Anagrams by Lorrie Moore

By Lorrie Moore

Gerard sits, totally clothed, in his empty bath and pines for Benna. friends within the similar condominium construction, they percentage a wall and Gerard listens for the sound of her bathroom flushing. Gerard loves Benna. after which Benna loves Gerard. She listens to him play piano, she teaches poetry and sings at nightclubs. As their relationships ebbs and flows, via fact and mind's eye, Lorrie Moore paints an enthralling, leading edge portrait of guys and ladies in love and never in love. the 1st novel from a grasp of latest American fiction, Anagrams is a revelatory story of affection won and misplaced.

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Leave that to me,” he said. ” “Bet he’s going to haul Randall’s corpse out to the Mojave Desert and cremate him over brittlebush and dried yucca,” Rosemary told Delia. “That’d be about right,” Delia said, but kept her voice low so Cissy wouldn’t hear. Cissy cried all through Booger’s mumbled eulogy and the unfamiliar service. Delia sat dry-eyed and silent. Some of the band members stood up to speak, but they kept it brief. Delia kept expecting someone to say what they were all thinking—that Randall’s death was as close to suicide as made no difference, that half of them had not spoken to him in the last year and the other half only when they needed money, but all the speakers looked over at Randall’s sobbing child and visibly rethought their remarks.

There’s that house in Venice Beach,” he said finally. “That one Booger and me bought. It’s pretty messy, but it’s empty. Booger didn’t like the neighborhood. We could clean it up. ” Delia hesitated and looked away. The girl was watching them from the annex. ” Randall asked, one hand pulling money out of a pocket. She shook her head. ” Her name was thick in his mouth. “Honey,” he said, slurring even that. For a moment Delia hated him. She wasn’t just another girl he’d picked up on the street. She was the mother of his child, the woman who had thrown everything away for him.

She didn’t like the parties anymore, and she’d never enjoyed talking business. Drunk or sober, Delia lived in the small town in her heart, ignoring the world in which all her love had turned to grief. Once they moved to Venice Beach, Delia tried to behave as if it were just another small town too, a place like Cayro. It did not matter that behind her house loomed thousands of others, postage-stamp boxes layered across Los Angeles County up from Santa Monica or south to Long Beach and all the little suburbs that trailed down to San Diego.

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