NEVER TURN BACK
A NOVEL
CHRISTOPHER SWANN
For three storytellers gone too soon: To my grandfather, Henry Conkle, for sharing with me his love of narrative and English literature; To my father, David Swann, for all of his stories that are now family legend; And to Jim Barton, my friend and colleague, for teaching the power and enchantment of storytelling to so many students, including my youngest son.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Second novels are rumored to be difficult to write. I’m here to confirm that rumor is true. Writing a book is rarely easy, but this one was a bear. I hope you enjoy it.
Many thanks to my agent Peter Steinberg at Foundry Literary + Media for his unwavering support and for believing in me. Jenny Chen at Crooked Lane Books has championed this book from the get-go; not only did she see the heart of the story I was trying to tell, but she also helped me discover the best way to construct that story. She and the rest of the folks at Crooked Lane are outstanding, and I’m so grateful to them.
I’m also so very grateful to Holy Innocents’ Episcopal School for celebrating and supporting me in my second career as an author, as well as allowing me the opportunity to continue in my first career as a teacher. To my students, who push me and challenge me to be a better teacher and who never cease to amaze, embarrass, and delight me—thank you, and it will all be on the test.
There are too many authors for me to thank properly, and I fear I’ll inadvertently leave someone out, but the following deserve my special thanks for their encouragement, advice, and friendship: Brian Panowich, Jami Attenberg, Emily Carpenter, Patti Callahan Henry, Jonathan Evison, Ben Loory, Joshilyn Jackson, J. T. Ellison, Caroline Leavitt, Ed Tarkington, Morgan Babst, Daren Wang, Tim Johnston, Susan Rebecca White, Emily Giffin, Lynn Cullen, Julia Franks, Mira Jacob, Hank Early, Mary Laura Philpott, Marsha Cornelius, Linda Sands, Jason Sheffield, Wiley Cash, Dunn Neugebauer, Sheryl Bryant Parbhoo, Clifford Brooks, David Abrams, David Williams, Marilyn Baron, Zachary Steele, Rob Aiken, George Weinstein, Roger Johns, Anna Schachner, Robyn McCord O’Brien, Soniah Kamal, Carmen Deedy, Scott Gould, Elizabeth Colton, Amanda Kyle Williams (RIP), Georgia Lee, T. M. Brown, Angie Gallion, and Julia McDermott.
Thank you to Robin Hoklotubbe, Kelly Moore, Karin Glendenning, and all other librarians who promote authors and their books and reading in general; to Joy Pope, Kate Whitman, Alison Law, and all the other folks who tirelessly support the Atlanta literary scene; to Susan Rapoport, the wind beneath my wings; and to Gary Parkes, Jake Reiss, Nora Ketron, Frank Reiss, Kelly Justice, Doug Robinson, Niki Coffman, Justin Souther, Charlie Lovett, and indie bookstores everywhere (go to www.indiebound.org to find and order books from your local independent bookstore).
And finally, and most of all, to my number-one promoter, my editor-in-chief, the mother of our two incredible boys, and my best friend—to my wife, Kathy Ferrell-Swann. You were right. And I love you.
PART I
What’s done cannot be undone.
—Lady Macbeth, Macbeth (5.1.68)
CHAPTER ONE
I’m at a traffic light downtown on Peachtree Street at eight AM on a Friday, the sky far too blue and sunny, and as I sit in my Corolla in last night’s clothes, waiting for the light to change, the headache buried in my skull sends out a single red tendril. I need coffee and a shower and a handful of Advil. To distract myself, I think about Marisa, the woman I met yesterday at the English teachers’ conference and drank with at the hotel bar, the woman with whom I spent the night. But now the headache is unfurling behind my forehead and I just want to get home and climb into bed and sleep for twelve hours.
At the thought, as if sleep is a key that unlocks the vault of my memory, I can hear my mother quoting Robert Frost: “ ‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep, / But I have promises to keep, / And miles to go before I sleep, / And miles to go before I sleep.’ ” That was one of her favorite quotes, reflecting her extraordinary commitment to my father, no matter how difficult that commitment became. My father had a rather different take on the issue. Once, after he had returned from Iraq, I complained to him about a promise that a schoolmate had broken, and he gave me a lopsided smile. “The best way to keep your word is not to give it,” he told me. Which, even then, I knew was a pretty cynical thing for a father to say to his thirteen-year-old son.
The twin memories of my parents are like a pair of blades scissoring my heart, and I’m grateful to be distracted by the light changing. I’m a dozen cars back from the light, so I take a moment to close my eyes and picture an actual steel vault, the door massive and open. I’m holding an old shoebox, stuffed near to overflowing, a thick rubber band securing the lid, and I place the shoebox into the vault, push the door shut with a loud clang, and spin the wheel, locking it. Then I open my eyes and drive forward, through the intersection and on to home.
MY HOUSE NEAR Chastain Park is less than ten minutes from the school where I teach but over half an hour from downtown, even going against traffic. Halfway home I pull into a Starbucks drive-through, another willing victim of globalization and convenience, and order a large latte and a croissant. I suck down the latte and manage to get croissant flakes all over myself and the interior of my Corolla, but I don’t run into a lamppost or another vehicle, which I take as a win.
I live in a two-bedroom cottage tucked behind a much larger and more imposing house owned by Tony and Gene, who rent the cottage to me. Built a year before the Japanese bombed
