The Shadow Year

I just finished Shadow Year by Jeffrey Ford. It takes place in the mid sixties and follows the adventures of a nameless boy and his brother who are trying to cope with an alcoholic mom, a father who has to work too much to support his family, and all the usual school age traumas. Throw into the mix a mysterious prowler, a school mate who has vanished, neighbors who suddenly die, an insane librarian, some supernatural events, and you have an involving, nostalgic novel that is hard to put down. Enjoy a little taste of Ford’s atmospheric story telling.

The lingering twilight finally breathed its last, and that first moment of night was like a gunshot at the start of a race. Instantly, frantic kids in costumes streamed from lit houses, beginning their rounds, not to return until they had reached the farthest place they could and still remember how to get home.

We traveled door-to door around the block, joining with other groups of kids, splitting away and later being joined by others. Franky Conrad, dressed like a swami, with a bath towel around his head, eyeliner darkening his eyes, and a long purple robe, walked with us for a dozen houses. The Farley girls were angels or princesses, I couldn’t tell which, but their costumes, made from flowing white material, glowed in the dark. President Henry Mason was dresses in his Communion suit, a button on the lapel that said VOTE FOR HENRY, and his sisters were ghosts with sheets over their heads. Reggie Bishop was a robot, wrapped in silver foil, wearing a hat with a lightbulb sticking out the top that went on and off without a switch, and Chris Hackett wore his father’s army helmet and told us how his dad had gotten hand-grenade shrapnel in his ass and lost three fingers in Korea.

We worked the trick-or-treat with dedication that rivaled our father’s for his three jobs, systematically moving up one side of the street and then down the other. Our pillowcases filled with candy. Old Lady Restuccio gave out Chinese hand-cuffs, a kind of tube woven from colored paper strips. You stuck a finger in each side and then couldn’t pull them out. That’s how we lost Franky Conrad. He was left behind, standing on Mrs. Restuccio’s lawn, unable to figure out that you just had to twist your fingers to free them. The slow, the hobbled, the weak—were all left in our wake as we blitzkrieged Willow Avenue and moved on to Cuthbert.