Reading Group Guide
1. As each character begins to tell his or her part of the story, we see that they all have vivid flashes of memory about that fateful day–a smell, a taste, a feeling, the way that the evening sky looked, the sound of Katie’s voice. Beyond setting the scene for the reader, how do these images help you form a picture of who these people are? What are some examples from the book of other events that are remembered in this kind of tactile detail? Are there any events from your own life that you remember in this way?
2. What do you make of the relationship between Clare and Raymond? Why do you think she is afraid that people will find her foolish? Why does she refuse to acknowledge his guilt for so long? What do these two give to each other, and why do you think that those around them are made so uncomfortable by it?
3. Henry Dees says his fixation with Katie comes from the fatherly love he feels for her. Do you agree with this view, or do you think there is something more sinister at play in his mind? Is Henry a harmless eccentric, or a man at war with his own inner nature? He knows that his adoration for the child is somehow wrong, so why is he powerless to stop it?
4. Throughout the novel, we see the purple martins come and go, and both Henry and Clare feel a particular love for and connection with them. Why do you think this is? What is it about the birds that each of them loves? Is it the same for both? And what do the hawks represent in this context?
5. What do you think Raymond sees in Henry that makes him seek him out as a friend? Is he simply taking advantage of someone that he can see right away is weak, or does he truly mean to be a friend tohim? And why does Henry befriend Raymond, even letting himself be taken advantage of?
6. Discuss the character of Junior Mackey. Of what significance is the list Gilley finds of his life goals (all achieved, to the letter) and his senior quote in the high school yearbook: “The measure of a man’s character is what he would do if he knew he would never be found out”? How is Gilley his father’s son, and in what ways does his character diverge from his father’s? How would you measure Junior’s character when all is said and done?
7. Does Henry really want to help Katie and her family? If so, why does he only reveal bits of information at a time, and never the whole story as he knows it? Do you see it as a failing on his part that he is so afraid to tell what he knows? How does the complex relationship between love for another and hatred for himself play out in his actions?
8. Many of the characters in this novel speak of love at one point or another. What are the kinds of love we see in The Bright Forever, and how does the idea of love motivate these people? In the end, which love resonates the most for you?
9. How significant do you find the setting of this novel to be? Could it just as easily have occurred in earlier or later decades? Elsewhere in the country? Would it have the same impact? Why do you think Martin chose to place the action when and where he did?
10. Why does Tom Evers never pursue an investigation of what happened to Raymond Wright?
11. Throughout the novel, there is the looming question of guilt in the matter of what happened to Katie Mackey. Where do you think the blame lies? To what degree are Henry, Raymond, Clare, Gilley, Mr. and Mrs. Mackey, and even the townspeople responsible? Is there one single unforgivable act that someone commits that seals her fate, or does a combination of coincidences, actions, and inactions lead to her death?
12. What do you find to be the most significant moment in the novel, in terms of the character of Henry Dees? Is there a place where you can see that he has learned from the tragedy that he played such a large part in? Or are you left with the impression that he simply continues his life on the same path of inaction, fear, and shame?
13. What does the title The Bright Forever mean to you? What is the “bright forever” the song refers to, in the context of this story?
Read an Excerpt
The Bright Forever
A Novel
By Lee Martin Shaye Areheart Books
Copyright © 2005 Lee Martin
All right reserved. ISBN: 1-4000-9791-6
Chapter One
Mr. Dees On the night it happened-July 5-the sun didn't set until 8:33. I went back later and checked the weather cartoon on the Evening Register's front page: a smiling face on a fiercely bright sun. I checked because it was the heart of summer, and I couldn't stop thinking about that long light and all the people who were out in it; I'd seen them sitting on porches, drinking Pepsis and listening to WTHO's Top Fifty Countdown on transistor radios. I knew they were getting a laugh out of Peanuts or Hi and Lois in the newspaper, thrilling to the adventures of Steve Canyon. Cars were driving along High Street-Trans-Ams and GTOs, Mustangs and Road Runners, Chargers and Barracudas. Some of them were on their way to the drive-in theater east of town-a twin bill, Summer of '42 and Bless the Beasts and Children. Others went downtown. Teenage boys were ducking into the Rexall or the new Super Foodliner to pick up a pack of Marlboros or Kools. Couples were strolling around the courthouse square, lollygagging after supper at the Coach House or a steak and a cold beer at the Top Hat Inn. They were window-shopping, the ladies admiring the new knee-high boots at Bogan's Shoe Store, high school girls looking at the first wire-rim glasses at Blank's Optical, the flared-leg pantsuits at Helene's Dress Shop, the friendship bracelets and engagement sets at Lett's Jewelry.
Enough time and opportunity, and yet no one could stop what was going to happen.
We were just an itty-bitty town in Indiana, on the flat plain beyond the rolling hills of the Hoosier National Forest-a glassworks town near the White River, which twisted and turned to the southwest before emptying into the Wabash and running down to the Ohio. That day, a Wednesday, the temperature had gotten up to ninety-three and the humidity had settled in and left everyone limp with trying. The air held in the smell of heat from the furnaces at the glassworks, the dead fish stink from the river, the sounds of people's living: ice cubes clinking in glasses, car mufflers rattling, screen doors creaking, mothers calling children to come in.
In the evening, when the breeze picked up enough to stir the leaves on the courthouse lawn's giant oaks and dusk started to fall, the air cooled just enough to make us forget how hot and unforgiving the day had been. After the hours spent working at the glassworks or the stone quarry or the gravel pit, people were glad to be moving about at their own pace, taking their time, letting the coming dark and the rustle of air convince them that soon there might be rain and then the heat would break. I was content to sit at the kitchen table, noodling around with the story problems I planned to use the next day with my summer students, one of whom was Katie Mackey.
Later, there would be a few folks who would step up and say they had something maybe the police ought to know. Their names would be in the newspapers-papers as far away as St. Louis and Chicago-and on the Terre Haute and Indianapolis television stations, people who would be in the notebooks of all the magazine writers who'd come-slick-talking out-of-towners with questions. Newshounds from Inside Detective, Police Gazette. They'd want to know how to find so-and-so.
I've never been able to tell this story and my part in it until now, but listen, I'll say it true: a man can live with something like this only so long before he has to make it known. My name is Henry Dees, and I was a teacher then-a teacher of mathematics and a summer tutor for the children like Katie who needed such a thing. I'm an old man now, and even though more than thirty years have gone by, I still remember that summer and its secrets, and the way the heat was and how the light stretched on into evening like it would never leave. If you want to listen, you'll have to trust me. Or close the book; go back to your lives. I warn you: this is a story as hard to hear as it is for me to tell.
Gilley
We were eating supper. That's what I remember, the four of us sitting at the table: Mom and Dad and me and Katie. It was just a night like that, a summer night, and pretty soon Katie would finish her lemon sherbet and ask to be excused and then run up the street to find her friend Renee Cherry. That's what would have happened. I've known it all these years. Renee and Katie would have made up, said they were sorry about the quarrel they'd had that morning, and played until dark, when Mom would have called my sister in.
But before any of that could happen, I said, "Katie didn't take back her library books."
I was still mad at her because sometime that afternoon she had gone into my room and listened to my Carole King album, Tapestry, and left a scratch on the "It's Too Late" track so it stuck on the chorus-"Too late, too late, too late"-'and I wanted to pay her back. I wanted to see her get in Dutch with Dad, who had warned her about keeping library books past the due date. "Good golly, Little Miss Katie," he'd told her at breakfast. "If you're not careful, you'll be living a life of crime." We knew we were a family that people noticed, envied even, for our wealth and my father's influence in our town. Our family had owned Mackey Glass for years, and my father always told us we had to be careful not to screw up, not to give anyone a reason to think less of us. "If the police come looking for you," he said to Katie, "I'll tell them we tried our best to bring you up right, but you wouldn't listen. Now, I mean it, Katie. Take those books back today."
But she didn't. She and Renee spent all morning on the front porch. They were there when I was getting ready for work. I was seventeen that summer, and I was a clerk and stock boy at the J. C. Penney store downtown. I was standing in front of my dresser mirror, knotting my necktie, and I could hear Katie and Renee in the porch swing. The chains creaked as the swing moved back and forth. Katie and Renee were playing their favorite game-It's Gotta Go-where they made choices between things that they dearly loved. Pepsi or Coke, spaghetti or macaroni, Little Dot or Little Lulu, puppies or kittens, Barbie or Skipper, "You Can't Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd" or "Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh," Christmas or your birthday. Making a choice was heartbreaking and took hours. Often they'd end up bawling. They'd hug each other and agree that it was necessary. If it wasn't hard, it wouldn't matter. It proved how much they really loved the things they said they'd let go.
Renee's mother, Margot, claimed to have ESP. The sixth sense, she called it. A sign in front of her house said, will tell you your entire life without asking a single question. I'd gone to her earlier that summer. Just for a kick. She held my hands, turned them over, and traced the lines in my palms. "You will be chosen," she told me. "Soon a light will find you. Don't look away."
On the porch, Katie and Renee were trying to decide between The Partridge Family and The Brady Bunch: one of them had to go. Katie said that Keith Partridge was dreamier than Greg Brady, but she'd much rather be friends with Marcia than with Laurie Partridge. Marcia was just so cute, and her hair was perfect; Laurie was too skinny, and Katie was fairly certain that she didn't really know how to play that electric piano. Renee, who usually took her cues from Katie, said yes, that was true, but who wouldn't choose Peter Brady over Danny Partridge?
"Maybe I wouldn't," Katie said.
The swing's chains stopped creaking; someone, maybe Renee, dragged her feet over the porch floor. "You can't mean that," she said, and she sounded very serious, like a grown-up. "You've got to be kidding. Danny instead of Peter? No way. Danny isn't nice."
I finished knotting my tie and went over to look out the window. A robin was parading around the lawn. The grass, still wet from the sprinkler, sparkled in the sunlight. The petunias in my mother's flower bed smelled sweet; their pink and red and white petals ruffled in the breeze.
"I think he's funny," Katie said.
"He's not funny," said Renee. "He's retarded."
"What about me?" Katie was getting worked up, the way she did sometimes. She could be a drama queen, in love with the spotlight. The day before, she'd worn sunglasses and posed on the stone bench in our backyard so I could take her picture with my Polaroid camera. I knew her eyes were wide open now as she faced Renee, and her cheeks were filled with air. When she got like that, I told her she looked like Porky Pig. "I'm funny," she said to Renee. "I always make you laugh when I do my Donald Duck voice. Isn't that funny?"
"No, it's retarded."
"You're the retarded one," Katie said.
For a good while neither of them said anything. The only sound was the wind through the trees. Then Renee said, "Maybe I should just go home now."
Katie agreed. "Maybe you should."
"Do you want me to go?"
"If that's what you want."
"All right. I guess you want me to go."
So Renee left, and Katie ran into the house bawling, and she never got around to taking her books back to the library. She ruined my new record instead, and even though I wanted to feel sorry for her because she'd had that fight with Renee, I couldn't, and I said what I did, and Dad blew his top.
"Katie." He leaned across the table and shook a finger at her. "What did I tell you?"
She jumped up from her chair. "I'm going to take them back right now." She was wearing a pair of orange shorts and a black T-shirt. Her brown hair, lightened from the sun, was combed off her forehead and pinned with gold barrettes. "The library's open until seven o'clock. I've got plenty of time."
She never even stopped to put on sandals. They were right there at the back door, but she didn't put them on. I thought about stopping her. I thought about saying, "Katie, your sandals." But I didn't. She was barefoot, and she swung open the screen door. She threw her library books into her bicycle basket and I watched her stand up on the pedals until she reached the top of the hill. Then she sat down and bent over her handlebars, and her long hair flew out behind her, and I watched her until she was gone.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Bright Forever by Lee Martin Copyright © 2005 by Lee Martin. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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