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She's come undone. byWally Lamb. Publication date For print-disabled users. Borrow this book to access EPUB and PDF files. She's come undone. byLamb, Wally. Publication date DAISY download. For print-disabled users. Borrow this book to access EPUB and PDF files. She's come undone by Wally Lamb, , Washington Square Press edition, in English.


She Come Undone Pdf

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pleasure, and is better suited to stimulating the female sexual anatomy to orgasm . This model Introduction: Confessions. Read She's Come Undone PDF File. In this extraordinary coming-of-age odyssey , Wally Lamb invites us to hitch a wild ride on a journey of love, pain, and. Feb 7, eBooks Download She s Come Undone (PDF, ePub, Mobi) by Wally Lamb Read Online Full Free.

His eyes peeked out from beneath two bushy brows and followed my steps with eerie cheerfulness. His smile was almost a smirk, as if he might reach out from the frame and jab me in the ribs as I passed. For supper we ate meat loaf and creamed spinach, the two of us sitting in a silence broken only by the occasional clink of fork against plate or Grandma's clearing her throat.

When she got up to make herself some tea, she addressed the stove. Kildare collage to the wall and unpacked my clothes. Grandma had placed little sachet pillows in the dresser drawers. As I yanked each drawer open, the smell of old ladies from church -- with their powdered wrinkly necks and quivery singing voices -- drifted up toward me.

In the bottom bureau drawer I discovered a little red ink message hidden in a back corner, written right into the wood. Grandma turned her TV to thunderous volume and told me I mumbled.

She was still an "Edge of Night" fan. Sometimes I'd grab a Coke from the refrigerator and slump down on the couch with her, slurping intentionally from the bottle. A girl named Lucinda Cote thought she was going to get it -- told me as much. She was a big piece of cheese, very stuck on herself.

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But no, they gave it to me. And here is my very own granddaughter who can't even sit correctly on a divan. She watched in silent horror as I stuck my thumb over the Coke bottle opening and shook, then let the foam erupt into my mouth.

Then she'd settle in front of the television to watch her westerns -- "Bonanza," "Rawhide" -- while I sat out at the kitchen signing corny get-well cards to Ma and pages of complaints to Jeanette. In our first week together, Grandma told me it was a sin the way I wasted hot water, toilet paper, my spare time.

She said she'd never heard of a girl who had reached my age without learning to crochet. I retaliated by shocking her as best I could.

At breakfast, I drowned my scrambled eggs in plugs of ketchup. Evenings, I danced wildly by myself to my 45s while she watched from the doorway. It was mostly for Grandma's benefit that I mouthed the declarations of the girl singers: My love is like a heat wave. It's my party and I'll cry if I want to! One night Grandma wondered aloud why I didn't ever listen to singers who could carry a tune. They can't be much older than you are.

But her lip quivered and she left my room making the sign of the cross. Pierce Street smelled of car exhaust and frying food. Glass shattered, people screamed, kids threw rocks. She told me she had warned her husband, my grandfather, that they should follow the doctors and lawyers and schoolteachers who had moved out of the neighborhood after the war. But Grandpa had put it off and put it off and then, in , had died, leaving her with teenage children and a two-family home with a leaky roof.

She had come to see her staying on amongst the "riffraff" as the will of God.

He had placed her here as a model of clean Catholic living. She was not obliged to speak to any of her neighbors, only to offer them her good example. At dusk each evening, Mrs. Tingley, Grandma's third-floor tenant, clip-clopped down the side steps with her bug-eyed Chihuahua, Cutie Pie. Tingley always said, while the dog circled nervously on his tether. In all the years Mr.

Tingley had rented from my grandmother, Grandma had assumed he was the drinker, not her. But after Mr. Tingley's death, the package-store man had kept pulling up to the curb as usual. My bedroom ceiling was Mrs. Tingley's bedroom floor. The only sound from above was the click of dog toenails, and I pictured Mrs.

Tingley up there lying in bed, sipping in silence. Across from Grandma's was a tin-roofed store divided in two.

One half was a barbershop. The barber, a thin, jowly man, sat sadly at the window most of the day, reading his own magazines and waiting for customers. The other half was the Peacock Tattoo Emporium. It was run by a skinny, older woman with dyed black hair and red toreador pants. On my second afternoon at Grandma's, she waved me over from where I was sitting on the front porch, waiting for the mailman.

She's Come Undone

She introduced herself as Roberta and asked me to run to the store for a pack of Newports. When I returned, she waved away the change and proceeded to dazzle me with her exotic life story.

She had once been married to a sword swallower who was now in jail where he belonged. Her second husband, the Canuck, God love him, was dead.

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Roberta had traveled with the Canuck to both Alaska and Hawaii and liked Alaska better. She'd dreamed President Kennedy's assassination the week before it happened.

She had been a vegetarian since the day in when she opened up a can of beef stew and found a baby rat. When Grandma came outside to sweep the porch, she spotted me through Roberta's plate-glass window and motioned me home.

Back inside, she hit me on the head with a rolled-up newspaper. Connie, a fat woman with Lucille Ball red hair, sat behind the counter on a webbed porch chair. She kept a whirring electric fan trained on herself and was careful not to risk breaking her two-inch fingernails as she grudgingly rang up people's stuff. Connie's nephew, Big Boy, was the butcher.

He whistled through his teeth and wore madras shirts and an apron smeared with blood. Daily, she folded money into my palm and sent me down the street for Tums or cornstarch or prune juice. As I headed out the door, she never failed to remind me to steer clear of both Big Boy and the dirty-magazine aisle. The Pysyks lived in the apartment above the superette. Their twin daughters, Rosalie and Stacia, were the only two girls my age on Pierce Street.

With my novel well on its way, I submitted an excerpt to Northeast, the Sunday magazine of the Hartford Courant. She notified me that she liked my story and was sending it on to editor Lary Bloom for his consideration.

When Lary called to say that the story would be published, I was so elated that I picked up my son, now a toddler, and tossed him so far into the air that his head hit the kitchen ceiling.

It just disappeared for a second and then came back into view. I got up early, drove to the convenience store, and purchased the Hartford Courant. Then I went back to my car, flipped to my work in print, and cried like an idiot. Shortly after that, while preparing a vocabulary lesson for my high school students, I looked up the definition of the word dolorous. Marked by or exhibiting sorrow, grief, or pain, the dictionary said. That was when Mary Ann became Dolores.

In all of literature, you will not find a character more unlike bold and valiant Odysseus than inhibited, caustic Dolores Price. And yet, they take parallel journeys. Odysseus must leave the safety and security of his beloved Ithaca, do battle in the Trojan War, and then find his way back home. On their respective journeys, both characters are banged up and bloodied.

Both do their fair share of banging up and bloodying others.

Both are aided along the way by oracles. Accept what people offer. Drink their milkshakes. Take their love. As the novel was nearing completion, I began to have fantasies that it might be published, but I was in the dark about how the publishing industry worked. My parents had recently celebrated their fortieth wedding anniversary, and for a gift I gave them a trip to New York City, booking them a room at the Edison Hotel, where they had stayed on their honeymoon.

Before they left, I asked my mom and dad if they might bring me back the yellow pages of a phone book so that I could get some addresses of New York publishers. My father later reported that the desk clerk had looked at her funny and said no.

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But my not-so-sweet-and-timid father took a different approach. He went back up to their room and tore out the pages anyway.

Figuring that publishers probably had slush piles, too, and that I might get lucky twice, I was busy stuffing and addressing manila envelopes the morning my wife came upstairs to my office and handed me a letter on Mary Kay—pink stationery. If I already had a literary agent, Linda said, I should consider hers a fan letter.

She's come undone

A fan letter? For me? But if I was seeking representation and had anything longer—something of novel length, perhaps—then maybe we could talk. My timing, however, was terrible. Judith took my completed draft with her to the hospital where she was about to deliver her daughter Lara by cesarean section. She picked up my story anyway, planning to get through a polite twenty pages before sending it back with a no thanks. Still on maternity leave, Judith invited me to Manhattan for a meeting at an Upper West Side restaurant.

It was a scorching August day, I remember. Instead, I walked the forty or so blocks from Grand Central Station to the restaurant and arrived nervous as hell and sweating like a pig.

Judith offered her hand for me to shake, and when I extended mine, I was mortified. But Judith must have forgiven me my faux pas. We became fast friends and have remained pals ever since. I asked. Well, she could still be out there. She wants to meet Dolores, Judith informed me. No, no, Judith said. Just Dolores. I was sent off on a six-city book tour—heady stuff for a high school English teacher, despite the fact that the sparse bookstore crowds sometimes included four or five employees hoping to help me save face.

I had to keep flipping back to the book jacket photo to see if you were really a guy. But I had revised relentlessly. Yup, still there. I said when she pulled a sheaf of legal-sized pages from her bag. Laurie said it was a book contract.

The publisher wanted me to write a second novel and would pay me an advance to do so. Laurie said that was an interesting way to look at it and poured me some more Chablis. Before brunch ended, I signed on the dotted line.

With Dolores and company off my desk and out in the world, reader mail began to trickle in. Telephone calls, too.People need them to be told, over and over. I like to imagine the two sitting side by side on bookstore shelves, keeping each other company. The cold spring breeze snapped his nylon windbreaker.

She's Come Undone

See all 2, reviews. The valentine party turned out to be a fifteen-minute disappointment at the end of the long school day. Contributor Internet Archive. I reached past him and pointed at Grandma, standing pinch-faced in her brown corduroy robe. Each day it happened again. Through her trials, Dolores Price, who now is in her teens, has let her childhood memories get the best of her.

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