to see that everything was as it had been. Then she turned the light off and went out.
In the middle of the big room she stopped again. Jesus seemed to gaze down upon her with his painted eyes. She looked at the table and the empty bowls. Even though she felt just from the expression on his face that he wouldn't mind her taking the food and eating it, she turned and went back up the quiet aisle to the table and reached inside her blouse for the folded money tucked into the bra. She unfolded the money, put one bill in a bowl, the other one back into the bra.
Nothing changed inside the room. It crossed her mind to find a corner to sleep in but she was still too close to the place she had left. When she cracked the heavy door open and peeked out, the dog had gone. She pulled the door shut behind her and went on up the drive toward the blacktop. And then she remembered that the water was still running at the side of the building and went back down there and turned it off.
Use of this excerpt from FAY may be made only for purposes of promoting the book, with no changes, editing, or additions whatsoever, and must be accompanied by the following copyright notice:
Copyright c 2000 by Larry Brown. All rights reserved.
