Salvage the Bones: A Novel by Jesmyn Ward
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Salvage the Bones: A Novel

by

Jesmyn Ward

(Author)

4.3

-

5,942 ratings


Winner of the National Book Award

A New York Times Best Book of the 21st Century

An Atlantic Great American Novel of the Last 100 Years

"A taut, wily novel, smartly plotted and voluptuously written . . . Jesmyn Ward makes beautiful music, plays deftly with her reader's expectations." -Parul Sehgal, New York Times

The National Book Award-winning novel from the author of Let Us Descend and Men We Reaped-a gritty but tender story of family and poverty in the days leading up to Hurricane Katrina.

A hurricane is building over the Gulf of Mexico, threatening the coastal town of Bois Sauvage, Mississippi, and Esch's father is growing concerned. A hard drinker, largely absent, he doesn't show concern for much else. Esch and her three brothers are stocking food, but there isn't much to save. Lately, Esch can't keep down what food she gets; she's fourteen and pregnant. Her brother Skeetah is sneaking scraps for his prized pitbull's new litter, dying one by one in the dirt. Meanwhile, brothers Randall and Junior try to stake their claim in a family long on child's play and short on parenting.

As the twelve days that make up the novel's framework yield to their dramatic conclusion, this unforgettable family--motherless children sacrificing for one another as they can, protecting and nurturing where love is scarce--pulls itself up to face another day. A big-hearted novel about familial love and community against all odds, and a wrenching look at the lonesome, brutal, and restrictive realities of rural poverty, Salvage the Bones is muscled with poetry, revelatory, and real.

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ISBN-10

1608196267

ISBN-13

978-1608196265

Print length

288 pages

Language

English

Publisher

Bloomsbury USA

Publication date

April 23, 2012

Dimensions

5.5 x 0.7 x 8.2 inches

Item weight

2.31 pounds


Popular Highlights in this book

  • Seeing him broke the cocoon of my rib cage, and my heart unfurled to fly.

    Highlighted by 1,037 Kindle readers

  • I will not let him see until none of us have any choices about what can be seen, what can be avoided, what is blind, and what will turn us to stone.

    Highlighted by 1,026 Kindle readers

  • The house is a drying animal skeleton, everything inside that was evidence of living salvaged over the years.

    Highlighted by 783 Kindle readers


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ASIN :

B005IQ2D9W

File size :

2193 KB

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Editorial Reviews

“A taut, wily novel, smartly plotted and voluptuously written. It feels fresh and urgent, but it's an ancient, archetypal tale . . . Jesmyn Ward makes beautiful music, plays deftly with her reader's expectations.” ―Parul Sehgal, New York Times Book Review

“Ward tells the story with a tense patience, marking day after day; when the storm comes, overturning everything, it feels like a fatal relief. At least the waiting's over. Salvage the Bones expands our understanding of Katrina's devastation, beyond the pictures of choked rooftops in New Orleans and toward the washed-out, feral landscapes elsewhere along the coast.” ―New Yorker

“There's something of Faulkner to Ward's grand diction, which rolls between teenspeak . . . and the larger, incantatory rhythms of myth. She's fearless about her passion coming out purple, and for the most part the intensity of her story carries it off.” ―The Paris Review

“I've just read [Salvage the Bones], and it'll be a long time before its magic wears off . . . [a] fiercely poetic novel . . . What makes the novel so powerful, though, is the way Ward winds private passions with that menace gathering force out in the Gulf of Mexico . . . Without a hint of pretension, in the simple lives of these poor people living among chickens and abandoned cars, she evokes the tenacious love and desperation of classical tragedy . . . A palpable sense of desire and sorrow animates every page here . . . Salvage the Bones has the aura of a classic about it.” ―Ron Charles, the Washington Post

“Strikingly beautiful, taut, relentless and, by its end, indelible . . . Ward stares down the truth . . . It's astonishingly brave.” ―Joan Frank, San Francisco Chronicle

“Salvage the Bones is an intense book, with powerful, direct prose that dips into poetic metaphor . . . the story is told with such immediacy and openness . . . That close-knit familial relationship is vivid and compelling, drawn with complexities and detail.” ―Los Angeles Times

“The novel's hugeness of heart and fierceness of family grip and hold on like Skeetah's pit bull."” ―Ellen Feldman, O, the Oprah Magazine

“A fresh new voice in American literature, Ward unflinchingly describes a world full of despair but not devoid of hope.” ―PW Starred review for Where the Line Bleeds

“Her prodigious talent and fearless portrayal of a world too often overlooked make her novel a powerful choice.” ―Essence for Where the Line Bleeds

“A richly textured tale...like the best fiction, it creates its own world.” ―Susan Larson, N.O. Times-Picayune for Where the Line Bleeds

“A remarkable first novel...a lyrical, clear-eyed portrait of a rural South and an African-American reality that are rarely depicted.” ―Boston Globe for Where the Line Bleeds

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Sample

The First Day: Birth in a Bare-Bulb Place

China’s turned on herself. If I didn’t know, I would think she was trying to eat her paws. I would think that she was crazy. Which she is, in a way. Won’t let nobody touch her but Skeet. When she was a big-headed pit bull puppy, she stole all the shoes in the house, all our black tennis shoes Mama bought because they hide dirt and hold up until they’re beaten soft. Only Mama’s forgotten sandals, thin-heeled and tinted pink with so much red mud seeped into them, looked different. China hid them all under furniture, behind the toilet, stacked them in piles and slept on them. When the dog was old enough to run and trip down the steps on her own, she took the shoes outside, put them in shallow ditches under the house. She’d stand rigid as a pine when we tried to take them away from her. Now China is giving like she once took away, bestowing where she once stole. She is birthing puppies.

What China is doing is nothing like what Mama did when she had my youngest brother, Junior. Mama gave birth in the house she bore all of us in, here in this gap in the woods her father cleared and built on that we now call the Pit. Me, the only girl and the youngest at eight, was of no help, although Daddy said she told him she didn’t need any help. Daddy said that Randall and Skeetah and me came fast, that Mama had all of us in her bed, under her own bare burning bulb, so when it was time for Junior, she thought she could do the same. It didn’t work that way. Mama squatted, screamed toward the end. Junior came out purple and blue as a hydrangea: Mama’s last flower. She touched Junior just like that when Daddy held him over her: lightly with her fingertips, like she was afraid she’d knock the pollen from him, spoil the bloom. She said she didn’t want to go to the hospital. Daddy dragged her from the bed to his truck, trailing her blood, and we never saw her again.

What China is doing is fighting, like she was born to do. Fight our shoes, fight other dogs, fight these puppies that are reaching for the outside, blind and wet. China’s sweating and the boys are gleaming, and I can see Daddy through the window of the shed, his face shining like the flash of a fish under the water when the sun hit. It’s quiet. Heavy. Feels like it should be raining, but it isn’t. There are no stars, and the bare bulbs of the Pit burn.

“Get out the doorway. You making her nervous.” Skeetah is Daddy’s copy: dark, short, and lean. His body knotted with ropy muscles. He is the second child, sixteen, but he is the first for China. She only has eyes for him.

“She ain’t studying us,” Randall says. He is the oldest, seventeen. Taller than Daddy, but just as dark. He has narrow shoulders and eyes that look like they want to jump out of his head. People at school think he’s a nerd, but when he’s on the basketball court, he moves like a rabbit, all quick grace and long haunches. When Daddy is hunting, I always cheer for the rabbit.

“She need room to breathe.” Skeetah’s hands slide over her fur, and he leans in to listen to her belly. “She gotta relax.”

“Ain’t nothing about her relaxed.” Randall is standing at the side of the open doorway, holding the sheet that Skeetah has nailed up for a door. For the past week, Skeetah has been sleeping in the shed, waiting for the birth. Every night, I waited until he cut the light off, until I knew he was asleep, and I walked out of the back door to the shed, stood where I am standing now, to check on him. Every time, I found him asleep, his chest to her back. He curled around China like a fingernail around flesh.

“I want to see.” Junior is hugging Randall’s legs, leaning in to see but without the courage to stick in more than his nose. China usually ignores the rest of us, and Junior usually ignores her. But he is seven, and he is curious. When the boy from Germaine brought his male pit bull to the Pit to mate with China three months ago, Junior squatted on an oil drum above the makeshift kennel, an old disconnected truck bed dug in the earth with chicken wire stretched over it, and watched. When the dogs got stuck, he circled his face with his arms, but still refused to move when I yelled at him to go in the house. He sucked on his arm and played with the dangling skin of his ear, like he does when he watches television, or before he falls to sleep. I asked him once why he does it, and all he would say is that it sounds like water.

Skeetah ignores Junior because he is focused on China like a man focuses on a woman when he feels that she is his, which China is. Randall doesn’t say anything but stretches his hand across the door to block Junior from entering.

“No, Junior.” I put out my leg to complete the gate barring Junior from the dog, from the yellow string of mucus pooling to a puddle on the floor under China’s rear.

“Let him see,” Daddy says. “He old enough to know about that.” His is a voice in the darkness, orbiting the shed. He has a hammer in one hand, a clutch of nails in another. China hates him. I relax, but Randall doesn’t move and neither does Junior. Daddy spins away from us like a comet into the darkness. There is the sound of hammer hitting metal.

“He makes her tense,” Skeetah says.

“Maybe you need to help her push,” I say. Sometime I think that is what killed Mama. I can see her, chin to chest, straining to push Junior out, and Junior snagging on her insides, grabbing hold of what he caught on to try to stay inside her, but instead he pulled it out with him when he was born.

“She don’t need no help pushing.”

And China doesn’t. Her sides ripple. She snarls, her mouth a black line. Her eyes are red; the mucus runs pink. Everything about China tenses and there are a million marbles under her skin, and then she seems to be turning herself inside out. At her opening, I see a purplish red bulb. China is blooming.

If one of Daddy’s drinking buddies had asked what he’s doing tonight, he would’ve told them he’s fixing up for the hurricane. It’s summer, and when it’s summer, there’s always a hurricane coming or leaving here. Each pushes its way through the flat Gulf to the twenty-six-mile manmade Mississippi beach, where they knock against the old summer mansions with their slave galleys turned guesthouses before running over the bayou, through the pines, to lose wind, drip rain, and die in the north. Most don’t even hit us head-on anymore; most turn right to Florida or take a left for Texas, brush past and glance off us like a shirtsleeve. We ain’t had one come straight for us in years, time enough to forget how many jugs of water we need to fill, how many cans of sardines and potted meat we should stock, how many tubs of water we need. But on the radio that Daddy keeps playing in his parked truck, I heard them talking about it earlier today. How the forecasters said the tenth tropical depression had just dissipated in the Gulf but another one seems to be forming around Puerto Rico.

So today Daddy woke me up by hitting the wall outside me and Junior’s room.

“Wake up! We got work to do.”

Junior rolled over in his bed and curled into the wall. I sat up long enough to make Daddy think I was going to get up, and then I lay back down and drifted off. When I woke up two hours later, Daddy’s radio was running in his truck. Junior’s bed was empty, his blanket on the floor.

“Junior, get the rest of them shine jugs.”

“Daddy, ain’t none under the house.”

Outside the window, Daddy jabbed at the belly of the house with his can of beer. Junior tugged his shorts. Daddy gestured again, and Junior squatted and slithered under the house. The underside of the house didn’t scare him like it had always scared me when I was little. Junior disappeared between the cinder blocks holding up the house for afternoons, and would only come out when Skeetah threatened to send China under there after him. I asked Junior one time what he did under there, and all he would say is that he played. I imagined him digging sleeping holes like a dog would, laying on his back in the sandy red dirt and listening to our feet slide and push across floorboards.

Junior had a good arm, and bottles and cans rolled out from under the house like pool balls. They stopped when they hit the rusted-over cow bath Daddy had salvaged from the junkyard where he scraps metal. He’d brought it home for Junior’s birthday last year and told him to use it as a swimming pool.

“Shoot,” Randall said. He was sitting on a chair under his homemade basketball goal, a rim he’d stolen from the county park and screwed into the trunk of a dead pine tree.

“Ain’t nothing hit us in years. They don’t come this way no more. When I was little, they was always hitting us.” It was Manny. I stood at the edge of the bedroom window, not wanting him to see me. Manny threw a basketball from hand to hand. Seeing him broke the cocoon of my rib cage, and my heart unfurled to fly.

“You act like you ancient—you only two years older than me. Like I don’t remember how they used to be,” Randall said as he caught the rebound and passed it back to Manny.

“If anything hit us this summer, it’s going to blow down a few branches. News don’t know what they talking about.” Manny had black curly hair, black eyes, and white teeth, and his skin was the color of fresh-cut wood at the heart of a pine tree. “Everytime somebody in Bois Sauvage get arrested, they always get the story wrong.”

“That’s journalists. Weatherman’s a scientist,” Randall said.

“He ain’t shit.” From where I was, Manny looked like he was blushing, but I knew his face had broken out, tinged him red, and that the rest of it was the scar on his face.

“Oh, one’s coming all right.” Daddy wiped his hand along the side of his truck.

Manny rolled his eyes and jerked his thumb at Daddy. He shot. Randall caught the ball and held it.

“There ain’t even a tropical depression yet,” Randall said to Daddy, “and you got Junior bowling with shine bottles.”

Randall was right. Daddy usually filled a few jugs of water. Canned goods was the only kind of groceries Daddy knew how to make, so we were never short on Vienna sausages and potted meat. We ate Top Ramen every day: soupy, added hot dogs, drained the juice so it was spicy pasta; dry, it tasted like crackers. The last time we’d had a bad storm hit head-on, Mama was alive; after the storm, she’d barbecued all the meat left in the silent freezer so it wouldn’t spoil, and Skeetah ate so many hot sausage links he got sick. Randall and I had fought over the last pork chop, and Mama had pulled us apart while Daddy laughed about it, saying: She can hold her own. Told you she was going to be a little scrappy scrawny thing—built just like you.

“This year’s different,” Daddy said as he sat on the back of his trunk. For a moment he looked not-drunk. “News is right: every week it’s a new storm. Ain’t never been this bad.” Manny shot again, and Randall chased the ball.

“Makes my bones hurt,” Daddy said. “I can feel them coming.”

I pulled my hair back in a ponytail. It was my one good thing, my odd thing, like a Doberman come out white: corkscrew curls, black, limp when wet but full as fistfuls of frayed rope when dry. Mama used to let me run around with it down, said it was some throwback trait, and since I got it, I might as well enjoy it. But I looked in the mirror and knew the rest of me wasn’t so remarkable: wide nose, dark skin, Mama’s slim, short frame with all the curves folded in so that I looked square. I changed my shirt and listened to them talking outside. The walls, thin and uninsulated, peeling from each other at the seams, made me feel like Manny could see me before I even stepped outside. Our high school English teacher, Ms. Dedeaux, gives us reading every summer. After my ninth-grade year, we read As I Lay Dying, and I made an A because I answered the hardest question right: Why does the young boy think his mother is a fish? This summer, after tenth grade, we are reading Edith Hamilton’s Mythology. The chapter I finished reading day before yesterday is called “Eight Brief Tales of Lovers,” and it leads into the story of Jason and the Argonauts. I wondered if Medea felt this way before she walked out to meet Jason for the first time, like a hard wind come through her and set her to shaking. The insects singing as they ring the red dirt yard, the bouncing ball, Daddy’s blues coming from his truck radio, they all called me out the door.

China buries her face between her paws with her tail end in the air before the last push for the first puppy. She looks like she wants to flip over into a headstand, and I want to laugh, but I don’t. Blood oozes from her, and Skeetah crouches even closer to help her. China yanks her head up, and her eyes snap open along with her teeth.

“Careful!” Randall says. Skeetah has startled her. He lays his hands on her and she rises. I went to my daddy’s Methodist church one time with my mama, even though she raised us Catholic, and this is what China moves like; like she has caught the ghost, like the holiest voice moves through her instead of Skeetah’s. I wonder if her body feels like it is in the grip of one giant hand that wrings her empty.

“I see it!” Junior squeals.

The first puppy is big. It opens her and slides out in a stream of pink slime. Skeetah catches it, places it to the side on a pile of thin, ripped towels he has prepared. He wipes it.

“Orange, like his daddy,” Skeetah says. “This one’s going to be a killer.”

The puppy is almost orange. He is really the color of the red earth after someone has dug in it to plant a field or pull up stones or put in a body. It is Mississippi red. The daddy was that color: he was short and looked like a big red muscle. He had chunks of skin and flesh crusted over to scabby sores from fighting. When he and China had sex, there was blood on their jaws, on her coat, and instead of loving, it looked like they were fighting. China’s skin is rippling like wind over water. The second puppy slides halfway out feet-first and hangs there.

“Skeet,” Junior squeaks. He has one eye and his nose pressed against Randall’s leg, which he is hugging. He seems very dark and very small, and in the night gloom, I cannot see the color of his clothes.

Skeetah grabs the puppy’s rear, and his hand covers the entire torso. He pulls. China growls, and the puppy slides clear. He is pink. When Skeetah lays him on the mat and wipes him off, he is white with tiny black spots like watermelon seeds spit across his fur. His tongue protrudes through the tiny slit that is his mouth, and he looks like a flat cartoon dog. He is dead. Skeetah lets go of the towel and the puppy rolls, stiff as a bowling pin, across the padding to rest lightly against the red puppy, which is moving its legs in small fits, like blinks.

“Shit, China.” Skeetah breathes. Another puppy is coming. This one slowly slides out headfirst; a lonely, hesitant diver. Big Henry, one of Randall’s friends, dives into the water at the river like that every time we go swimming: heavy and carefully, as if he is afraid his big body, with its whorls of muscle and fat, will hurt the water. And every time Big Henry does so, the other boys laugh at him. Manny is always the loudest of them all: his teeth white knives, his face golden red. The puppy lands in the cup of Skeetah’s palms. She is a patchwork of white and brown. She is moving, her head bobbing in imitation of her mother’s. Skeetah cleans the puppy. He kneels behind China, who growls. Yelps. Splits.

Even though Daddy’s truck was parked right beyond the front door and Junior hit me in my calf with a shine bottle, I looked at Manny first. He was holding the ball like an egg, with his fingertips, the way Randall says a good ball handler does. Manny could dribble on rocks. I had seen him in the rocky sand at the corner of the basketball court down at the park, him and Randall, dribbling and defending, dribbling and defending. The rocks made the ball ricochet between their legs like a rubber paddleball, unpredictable and wild, but they were so good they caught to dribble again nearly every time. They’d fall before they’d let the ball escape, dive to be cut by shells and small gray stones. Manny was holding the ball as tenderly as he would a pit puppy with pedigree papers. I wanted him to touch me that way.

“Hey, Manny.” It was an asthma squeak. My neck felt hot, hotter than the day. Manny nodded at me, spun the ball on his pointer finger.

“What’s up?”

“ ’Bout time,” Daddy said. “Help your brother with them bottles.”

“I can’t fit under the house.” I swallowed the words.

“I don’t want you to get them. I want you to rinse them.” He pulled a saw, brown with disuse, from his truck bed. “I know we got some plywood somewhere around here.”

I grabbed two of the nearest jugs and brought them to the faucet. I turned the knob and the water that burst out of the spigot was hot as boiling water. One of the jugs was caked with mud on the inside, so I let the water run through the top. When the water bubbled up at the rim, I shook the jugs to clear them. Manny and Randall whistled to each other, played ball, and others arrived: Big Henry and Marquise. I was surprised that they all came from other places, that one or two of them hadn’t emerged from the shed with Skeetah, or out of the patchy remains of Mother Lizbeth’s rotting house, which is the only other house in the clearing and which was originally my mama’s mother’s property. The boys always found places to sleep when they were too drunk or high or lazy to go home. The backseats of junk cars, the old RV Daddy bought for cheap from some man at a gas station in Germaine that only ran until he got it into the driveway, the front porch that Mama had made Daddy screen in when we were little. Daddy didn’t care, and after a while the Pit felt strange when they weren’t there, as empty as the fish tank, dry of water and fish, but filled with rocks and fake coral like I saw in Big Henry’s living room once.

“What’s up, cousin?” Marquise asked.

“I was wondering where y’all was. The Pit was feeling empty,” Randall said.

The water in the bottle I held was turning pink. I rocked on my feet with the sloshing, tried not to glance at Manny but did. He wasn’t looking at me; he was shaking Marquise’s hand, his wide, blunt fingers swallowing Marquise’s skinny brown hand almost to nothing. I set the bottle down clean, picked up the next, began again. My hair laid on my neck like the blankets my mother used to crochet, the ones we still piled on in the winter to keep warm and woke up under in the morning, sweating. A bottle of dishwashing liquid landed at my feet, slapping mud on my calves.

“All the way clean,” Daddy said as he stalked off with a hammer in one hand. The soap made my hands slippery. Suds blanketed the mud. Junior quit searching for bottles and sat next to me, playing with bubbles.

“Only reason Manny was up here so early was because he was trying to get away from Shaliyah.” Marquise stole the ball. Although he was smaller than Skeetah, he was almost as quick, and he dribbled to the raggedy hoop. Big Henry winked at Manny and laughed. Manny’s face was smooth and only his body spoke: his muscles jabbered like chickens. He spread himself over Marquise, guarding him from the goal, and Randall clapped his hands at the edge of the beaten dirt court, waiting for Manny to steal and pass the ball. Big Henry shouldered against him, guarding. He was almost as tall as Randall but much wider, graceful and light as a spinning top. It was a real game now.

The crack of the bottle I was shaking sounded like change clattering in a loose fist. The bottle shattered, and the glass fragmented, slid along my palms. I dropped what I held.

“Move, Junior!” I said. My hands, which moments before had been pink, were red. Especially the left. “I’m bleeding!” I said under my breath. I didn’t yell; I wanted Manny to see me, but not as a weak, sorry girl. Not something to be pitied because I couldn’t take pain like a boy. Randall caught Manny’s rebound and walked over to me as I kneeled, my left hand under the faucet, a ribbon of red making for the mud at my feet. He threw the ball backward. The cut was the size of a quarter, bleeding steadily.

“Let me see.” He pushed around the wound, and it pulsed blood. I felt sick to my stomach. “You got to push on it until it stops bleeding.” He put my thumb, which had been stopping the head of the bottle, over the cut. “You push,” he said. “My hands are too dirty. Until it stops hurting.” It was always what Mama told us to do when we went running to her with a cut or a scrape. She would push and blow at the wound after putting alcohol on it, and when she’d stopped blowing, it wouldn’t hurt anymore. There. See? Like it never happened.

Manny was throwing the ball back and forth with Marquise so quickly it sounded like the fast beat of a drum. He glanced over at Randall kneeling over me; his face was even redder than it usually is, but then he hissed like he always does when he’s playing basketball, and I knew he was excited, not concerned. You got to push … until it stops hurting. My stomach tilted. Randall squeezed once more and stood, and the glimpse I saw of Mama in his mouth when he’d told me to push was gone. Manny looked away.

China’s next puppy is black-and-white. The white circles his neck before curling away from his head and across his shoulder. The rest of him is black. He jerks and mewls as Skeetah lays him on the blanket, clean. His mewl is loud, makes itself heard among the crickets; and he is the loudest Mardi Gras dancing Indian, wearing a white headdress, shouting and dancing through the pitted streets of the sunken city. I want him because he comes out of China chanting and singing like the New Orleans Indians, like the Indians that gave me my hair, but I don’t think Skeetah will give him to me. He is worth too much money. His bloodline is good. China is known among the pit bulls in Bois Sauvage for locking on to dogs and making them cur. She pulls tendons from necks. The daddy dog from Germaine, a few towns over, is equally fierce. Rico, his owner and Manny’s cousin, makes so much money fighting him he only has a part-time job as a mechanic at an oil change shop, and he spends the rest of his time driving his dog in his pickup truck to illegal dogfights set back in the woods.

“I wish he was all black,” Skeetah says.

“I don’t care,” I say in return to Skeetah, to everyone, to the dogs multiplying in the shed, but no one hears me over China. She yelps. She sounds like I do when I let go of the swinging rope that hangs from the tall tree over Wolf River: terrified and elated. Her clipped ears curl forward. The puppy slides from her. It looks yellow, streaked with black, but when Skeetah wipes it off, the black vanishes.

“Blood look black at night,” Randall says.

The puppy is pure white. She is her mother in miniature. But while her mother moans, she is silent. Skeetah bends over her. The other puppies are opening their jaws, twitching legs. We’re all sweating so badly we look like we just ran into the shed from a hard, heavy summer rain. But Skeet is shaking his head, and I don’t know if it’s all sweat or if he’s crying. He blinks. He scrapes his pointer over the pure white skull, down the puppy’s chest and her belly. Her mouth opens and her belly inflates. She is her mother’s daughter. She is a fighter. She breathes.

I tied the strip of an old rag around my hand and kept washing until I had all the glass bottles lined up on the wall inside the kitchen. Junior had run off into the woods surrounding the house after declaring that he was going to hunt armadillos. The boys had finished playing basketball; Big Henry pulled the old Caprice his mama had bought him for his sixteenth birthday into the yard next to the house after drinking from the faucet, wetting his head, and shaking it like a wet dog to make me laugh. Randall and Manny were arguing about the game. Marquise was lying on the hood in the shade of the oak trees, smoking a cigar. Big Henry only has two six-by-nine speakers that work because he blew his amp and his bass, so their talk was louder than the music. I picked up the jug I broke and put the shards in an old half of a garbage can lid. I knelt and stared for glass, wondered if I could find the piece that had cut me. When I finished, I walked toward the back of the property, the woods. My eyes wanted to search for Manny so badly the want felt like an itch on my temple, but I kept walking.

My mama’s mother, Mother Lizbeth, and her daddy, Papa Joseph, originally owned all this land: around fifteen acres in all. It was Papa Joseph nicknamed it all the Pit, Papa Joseph who let the white men he work with dig for clay that they used to lay the foundation for houses, let them excavate the side of a hill in a clearing near the back of the property where he used to plant corn for feed. Papa Joseph let them take all the dirt they wanted until their digging had created a cliff over a dry lake in the backyard, and the small stream that had run around and down the hill had diverted and pooled into the dry lake, making it into a pond, and then Papa Joseph thought the earth would give under the water, that the pond would spread and gobble up the property and make it a swamp, so he stopped selling earth for money. He died soon after from mouth cancer, or at least that’s what Mother Lizbeth used to tell us when we were little. She always talked to us like grown-ups, cussed us like grown-ups. She died in her sleep after praying the rosary, when she was in her seventies, and two years later, Mama, the only baby still living out of the eight that Mother Lizbeth had borne, died when having Junior. Since it’s just us and Daddy here now with China, the chickens, and a pig when Daddy can afford one, the fields Papa Joseph used to plant around the Pit are overgrown with shrubs, with saw palmetto, with pine trees reaching up like the bristles on a brush.

We dump our garbage in a shallow ditch next to the pit, and we burn it. When the pine needles from the surrounding trees fall in and catch fire, it smells okay. Otherwise it smells like burnt plastic. I dumped the glass into the ditch, where it sparkled on top of the black remains like stars. The water in the pit was low; we hadn’t had a good rain in weeks. The shower we needed was out in the Gulf, held like a tired, hungry child by the storm forming there. When there’s good rain in the summer, the pit fills to the brim and we swim in it. The water, which was normally pink, had turned a thick, brownish red. The color of a scab. I turned around to leave and saw gold. Manny.

“Been too dry,” he said. He stopped beside me, an arm’s length away. I might have been able to scrape him with my fingernails. “Ain’t no good to swim in right now.”

I nodded. Now that he was speaking to me, I didn’t know what to say.

“If your daddy’s right, we’ll get it soon, though,” he said.

I beat the side of my leg with the garbage lid, forgetting the dirt caked to the side. It drifted and fell like powder. I wanted to shut up, but it was my only thought, so I spoke.

“Why you ain’t out front?”

I looked at his feet. His once white Jordans were the color of orange sherbet.

“With them?”

“Yeah.” I glanced at his face, the sweat like glaze. My lips were open. Another me would’ve licked it off, and it would’ve tasted like salt. But this girl wouldn’t lean forward, wouldn’t smile as she mouthed his neck. This girl waited because she wasn’t like the women in the mythology book, the women who kept me turning the pages: the trickster nymphs, the ruthless goddesses, the world-uprooting mothers. Io, who made a god’s heart hot with love; Artemis, who turned a man into a deer and had her dogs tear him cartilage from bone; Demeter, who made time stop when her daughter was stolen.

“ ’Cause I don’t smoke weed,” Manny said, and his shoe slid next to mine. “You know I don’t do that no more.” His feet were in front of me, and suddenly, tall as he was, he was blocking the sun. “You know what I do.” He was really looking at me, bold, for the first time all day. He smiled. His face, marked with red sunburn and dimples and pockmarks and the glittering of scars from a car accident when he was seventeen and drunk and high in a car with his cousins upcountry at midnight, and they swerved to hit a deer; when he came out the window and hit the pebbly asphalt and glass, he scraped, and the road marked him with its own burn, broke him in places. He was the sun.

Manny touched me first where he always touched me: my ass. He grabbed and pulled, and my shorts slid down. His fingers tugged my panties, his forearms rubbed my waist, and the brush of his skin burned like a tongue. He had never kissed me except like this, with his body, never his mouth. My underwear slid down my legs. He was peeling away my clothes like orange rind; he wanted the other me. The pulpy ripe heart. The sticky heart the boys saw through my boyish frame, my dark skin, my plain face. The girly heart that, before Manny, I’d let boys have because they wanted it, and not because I wanted to give it. I’d let boys have it because for a moment, I was Psyche or Eurydice or Daphne. I was beloved. But with Manny, it was different; he was so beautiful, and still he chose me, again and again. He wanted my girl heart; I gave him both of them. The pines seemed to circle like a ring-a-rosy, and I fell. It will be quick, I thought. He will bury his face in my hair. He will growl when he comes. I dug my heels into the backs of his thighs. Even though I knew all the other boys, I knew him and his body best: I loved him best. I showed him with my hips. My hair my pillow in the red dirt. My breasts hurt. I wanted him to lean down, to touch me everywhere. He wouldn’t, but his hips would. China barked, knife sharp. I was bold as a Greek; I was making him hot with love, and Manny was loving me.

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About the authors

Jesmyn Ward

Jesmyn Ward

Jesmyn Ward received her MFA from the University of Michigan and has received the MacArthur Genius Grant, a Stegner Fellowship, a John and Renee Grisham Writers Residency, and the Strauss Living Prize. She is the winner of two National Book Awards for Fiction for Sing, Unburied, Sing (2017) and Salvage the Bones (2011). She is also the author of the novel Where the Line Bleeds and the memoir Men We Reaped, which was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award and won the Chicago Tribune Heartland Prize and the Media for a Just Society Award. She is currently an associate professor of creative writing at Tulane University and lives in Mississippi.

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4.3 out of 5

5,942 global ratings

Gary Carden

Gary Carden

5

00 361 pages Hurricane Katrina spawned an awesome number of literary works

Reviewed in the United States on March 3, 2016

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Salvage the Bones by Jesmyn Ward New York: Bloomsberry $24.00 361 pages

Hurricane Katrina spawned an awesome number of literary works, and it may be that, given sufficient time to determine the full merits of Jesmyn Ward’s novel, Salvage the Bones, her work may be the most worthy. Perhaps the theory that great disasters (wars, natural disasters) invariably produce great works of art (operas, novels, paintings, etc.). This theory was often discussed by Flannery O’Conner who commented on the irony of the “creative renaissance” in southern literature which owes its origin to the extensive suffering and injustice associated with slavery and the Civil War.

The narrator of Salvage the Bones is Esch, a fifteen-year-old girl living in Bois Sauvage, a predominately black bayou town which happens to be in the direct path of Katrina. Set in the twelve days leading up to, and just after the arrival of the hurricane, the novel presents each day as a distinct vignette. Esch and her brothers spend each day preparing for the terrifying arrival. They have no intention of leaving and attempt to help their drunken father reinforce their shack with sheets of plywood. They collect and store bottles of drinking water. Food supplies tend to consist of Top Ramen moon pies, vienna sausage, potted meat and eggs gathered in the woods.

However, despite Katrina’s approach, Esch and her brothers seem to be primarily concerned about their white pit bull, China who has just given birth to five pups. China has developed a reputation in the dog fights that take place in “The Pit” in Bois Sauvage. She is a killing machine, a fact that makes Esch and her brothers the envy of their neighbors. The family’s meager economic security depends on China and each day is spent grooming, washes and feeding her. Indeed they fawn over the big dog, telling everyone that her puppies will grow up to have a killer instinct and therefore, they are invaluable. Much of the intrigue in Esch’s daily life revolves around protecting China and her pups. Skeetah is Esch’s oldest brother and the dog’s self-appointed trainer.

Esch has a multitude of problems. She struggles to love her handicapped father and is haunted by the memory of her mother’s death. Now, she discovers that she is pregnant by Bois Sauvage’s “golden boy,” Manny, the boy who put the baby inside her is totally indifferent to the consequences of a rough and tumble frolic in the dark. As each day brings more distress, the homely, pug-faced teenager turns to her imagination, searching for a means to deal with the world around her, and as luck would have it, that is Edith Hamilton’s Mythology, which was a required reading at school. Esch begins to see the people around her as characters in her favorite book. She observes that all the girls in Bois Sauvage seem to be acting like their mythical counterparts: Psyche, Eurydice, Daphne - all of them running away from something or running after someone. However, the mythical character that Esch selects for her own role model is an ominous one. It is Medea, the fierce and vindictive wife of “the golden-haired Jason, who kills her own brother when he stands in the way of her love for Jason; and when that love turns to hate, she then murders Jason’s new wife, Creusa, her father, Creon and even kills her own children.

Of course, Esch is not going to harm anyone. Although she is filled with rage at the world around her, she is actually one of the forces that is holding everything together; China, the white pitbull is another. When Katrina reaches landfall, it comes like some apocalyptic act of God, sweeping everything away, including Esch’s home and all of their feeble efforts to battle the rising water. In the end Salvage the Bones acquires a kind of epic grander. Like Noah or Gilgamesh, the waters finally withdraw, leaving a confused and humbled Bois Sauvage. How much has been lost? The puppies are gone and so is China - but given the dog’s character, she may have survived. Perhaps Skeetah and his brothers will find her.

The reader is left with a singular image. Skeetah, the oldest brother sits in the wreckage of their home, and while everyone else is searching for missing children, furniture and cars, Skeetah looks at his brothers and announces, “She will come back to me.” Esch tells us:

“He will watch the dark, the ruined houses, the muddy appliances, the tops of the trees that surround us whose leaves are dying for lack of roots. He will feed the fire, so it will blaze bright as a lighthouse. He will listen for the beat of her tail, the padding of her feet in the mud. He will look into the future and see her emerge into the circle of his fire, beaten dirty by the hurricane so she doesn’t gleam anymore. So, she is the color of his teeth, his eyes, of the bone bounded by his blood, dull but alive, alive, alive, and when he sees her, his face will break and run water.

And what of Esch who loves the white dog? She says that China will look at me and know “I am a mother.”

Hopefully, it is apparent that this is a remarkable book. However, it was almost lost in the loud braying and confusion that dominates much of publishing business now. Even so, it won the National Book Award in 2011. Now, after a strange silence, it is beginning to get the attention that it deserves.

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13 people found this helpful

Robyn Stuart

Robyn Stuart

5

Wordsmith extraordinaire

Reviewed in the United States on August 9, 2024

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Ms. Ward paints such a vivid picture of the Batiste family, the Mississippi Gulf community and the devastation from Katrina that I felt I was a first hand witness. Enthralling Couldn't put it down. Read all her books.

Kindle Customer

Kindle Customer

5

Heartbreaking but wonderful

Reviewed in the United States on August 18, 2024

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Hard to read but could not put it down. Highly recommend to anyone who loves a story that makes you truly feel like you were there.

Amazon Customer

Amazon Customer

5

however the family takes precautions leading up to the storm to plan for one of the worst natural disasters in American history

Reviewed in the United States on November 23, 2015

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Salvage the Bones is a deeply personal account of a young woman, Esch, and her family's life in the few days before Hurricane Katrina. The novel is set on the family's land in a small town in Mississippi. She lives with her father, her mother seven years deceased, and her three brothers, Skeetah, Randall, and Junior. Esch has recently learned that she is pregnant with the child of one of her older brother's friends. Skeetah takes care of his pitbull, China, helping her give birth and grooming her to fight for the family's honor. Randall plays basketball in hopes of gaining a college scholarship. Junior is a product of the mother's death, as she passed away giving birth to him, and leaves the family to mother him for the rest of his life. The novel describes the family's relationships with one another before the hurricane will rock them and test their connections to one another.

The novel is not set decisively around the hurricane, however the family takes precautions leading up to the storm to plan for one of the worst natural disasters in American history. Jesmyn Ward provides a semi-autobiographical context of the hurricane, as she was born in a small, rural community in Mississippi, similar to the one she describes in Salvage the Bones. Ward writes commonly in this tone, and her newest novel, Men Who Reaped, describes the lives of four men in her life that had suffered deaths far too young.

The novel is poetic in its writing style, and a beautiful read. Ward describes herself as a "failed poet," however, by reading the novel, it is clear that she succeeds in her poetry. Metaphors follow each line of description, and Ward is able to connect figurative language with the colloquial language of characters living in a rural community. It is undeniably pleasurable to read through the pages. Ward creates lovable characters and leaves the reader longing to discover what happens after the hurricane, and how the favorite characters are surviving in the wake of the natural disaster. There is a large dog presence throughout the novel, in addition to family ties, the novel provides a sense of companionship and a person's human relationship with his dog. The dog becomes a member of the family, and the relationship is called into question with the severity of the storm and the need to hold onto the most important things in times of crisis. I am overwhelmed with the poetic nature of this book and applaud Ward as an exceptional writer.

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Readergurl

Readergurl

5

Amazing Book...

Reviewed in the United States on October 21, 2013

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It takes a lot nowadays for me to rate any Fiction book 5 stars. I read way more non-fiction, and usually only read highly recommended fiction, or some that's given to me.

There are plenty of other reviews here that tell you how it's not a "happy" book (why that matters i dont know), so i wont go on about that part. I dont base my reading choices on whether they have a happy fantasy story.

This story is very real. The writing is really good. I have several points that i use to rate a book: the story itself, the actual writing style, the 'entertainment' value, the emotions it brings out - laughter, sadness, etc., and if it's very memorable - either by being very different than anything i've ever read, or by something else about it being very different.

The only point out of all of those that i wouldnt give a 5 would be the writing style/prose - which i'd give a 4. It's very good, but not "amazing" to me like some authors are.

The author brought me into the characters - where i could feel what they were feeling, and i understood why they did the 'bad' things they did - totally. I felt the way they lived, the area, the poverty... As the story progressed, i stayed up one night for HOURS wanting to know what happened - until the sun rose actually.

As the finale was coming - which i had no idea would be the way it was - i was literally gripping the book with both hands and holding it up to my face. I realized this and laughed to myself since i hadnt even noticed. Then - i sobbed thru the last 20 pgs - i havent cried from ANY fiction for a long time. Yes, i get into books and really let them take me away, but this book has a special kind of writing and a special story that i never expected to effect me sooo much.

The author THEN does something so amazing at the very end - when i couldnt believe it could get any better. I KNEW what i wanted to happen - and i kept thinking to myself, "no, it wont - because it will just seem to corny if it does." (Even tho i wanted it so much.) She made it happen in a special way, without making it corny but while bringing me the hope and good feeling i needed after all the sobbing. (I dont want to give anything away just in case you dont know the story.)

This book scores an A+. If you love good, moving, American fiction you will love this.

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16 people found this helpful

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