A Blind Eye by David Jackson Ambrose:
When I first began reading the prologue/epilogue to David Jackson Ambrose's novel, I held little hope for it. Boy, was I wrong. This novel is phenomenal, transcending the genre. I can't praise it enough.It was the setting that first drew me in. The Lark Bar, Leviticus Street, and Morristown. No clumsiness here--the characters inhabit the setting, and the setting seems like the destiny that drives them.Then the characterization. What a marvel. These are fully realized people, not stick figures. You can't anticipate what they're going to do until they do it, and then the action seems as preordained as the meeting of Oedipus and his father at "the place where three roads meet." There are really no minor characters. Babe and Chance, or course. But Alise and Reuben! Even the bulldog Mitzi. Mister Mitch and Peggy Ann, who help Alise move out of her house. Each one a miracle.Then the plot. You never know where it's going to go. Until it goes there, and, of course, the destination seems inevitable.This is one serious writer who really needs to reach a wider audience.Can't resist quoting this delicious piece of dialogue between white Alise and her mixed-race child, Reuben, as they spend the night in the car:“Mama, can you tell me a story?”“What do you want to hear?”He shook his head. “Anything.”“Okay. Let’s see. There once lived a town mouse in a great big city with a nice big house. The town mouse once visited a relative who lived in the country. For lunch the country mouse served wheat stalks, roots, and acorns with a dash of cold water for drink.”Rueben laughed and frowned. “Roots and wheat stalks? Who wants to eat roots and wheat stalks, Mom?”“Do you want to hear the story or not?"“Okay, sorry.”“So, anyway, the town mouse ate very sparingly, nibbling a little of this and a little of that, and by her manner, making it very plain, she ate the simple food only to be polite.”“I wouldn’t even be trying to be polite.”“After the meal, the friends had a long talk, or rather the town mouse talked about her grand life in the city. . . There were sweetmeats—”Rueben snickered. “Sweetmeats? That sounds whack.”“Where’d you learn that ghetto talk? You don’t talk like that around me. You leave that right where you got it.”He huffed. “Mom. They say that on SpongeBob.”“Well, you leave it on SpongeBob. I’m not raising SpongeBob. Okay. How ‘bout this? On the table was some macaroni and cheese, candied yams, mashed potatoes and gravy, and fried chicken with fresh made lemonade.”“Now that’s what I’m talking about!”“So SpongeBob says ‘now that’s what I’m talking about’?
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