Authors: T. Greenwood
Two Rivers
Two Rivers
“From the moment the train derails in the town of Two Rivers, I was hooked. Who is this mysterious young stranger named Maggie, and what is she running from? In
Two Rivers
, T. Greenwood weaves a haunting story in which the sins of the past threaten to destroy the fragile equilibrium of the present. Ripe with surprising twists and heart-breakingly real characters,
Two Rivers
is a remarkable and complex look at race and forgiveness in small-town America.”
—Michelle Richmond,
New York Times
bestselling author of The Year of Fog and
No One You Know
“
Two Rivers
is a convergence of tales, a reminder that the past never washes away, and yet, in T. Greenwood’s delicate handling of time gone and time to come, love and forgiveness wait on the other side of what life does to us and what we do to it. This novel is a sensitive and suspenseful portrayal of family and the ties that bind.”
—Lee Martin, author of
The Bright Forever
and
River of Heaven
“T. Greenwood’s writing shimmers and sings as she braids together past, present, and the events of one desperate day. I ached for Harper in all of his longing, guilt, grief, and vast, abiding love, and I rejoiced at his final, hard-won shot at redemption.”
—Marisa de los Santos,
New York Times
bestselling author of Belong to Me and
Love Walked In
“
Two Rivers
is a stark, haunting story of redemption and salvation. T. Greenwood portrays a world of beauty and peace that, once disturbed, reverberates with searing pain and inescapable consequences; this is a story of a man who struggles with the deepest, darkest parts of his soul, and is able to fight his way to the surface to breathe again. But also—maybe more so—it is the story of a man who learns the true meaning of family:
When I am with you, I am home.
A memorable, powerful work.”
—Garth Stein,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Art of Racing in the Rain
Turn the page for more outstanding
praise for
Two Rivers
.
“The premise of
Two Rivers
is alluring: the very morning a deadly train derailment upsets the balance of a sleepy Vermont town, a mysterious girl show up on Harper Montgomery’s doorstep, forcing him to dredge up a lifetime of memories—from his blissful, indelible childhood to his lonely, contemporary existence. Most of all, he must look long and hard at that terrible night twelve years ago, when everything he held dear was taken from him, and he, in turn, took back. T. Greenwood’s novel is full of love, betrayal, lost hopes, and a burning question: is it ever too late to find redemption?”
—Miranda Beverly-Whittemore, author of
The Effects of Lightand the Janet Heidinger Kafka Prize–winning Set Me Free
“In the tradition of
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
and
To Kill a Mockingbird
, T. Greenwood’s
Two Rivers
is a wonderfully distinctive American novel, abounding with memorable characters, unusual lore and history, dark family secrets, and love of life.
Two Rivers
is the story that people want to read: the one they have never read before.”
—Howard Frank Mosher, author of
Walking to Gatlinburg
For Patrick
CKNOWLEDGMENTS
I
would like to give thanks to the following people for their contributions both big and small:
First, to the National Endowment for the Arts and the Christopher Isherwood Foundation, whose generous financial support enabled me to find both the time and space to write this novel. To my family, whose unwavering support has been nothing short of heroic. To Nicole Norum, Ann Marie Houghtailing and Jim Kokoris who read early versions of the novel and said to keep writing. To Penny Patch, who shared with me her remarkable personal experience during Freedom Summer. To Karl Lindholm for all things Middlebury and to Matt Van Hattem and David Warner, who answered all of my questions about trains. To Denise Johnson for dancing on the hood of her car. To Beya Thayer, who told me who Maggie was and what she was doing in Two Rivers (and for everything else too). To my father, Paul Greenwood, who helped me get all the important details right. To the folks at Newbreak Coffee Co. in Ocean Beach, CA, for the good bagels, endless cups of coffee and ocean view. To my students and colleagues at The George Washington University and at The Writer’s Center, who teach me something new about writing every day. For the readers of my Mermama blog, who continue to cheer me up and cheer me on. To my extraordinary agent, Henry Dunow, for holding my hand through every step of the revision process, and for believing in this story despite everything. And to Peter Senftleben, who made this all, finally, happen. Lastly, to Patrick for his enormous patience and gigantic heart, and to Kicky and Esmée, whom I love…to the bottom of the ocean and back to the top.
“All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.”
—T
ONI
M
ORRISON
ROLOGUE
1968: Fall
B
lackberries. The man’s skin reminds him of late summer blackberries. The color of not-quite midnight. The color of bruise. This is what Harper thinks as he looks at the man they have taken to the river, the one who is half-drowned now, pleading for his life: the miracle that human skin can have the same blue-black stillness as ripe fruit, as evening, as sorrow itself.
Of course he also thinks about what you might see (if you were here at the confluence of rivers). Three white boys. One black man, begging to be saved. The harvest moon casting an orange haze over everything: just a sepia picture on a lynching postcard like the ones his mother had shown him once. He’d had to look away then, both because the hanged man had no eyes, and because it was the only time he’d seen his mother cry. And he knows that if she were still alive she’d be weeping now too, but not only because of the black man about to die.
It was anger that brought him here. After he understood that Betsy was dead (not wounded, not hurt, but gone), everything else—the grief, the sadness, the horror—became distilled, watery sap boiled down into thick syrup. All that was left then was anger, in its purest form. It was rage that brought him here. But somehow, now, in the cool forest at the place where the two rivers meet, as the man looks straight into Harper’s eyes and pleads, the anger is gone. Swallowed up by the night, by old sadness and new regret.
“Please,” the man says, and Harper thinks only of blackberries.
He will see this color when he closes his eyes tonight and every night afterward and wonder what, if anything, it has to do with the most despicable thing he’s ever done.