9780156031349

Cass Neary made her name in the seventies as a photographer embedded in the burgeoning punk movement in New York City. Her pictures of the musicians and the hangers-on, the infamous, the damned, and the dead, earned her a brief moment of fame. Thirty years later she is adrift, on her way down, and almost out when an old acquaintance sends her on a mercy gig to interview a famously reclusive photographer who lives on an island in Maine. When she arrives Down East, Cass stumbles across a decades-old mystery that is still claiming victims, and she finds one final shot at redemption. Patricia Highsmith meets Patti Smith in this mesmerizing literary thriller.

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ELIZABETH HAND, a New York Times notable and multiple-award-winning author, has written eight novels, including the cult classic Waking the Moon, and several short-story collections. She is a longtime contributor to numerous publications, including the Washington Post Book World and the Village Voice Literary Supplement. She and her two children divide their time between the coast of Maine and North London.

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Theres always a moment where everything changes. A great photographersomeone like Diane Arbus, or me during that fraction of a second when I was greatshe sees that moment coming, and presses the shutter release an instant before the change hits. If you dont see it coming, if you blink or youre drunk or just looking the other waywell, everything changes anyway, its not like things would have been different.But for the rest of your life youre fucked, because you blew it. Maybe no one else knows it, but you do. In my case, it was no secret. Everyone knew Id blown it. Some people can make do in a situation like that. Me, Ive never been good at making do. My life, who could pretend there wasnt a big fucking hole in it?I grew up about sixty miles north of the city in Kamensic Village, a haunted corner of the Hudson Valley where three counties meet in a stony congeries of ancient Dutch-built houses, farmland, old-growth forest, nouveau-riche mansions. My father wasisthe village magistrate. I was an only child, and a wild thing as the privileged children of that town were.I had from earliest childhood a sense that there was no skin between me and the world. I saw things that other people didnt see. Hands that slipped through gaps in the air like falling leaves; a jagged outline like a branch but there was no branch and no tree. In bed at night I heard a voice repeating my name in a soft, insistent monotone. Cass. Cass. Cass. My father took me to a doctor, who said Id grow out of it. I never did, really.My mother was much younger than my father, a beautiful Radcliffe girl he met on a blind date arranged by his cousin. She died when I was four. The car she was driving, our old red Rambler station wagon, went off the road and into the woods, slamming into a tree on the outskirts of town. It was an hour before someone noticed headlights shining through the trees and called the police. When they finally arrived, they found my mother impaled on the steering column. I was faceup on the backseat, surrounded by shattered glass but unhurt.I have no memory of the accident. The police officer told my father that I didnt cry or speak, just stared at the cars ceiling, and, as the officer carried me outside, the night sky. Nowadays there would have been a grief counselor, a child psychologist, drugs. My fathers Irish Catholic sensibility, while not religious, precluded any overt emotion; there was a wake, a funeral, a week of visiting relatives and phone calls. Then my father returned to work. A housekeeper, Rosie, was hired to tend me. My father wouldnt speak of my mother unless asked, and, forty-odd years ago, one didnt ask. Her presence remained in the framed black-and-white photos my father kept of her in his bedroom. While Rosie vacuumed or made lunch I would sit on his bed and slowly move my fingers across the glass covering the pictures, pretending the dust was face powder on my mothers cheeks.I liked being alone. Once when I was fourteen, walk

Excerpted from Generation Loss by Elizabeth Hand
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Generation Loss

Generation Loss

0156031345

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