Sorry for Your Trouble by Richard Ford
English | 2020 | General Fiction/Classics | ePUB | 670 KB
A landmark new collection of stories from Richard Ford that showcases his brilliance, sensitivity, and trademark wit and candor
In Sorry for Your Trouble, Pulitzer Prize winner and New York Times-bestselling author Richard Ford enacts a stunning meditation on memory, love and loss.
“Displaced” returns us to a young man’s Mississippi adolescence, and to a shocking encounter with a young Irish immigrant who recklessly tries to solace the narrator’s sorrow after his father’s death. “Driving Up” follows an American woman’s late-in-life journey to Canada to bid good-bye to a lost love now facing the end of this life. “The Run of Yourself,” a novella, sees a New Orleans lawyer navigating the difficulties of living beyond his Irish wife’s death. And “Nothing to Declare” follows a man and a woman’s chance re-meeting in the New Orleans French Quarter, after twenty years, and their discovery of what’s left of love for them.
Typically rich with Ford’s emotional lucidity and lyrical precision, Sorry for Your Trouble is a memorable collection from one of our greatest writers.
ll the senior partners were having a laugh about a movie they’d seen. Forty-Five Years. Something, something about the movie taking forty-five years to sit through. The woman McGuinness thought he recognized was into it with them at the far end of the table—leaning in, as if hearing everything for the second time. “Miss Nail!” they were calling her. “What do you say, Miss Nail? Tell us.” They were all laughing. He didn’t know what it was about.
The woman wasn’t tall, but was slender in a brown linen dress, a tailored dress that set off her tan and showed her well-drawn body. She’d glanced past him twice—possibly more. A flickering look asking to be thought accidental, but could be understood as acknowledgment. She’d smiled, then looked away, a smile that said possibly she knew him, or had. So peculiar, he thought, not to remember. Eventually he would.
They were at the Monteleone, the shadowed old afternoon redoubt with the bar that was a carousel. It wasn’t crowded. Outside the tall windows on Royal a parade was shoving past. Boom-pa-pa, boom-pa-pa. Then the trumpets not altogether on key. St. Paddy’s was Tuesday. Now was only Friday.
At his end, the younger associates were talking about “contracts for deed.” People were getting rich again, they said. “Help the banks out,” one of them said. “The first fish to go ashore. Gut und schlecht. Man would rather will nothingness than not will . . .” Theirs was the old Poydras Street Hibernian firm Coyne, Coyle, Kelly, McGuinness, et al. Friday was the usual after-hours fall-by with the juniors. Give them a chance to find their place, etc. McGuinness was there to be congenial.
The woman had arrived with someone. A Mr. Drown. Someone’s client who’d left. She was drinking too much. Everybody ordered the Sazerac the moment they arrived in New Orleans. The guilty taste of anise. She’d had three or more.
Her eyes passed him again. Another smile. She raised her chin as if to challenge him. The old priest was to her left—Father Fagan in his dog collar. He’d fathered a child, possibly two. Had diverse tastes. His brother was a traffic judge. “Why would sex with me be better than with your husband?” he heard the woman say. The men all laughed—too loud. The priest rolled his eyes, shook his head. “What did Thomas Merton say . . .” Old Coyne said. The priest put his hand to his brow. “What’re they saying now?” someone said where he was sitting—one of the young women. “Nothing new,” was the answer. “Coyne thinks he’s a priest when what he is is a son of a bitch.”
“Miss Nail! Miss Nail! What do you say about that?” They were shouting again.