My mother's house

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My mother's house

Title :

My mother's house / by Francesca Momplaisir.

Title:

My mother's house

Author:

Momplaisir, Francesca, 1973-

Format:

Books

Physical Description:

283 pages ; 24 m.

Edition:

First edition.

ISBN:

9780525657156

Production / Publication Information:

New York : Alfred A. Knopf, [2020]

Summary:

"A literary thriller about the complex underbelly of the immigrant American dream and the dangerous ripple effect one person's damages can have on the lives of others--told unexpectedly by a house that has held unspeakable horrors." -- p. 4 of Cover.

Language:

English

Genre:

Novels.

Geographic Term:

South Ozone Park (New York, N.Y.) -- Fiction.

Subject Term:

Haitians -- New York -- Fiction.

Immigrants -- United States -- Fiction.

Abusive men -- Fiction.

Psychopaths -- Fiction.

Kidnapping victims -- Fiction.

New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction.

Holds: Copies:

Available:*

Material Type	Library	Call Number	Item Barcode	Location
Book	Searching... North Andover - Stevens Memorial Library	F MOMPLAISIR	31478010143759	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Andover - Memorial Hall Library	FICTION MOMPLAISIR	31330008929220	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Billerica Public Library	FICTION/MOMPLAISIR	33934004300175	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Boxford Town Library Storage	FIC MOMPLAISIR	32115002095212	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Burlington Public Library	F MOMPLA	32116003718471	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Chelmsford MacKay Branch	FIC/MOMPLAISIR	31480011370407	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Groveland - Langley-Adams Library	FIC MOMPLAISIR	32121000842597	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Hamilton-Wenham Public Library	FIC MOMPLAISER	30470001815728	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Lawrence Public Library	FIC MOM	31549004746862	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Lowell - Pollard Memorial Library	FIC MOMPLAISIR	31481005467654	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Newbury Town Library	MOM	32127001247595	Searching... Unknown
Book	Searching... Westford - J.V. Fletcher Library	F MOMPLAISIR	31990004882366	Searching... Unknown

Bound With These Titles

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Summary

For fans of Kate Atkinson, Oyinkan Braithwaite, Edwidge Danticat, Tana French, Mohsin Hamid, Hari Kunzru, Imbolo Mbue, Alex Michaelides, and Jesmyn Ward

A literary thriller about the complex underbelly of the immigrant American dream and the dangerous ripple effect one person's damages can have on the lives of others--told unexpectedly by a house that has held unspeakable horrors

One of the Best Books of the Year- Elle , Harper's Bazaar , Vulture

"Impossible to stop reading." -Vulture

When Lucien flees Haiti with his wife, Marie-Ange, and their three children to New York City's South Ozone Park, he does so hoping for reinvention, wealth, and comfort. He buys a run-down house in a quickly changing community, and begins life anew. Lucien and Marie-Ange call their home La Kay-"my mother's house"-and it becomes a place where their fellow immigrants can find peace, a good meal, and necessary legal help. But as a severely emotionally damaged man emigrating from a country whose evils he knows to one whose evils he doesn't, Lucien soon falls into his worst habits and impulses, with La Kay as the backdrop for his lasciviousness.

What he can't begin to fathom is that the house is watching, passing judgment, and deciding to put an end to all the sins it has been made to hold. But only after it has set itself aflame will frightened whispers reveal Lucien's ultimate evil. An uncompromising look at the immigrant experience and a chilling depiction of the depravity of one man, My Mother's House is an electrifying page-turner rooted in a magical reality.

Reviews (4)

Publisher's Weekly Review

Momplaisir's provocative debut unearths the secrets and dark desires of a Haitian immigrant family man living in an anthropomorphic house in Queens, N.Y. In 1960s Port-au-Prince, 24-year-old brothel bouncer Lucien Louverture marries 15-year-old Marie-Ange Calvert after he protects her during an attempted coup. They quickly have three daughters, and he moves them all to the U.S. when the girls are still babies. The house he buys possesses humanlike desires and memory ("The House had been hopeful that would bring warmth and harmony to smoke out like burned sage the evil and sadness that had been left behind by its previous gangster head of household"). Initially, the house, which calls itself La Kay, is a hub of activity, with Marie-Ange cooking for the neighborhood's diverse immigrant community, but La Kay grows horrified by Lucien's habits of spying on his wife and daughters. After Marie-Ange dies at 40, La Kay determines to kill Lucien by setting itself on fire. Lucien escapes the inferno, but is desperate to rescue his "girls." The neighbors, knowing his grown daughters have moved out, assume he's senile, but gradually the reader--and La Kay--discover the harrowing details of Lucien's secret basement room where he traps girls and women. Momplaisir's arresting take on the abuse of male power will long haunt the reader. Agent: Victoria Sanders, Victoria Sanders & Assoc. (May)

Kirkus Review

A shockingly original exploration of class, race, and systemic violence. "The two-story (three, if you counted the basement), one-family (two, again, if the basement was included) House had had enough. Fed up with the burden of Its owner's absurd hoarding, inexcusable slovenliness, and abuse of power, It spontaneously combusted everywhere a power source sprouted unkempt." These lines from the opening paragraph of Momplaisir's debut give the reader a sense of the shocks to come in this strange, disturbing novel. The home that's on fire is not only conscious and willful; it's also a central character in the narrative. Those parenthetical, half-hidden references to the basement give us the first hint of the gruesome revelations to come. This house, tainted by the human evil it contains, is reminiscent of the opening line of Toni Morrison's Beloved: "124 was spiteful. Full of a baby's venom. The women in the house knew it and so did the children." And, like Morrison, Momplaisir uses the tropes of fantasy to try to assert truths that ordinary language and realistic imagery cannot communicate. Morrison compelled readers to confront American slavery and its aftermath. Momplaisir addresses both the legacy of colonialism in Haiti and the immigrant experience in the United States. The man who drives the House to self-immolate is Lucien, a ne'er-do-well who doesn't live up to the promise his light skin and expensive education suggest. He is obsessed with Marie-Ange, who, as a general's daughter, is out of reach--until her father runs afoul of President Duvalier. Lucien expects a bright future for his wife and their daughters when they eventually move to New York, but the success he wants still eludes him in a community that only grudgingly makes room for an influx of Haitians resettling in Queens. Lucien satisfies himself by indulging his darkest needs. Momplaisir's unflinching depiction of the horrors white supremacy has wrought is powerful. But the narrative is presented almost entirely in expository mode; the whole novel feels like the backstory to a story that never entirely takes off. And, while the characters function as symbols, they never quite emerge as real. And that includes the House. Momplaisir's debut introduces her as an author to watch. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Booklist Review

When Lucien emigrates from danger in Haiti, he buys a house for himself, his wife, and their three daughters in South Ozone Park in New York. In Momplaisir's debut, the house is called La Kay and given a voice, forced as it is to shelter the people Lucien exploits, including other immigrants and his own family, as well as a horrifying secret in the basement. The house sets itself on fire when it can no longer tolerate Lucien's acts and remains one of the point-of-view characters as the fire's aftermath unravels Lucien's secrets. Readers of this novel could be triggered by its content, which contains disturbing violence and abuse. Despite the novel's focus on one man, the author places her story in the larger context of immigration, racism, sexism, and injustice. The chapters rotate among two characters and the house, and this unusual tactic succeeds because of the essential point it makes regarding bearing witness versus taking action. Momplaisir's observant and informed writing is sensitive to the emotions of her characters while not sparing readers hard moments.

Library Journal Review

DEBUT Haitian American author and scholar Momplaisir delivers a tale of immigrants and the American underclass where they often find themselves, but it is also an exploration of oppressive male violence. As a young man in Haiti, Lucien, the novel's protagonist and villain, stalks Marie-Ange, the daughter of Duvalier's assistant, and saves her from death after a coup's backlash. Eventually they marry, and Lucien brings Marie-Ange and their three young daughters to America to live in a house he owns in Queens, NY. This house is a sentient character in the novel, but not all-knowing, unaware of the extent of violence under its roof. Lucien manages to keep his pedophilia and sexual predation hidden from the neighbors, as he captures several women and keeps them trapped in the house's basement bomb shelter. In Momplaisir's hands, Lucien's character is multidimensioned and his rendering almost sympathetic. VERDICT Dense with poetic imagery, this debut novel is propelled forward by rich detail that mercifully obfuscates some of its violence. A tour de force; Momplaisir is a writer to watch. [See Prepub Alert, 11/4/19.]--Reba Leiding, emerita, James Madison Univ. Lib., Harrisonburg, VA

Excerpts

Zero The house screamed, " Fire!" from every orifice. Difé! Melting windowpanes rolled down the aluminum siding, dripping polyurethane tears. Orange, blue, and yellow flames hollered their frustration into the icicles along the struggling gutters. The two-story (three, if you counted the basement), one-family (two, again, if the basement was included) House had had enough. Fed up with the burden of Its owner's absurd hoarding, inexcusable slovenliness, and abuse of power, It spontaneously combusted everywhere a power source sprouted unkempt. The matted nest that passed for a fuse box in the basement; the half- assed hose that connected the gas stove to the wall in the upstairs kitchen; the shaved pipes that pulled natural gas from its source to the boiler and radiators throughout the House; the power strip in the upstairs bedroom that powered a tenant's hot plate, microwave, refrigerator, stereo, television, DVD player, cable box, computer, and electric shaver and toothbrush; the tangle of Christmas lights left plugged in and blinking as a deterrent to robbers over the holidays. The House blew it all up and burst into tears It had been holding back for decades. It cried and laughed at the same time, watching the owner scurry out of the basement. When the tenant jumped out the upstairs window, the House doubled over and shook in amusement. It nearly keeled over from being tickled by the rodents and roaches racing one another into and out of their hiding places, confused which would be best--crackle in the fire or crack in the icy January air outside while trying to make it to the safety of a neighbor's house. The House listened for the loud cries. " Anmwey! Difé! " the owner hollered as he ran Its circumference. It tracked the movements of the owner, who ran around like a man trying to keep his pants up after having missed a belt loop while getting dressed. It watched as Its pajama-clad owner rushed from the backyard up the skinny driveway to the front stoop, then through the frozen garden in the empty parcel where another house could have been built, then around to the backyard again. The House didn't see where the tenant vanished to, but he was gone before the ambulance arrived. It had a hard time emoting and keeping eyes on the owner simultaneously, but the House continued to cry and laugh convulsively. " Anmwey! " the owner shrieked as he waited for help to arrive, help the House did not want. It tried to figure out how to drown out his cries. It screamed in different ways for different reasons until sirens overwhelmed them both. The fire trucks pulled up out front and, mercifully, the drivers silenced the blaring. But the night was far from still. The House blinked rapidly as the engines' discordant lights made a visible noise of their own. It closed Its eyes to shut out the annoying but necessary red and yellow spinning that cracked the dark freezing night. Desperate for attention, It pumped out flames with renewed vigor like a toddler in a tantrum forcing herself to cry harder. It wished It had been built with the ability to speak, since people-talk always trumped Its performances. It huffed as the owner continued screaming in his native language: " Pitit mwen yo! " It wanted to shut him up. But a firefighter came across the half-frozen man while inspecting the perimeter of the House for points of entry. The House rolled Its eyes as the owner spoke English to ensure the firefighter understood. "Hep! Difé! My sheeldren!" His accent protruded like a boil through taut skin. It looked down at the two men and easily deduced that the heavily masked rescuer was white by his blue eyes reflecting the frosty glint of aluminum siding in the January night. The firefighter chased the owner back through the rock-hard soil of the hibernating snow-covered garden and out to the front of the House. The man finally stood still, watching powerlessly as his house blazed before him. Difé! The House ignored the outside entertainment and, refusing to be defeated, It tried to turn Its efforts inward. It spread flames through every corner of Itself to produce Its cry of fire for on- lookers to see. It kept an eye on the owner standing outside in the subzero air bawling and mumbling to himself. It drooped to see the hydrants give more easily than expected. It recoiled as the hoses gushed against Its battalion of flames fighting for their right to be and be seen. It had earned this catharsis. It had endured and witnessed, had stood silent and been complicit. It deserved to explode publicly, to commit suicide grandly. It harnessed and funneled the flames to fight off the water like hell itself. It followed the firefighters as they focused on the left side of the House where most of the windows were. Their hoses lined the narrow driveway that separated the opportunistic flames from the closest neighbor's house, a tacky yellow eyesore with brown trim. Ambushed on Its left, the House strained to push fire out of the singular window on Its right. Its flames stretched their fingers across the empty parcel, trying to reach the tips of the dormant leafless apple tree. That was Its only hope of spreading Its fury: extend Its fire to high-five the tree, set it ablaze, then jump to the next house just inches away. If Its flames could reach the branch tips, they could skip to the almost-elegant pale blue cookie-cutter structure and take out half the block toward the main boulevard at least. At least. The House longed to level all Its neighbors that should have known about Its suffering. It knew that they'd also been in pain, but they'd done nothing to help themselves or It. It would be the brave one, the one to put an end to it all. It would euthanize them, take them out of their misery, in the only way It knew how. The people were a different matter. It wanted to tear them down for putting their houses through the same suffering It had endured; the same misery that had been replicated in the various shades of brown, languages, and accents of the neighborhood's inhabitants. How could people want to live through all of that? What was there to live for after all It had seen and been through? Why prolong the pain? What were they trying to prove? Perseverance? Resilience? To what end? Why stand outside in paper pajamas in the middle of a blocked-off street, in the mean January air, in the middle of the goddamned night, shouting, "There are people in there!" The House changed tactics. It retracted the flames. It in- haled and held the smoke in Its chest, tricking the firefighters into believing that they were winning. For now, It would have to settle for self-consumption. Like an unseen hell, It would devour Itself without the fanfare of sparks. Lanfè . It would revel in the blue and yellow hues of Its dark interior. Hellfire . It would swallow molten glass and metal as salves to soothe Its regret at not having destroyed other houses whose inhabitants surely should have known the hurt being heaped upon It. It held Its breath and allowed the flames to do their worst inside to make Itself forever uninhabitable. It allowed them to eviscerate all of Its wood paneling, floors, and furniture. It took one hard gulp of fuel from the kerosene heater to burn through the floorboards in the cold upstairs bedrooms. No one would ever sleep there again. Difé! One long lick with ten tongues through the shot-gun first floor, blackening the foyer, living room, dining room, and kitchen. No one would ever be welcomed, invited to sit, presented with a plate, and allowed to dip a tasting spoon there again. One jagged cough through the basement, a hiccup of final fumes, skipping over and in between defunct TVs, stereo turntables, eight-track tape decks, and heaping crates of un- sorted junk. No one would ever stoop through the tight tunnel to thrift shop among the owner's dusty collection again. The House floated in and out of consciousness, waiting to die. It would no longer have to stomach wickedness, deviance, and injustice. It looked forward to the demolition that would level and free It at long last. It sighed and quietly stuttered, " Di-di-di-di-difé ." It closed Its eyes, ignoring the embers' red glow. It didn't feel the water pounding around Its gutted insides. Even if It had given credence to the owner's incessant pleas, It wouldn't have felt the tickle of a small child or the heft of a few adults crouching in one of Its corners. Excerpted from My Mother's House: A Novel by Francesca Momplaisir All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.